Once Upon a Wager

by Julie LeMense

  “You don’t seem to understand.” How could the vow he’d made be considered an excuse?

  “There is nothing to understand. I was hurt, of course, when you left without a word,” she said offhandedly. “But after all, there were battles to fight a thousand miles from home.”

  Something was not right. “Annabelle, despite what happened, I did leave word. I left a letter behind. I even bribed one of the footmen—he was new, I think—to deliver it. In it, I tried to explain—”

  “There was never any letter,” she cut in dismissively.

  How could she not believe him? And why was she quibbling over a letter, in the face of all they’d been through? “I swear to you as a gentleman that I left one for you. You know the position that I was in. I had no choice but to leave. I’ve always cared about your welfare. I have missed you very much.”

  She took a long moment before replying. Her bright blue eyes flickered. “I don’t believe you, Lord Dorset.”

  Surely, he’d not heard her correctly. “I do not lie, Annabelle. You know what sort of man I am, the sort I was raised to be.”

  “Ah yes, the honorable Alec Carstairs. Noble and pedigreed, a proud reflection of his father.” Her voice was deliberate and edged with ice. “But it is all a facade, because you are not the man I thought you were.”

  Her words struck him like a blow to the gut. It was the gravest of insults. No one had ever doubted his honor. She had known him for a lifetime. When she was so gravely injured, he’d wiped her brow and sat beside her as she writhed in pain!

  She must know how hard it had been for him to leave the Layton family behind. Gareth had been his oldest friend. She’d been his friend, as well. And something more, too, no matter how unwise. The day he left, he’d felt like he was severing a limb to leave her there, barely recovered, because her mother demanded it. Yet she had no faith in him.

  Deep inside, he felt something shrivel, like parchment curling to black in a flame.

  God, how stupid he now felt. All of those letters he’d written to her during the war, the ones he’d kept safely hidden in his satchel, as if they were a lifeline to sanity. He had damn well spent the past four years in exile, all to fulfill a promise he made to Lady Layton. He’d even defied his own father, and he could never take that back now. He could never make amends for it, or thank him for not sending Mother away. The earl had been right about Annabelle all along, about the dangers she presented. How dare she question his honor?

  “It is unfortunate, then, that our paths crossed today.” His voice was cold and hard. “It’s obvious that anything we shared in the past is best forgotten.”

  “It appears so, Lord Dorset. How lucky that my aunt and I are traveling to Bath for an extended visit. It’s unlikely we will have to suffer another chance encounter between us.”

  “I will not bother you again,” he said. “Whatever you may think, I am a man of my word.” He turned sharply on his heel, and left the room.

  Without explanation, he ushered his mother from the inn, tossing the innkeeper a sovereign for the expenses they’d incurred. With a quick snap of his fingers, their carriage pulled up to the doorway, and he helped his mother into it, climbing in after her and slamming the door behind him, to the surprise of the inn’s stable boy. She tried to ask him what had happened with Annabelle, but he didn’t trust himself to answer without speaking harshly.

  On the long ride home to Arbury Hall, she regarded him with wary eyes, because he said nothing. Not a word.

  • • •

  For a few long moments after his departure, Annabelle could not move. It felt as if a cold wind—completely at odds with the warmth of the afternoon—had swept in to surround her, cloaking her in ice. She’d never purposefully hurt anyone until today. She shivered with the shame of it.

  Wasn’t that a small sin, though, when measured against the pain he’d caused her? He had left her behind to protect his precious reputation. He had not even bothered to offer her a better excuse, merely claiming that he’d had no choice. As if Napoleon himself had swept into Nuneaton, dragging him off to the war.

  Anger was a good substitute for pain. She’d relied on it every time it had hurt too much to put one leg in front of the other. Every time she’d wanted to give up. And she would use it now to prove she hadn’t been broken after all. She would go to Bath. She would dance and laugh and see what she’d missed of the world.

  If only this lingering sadness would go away. If only it were easier to reconcile the man she’d once believed him to be with the incontrovertible truth of what he’d become. All those years, for God knows what reason, he had been humoring her, pretending some sort of deep and lasting bond. As if she didn’t know the truth when he said things like, “I have always cared about your welfare. I have missed you very much.” He had never really cared for her, no matter what she’d thought had sparked between them, and the death of that illusion was something to be mourned.

  Perhaps that was why, when Aunt Sophia hurried back into the room in a rush of silken skirts, Annabelle wrapped her in a desperate hug and burst into tears.

  Chapter 7

  June 21, 1812

  London

  Decisions, decisions, decisions. Alec had a particularly important one to make and a rare hesitancy to do so. Since the death of his father several months ago, he’d increasingly felt the need to secure his family’s line. In other words, he needed an heir. Which meant that he needed a wife.

  Jane Fitzsimmons, whom Father had approved of, was a wise choice for the post. The earl had expected him to be responsible and productive, to bear his duties with alacrity, and she seemed to be much the same. She, too, was an only child, the daughter of Lord Reginald Fitzsimmons, who was a powerful figure in the House of Lords despite his reputed weakness for cards. Alec’s new soldiers’ bill would benefit immeasurably from his support.

  Furthermore, Jane was more than passably attractive—beautiful, even—especially when she smiled. Not that he put much store in beauty. It was the measure of nothing. And what did it matter if the thought of bedding her brought on a faint feeling of unease? Surely she was capable of something resembling passion? Her smiles were rare, although he would hardly call her humorless. Merely serious. Perhaps excessively so. But she would be a dutiful and faithful wife.

  A sudden burst of commotion sounded in the hall. Rousing himself from one of the club’s capacious leather chairs, he went to see what was causing the stir, only to nearly collide with Marworth himself. “Dorset! God’s blood, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come with me straight away.” Benjamin turned toward the entrance hall.

  “Is anything the matter?” he called out. “Where are we going?” The racket—unheard of in the hallowed confines of White’s—was rapidly escalating.

  “We’re off to Hatchard’s,” Benjamin replied over his shoulder, naming the popular bookseller on Piccadilly. “You’ll understand when we get there.” Crossing into the hall, Alec was surprised by the sight of more than a dozen members demanding their coats from harried staff.

  “Get a move on, my good man!” exclaimed William, Lord Alvanley, one of Prinny’s great cronies, as he waved his hands impatiently at a house steward. “She’ll be there in mere moments.”

  “Surely it was Gunter’s first, and then Hatchard’s?” Arthur Gormley, also known as Baron Asquith, asked. “We’ll make it in time if she has stopped at Gunter’s first.”

  “Who is she?” someone else called out. “And why are we chasing after her?”

  “Only the greatest beauty since the Gunning sisters,” gushed Percy Billingsly, the second son of the Marquis of Brimley.

  “The Gunning sisters came out with my grandmother. I prefer living, breathing chits myself.” That had come from Charles, Viscount Petersham. This must be an event indeed if it had roused Petersham, who was rarely seen before the late afternoon.

  “Beauty don’t last!” cried Lord Archibald Higgins. In his mid-sixties, Higgins was one of the ton’s more
decrepit roués. He had already buried three wives and was said to be on the hunt for another. “I’d rather see what her dowry looks like.”

  Billingsly, who was a self-styled romantic, took offense. “You may either come with us to Hatchard’s, or stay here and read The Times. I hardly care. All I know is that the Regent himself is agog over the girl. He was at her presentation to the Queen Mother the other day, and he has declared her the most glorious thing in all of Britannia.” He was shouting to be heard over the din. “Prinny vowed that if he were twenty years younger, he would throw over Princess Caroline herself to marry the girl.”

  That comment brought several derisive snickers. “That’s hardly a ringing endorsement,” Alvanley laughed. “He’d marry you to be rid of Princess Caroline.” The Regent’s marriage was famously miserable. The future King George fell in love as often as he fell into debt, and his wife had been carrying on notorious affairs abroad for years.

  Alec, though, was losing patience with the entire exchange. Didn’t any of these gentlemen have more pressing concerns? He had no interest in debutantes, no matter how beautiful. He’d made his choice. But then someone else called out, begging for the girl’s name, and Benjamin turned toward him, his expression mischievous, which was never a good sign.

  “Her name is Annabelle,” Marworth said. “Annabelle Layton.”

  But of course.

  “I’ve no interest in joining you,” Alec said, his tone uncharacteristically short as he waved aside a footman who’d hurried forward with his top coat, hat, and gloves.

  “Really? Still smarting, are we?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He’d put the entire episode at The Bull’s End last month behind him.

  “Do you know something about the girl we don’t?” Asquith interrupted.

  Alec sent him a shuttered look. “She was a childhood acquaintance, nothing more.” And he had put away childish things.

  “Well, then,” Benjamin announced with a smile. “I’m off without you. I’m eager to see the luminous Miss Layton again. I have met her before, as you’ll recall.”

  At that, several of the other gentlemen came forward, anxious for more information, and Marworth led them out of White’s, like Goethe’s Pied Piper.

  • • •

  “Don’t I remember a library at Astley Castle?” Aunt Sophia asked idly, as she admired one of the jaunty new hats that had just been delivered from Mrs. Bell’s millinery shop on Upper King Street. There were boxes all over her aunt’s elegant boudoir.

  “Yes, but it is filled with Father’s books on lepidoptera, and one can only read so much of that,” Annabelle replied. “At Hatchard’s, there were books on culture and history, geography, and the sciences. I’ve never seen so many volumes. And I was very surprised to see so many fashionable men wandering among the stacks. Several of them were discussing Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.”

  “That sounds suspicious,” Aunt Sophia said, turning from her hat. “None of them approached you, I hope, while Lisette waited outside?”

  “Only Lord Marworth, but we have been introduced. He was one of Gareth’s friends from Oxford.”

  “Ah, Marworth … I’m tempted to forgive him anything.”

  Annabelle could guess why. With blond hair, the brightest of blue eyes, and perfectly symmetrical features, he was perhaps the second most handsome man she’d ever seen. Unfortunately, he’d shared some unpleasant news with her. “Lord Marworth mentioned that Lord Dorset is staying here in London for the Season. Do you think it will be possible to avoid seeing him?”

  “London is far smaller than you suspect, my dear, at least the part we will frequent. Do you really wish to miss any of it?”

  “I suppose not.” London was far too glorious. She'd enjoyed their time in Bath, but it couldn’t compare to the capital, which coursed with life and vibrance. And of course, they’d gone shopping. Repeatedly. She had been measured and fitted by Madame Boucheron, the ton’s most exclusive modiste. They’d gone to Harding Howell & Co. for gloves, R. Willis for shoes, Grafton House for parasols and silk stockings, Mr. Arpthorp’s shop on High Holborn Street for delicate underthings. She had so many beautiful new gowns on order that a separate bedchamber here at Marchmain House would be needed to hold them all.

  The house itself was no less beautiful. A large Georgian structure looking out over Grovesnor Square, it was such an impressive residence that Annabelle was just now becoming accustomed to it.

  “I don’t know how I can ever thank you, Aunt Sophia, for all that you have done. You have incurred so many expenses on my behalf. I’ve written to Cousin Estrella asking about my allowance, but she has not written back.”

  “Don’t mention that woman’s name. I find it impossible not to frown when I hear it, and I refuse to wrinkle on her account. Don’t concern yourself with funds. I need something to spend my money on, and I’m having the most marvelous time. Your presentation at St. James Palace was a triumph.”

  She'd made her formal debut just a few days ago in an elaborate gown encrusted with tiny seed pearls and delicate crystal beads. The enormous skirts and long train required for court dress had been a challenge, and the deep and prolonged curtsey she’d made to the queen had taxed her leg, which still occasionally weakened under a direct assault. Annabelle had been convinced that her fanciful headdress of ostrich feathers would list under its own weight, possibly taking her head along with it.

  “Thanks to Lisette, my coiffure would have held fast in a hurricane.”

  “My maid is a marvel, but with the Season upon us, you will need your own lady’s maid. I’ve taken the liberty of hiring one for you. I would have done so in Bath, but I had a very specific person in mind, and it has only just been arranged. She will be arriving here tomorrow. I hope she will prove a pleasant surprise.”

  With a mysterious smile, Aunt Sophia returned her attention to the boxes from Mrs. Bell’s shop.

  • • •

  They were sitting together in the breakfast room the following morning when Canby announced the arrival of Miss Mary Stevens, formerly of Nuneaton. Following close behind him was a diminutive figure with bright red hair beneath her mobcap and familiar green eyes.

  “Mary!” Annabelle gave her aunt a grateful smile before standing up to grasp Mary’s hands warmly.

  “Miss Annabelle, I hope you’re not upset to see me. When I received Lady Marchmain’s note through the placement service for ladies maids, I could hardly believe my eyes.”

  “I’m thrilled to see you. How could you believe me to be anything else?”

  “But I left under such an awful cloud. You’d barely recovered from that terrible accident.”

  “Your grandmother needed your help, Mary. I’ve always been glad you were able to go and care for her. I hope she’s well?”

  “My grandmother, miss?”

  “I know you were urgently needed. Mrs. Fritchens said it was an attack of pleurisy. Oh dear … she did recover, didn’t she?”

  Mary flushed. “She is well, Miss Annabelle. I thank you for asking.”

  “That’s wonderful news. I have so missed your company, and this is such a wonderful surprise. Will you mind working with me again?”

  “I never wanted to leave. I’m so glad to see you recovered.”

  She grinned at that. “I’m happy for it, too.”

  As the afternoon continued, and Mary settled into Marchmain House, Annabelle was indeed happy. Granted, she was nervous about the upcoming Season, and about whether or not she would make a fool of herself, but she was beginning to regain a measure of her confidence. A number of men had asked her to dance at the Assembly Rooms in Bath. And time and again, she’d danced.

  • • •

  The next afternoon, Aunt Sophia sat beside her, sublimely elegant in a pale green and light sarsnet riding dress that was the first stare of fashion. Annabelle was also turned out in the latest of styles, as the coachman turned the sumptuous Marchmain barouche onto the crowded bridle path known as Rotten
Row in Hyde Park. She wore a white jaconet muslin dress with a short jacket in sky blue and a white willow bonnet ornamented with a wreath of flowers. She also wore matching sky-blue gloves and half boots. With her Boucheron creation and Mary’s help, she’d never felt more elegant.

  The Row was a scene unto itself. Conveyances of every size and shape lumbered along the route, while men on horseback rode alongside, pausing occasionally to greet friends and acquaintances. From dowagers to debutantes, not to mention soldiers in their showy uniforms, there were people everywhere, smiling and bobbing their heads to the left and to the right, as if they were participants in a puppet parade.

  “In many ways, this will be your first introduction to the haute ton. I’m eager to see their faces when they catch a glimpse of you.” Aunt Sophia briefly bowed her head and smiled as an elaborate open carriage carrying two women rolled by. The women reciprocated, and then turned to look rather fixedly at Annabelle. She smiled demurely, as Aunt Sophia had mentioned she must. The moment passed, and they moved on.

  “Lady Jersey and the Princess Lieven are supercilious snobs, but unfortunately, we must cozy up to them. They are patronesses at Almack’s, and we’ll need to secure you a voucher. I’m rather surprised to see them together, actually. The princess cannot abide Lady Jersey. The woman never stops talking. And don’t let Lady Jersey’s haughty demeanor fool you. Her mother is scandalous, and a former mistress of the regent to boot.”

  “You are up on the latest gossip, Aunt Sophia, despite our brief time here. I’m very impressed.”

  “If you look discreetly to your left, you’ll see Viscount Petersham in all his glory.” The most astonishing high-perch phaeton was rolling by. It was a study in unrelieved brown from the carriage to its matched horses and livery, even down to the clothes of the man who drove it. He was wearing a brown top hat; a brown coat, vest, and gloves; and rather fantastical trousers that ballooned out about his legs, only to nip back into his boots. They, too, were brown, like his eyes, which were watching her with a shocked expression. Annabelle quickly looked away. Ladies she must smile at, but not men she didn’t know.