by Lisa Kleypas
“You’ll just have to make it clear that one kiss is all he may expect from you,” Lillian continued, “and that it will certainly never happen again.”
“Pardon me for casting aspersions on your plan… but it stinks like six o’clock fish. One pair of lips is not like any other, if they happen to be attached to Simon Hunt! And he’ll never be satisfied with something as trivial as a kiss, and I couldn’t offer him anything more than that.”
“Do you really find Mr. Hunt so repulsive?” Lillian asked idly. “He’s not bad, actually. I’d even go so far as to call him handsome.”
“He’s so insufferable that I’ve never really taken notice of his looks. But I will admit that he’s…” Annabelle fell into a confused silence, considering the question with a new and unsettling thoroughness.
Objectively speaking—in the unlikely circumstance that one could ever be objective about Simon Hunt—he was indeed a good-looking man. The word “handsome” was usually applied to people with highly chiseled features and slender, elegant proportions. But Simon Hunt redefined the word with his bold, cleanedged countenance, his audacious black eyes, with the strong blade of a nose that could only belong to a man, and the wide mouth that was forever edged with irreverent humor. Even his unusual height and brawn seemed to suit him perfectly, as if nature had recognized that he was not a creature to be formed by half measures.
Simon Hunt had made her uneasy from the first moment they met. Although Annabelle had never seen him any way other than perfectly dressed and thoroughly self-controlled, she had always sensed that Hunt was, at best, half-tamed. Her deepest instincts had warned her that beneath his mocking facade, there was a man who was capable of an alarming depth of passion, perhaps even brutality. He was not a man who could ever be mastered.
She tried to imagine Simon Hunt’s dark face over hers, the hot brand of his mouth, his arms closing around her… just like before, except that she would be a willing participant. He was only a man, she reminded herself nervously. And a kiss was indeed a fleeting thing. But for the moment that it lasted, she would be bound in intimacy with him. And from then on, whenever they met, Simon Hunt would gloat silently. That would be difficult to endure.
She rubbed her forehead, which was suddenly as sore as if it had been whacked with a Rounders bat. “Can’t we just ignore the whole thing and just hope that he’ll have the good taste to keep his mouth shut?”
“Oh, yes,” Lillian said sarcastically, “Mr. Hunt has so often been linked to the phrase ‘good taste.’ By all means, let’s just cross our fingers and wait… if your nerves can bear the suspense.”
Massaging her temples, Annabelle made a sound of distress. “All right. I’ll approach him tonight. I’ll…” She hesitated for a long moment. “I’ll even kiss him, if necessary. But I will consider this more than adequate payment for all the gowns you gave me!”
A satisfied grin curved Lillian’s mouth. “I’m certain that you can come to some agreement with Mr. Hunt.”
After they parted company at the manor, Annabelle went to her room for an afternoon nap, which she hoped would restore her to rights before the supper ball. Her mother was nowhere to be seen, most likely having elected to take tea with some of the other ladies in the downstairs parlor. Annabelle was thankful for her mother’s absence, which allowed her to change her clothes and wash without having to answer any unwanted questions. Although Philippa was a fond and generally permissive parent, she would not have reacted well to the news that her daughter had been involved in some scrape with the Bowman sisters.
After changing into fresh undergarments, Annabelle slipped beneath the slickly ironed bed linens. To her frustration, the nagging pain of her ankle made it impossible to sleep. Feeling weary and irritable, she rang for a maid to bring a cold footbath, and she sat with her foot soaking for a good half hour. Her ankle was most definitely swollen, leading her to conclude grumpily that it had been a singularly unlucky day. Cursing as she eased a fresh stocking over the pale, puffy flesh, Annabelle dressed herself slowly. She rang for the maid once more when she needed help to tighten her corset and fasten the back of her yellow silk gown.
“Miss?” the maid murmured, her eyes squinting with concern as she glanced into Annabelle’s set face. “You look a bit peaked… Is there aught I can bring for you? The housekeeper keeps a tonic in her closet for female ailments—”
“No, it’s not that,” Annabelle said with a wan smile. “It’s just a twinge in my ankle.”
“Some willowbark tea, then?” the girl suggested, moving behind Annabelle to button the back of the ball gown. “I’ll run down and fetch it straightaways, and you can drink it while I do your hair.”
“Yes, thank you.” Annabelle stood still as the maid’s nimble fingers fastened the gown, then she sank gratefully into the chair before the dressing table. She stared at her own strained reflection in the Queen Anne looking glass. “I can’t think how I injured it. I’m never clumsy.”
The maid fluffed the pale golden tulle that trimmed the sleeves of Annabelle’s gown. “I’ll hurry with the tea, miss. That will set you to rights.”
Just as the maid left, Philippa entered the room. Smiling at the sight of her daughter dressed in the yellow ball gown, she stood behind her, and met her gaze in the looking glass. “You look lovely, darling.”
“I feel wretched,” Annabelle said wryly. “I turned my ankle during my walk with the wallflowers this afternoon.”
“Must you refer to yourselves that way?” Philippa asked, looking perturbed. “Surely you could think of some more flattering name for your little group—”
“But it suits us,” Annabelle said with a grin. “If it makes you feel better, I do say the word with a suitable touch of irony.”
Philippa sighed. “I’m afraid my own store of irony is quite depleted at the moment. It isn’t easy for me to watch you struggle and scheme, while other girls of your station have so much easier a time of it. Seeing you in borrowed gowns, and knowing the burdens you carry… I’ve thought a thousand times that if only your father hadn’t died, and if only we had just a little money…”
Annabelle shrugged. “As they say, Mama …‘if turnips were watches, I’d have one by my side.’ ”
Philippa stroked her hair lightly. “Why don’t you rest in our room tonight? I’ll read to you, while you lie with your ankle propped up—”
“Don’t tempt me,” Annabelle said feelingly. “I’d like nothing better—but I can’t afford to stay up here tonight. I can’t miss a single opportunity to make an impression on Lord Kendall.” And negotiate with Simon Hunt, she thought, feeling hollow with apprehension.
After drinking a large mug of willowbark tea, Annabelle was able to make her way downstairs with scarcely a wince, although the swelling of her ankle had refused to abate. She had time for a brief exchange with Lillian before the guests were led to the dining hall. A touch of sun had left Lillian’s cheeks pink and glowing, her brown eyes velvety in the candlelight. “So far, Lord Westcliff has made an obvious effort to ignore the wallflowers,” Lillian said with a grin. “You were right—there’ll be no trouble from that quarter. Our only potential problem is Mr. Hunt.”
“He won’t be a problem,” Annabelle said grimly. “As I promised earlier, I’ll talk to him.”
Lillian responded with a relieved grin. “You’re a peach, Annabelle.”
As they were seated at the supper table, Annabelle was disconcerted to discover that she had been located near Lord Kendall. On any other occasion, it would have been a gratifying boon, but on this particular evening, Annabelle wasn’t feeling her best. She was unequal to the task of making intelligent conversation while her ankle was throbbing and her head was aching. To add to her discomfort, Simon Hunt was seated almost directly opposite her, looking maddeningly self-possessed. And making matters even worse, a sense of queasiness kept her from doing justice to the magnificent repast. Bereft of her usual healthy appetite, she found herself picking listlessly at the content
s of her plate. Every time she looked up, she found Hunt’s shrewd gaze on her and braced herself for some subtle taunt. Mercifully, however, the few remarks he made to her were bland and commonplace, and she was able to suffer through the meal without incident.
A tide of music began to surge from the ballroom as the supper concluded, and Annabelle was thankful that the ball would begin soon. For once she would be entirely happy to sit in the line of wallflowers and rest her feet while others danced. She supposed that she had taken too much sun earlier in the day, as she was feeling unpleasantly light-headed and sore. Lillian and Daisy, by contrast, looked as vibrant and healthy as ever. Unfortunately, poor Evie had gotten a scolding from her aunt that had left her sorely chastened. “The sun makes her freckle,” Daisy told Annabelle ruefully. “Aunt Florence told Evie that after our outing she’s become as spotty as a leopard, and she’s to have nothing more to do with us until her complexion returns to normal.”
Annabelle frowned, feeling a wave of sympathy for her friend. “Beastly Aunt Florence,” she muttered. “Obviously her sole purpose in life is to make Evie miserable.”
“And she’s brilliant at it,” Daisy agreed. Suddenly she saw something over Annabelle’s shoulder that made her eyes turn as round as saucers. “Zounds! Mr. Hunt is coming this way. I am perishing of thirst, so I’ll just visit the refreshment table, and leave the two of youto, er…”
“Lillian told you,” Annabelle said grimly.
“Yes, and she and Evie and I are ever so grateful for the sacrifice that you’re going to make on our behalf.”
“Sacrifice,” Annabelle repeated, not liking the sound of the word. “That’s putting it a bit strongly, isn’t it? As Lillian said, ‘one pair of lips is like any other.’ ”
“That’s what she told you,” Daisy said impishly. “But she told me and Evie that she would die before she would ever consent to kiss a man like Mr. Hunt.”
“What—” Annabelle began, but Daisy had already scuttled away, chortling.
Beginning to feel like a sacrificial virgin being tossed into the inferno, Annabelle started as she heard Simon Hunt’s deep voice close to her ear. The quiet jeer of his baritone seemed to resonate all the way down her spine. “Good evening, Miss Peyton. I see you’re fully clothed …for a change.”
Gritting her teeth, Annabelle turned to face him. “I must confess, Mr. Hunt, I was amazed by your restraint during dinner. I had expected a rash of insulting comments from you, and yet you managed to behave like a gentleman for a full hour.”
“It was a strain,” he acknowledged gravely. “But I thought that I would leave the shocking behavior to you…” He paused delicately before adding, “…since you seem to be doing so well at it of late.”
“My friends and I did nothing wrong!”
“Did I say that I disapproved of your playing Rounders in the altogether?” he asked innocently. “On the contrary—I endorse it wholeheartedly. In fact, I think you should do it every day.”
“I wasn’t in the ‘altogether,’ ” Annabelle retorted in a sharp whisper. “I was wearing undergarments.”
“Is that what they were?” he asked lazily.
She flushed bright red, mortified that he had noticed how ragged her underclothes were. “Have you told anyone about seeing us in the meadow?” she asked tensely.
Obviously, that was the question that he had been waiting for. A slow smile curved his lips. “Not yet.”
“Are you planning to tell anyone?”
Hunt considered the question with a thoughtful expression that didn’t begin to conceal his enjoyment of the situation. “Not planning to, no…” He shrugged regretfully. “But you know how it is. Sometimes these things have a way of slipping out during a conversation…”
Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “What will it take to keep you quiet?”
Hunt pretended to be shocked by her bluntness. “Miss Peyton, you should learn to handle these matters with a bit more diplomacy, don’t you think? I would have assumed that a lady of your refinement would use some tact and delicacy—”
“I don’t have time for diplomacy,” she interrupted with a scowl. “And it’s obvious that you can’t be depended upon to keep silent unless you’re offered some kind of bribe.”
“The word ‘bribe’ has such negative connotations,” he mused. “I prefer to call it an inducement.”
“Call it what you like,” she said impatiently. “Let’s get on with the negotiations, shall we?”
“All right.” Hunt’s facade was sober, but laughter flickered in the coffee-colored depths of his eyes. “I suppose I could be persuaded to hold my silence about your scandalous cavorting, Miss Peyton. With sufficient inducement.”
Annabelle fell silent, her lashes lowering as she considered what she was about to say. Once the words were out, they couldn’t be taken back. Dear Lord, why had it fallen to her to buy Simon Hunt’s silence regarding a silly Rounders game that she hadn’t even wanted to play in the first place? “If you were a gentleman,” she muttered, “this wouldn’t be necessary.”
A wealth of suppressed laughter made his voice husky and uneven. “No, I’m not a gentleman. But I am compelled to remind you that I was not the one running half-naked through the meadow this afternoon.”
“Will you hush?” she whispered sharply. “Someone will overhear you.”
Hunt watched her with fascination, his eyes dark and heathen. “Make your best offer, Miss Peyton.”
Staring fixedly at a portion of the wall far beyond his shoulder, Annabelle spoke in a suffocated tone, while the rims of her ears turned so hot that her hair was nearly singed. “If you promise to keep quiet about the Rounders game…I’ll let you kiss me.”
The unaccountable silence that followed her statement was excruciating. Forcing her gaze upward, Annabelle saw that she had surprised Hunt. He was staring at her as if she had just spoken in a foreign language, and he was not quite certain of the translation.
“One kiss,” Annabelle said, her nerves shredded from the tension between them. “And don’t assume that because I let you do it once, that I would ever consent to it again.”
Hunt replied in an unusually guarded manner, seeming to choose his words with great care. “I had assumed that you would offer to dance with me. A waltz or a quadrille.”
“I had thought of that,” she said. “But a kiss is more expedient, not to mention much faster than a waltz.”
“Not the way I kiss.”
The soft statement caused her knees to quiver. “Don’t be absurd,” she replied shortly. “An ordinary waltz lasts for at least three minutes. You couldn’t possibly kiss someone for that long.”
Hunt’s voice thickened almost imperceptibly as he replied. “You know best, of course. Very well—I accept your offer. One kiss, in return for keeping your secret. I’ll decide when and where it happens.”
“The ‘when’ and ‘where’ will be determined by mutual agreement,” Annabelle countered. “The whole point of this is to keep my reputation from being compromised—I’m hardly going to let you jeopardize it by choosing some inappropriate time or place.”
Hunt smiled mockingly. “What a negotiator you are, Miss Peyton. God help us all if you have any future ambitions to take part in the business world.”
“No, my sole ambition is to become Lady Kendall,” Annabelle returned with poisonous sweetness. She had the satisfaction of seeing his smile fade.
“That would be a pity,” he said. “For you as well as Kendall.”
“Go to the devil, Mr. Hunt,” she said beneath her breath, and walked away from him, ignoring the violent throb of her sprained ankle.
As she made her way to the back terrace, she became aware that the injury to her ankle had worsened, until shooting pains had traveled up to her knee. “Hell’s bells,” she muttered. In this condition, she was hardly going to make progress with Lord Kendall. It was not easy to be seductive when one was on the verge of shrieking in torment. Suddenly feeling exhausted and defea
ted, Annabelle decided that she would return to her room. Now that her business with Simon Hunt was finished, the best thing to do would be to rest her ankle and hope it would improve by morning.
With each step she took, the pain intensified until she could feel trickles of cold sweat beneath the rigid stays of her corset. She had never had an injury like this before. Not only did her leg hurt, but her head was suddenly swimming, and she ached everywhere. Abruptly, the contents of her stomach began an alarming roil. She needed air…she had to go outside in the cool dar kness, and sit somewhere until the nausea subsided. The door to the back terrace looked dreadfully far away, and she wondered dazedly how she was going to reach it.
Fortunately, the Bowman sisters had hurried toward her as soon as they saw that her conversation with Simon Hunt had concluded. The expectant smile on Lillian’s face died away as she met Annabelle’s pain-darkened gaze. “You look terrible,” Lillian exclaimed. “My God, what did Mr. Hunt say to you?”
“He agreed to the kiss,” Annabelle replied shortly, continuing to hobble toward the terrace. She could scarcely hear the orchestra music over the ringing in her ears.
“If the prospect of it terrifies you that much—” Lillian began.
“It’s not that,” Annabelle said in pained exasperation. “It’s my ankle. I sprained it earlier in the day, and now I can hardly walk.”
“Why didn’t you mention something earlier?” Lillian demanded in instant concern. Her slender arm was unexpectedly strong as she curved it around Annabelle’s back. “Daisy, go to the nearest door and hold it open while we slip outside.”
The sisters helped her outside, and Annabelle wiped her gloved hand over her sweating forehead. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she moaned, while her mouth watered disagreeably, and stinging gall rose in her throat. Her leg ached as if it had been crushed by a carriage wheel. “Oh, Lord, I can’t. I can’t be sick now.”