“This is Fleet Street, near St. John’s Church,” murmured Seabrook, reaching for her valise.
Annabella clutched the bag close and sent him an irritated scowl. “Fleet Street?” She leaned around him for a second look. Where were the market stalls? The blocky buildings? The merchants hurrying by to set up their shops for the day? Where were the street lamps? Where were the people? The carriages? She’d heard Fleet Street never completely slept. She performed a slow pirouette. The road behind the mail coach was more of the same. Buildings constructed of ancient fieldstone and brick crowded the deserted lane. The only movement came from the writhing yellow mist that drifted along the street. Never mind sleeping. Fleet Street was as dead as a miser’s doorknob.
She whirled to face Seabrook. “I don’t believe you!”
“Coach away!” came a shout from the driver.
Annabella barely had time to step forward out of the way before the clatter of hooves on stone and the rattle of wheels signaled the mail coach’s departure. She fixed Seabrook in a glare and raised one eyebrow, waiting for his explanation.
The insufferable man shifted his gaze to the left, where the wretched woman who’d done her best to take up the entire seat on their trip struggled with a very large canvas bag. “Beg pardon, madam. Will you kindly tell us the name of this street?”
The old hag stopped, drew back with a grimace of distaste, and peered along her nose. “Fleet Street, o’ course.” She shook her head and picked up her bag again, muttering under her breath, “What, ‘ave ye never been to Coventry before?”
“Coventry! Surely not.” Annabella offered a delicate laugh. Clearly the woman was twisted in the knob. Perhaps she’d imbibed, like their abhorrent traveling mate. “We’ve come to London…”
The woman stared slack-jawed in Seabrook’s direction. Annoyed, Annabella whirled with a frown and caught her objectionable husband making a quick slashing motion with his right hand. His movements stopped abruptly, and he subjected her to his irritating grin.
“Hrmph.” The old woman waddled off, shaking her head and muttering about insanity.
“Seaside…” Smiling, Annabella injected honey into her voice. “We did come to London, did we not?” The weight in her stomach began to churn.
“Er…” His grin wavered. Then he shook his head. “No. We did not.”
She forced more sweetness. “But that was our plan, was it not?”
“That was… your plan. Actually.”
Several heads turned in their direction. Annabella gathered her valise closer. He’d ruined her idea. She’d trusted him, and he’d ruined everything. Even though London was the last place she desired to be — she swept her glance around the mail depot again — second to last place — it was where she needed to go in order to rescue Juliet.
Though she was shaking with a combination of rage and alarm, she pushed the tremor from her voice and forced a smile. “What, pray tell, possessed you to bring me to…” She curled her lip. “…Coventry?”
Seabrook tilted his head sideways, subjecting her to a long silent stare. “It’s my home,” he said softly, his expression completely shuttered.
Annabella shifted from foot to foot. For the first time since Seabrook had accosted her outside Rose Cottage, she had the distinct impression she had somehow disappointed him. Her heart squeezed against her lungs and a chill crept along her spine. Then rage bubbled upward like a boiling pot.
“Your home! Your home! You were supposed to take me to London to see my — to see Markwythe.” She stomped her foot. “So we can put an end to this catastrophe of a marriage!”
A belch came from behind her. “Pardon me, miss. Is this man a-accost-costing you?”
Annabella whirled. The drunken lout lounged against a hitching post, likely the only thing that kept him upright. She shuddered. The last time someone had interrupted an argument with Seabrook, she’d ended up married. At the time, she’d been able to think of nothing worse.
The sot hiccupped and belched again. The stench rolling off him was more than ale. He’d probably not bathed in weeks. “Are ye in need o’ help?”
“No!” shouted Annabella and Seabrook at the same time.
“She’s my wife,” Seabrook ground out.
The drunken man snickered and pushed away from the hitching post. “My sin-sincere con-condolences, mate,” he mumbled and then lurched along Fleet Street in the direction the old woman had taken.
Leaving Annabella quite alone with Seabrook. In the distance, a dog howled and then yipped. She shivered. Alone at dawn, with a husband who was little more than a stranger, and stranded in an unfamiliar city. Her life had certainly gone from bad to worse.
Seabrook plucked his bag from the ground at his feet and walked off into the mist, leaving Annabella and her two bags behind.
“Wait!” she cried. “Where are you going?”
“To the livery,” he called over his shoulder without halting his steps. “I need to rent a coach to take us to Blackmoor Hall.”
“Black—” Annabella hoisted her bags and struggled to catch up. “Blackmoor Hall? What about London?”
Seabrook shrugged. “What about London?”
“Oh! You insufferable blackguard!” Puffing with the effort of carrying her luggage and matching his long-legged stride, Annabella’s outrage might have been the squeak of a mouse. She fought the urge to throw her valise at Seabrook’s head. “You promised to take me to London.”
He slowed his steps and cast her a sidelong glance. In the pale light of near-dawn, shadows masked his features but the strange yellow mist lent the impression of a fiery glow around his glittering eyes. “Did I?”
“Yes! You said—” The memory of their last encounter at Rose Cottage filtered in. “You said we needed to leave soon,” she whispered, realizing he’d made absolutely no mention of London or Markwythe. “You never meant to take me to Markwythe, did you?”
Mirth flickered in his eyes. “No.”
“Well, you can hardly keep me prisoner at… Blackwood?”
“Blackmoor. And as my wife, you’ll certainly be no prisoner.” He picked up the pace again. Apparently, as far as he was concerned, the subject had been closed.
****
Jon slowed after a few steps when he realized she wasn’t keeping up. The familiar rhythmic clanking of iron on iron grew louder as they walked, and within a block, they rounded the corner and stopped in front of a blacksmith’s yard. A sign proclaiming the yard to be Johnson’s Livery dangled from an iron bar overhead.
“Wait here. I’ll only be a moment,” murmured Jon, dropping his bag at Annabella’s feet.
Without a word, Annabella turned her face away from him and dropped her large bag next to his. But she clutched her valise tighter as she pressed her back against the block wall.
“Where else does he ruddy think I’d go?” Her muttered words followed him into the stable.
The livery owner was more than happy to set Jon up with his best curricle, a ragged and battered vehicle that appeared to be in even worse repair than Vicar Hamilton’s Tilbury. One of the horses nickered in protest as the groom pulled him from his stall, but soon hooves clattered on stone as the pair of bays was led into the stable yard.
Annabella stood exactly as he’d left her, back to the wall, her gaze darting up and down the street as if she expected to be assaulted and robbed at any moment.
“Has anyone come by?” he asked, aware that the likely answer was no.
She jumped and turned to stare at him, wide-eyed, and for a moment he wasn’t certain she recognized him. “No,” she whispered with a quaver in her voice. When she pushed away from the wall, her hands trembled.
The knowledge that she had truly been frightened pricked at his sensitivities as Jon loaded his bag and Annabella’s larger valise onto the back of the curricle. When he reached for the smaller needlepoint bag, she once again shook her head and pulled it against her middle, sliding her cloak over it. What did she have inside? Perhaps it
was best not to consider that overmuch lest it be a weapon of some sort.
“Shall we depart, my lady?” Giving what he hoped she would find an encouraging smile rather than the grin of a jackanapes, Jon offered his hand. Even so, he couldn’t stop his widening grin when she gritted her teeth and accepted his assistance. The first fingers of sunlight were poking upward on the horizon as they left the city through the Cook Street Gate, one of the stone archways that had once been connected by a fortified wall. Annabella’s eyes widened as they drove beneath the gate, and she twisted in the seat, gazing over her shoulder, apparently studying the ancient structure.
Heaving a sigh, she turned back around. “How long until we arrive?”
Jon studied the lethargic pace of the horses pulling them. “About an hour.”
“Oh.” She picked at the hem of her dark blue cloak.
“We should arrive in time for a light morning meal.”
And then? He shook his head. Only heaven knew the answer to that. Heaven and the Dowager Duchess of Blackmoor. He could only hope Gran was having one of her better days. He leaned back on the cracked leather seat and listened to the squeak of the carriage as they bounced over the rutted road.
“Is Blackmoor your home? Do you live there alone?” she asked, finally breaking the silence between them.
A smile tugged at his lips. “I grew up there, but the property belongs to my father, the Duke of Blackmoor.” He shrugged. “And… it will pass on to my brother, Nicholas, as will the title.”
“Are you taking me to endure your father’s inspection, then?” she asked quietly.
Jon’s inner warning system went on the alert. If he’d learned anything, it was that when Annabella seemed quiet and subdued, she was anything but.
“My parents are in London for the Season.” Thank the stars. “My younger sisters have accompanied them — Daphne is coming out. And Nicholas is traveling on business, accompanied by his wife, Ellen.”
“I… see.” She stared at her hands folded in her lap. When she spoke again, her voice trembled. “Then we’ll be — alone?”
Ah… so that was it. The trepidation of a new bride being carried home. Not for the first time, he questioned his course. He might have tried a different tack, should have, really. But impatience and opportunity had collided, and he’d taken control of his future. He could only hope not disastrously so, though at the moment he had a fair share of doubt.
“My grandmother resides there,” he confessed without looking at Annabella. “The Dowager Duchess of Blackmoor. Though I call her Gran.”
“Oh.” She stared into the distance. “I look forward to meeting her.”
****
The terrain they passed on the way to Blackmoor reminded her of home — of Wyndham Green, she corrected, for obviously that was no longer her home. Once she’d resented being made to stay there, but now it represented a safe haven. She would much rather be back there than on the road to a stranger’s house.
Annabella sighed. Strange how she’d learned more about Seabrook in the short time they’d been riding to his home than in the handful of days they’d spent together at Rose Cottage. Maybe she’d be able to entreat his grandmother for help to make him see how unsuited the two of them were. His voice had taken on a tender quality when he spoke of her. Obviously he cared about the dowager a great deal.
She couldn’t stay with him, of course. The idea was ludicrous. Besides, she had to get to London. Had to reach Juliet before Markwythe found her out and… Annabella sighed. Truthfully, she had no idea what the duke would do to her friend, but she doubted it would go well for a maid pretending to be a lady.
A gust of wind strengthened the smell clinging in the air. Annabella coughed and wrinkled her nose. “What is that reek?”
Seabrook inhaled deeply and let out a long, contented sigh. “The smell of home,” he murmured, pointing to their left.
Annabella followed his gesture with her gaze, squinting at what looked like a row of red brick chimneys standing in the middle of nowhere. Pale, yellow-tinged smoke puffed upward from the two closest ones. As they drew closer, her eyes began to water and the smell seeped into her mouth, carrying with it the taste of rotten eggs. She coughed and her stomach threatened embarrassment.
“Iron smelting,” said Seabrook, gesturing to more chimneys on the other side of the road. “They use coke in the process — that’s a porous substance that they burn to melt the iron. Made of ash and sulfur.”
“Sulfur!” Covering her nose and mouth with one hand, Annabella swiveled in her seat and stared at the grinning jackanapes driving the carriage.
Seabrook broke into raucous laughter. “Come now, it’s not that bad. I promise you’ll grow used to it before too long.”
He was wrong. She’d never grow used to that stench. No more than she would ever grow used to thinking of the man seated next to her as her husband.
“You really are the spawn of the devil,” she whispered, fighting back the nausea. “And you’ve brought me to hell.”
Chapter Thirteen
By mid-morning, the sun had chased away most of the mist and thank goodness they had left the horrid stink several miles back. As the carriage swayed and creaked along the rutted road, Annabella found herself rocking to the rhythm.
Back… and forth.
Her head nodded, and she blinked several times, hardly able to keep her eyes open. At a light touch on her arm, she jerked upright and glared at Seabrook.
“We’ll be arriving at Blackmoor Hall shortly.”
With a soft moan, Annabella stretched and sat up. Dappled sunlight poked through the trees overhead and played across his features. The whimsical effect somehow made him appear younger.
I don’t even know how old he is.
“Annie,” he murmured his voice taking on a tenderness she simply could not accept. Not in that moment — maybe not ever.
She stiffened. “Annabella. My name… is Annabella. Please allow me the courtesy of using it.”
From the corner of her eye, she caught a reflexive movement of his hand but he didn’t touch her. “I just wanted to say… I know things didn’t work out — that you never expected to find yourself—” He released a frustrated sigh.
“Never expected to find myself shackled to a despicable man I scarcely know? To find myself ruined by an objectionable rake who took advantage of me?” The words seemed to fly from her lips of their own accord.
Stop, just stop talking. You’ve only yourself to blame. All he did was stand by you after— She pressed her fingers hard against her lips. Yes… after.
For a while, only the squeak of the carriage and the plodding footfalls of the horses broke the silence.
“I suppose I deserve that.” He drew in a sharp breath “Annie—”
They rounded a bend and emerged from the canopy of elms to reveal a vast carpet of green that swept to the base of what surely was a castle. Annabella’s heart stammered at the majesty sprawled before her. Ivy crept over the rough gray stone, starting from each end and meeting over the door in the middle. Towers rose above the structure and rounded the two outer corners, with two smaller turrets on either side of the entrance. Annabella counted three floors in the central portion, which looked a bit older, with two separate wings on either side, each with two stories. A spectacular drive circled through the yard and curved up to the front door.
“I’ve never seen anything so grand,” she whispered. She risked a glance at Seabrook to find him smiling as he watched her. “Did you truly grow up here?”
He lifted one shoulder and inclined his head in a lazy half-shrug. “I did, indeed.”
The lawn circled around a central garden planted with neat clusters of brilliant color. Dark green privet hedges contained the flowerbeds with angular lines. Wyndham Green’s grounds were little more than an untamed jungle compared to these.
As the carriage pulled to a stop, double doors of dark iron opened and three footmen scurried forward as though they had been waiting
for someone to stop by. Dressed in gray from head to foot, they moved with perfect coordination, reminding Annabella of busy little squirrels.
Annabella squinted at the ornate sculpted-stone columns framing the door. BLACKMOOR had been chiseled into the stone, centered above the entrance, and above that what she assumed was the family crest. Her family crest now, she supposed. “A wolf and a griffin?” She twisted around to capture Seabrook in her gaze and raised an eyebrow. “Which are you?”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Who says I have to be either?”
Annabella lowered her eyes to avoid answering his quip or his smile. Both, then.
One of the footmen accepted the reins, and Seabrook jumped from the carriage. Then he turned and extended his hand. “May I, Lady Seabrook?”
Lady Seabrook. Annabella stared at his hand. A pale doeskin glove stretched over his palm, so snug it might well have been his skin. Her heart stirred. Persistent quivering began in her middle. If she took his hand and stepped from the carriage… She swallowed. When I step from this carriage, I shall be admitting I’m his wife.
It hadn’t seemed real, had been more of a hindrance, some inconvenient circumstance to be dispensed with so she could move on with her life. Her gaze wandered to his shoulder, to his mouth where his lips still entertained a smile, and up to his eyes, which had softened and warmed.
Swallowing hard, she settled her hand into his. When he closed his fingers around hers, a shivered rippled outward from her middle and circled round to her back. Meeting Seabrook’s eyes, Annabella calmly stepped over the rim and out of the carriage, accepting his assistance — and her new life — with a murmured thank you.
Then her feet were on the ground and his gaze lingered along with his hand. Her knees weakened. Her heart fluttered like a tiny bird’s wings. She touched her tongue to her lips and trembled when he caught his breath. Seabrook shifted his stance and reached for her valise on the floor of the carriage.
Kay Springsteen Page 14