Something Like a Lady

by Kay Springsteen

  The dowager chuckled. “Don’t worry overmuch about them piercing the straw yet. Get your form down, and then as you practice, your strength will improve. Before you know it, you’ll be hitting the center at a hundred paces.”

  Annabella doubted that. But now her mind could think of nothing more than hitting the target center the way the dowager had.

  “Ernest, please retrieve the arrows.”

  “Yes, your grace.” The boy scampered toward the opposite side of the field, scooping up arrows as he ran. Within a couple of minutes he returned and handed them to Annabella.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled as he took his place behind them again.

  “That will be all, Ernest. You may return to the house and help Cook.”

  “Yes, your grace.” He cast Annabella a toothy grin and then ran down the path toward the house.

  Once they were alone, the dowager said, “So, my dear, would you care to explain why you were trying to bring dire harm to my grandson.” She lifted her bow and took aim.

  “That spawn of Satan had the door between our bedchambers removed when I refused to allow him in my bed and locked him out of the room.” The words were out before Annabella could contain them. Horrified, she caught her breath and pressed her fingers to her mouth.

  The dowager jerked just as she released the arrow. It shot straight up in the air a few feet then slapped the earth, landing on its side. She let out a curse, nearly causing Annabella to swoon with shock at hearing a refined lady speak in such a manner.

  The dowager turned and faced her, eyes narrowed. “Have you no decency? To divulge such obscene details is bad enough, but to do it when I’m in the middle of shooting!”

  Annabella’s cheeks were so hot her teeth burned and her throat went dry. Tears tickled at the backs of her eyes. “Forgive me, your grace. I meant no disrespect, I assure you.”

  The dowager grunted. “Just when I thought you were a woman after my own heart, you commence with the simpering.” She waved her hand at the bow in Annabella’s hand. “Now, stand up straight, retrieve another arrow, and tell me the whole of it while you practice.”

  Annabella needed no further encouragement. She’d been alone in the cottage for days with no one to talk to, then she’d had to suffer Seabrook’s presence in silence as well. It was a relief to finally have someone to talk to, confide in. And confide she did. Perhaps it was the fact that she’d been holding her emotions inside for so long that the dam finally broke, but whatever the reason, she told the dowager everything. To the dowager’s credit, she listened without scolding or judging and only interrupted to give Annabella pointers on correct archery form and bow position.

  When Annabella ended the story, the dowager patted her hand and said, “You have a lot to learn, my dear. And you’ve come to the right place.” She settled her bow over her shoulder. “I think another hour of practice will do you good. But for now, I’ll have Ernest return to retrieve the arrows. Please… come and enjoy some hot chocolate and pastries with me in the parlor.” The older woman headed down the path then paused and turned. “And as for the door… Darling girl, my grandson has given you the best weapon of all to use against him. And use it you shall.”

  Annabella furrowed her brow. “I-I don’t understand.”

  “You will. You will. He’ll soon curse himself to the devil and back for taking that blasted door down. By my word, this is one battle he won’t win.”

  For the first time since sending Juliet to London in her place, Annabella smiled. A genuine smile. One she felt all the way to her toes. A frisson of excitement raced through her, and she began to breathe easier than she had in a long time — almost as if her lungs had opened up and were drinking in the air around her. She hadn’t a clue what the dowager had planned for her. Or how the dowager thought she could use a missing door as a weapon, but she intended to find out.

  ****

  The wind whistled through the archeria on the battlement. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the murmur of his brother’s voice. The north tower had been a favorite hideout when Jon and Nicholas had been in a mood to avoid Daphne and Edith.

  With so many years between the two sets of children, the girls had worshipped their older brothers and often followed them about. Planned outings on horseback too often had become an indulgent afternoon of hitching the ponies to the cart and watching as a groom led them around the stable yard. Jon smiled. The girls hadn’t believed them about the ghost in the tower until he and Nicholas had proven it early one morning when they’d seen Gran heading up there to shoot arrows through the arrow slots.

  “That’s the ghost of the very first Duchess of Blackmoor, herself — from the far north and held captive here by her husband,” said Nicholas to the pair of them. “It is said that she waits up there for someone to join her and then she’ll steal that person’s body and use it to travel to her homeland.”

  Daphne had taken a bit more convincing, but little Edith had run crying to her nursemaid and never set foot near the north tower again, even after they’d both come to understand that their grandmother occasionally let a few arrows fly on the breeze from on high.

  If he strained, Jon could just make out the archery range through the archeria. Every so often sounds that might have been voices drifted toward him, carried by the stiff wind, but it was never enough to even discern the tone, let alone the words themselves. He scowled. What on earth was Gran doing with his wife out there? He stared at the pair of them standing in the center of the range. The targets looked like they’d been moved in closer. When Gran stood next to Annabella and guided her through shooting an arrow, he took a deep breath and sighed. Gran only shared her sport with those she cared about. Mayhap Annabella would find a reason to stay.

  Even if that reason isn’t me.

  Jon gripped the rough stone so hard his fingers turned white. Quite suddenly, he didn’t want to think of a future without her in it.

  He wanted to stand there, watching the pair of them, but he had business to conduct, a venture to put in motion. After a final glance at Gran and Annabella, Jon turned and left the tower.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jon leaned back in the chair and stared at the ledger in front of him. A sense of satisfaction warmed him and he smiled. It was going to happen. Grandfather’s estate settlement would nail the plan. All that remained was for Jon to contact Mr. Webber, the family solicitor, to inform him of the marriage between Jonathan Durham, the Fourth Earl of Seabrook and one Annabella Price, daughter of the late Bernard Price, Third Baronet of Kedelston. That ought to settle the suitability requirement. A twinge of something he vaguely recognized as guilt churned his stomach, but it did little to deter his focus from the goal.

  When the tingling began in the back of his neck, though, Jon’s smile faded.

  Gran and Annabella had been on that blasted archery range for far longer than he’d expected. He’d been glad that Gran seemed to have a calming influence over highly strung Annabella. Now… he wasn’t so certain. Unable to shake the sudden feeling of unease, Jon’s gaze strayed to the study window. He had no need of a clock to tell him midday had come and gone. Afternoon sunlight slanted across the floor, though the brilliant glow failed to brighten the rich burgundy carpet. The room fit Nicholas with his too-serious nature, but Jon had always found it depressing.

  Actually, he’d have welcomed depressing, for at the moment, he was finding only a sense of disquiet in the air. Something had gone awry. The quivering that began at the base of his spine and shot darts into his neck told him so.

  Why, of all places, had he brought Annabella to Blackmoor Hall? He could have stayed in the cottage with her. Taken her to Scotland. Gone south to Plymouth. Anywhere but the family home… and Gran.

  You definitely mucked this one up. Might as well have taken her to Grey’s townhouse in London. Probably would have fared better with him than Gran.

  The door to the study flew open and Gran marched in, a glower on her imperi
al face.

  Well, either that explained the prickling in his neck, or he’d conjured the devil’s wife, herself. Too late he realized his mistake in staying home. He should have made himself scarce as he’d done the day before.

  “You never intended on telling that poor girl the truth of it, did you?” Gran’s snappish tone sent waves of dread washing over him.

  No. Annabella would never — could never have confessed that to Gran. And yet… His throat tightened, making speech impossible. Surely the heat on his face would be less were he to stick his head in the fireplace.

  Gran widened her stance and crossed her arms. “Well, what have you to say for yourself?”

  Irritated and in no mood to discuss something so intimate, he tossed the pen on the desk and snapped the ledger closed. “Forgive me, Grandmother, but this isn’t a subject I feel comfortable discussing with you.” Yes, he definitely should have gone to London and faced Grey instead. At least that would have been a quick death.

  “Forgive me, but I can and will prohibit you from collecting your inheritance if you don’t explain to me the reason for keeping it from your wife. Doesn’t she have a right to know?”

  Jon hissed out a curse and raked his hands through his hair. So that was her objection. He almost wished Gran had been talking about him letting Annabella believe they’d been intimate before their wedding. That would be easier to explain. Perhaps.

  “To what end does she need to know? Grandfather left me an inheritance upon my marriage…” Jon stood and stalked to the window, but the view through the panes was a blur of green and gray, and he turned back to his grandmother, allowing his irritation to surface. “What does it matter to her from where my finances originate? So long as my wife is cared for, looked after—”

  “Your wife is but a rose, her petals still young and blossoming. You must handle her gently so—”

  Jon waved his grandmother off as he returned to the desk and flopped back into the chair. “Yes, yes. So as not to damage the ‘delicate flower.’”

  Gran raised her brows. “I was going to say so as not to be pricked with her thorns… Besides, it’s often the flower with the torn edges that gives off the sweetest scent.”

  He snorted. “Please. That girl is about as sweet as a colony of very angry bees.”

  Amusement danced in Gran’s eyes, and the corners of her lips turned up into a glimmer of a smile then split into a toothy grin. She perched on the edge of her favorite chair, deep, tall-backed and made of dark brown leather. “Ah… so that’s the way of it. Just like when you were a child… had to go poking the beehive, couldn’t resist it, as I recall.”

  The insufferable woman always made him feel like he was a young boy again. Would he ever grow up in her eyes? He flipped the ledger back open and retrieved his pen. “I’m not in need of a lecture. Nor am I in the mood.” With luck, Gran would take the hint and leave him to his sulking.

  Gran held up her hands in surrender. “Fair enough. At any rate, your wife made her feelings on the matter quite apparent, so no reason for me to point it out.” Her hands dropped to her lap. “Really, Jonathan, whatever possessed you to think removing the door was a good idea?”

  The warmth still on his cheeks ignited into a blazing inferno, radiating out to his ears, making them ring. Apparently his darling wife had confided in Gran. He didn’t know what was more humiliating, that Gran knew he’d removed the door or that she knew Annabella had banned him from his own bedchamber.

  “I suppose I should be relieved my wife tried to exact her revenge with violence as opposed to filling Blackmoor Hall with more cats,” he snapped.

  The smile dropped from Gran’s face and her eyebrows shot up nearly to her hair. “Don’t you get cheeky with me. If you intend to behave as intolerably as your grandfather, then prepare to spend as much time removing thorns from your backside as he did.”

  “So I should let her do as she pleases, not learn her place?”

  “I beg your pardon, ‘learn her place’? And what, pray tell, do you mean by that?”

  Jon sighed. “I meant no offense. It’s only — she has a nasty habit of letting her emotions control her. Cause her to make poor decisions—”

  “And marrying her then hauling her halfway across the country was controlling your emotions? Forcing the girl’s hand is a choice you’re proud of? Not to mention you cheated the poor girl of a proper engagement and wedding. Do you now think she’ll thank you for that?”

  Dejected, he fell against the chair back. “No. Much as I wish it weren’t true, she’d be right to hate me for the rest of her life.”

  Gran chuckled. The woman was actually laughing at his predicament. Maddening. Women were utterly maddening.

  “I’m glad I could be so amusing. But I fail to see the humor behind my misery.”

  “And therein, my boy, is what makes it so funny,” she said, laughing harder.

  Jon rolled his eyes. “Am I supposed to guess at what you mean?” I do hope Grey is having as devilish a time with his houseguest as I am with Annabella.

  “You really do have the intelligence of a rabbit and about as much wit. It would serve you right if I didn’t tell you.” She raised her hand when he opened his mouth to protest. “Think about it, Jonathan. That girl stayed in a cottage alone, refusing to be forced into going to London — yes, she told me the whole of it. Do you really think she would then allow you to pressure her into something if she didn’t want to do it?”

  The air rushed from his lungs as though he’d been punched in the gut. How was it he’d never considered that?

  “And is this marriage you forced even legal?” Gran leveled a knowing stare on him. “I recall no banns being read in our parish. Nor were any inquiries made here as to your eligibility.”

  The churning in his stomach became a tempest, but he managed an indifferent shrug. “Some extra coin may have crossed the right hands.”

  “So the marriage is dissolvable.”

  Jon sighed. “If she chooses to have the Bishop of Guildford thrown into prison for falsifying the marriage record, I suppose it is, but — she won’t do that.” He hoped.

  “So she married you without too much fuss — she’s not as thick-headed as you think, either, by the way — and now you repay her by not letting her see the real you.”

  He furrowed his brow. Riddles. Why must Gran always speak in such riddles? Of course Annabella allowed herself to be married. He’d tricked her into it… Hadn’t he?

  Gran tsked and stood. “I can tell by the expression on your face that you can’t yet see the honey for the bees. Have it your way, then.” She stepped around the chair then paused and turned around, angling her head and subjecting him to thoughtful scrutiny. “But I wonder… Do you think… possibly… maybe…”

  Exasperated and his ire beyond controlling, Jon tossed the pen on the desk. “Out with it, Gran.”

  “Bees do have a nasty sting, but would Cook’s pastries and biscuits be quite as good without the added pleasure of their honey? Almost makes it worth the pain.” Gran swung around and strode to the door, pausing at the threshold and subjecting him to a final scrutiny. “Don’t leave it too long to tell her the truth, Jonathan. Omissions have a nasty way of including themselves at the most inopportune times.”

  Then she was gone, closing the door behind her.

  “Huh!” Jon stared at the ledger in front of him without seeing it. Worth it, indeed. He had enough welts to last him a lifetime. Then why don’t you take her to London and hand her over to Grey? Let her be his problem.

  A chill crept lazily along his spine and brought on a shiver. Shocking, how quickly he rejected the idea of taking her to Grey, refused to even consider it. Blast it all! Gran was right. He enjoyed getting a rise out of Annabella. Liked starting a spark that she’d then turn into a brilliant flame. And when she’d stormed into the dining room with her hair flowing, face flushed with anger, green eyes shooting daggers, she’d aroused a passion in him that he hadn’t ever felt before.
A passion he had no intention of letting go of, no matter how many times he got stung.

  Yes, Seabrook, you’ve gotten yourself stuck between a thorny rosebush and beehive full of angry bees. Going to the devil was looking better and better… but not nearly as fun.

  ****

  The brush soothed as Marie drew it through Annabella’s hair. Every so often, the bristles caught on a tangle and pulled. Marie frequently stopped and worked a knot loose. Though the young girl was not nearly as efficient and gentle as Juliet, Annabella did her best not to complain, grateful for the attention. But oh, how she missed Juliet’s tender care.

  I hope she fares well.

  “Shall I turn down the bed, m’lady?” asked Marie, setting the brush on the vanity.

  “Yes, please, Marie, and if you would, please add a log to the fire. I’m a bit chilled tonight.”

  The maid’s eyes slid along the front of Annabella’s dressing gown, but she kept silent. Annabella followed her gaze, noting the bit of silk chemise that peeked through a tiny gap between the fastenings. Perhaps it was silly to leave the more practical nightwear resting in the wardrobe. It hadn’t been nearly as fun wearing it, since she couldn’t actually torment Seabrook with the decadent thing. Partway through her lesson on the archery range, she’d realized that she enjoyed the feel of the silk against her skin. She’d found her mind drifting to rather naughty thoughts and wondering about the feel of a touch — his touch — through that cool fabric.

  “Whatever are you squirming for?” the dowager demanded, lifting the pot of chocolate.

  Annabella answered with candor. In truth, the dowager scared her so much, she dared not fabricate any other answer. “The undergarments that were packed for me at Wyndham Green are… er, they’re very sheer and cut from silk and lace, your grace, and I’m not accustomed to such. They feel… strange.”

  In the middle of pouring her second cup of chocolate, the dowager’s hand jerked, and a few pale brown droplets spilled over the edge of the cup and onto the saucer before she stopped pouring with a sigh. “Gracious, you do speak frankly, don’t you, my dear?”