by Lisa Kleypas
He had been altogether certain that Annabelle would have been married by now. The evidence that the Peytons had fallen on hard times had not signified to Simon, who had assumed that any peer with his brains intact would see her worth and claim her at once. But as two years had passed, and Annabelle had remained unwed, a fragile tendril of hope had awakened inside Simon. He saw a touching valiance in her determined search for a husband, the self-possession with which she wore her increasingly threadbare gowns…the clear value that she placed on herself, despite her lack of a dowry. The artful way she approached the process of husband-hunting brought to mind nothing so much as a seasoned gambler playing his last few cards in a losing game. Annabelle was smart, careful, uncompromising, and still beautiful, although lately the threat of poverty had lent a certain hardness to her eyes and mouth. Selfishly, Simon was not sorry for her financial hardship—it created an opportunity that he never would have had otherwise.
The problem was that Simon had not yet figured out how to make Annabelle want him, when she was so obviously repulsed by everything he was. Simon was well aware that there were few graces to his character. Moreover, he had no ambition to become a gentleman any more than a tiger aspired to become a house cat. He was merely a man with a great deal of money and all the accompanying frustration of realizing that it could not buy the thing he most wanted.
So far, Simon’s strategy had been to wait patiently, knowing that desperation would eventually drive Annabelle to do things that she had never considered doing before. Privation had a way of presenting a situation in a whole new light. Soon Annabelle’s game would end. She would be faced with the choice of marrying a poor man or becoming the mistress of a wealthy one. And in the latter case, his bed would be the one she ended up in.
“A tasty little tart, isn’t she?” came a comment from nearby, and Simon turned toward Henry Burdick, whose father, a viscount, was reputedly on his deathbed. Caught in the interminable wait before his father kicked off and finally yielded the title and family fortune, Burdick spent the majority of his time gambling and skirt-chasing. He followed Simon’s gaze to Annabelle, who was engaged in a lively conversation with the wallflowers around her.
“I wouldn’t know,” Simon returned, feeling a jolt of antipathy for Burdick and all his ilk, who’d been given all manner of privileges on a silver platter since the day they were born. And usually did nothing to justify fate’s imprudent generosity.
Burdick smiled, his face florid from too much drink and rich food. “I intend to find out soon,” he commented.
Burdick was hardly in the minority. No small number of men had set their sights on Annabelle, with the anticipation of a wolf pack trailing after a wounded prey. At the moment that she was at her weakest, and would offer the least resistance, one of them would move in for the kill. However, as in nature, the dominant male would always win out.
The shadow of a smile settled on Simon’s hard mouth. “You surprise me,” he murmured. “I would have assumed that a lady’s predicament would inspire gallantry from gentlemen of your sort—and instead I find you entertaining the ill-bred notions that one would expect from my sort.”
Burdick emitted a low laugh, missing the feral gleam in Simon’s black eyes. “Lady or no, she’ll have to choose one of us when her resources finally give out.”
“Will none of you offer her marriage?” Simon asked idly.
“Good God, why?” Burdick licked his lips as anticipatory thoughts crossed his mind. “No need to marry the chit when she’ll soon be available for the right price.”
“Perhaps she has too much honor for that.”
“Doubt it,” the young aristocrat returned cheerfully. “Women that beautiful, and poor, can’t afford honor. Besides, there is a rumor that she’s already been giving over the goods to Lord Hodgeham.”
“Hodgeham?” Inwardly startled, Simon kept his face expressionless. “What started that rumor?”
“Oh, Hodgeham’s carriage has been seen at the mews behind the Peyton at odd hours of the night… and according to some of their creditors, he takes care of their bills now and then.” Burdick paused and chortled. “A night between those pretty thighs is worth paying the grocer’s account, wouldn’t you say?”
Simon’s instantaneous response was a murderous impulse to separate Burdick’s head from the rest of his body. He wasn’t certain how much of the cold, splintering rage was fueled by the image of Annabelle Peyton in bed with the porcine Lord Hodgeham, and how much was elicited by Burdick’s snide enjoyment of gossip that was very likely untrue.
“I would say that if you’re going to slander a lady’s reputation,” Simon said in a dangerously pleasant tone, “you had better have some hard proof of what you’re saying.”
“Egads, gossip doesn’t require proof,” the young man replied with a wink. “And time will soon reveal the lady’s true character. Hodgeham doesn’t have the means to keep a prime beauty like that—before long she’ll want more than he can deliver. I predict that at the season’s end, she’ll sail off to the fellow with the deepest pockets.”
“Which would be mine,” Simon said softly.
Burdick blinked in surprise, his smile fading as he wondered if he had heard correctly. “Wha—”
“I’ve watched as you and the pack of idiots you run with have sniffed at her heels for two years,” Simon said, his eyes narrowing. “Now you’ve lost your chance at her.”
“Lost my… what do you mean by that?” Burdick asked indignantly.
“I mean that I will afflict the most acute kind of pain, mental, physical, and financial, on the first man who dares to trespass on my territory. And the next person who repeats any unsubstantiated rumors about Miss Peyton in my hearing will find it shoved right back in his throat—along with my fist.” Simon’s smile contained a tigerish menace as he beheld Burdick’s stunned face. “Tell that to anyone who may find it of interest,” he advised, and strode away from the pompous, gape-jawed little runt.
Chapter 3
Having been returned to her town house by the elderly cousin who sometimes acted as her chaperone, Annabelle strode into the empty, flagstoned entrance hall. She stopped short at the sight of the hat that had been placed on the scallop-edged demilune table against the wall. It was a high-crowned gentleman’s hat, gray banded with dark burgundy satin. A distinctive hat, compared to the simple black ones that most gentlemen wore. Annabelle had seen it on far too many occasions, perched on this very table like a coiled snake.
A stylish cane with a diamond-tipped handle leaned against the table. Annabelle entertained a lively desire to use the cane to bash in the crown of the hat— preferably while the owner was wearing it. Instead, she walked up the stairs with a leaden heart while a frown pinched her forehead.
As she neared the second floor where the family rooms were located, a heavyset man came to the top landing. He viewed her with an intolerable smirk, his complexion pink and moist from recent exertion, while a lopsided lock of his combed-over hair dangled like a rooster’s crest.
“Lord Hodgeham,” Annabelle said stiffly, swallowing against the shame and fury that had lumped in her throat. Hodgeham was one of the few people in the world whom she genuinely hated. A so-called friend of her late father’s, Hodgeham paid infrequent calls to the household, but never at regular visiting hours. He came late at night, and against all dictates of decorum, he spent time alone in a private room with Annabelle’s mother, Philippa. And in the days after his visits, Annabelle could hardly fail to notice that some of their most pressing bills had been mysteriously paid, and some irate creditor or another had been appeased. And Philippa was uncustomarily brittle and irritable, and disinclined to talk.
It was nearly impossible for Annabelle to believe that her mother, who had always shrunk from impropriety, would allow anyone the use of her body in return for money. Yet it was the only reasonable conclusion to draw, and it filled Annabelle with helpless shame and rage. Her anger was not directed solely at her mother— she
was also furious at their situation, and herself for not yet having been able to land a husband. It had taken a long time for Annabelle to realize that, no matter how pretty and charming she was, and no matter how much interest a gentleman displayed, she was not going to get an offer. At least not a respectable one.
Since her come-out, Annabelle had gradually been forced to accept that her dreams of some handsome, cultivated suitor who would fall in love with her and make all her problems go away was a naive fantasy. That disillusionment had sunk in deeply during the prolonged disappointment that was her third season. And now in her fourth season, the unappealing image of Annabelle-the-farmer’s-wife was alarmingly close to reality.
Stone-faced, Annabelle attempted to walk past Hodgeham in silence. He stopped her with a meaty hand on her arm. Annabelle jerked back with such antipathy that the force of the movement nearly caused her to lose her balance. “Don’t touch me,” she said, glaring into his florid face.
Hodgeham’s eyes appeared very blue against the ruddiness of his complexion. Grinning, he rested his hand on the top of the banister, preventing Annabelle from ascending to the landing. “So inhospitable,” he murmured, in the incongruous tenor voice that so many tall men seemed to be afflicted with. “After the favors I have done for your family—”
“You’ve done no favors for us,” Annabelle said tersely.
“You would have been cast into the streets long ago if not for my generosity.”
“Are you suggesting that I should be grateful?” Annabelle asked, her tone saturated with loathing. “You’re a filthy scavenger.”
“I’ve taken nothing that wasn’t willingly offered to me.” Hodgeham reached out and touched her chin, the damp brush of his fingers making her recoil in disgust. “In truth, it’s been tame sport. Your mother is too docile for my taste.” He leaned closer, until the odor of his body—stale sweat liberally overlaid with cologne—filled Annabelle’s nostrils with a pungent stench. “Perhaps the next time I’ll try you out,” he murmured.
No doubt he expected Annabelle to cry, or blush, or plead. Instead, she leveled a cold stare at him. “You vain old fool,” she said evenly, “if I were to become someone’s mistress, don’t you think I could get someone better than you?”
Hodgeham eventually twisted his lips into a smile though Annabelle was pleased to see that it had taken some effort. “It’s unwise to make an enemy of me. With a few well-placed words, I could ruin your family beyond all hope of redemption.” He stared at the frayed fabric of her bodice and smiled contemptuously. “If I were you, I shouldn’t be quite so disdainful, standing there in rags and paste jewels.”
Annabelle flushed and knocked his hand away angrily as he reached out in an attempt to grope her bodice. Chuckling to himself, Hodgeham descended the stairs, while Annabelle waited in frozen silence. After she had heard the sound of the front door open and close, she hastened downstairs and turned the key in the lock. Breathing hard from anxiety and lingering outrage, she flattened her palms on the heavy oak door and leaned her forehead against one of the panels.
“That does it,” she mumbled aloud, trembling with fury. No more Hodgeham, no more unpaid bills… they had all suffered enough. She would have to find someone to marry immediately—she would find the best prospect she could at the Hampshire hunting party and finally be done with it. And failing that…
She slid her hands slowly along the door panel, her palms leaving streaking imprints on the grainy wood. If she couldn’t get someone to marry her, she could become some man’s mistress. Athough no one seemed to want her as a wife, there seemed to be an infinite number of gentlemen willing to keep her in sin. If she was clever, she could earn a fortune. But she flinched at the thought of never again being able to go out in good society…being scorned and ostracized and valued only for her skills in bed. The alternative, living in virtuous poverty and taking in sewing or washing, or becoming a governess, was infinitely more perilous—a young woman in that position would be at everyone’s mercy. And the pay wouldn’t be enough to sustain her mother, or Jeremy, who would also have to go in service. It didn’t seem that the three of them could afford Annabelle’s morality. They lived in a house of cards…and the merest agitation would cause it to collapse.
The following morning, Annabelle sat at the breakfast table with a porcelain cup clasped in her icy fingers. Although she had just finished her tea, the ceramic was still warm from the sturdy brew. There was a tiny chip in the glaze, and she rubbed the pad of her thumb over it repeatedly, not looking up as she heard her mother, Philippa, enter the room.
“Tea?” she asked in a careful monotone, and heard Philippa’s murmured assent. Pouring another cup from the pot before her, Annabelle sweetened it with a small lump of sugar and lightened it with a liberal splash of milk.
“I don’t take it with sugar any longer,” Philippa said. “I’ve come to prefer it without.”
The day when her mother stopped liking sweets was the day they began serving ice water in hell. “We can still afford sugar for your tea,” Annabelle replied, stirring the cup with a few brisk swirls of her spoon. Glancing upward, she slid the cup and saucer to Philippa’s place at the table. As she had expected, her mother looked sullen and haggard, with shame writhing behind her bitter facade. Once she would have found it inconceivable that her dashing, high-spirited mother—always so much prettier than anyone else’s mother—could have worn such an expression. And as she stared at Philippa’s taut face, Annabelle realized that her own facade was very nearly as world-weary, her mouth holding the same edge of disenchantment.
“How was the ball?” Philippa asked, holding her face close to her own tea so that the steam wafted over her face.
“The usual disaster,” Annabelle said, softening the honesty of her reply with a deliberately light laugh. “The only man who asked me to dance was Mr. Hunt.”
“Dear heaven,” Philippa murmured, and drank a scalding mouthful of tea. “Did you accept him?”
“Of course not. There would be no purpose to it. When he looks at me, it is clear that he has anything but marriage in mind.”
“Even men such as Mr. Hunt do eventually marry,” Philippa countered, glancing up from her porcelain cup. “And you would be an ideal wife for him …you could perhaps be a softening influence, and help to ease his way into decent society—”
“Good Lord, Mama—it sounds as if you are encouraging me to accept his attentions.”
“No…” Philippa picked up her spoon and needlessly stirred her tea. “Not if you truly find Mr. Hunt objectionable. However, if you could manage to bring him to scratch, we would all certainly be well provided for…”
“He is not the marrying kind, Mama. Everyone knows it. No matter what I did, I could never get a respectable offer from him.” Annabelle dug through the sugar bowl with a tiny pair of tarnished silver tongs, searching for the smallest lump she could find. Extracting a morsel of raw brown sugar, she dropped it into her cup and drowned it with fresh tea.
Philippa drank her tea, her gaze carefully averted as she jumped to a new thread of conversation that Annabelle perceived had a disagreeable connection to the last. “We haven’t the means to keep Jeremy in school for his next term. I haven’t paid the servants in two months. There are bills—”
“Yes, I know all of that,” Annabelle said, flushing slightly with a swift burn of annoyance. “I’ll find a husband, Mama. Very soon.” Somehow she forced a shallow smile to her face. “How do you feel about a jaunt to Hampshire? Now that the season is coming to a close, many people will be leaving London in search of new amusements—in particular, a hunt given by Lord Westcliff at his country estate.”
Philippa glanced at her with new alertness. “I wasn’t aware that we had received an invitation from the earl.”
“We haven’t,” Annabelle replied. “Yet. But we will…and I have a feeling that good things await us in Hampshire, Mama.”
Chapter 4
Two days before Annabelle and her mother
left for Hampshire, a towering stack of boxes and parcels arrived. It took the footman three trips to convey them from the entrance hall to Annabelle’s room upstairs, where he piled them in a mountain beside the bed. Unwrapping them carefully, Annabelle discovered at least a half dozen gowns that had never been worn… taffeta silks and muslins in rich colors, and matching jackets lined in butter-soft chamois, and a ball gown made of heavy ivory silk with spills of delicate Belgium lace at the bodice and sleeves. There were also gloves, shawls, scarves, and hats, of such quality and beauty that they nearly made Annabelle want to weep. The gowns and accessories must have cost a fortune— undoubtedly nothing to the Bowman girls, but to Annabelle, the gift was overwhelming.
Picking up the note that had been delivered along with the parcels, she broke the wax seal and read the decisively scrawled lines.
From your fairy godmothers, otherwise known as Lillian and Daisy. Here’s to a successful hunt in Hampshire.
P.S. You’re not going to lose your nerve, are you?
She wrote back:
Dear Fairy Godmothers,
Nerve is the only thing I’ve got left. Thank you endlessly for the gowns. I am in ecstasy at finally being able to wear pretty clothes again. It is one of my many failings, to love beautiful things so dearly.
Your devoted Annabelle
P.S. Am returning the shoes, however, as they are far too small. And I’d always heard that American girls had large feet!
Dear Annabelle,
Is it a failing to love beautiful things? That must be an English notion, as we are certain that it has never occurred to anyone in Manhattanville. Just for that remark about feet, we’re going to make you play Rounders with us in Hampshire. You will love whacking balls with sticks. There is nothing quite so satisfying.