“You could have killed us!” Jon shouted. Then he glared at his beautiful wife, who was trying to keep from bursting with laughter. “She’s dangerous enough, don’t encourage her.”
“Oh, pish! If I’d wanted to hit you, I would have.” Gran stepped out of view, leaving a dark hole in her wake.
Jon shook his head, keeping a watchful eye on the tower window for several moments just in case Gran decided to rain arrows down on them again. Finally certain she was done using them as targets, he turned back to his wife. “Annabella, I—”
She put her finger to his lips, her brow furrowed. “No, don’t call me that. I hate it when you call me that.”
He tilted his head to the side and smiled. “Well… not to point out the obvious, but your name is Annabella. As you once took great pains to remind me.”
She pushed against his chest to break his hold, but he held her fast. “I beg your pardon, but my name most certainly is not Annabella. My name… is Annie Durham.” Her arms encircled his neck again, and she touched her lips to his in a feather-light kiss. “But you may call me Lady Seabrook.”
“How about I call you Annie-my-heart?”
Her only answer was to smile before pulling his mouth to hers for a searing kiss.
Epilogue
Annabella stared through the study window. A steady mist formed rivulets on the glass, blurring the view of the garden and the forest beyond just as surely as the thoughts in her head blurred. She stared at the blank page in front of her, the drip of ink on the end of her quill. So much had happened, so much that Annabella wanted to share with her dear friend, Juliet. She didn’t want to wait until they saw each other again, but it seemed such a daunting task to put into writing.
The door to the study opened and she looked up. Jon had obviously been out in the rain and hadn’t yet taken time to change, though he’d doffed his hat and coat and left them somewhere. Water dripped from the ends of his hair and ran along his cheeks. Annabella forced herself to sit still when what she wanted to do was race to him and capture every errant trail of water.
“Are you back from Mr. Webber’s office already?”
“I am.” Arms crossed over his chest, Jon leaned against the doorjamb.
Suspicion prickled along her skin, and Annabella leaned forward for a closer look at her husband. “Why do you look like Queen Dorothea after she’s been at the cream?”
“I’ve managed to secure backing for Durham and Price Shipping.” He spoke in a casual tone as one might while making an observation about the weather or the color of wallpaper. But his eyes seemed to glow with pride as he regarded her with bold intensity.
His shipping company! He’d managed it just as he’d said he would. Annabella’s heart swelled. “Durham and Price?”
“Yes.” A smile played around his mouth as he stepped into the room and closed the door. “To honor your father. That is, if you’ve no objection.”
“Thank you,” she forced over the lump of emotion in her throat. She allowed herself a few deep breaths before continuing. “I suppose this means you’ll have to travel like…” …like Papa did. She couldn’t say the words out loud. She’d wait for him, of course. Always. But she would doubtless have many lonely days ahead of her.
Jon closed the distance between them and crouched in front of her then took both of her hands. First, he pulled her right hand to his lips and dotted kisses along her knuckles, and then lowered it again but didn’t release her as he gazed deep into her eyes. “There… will be traveling,” he admitted slowly. He pulled her left hand to his face and pressed his cheek against the back. “I’d rather hoped you would come along with me… we can see the world together.”
Joy sprouted in Annabella’s heart and twined through her like a creeping vine, reaching into her sad, dark places and blossoming into brightly colored flowers. He wouldn’t leave her waiting for him! “You would take me with you?”
“Lady Seabrook, I shudder at the thought of letting you out of my sight.” His smile widened into a grin. “I should hate to arrive home only to find you’ve filled our house with cats or invited Lucifer himself to stay.” He laced their fingers together and stood, pulling her up, and then drawing her against him. “Or worse, opened the grounds to French vintners, given your fondness for Bordeaux.”
“Never, my love,” she whispered, craning her neck upward, longing for his kiss. “I loathe cats.” She kissed one corner of his mouth. “Lucifer would never dare challenge you for my affections.” She kissed the other corner. “I’ve developed a fancy for elderberry wine. And I will go anywhere you take me.”
Jon splayed his fingers over her back and molded her to him as he took her lips in a heated, hungry kiss. He moaned and ran his hands up and down her spine as if he were playing an instrument, sending chills radiating from his every touch. Finally, he eased back.
“That’s rather good to know.” His dark eyes contained a sparkle of glee. “We’ll be moving to Plymouth.”
“Plymouth!” Annabella’s heart raced. So far from London… from Juliet… her mother. And so far from Coventry, where she’d truly found herself.
“Yes, next week, as a matter of fact.”
“Next week!” She pushed against his chest but managed to create only a modicum of distance as he captured her hands again. “When were you planning on enlightening your wife?”
He grinned again and gave her hands a light squeeze. “Why, I’m telling you now, of course. Did you not hear me say it?”
“Hear you?” She yanked one hand from his hold and swatted at his chest. “What I hear you saying is that you plan to carry me off yet again without asking, you blackguard. And this time much farther away, and you haven’t given me any time to prepare. You’ll surely go to the dev—”
He cut off her tantrum with a kiss, long and deep and filled with such glorious heat of passion her knees weakened. “And I’ll enjoy the journey as always when you’re with me,” he murmured against her lips. “And you can visit Juliet, and your mother… and Gran… whenever you want. After all, now that you’ve become such a talented archer, Gran would never forgive me if I didn’t bring you around to shoot with her and compete at the Society’s contests.” He took her lips once more, sealing his promise with a kiss.
It was the lemon all over again.
How she did love the taste of lemon.
Acknowledgements
Our heartfelt thanks go out to Vivian Roycroft for many, many hours of hand holding, brainstorming, assistance with research, and a most superb job of editing. You are a master at your art, and we’re proud that you had a hand in our story. Most of all, we are thrilled that we can call you our friend.
Elaina Lee, you were a gem and you truly deserve a medal for having to work with us in creating a cover. We applaud you and salute you! You endure our grumbling and “divaness” like a true lady would! And your talent never ceases to amaze us. Each cover you do for us (every cover you do, really) outshines the last. Thank you for not giving up on us.
Authors’ Note
We could have spent another 100,000 words just writing about the fun facts we found centered around Coventry. What an amazing place to use as a setting. From Lady Godiva to the Mercian Bowmen Archery Society, which really did exist.
Please allow us a little room for error as some things, such as the actual location of the archery club, we had to “invent.” And… we admit, Gran is such a strong character that when it came time to dress her for the archery contest, she just refused to conform and wear something a lady might wear, preferring, instead, to let her “Godiva heart” shine through and dictate her fashion. However, the attire Annabella and Jon donned are very similar to what was worn by club members in the time.
So, for the history buff who wants more, here are a few links that go into detail about life in 1813 Coventry:
http://www.historiccoventry.co.uk/
http://www.localhistories.org/coventry.html
http://www.archerylibrary.com/books/guide/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lady_Godiva
For Juliet’s story, be sure to read:
Ladies' maid, Juliet Baines has gotten herself into a pickle by agreeing to go to London and taking the place of her mistress and best friend, Annabella Price, stepsister to the Duke of Wyndham. After all, what does a servant know about being a lady? But Juliet soon finds that pretending to be a lady isn't nearly as hard as guarding her heart against the folly of wanting a man who's completely out of reach.
Graeme "Grey" Roland Dominick Markwythe, Sixth Duke of Wyndham, approaches his duties as a nobleman with great dedication and meticulous care. And he's a man who is not easily fooled...except when he tries to convince himself he's not utterly and madly in love with the beautiful imposter who has turned his life upside down. Will society and his responsibilities to his noble status keep him from opening his heart to the woman he loves?
About the Authors
The pen is mightier than the sword. And in bestselling author Kay Springsteen's case, that's especially true. Kay's talent goes beyond a flare for weaving a good story. Things she writes in fiction tend to happen in real life. No one knows this better than her children. Kay writes a story about a woman having a baby, and shortly after, she'll learn she's going to be a grandma again. And when she writes about a fire, hurricane, or any other natural disaster, run for cover and take a copy of one of Kay's books with you!
If you ask bestselling author Kim Bowman's husband, he'd say she spends her days emailing her cyber best friend and writing partner, Kay Springsteen, drinking soda, and eating white chocolate. While that might be true, she also chases their four-year-old son Cage around, thinks about the housework she should be doing, and brainstorms her next favorite book. She's had the writing bug since she was a teenager and is happy to now live her dream of being a full-time author, thanks to her wonderful husband, Tony, and great writing partner, the afore mentioned Kay Springsteen.
Also from Astraea Press:
Chapter One
Lady Clara Huckabee trembled. She felt it in her traitorous knees, which threatened to deposit her in an undignified heap on the Grecian Axminster carpet, and in her throat, tightened almost unbearably beneath her morning gown’s simple velvet neckline. Disappointing her guardian was bad enough, but since he started this fiasco, surely he’d endeavor to bear it. Shocking her aunt, though — for shocking her response would be — was far worse, because it must necessarily cause a measure of pain and Aunt Helen’s sweet soul outweighed her silly, old-fashioned notions. Clara steeled herself. It was their actions, their insistence, which forced her to this miserable necessity. If they refused to consider her wishes in the selection of a husband, her husband, then they must accept some of the blame for the contretemps that ensued.
Hopefully the housekeeper wasn’t listening behind the closed drawing room door.
A deep breath, and Clara softened her clenched hands into gentler folds. Only then did she trust herself to meet the Viscount Maynard’s black eyes, unblinking and glittering. No matter how many times she ordered herself to be meek and affable, he still looked like a possessive lizard.
“It distresses me to cause grief in anyone, particularly a gentleman as eminent as my Lord Maynard, and I find no pleasure in disappointing my esteemed aunt and uncle.” She paused. Those reptilian eyes widened and bulged; perhaps she was the first person to dare cross the arrogant booby. Clara hurried on before she could be interrupted. “However, the selection of a lifetime partner is too delicate an operation to be entrusted to any third party, no matter how revered. Kingdoms will neither rise nor fall on my lineage and therefore I believe my own desires and tastes should be consulted. I am sorry, but I cannot accept my lord’s offer of marriage.”
Viscount Maynard’s gaze drifted from her face, drifted lower. “The child has an opinion of her own.” When he’d asked for her hand, his voice had been courteous and correct; now he drawled his words, taking twice as long to state a simple sentence. His lips curled as if he smelled something unspeakable. “How precocious.”
Her skin crawled. His gaze boasted weight and mass, as if his hand explored her without permission. So much for meek and affable; the viscount was surely more interested in her inheritance, in Papa’s money, than in her or her hand. “My lord, your anxiety to change my opinion must be unbounded.” She dropped her most formal curtsey and escaped from the drawing room. Let him eat cake; just not hers.
After the drawing room’s sun-drenched warmth, the cool Grecian elegance of the entryway made her face feel hot. If the housekeeper had bent her ear to the door, she’d run in time. With luck, Clara would escape, too, without additional arguments. But on the curved stairway’s far side, the library door stood ajar. That would be Uncle David’s temporary retreat and he’d be listening for the first sign of movement. Yes, there was his shadow, approaching the doorway. No time to spare.
Clara composed her expression as she ran up the white marble stairs, her slippers soundless, her pale muslin skirt gathered in one hand, the other trailing up the ebony banister. A few moments alone, hidden in the old schoolroom where Papa had taught her mathematics and the stars, and she’d compose herself. The little telescope was still there, beneath the heavy canvas covering they’d sewn for it, pointing as he’d left it, to the merchant shipping and men-of-war anchored in the Sound. If she held the canvas close to her face and breathed deeply, sometimes it seemed she could still smell his musky scent on the neat stitching, so much more even than her own. The memory cooled her temper, but did nothing for the hole he had left behind in her heart. She’d always miss him, always, and no man — certainly not that titled twaddle — could ever remove him from the foremost place in her heart.
Aunt Helen waited at the top of the stairs, almost dancing in place. The artless little brunette wisps fallen from her upturned hair framed her delighted smile, and she held out her hands as Clara paused, three steps below. Surely Aunt Helen, with her superb taste, hadn’t presumed she’d accept that man?
“Our viscountess-to-be! My beautiful niece, I wish you joy.”
Inexplicable. But horribly true. “In regard to my fortunate escape, I’m sure.” The tart words tumbled forth without thought. But there was no recalling them and while it had been dreadful imagining Aunt Helen’s shock, seeing it only added a cold edge of satisfaction to Clara’s anger.
“You didn’t — you didn’t refuse him? Clara, how could you?”
“With relief and a smile, I assure you. Dear aunt, how could you imagine I’d agree to marry anyone so cold and arrogant?”
“But he is a viscount. The ways of the nobility are not like ours. Great wealth and vast landholdings, dating from generations long gone, give a titled man a sense of entitlement that you and I cannot understand. He would make an excellent husband for you.”
The anger broke her restraint, floodwaters rushing from a collapsing dam. “I am no entitlement. And Aunt Helen, could you marry without love?”
“Oh, Clara—” Aunt Helen tucked the fallen curls behind her ears. “Not that again. We’ve had this discussion over and over—”
“You will never convince me.”
“—and while it’s a wonderful, romantic notion to marry for love rather than for stability, fortune, or position, it’s simply not practical. You must have a husband—”
“An encumbrance I know only too well.”
“—and it will not be the Frenchman.”
That was a new voice, a masculine, booming one, coming from the stairs behind her. Clara whirled. Uncle David had approached to within two steps, and she hadn’t heard his footfall through her temper tantrum and their raised voices. His blue eyes, usually warm despite their cool deep color, now burned like chips of Arctic glacial ice.
“Uncle—”
“We are at war with France,” Uncle David said, “a fact you seem able to forget but which torments my every hour, waking or sleeping. Your father’s ships—your fading inheritance — are being taken, sunk, bur
ned, destroyed, and your father’s sailors are dying and wasting away in Napoleon’s prison hulks.” He stepped closer, and while he wasn’t a tall man, in this tempestuous state he seemed twice as large as life, and she seemed smaller. “I will see you unmarried and disinherited before I allow you to wed a Frenchman.”
His declaration rang through the stairwell and entry. Aunt Helen stepped back, hand to her throat. Clara gripped the banister. He would not make her cry. And she would not allow him to win.
“Viscount Maynard has been so good as to accept my invitation to supper and cards.” Uncle David’s voice, while quieter, surrendered none of its authoritative ice. “We both agreed that not every immediate refusal equates to an absolute no.”
Again her knees threatened to deposit her, this time onto the white marble. And this time was far worse. She would not cry, no matter what he said.
“You will go to your room and consider the viscount’s proposal in greater depth.” He turned and clattered down the stairs, the tails of his claret-colored coat fluttering with each step.
No tears. And he would not win.
****
Clara threw the inoffensive morning dress onto the floor and, in her shift, rang for fresh water. “Take that rag away, Nan, please.”
The maid picked up the muslin, nervous hands folding and refolding it. “Shall I have it cleaned, miss?”
“No. Throw it out. Give it to the poorhouse. Keep it for yourself. But get rid of it. I’ll never wear it again.”
Alone, she sponged the lingering stain of those hungering reptilian eyes from her skin, washing again and again until she finally felt clean. The cold way he’d leered at her, as if she were a broodmare at auction, mouth open to be checked! Clara shivered. Did that ugly, open sort of scrutiny best symbolize the marriage market? None of the gentlemen in her usual set, and certainly none of the Frenchmen she’d met during the too-short Amiens peace, had ever looked at her in such a lewd manner. It was not to be borne.
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