by Lisa Kleypas
Cringing, Annabelle forced herself to meet her friend’s gaze. “I couldn’t go through with it,” she said sheepishly. “I’m so sorry—the plan was such a good one, and you did your part beautifully—”
“And it would have been a great success if you hadn’t been kissing the wrong man,” Lillian exclaimed. “What in God’s name happened? Why aren’t you in the pear orchard with Lord Kendall?”
It was hardly the sort of thing that one wanted to articulate in front of a crowd. Annabelle hesitated and looked up at Hunt, who was watching her with a mocking smile, seeming fascinated to hear what explanation she might offer.
In the lengthening silence, Lord Westcliff appeared to have put two and two together, and he looked from Annabelle to Lillian with obvious disgust. “So this is why you were so insistent upon a walk. You two made an arrangement to trap Kendall!”
“I was part of it, too,” Daisy asserted, determined to share in the blame.
Westcliff didn’t appear to hear the comment, his gaze locked on Lillian’s unrepentant face. “Good God—is there nothing you won’t stoop to?”
“If there is,” Lillian replied smartly, “I haven’t discovered it yet.”
Had her own circumstances not been quite so mortifying, Annabelle would have dissolved into laughter at the earl’s expression.
Frowning, Lillian returned her attention to Annabelle. “It may not be too late to salvage things,” she said. “We’ll make everyone here promise to hold their tongues about having seen you and Mr. Hunt together. Without any witnesses, it hasn’t happened.”
Lord Westcliff considered the words with a scowl. “Much as I despise the prospect of agreeing with Miss Bowman,” he said darkly, “I have to concur. The best thing for all concerned is for us to ignore this incident. Miss Peyton and Mr. Hunt have not been seen, and, therefore, no one has been compromised, which means that there will be no consequences to this unfortunate situation.”
“Oh, yes, she has been compromised,” Hunt said in sudden grim determination. “By me. And I don’t want to avoid the consequences, Westcliff. I—”
“Yes, you do,” the earl assured him authoritatively. “I’ll be damned if I’ll allow you to ruin your life over this creature, Hunt.”
“Ruin his life?” Lillian repeated indignantly. “Mr. Hunt couldn’t do better than to marry a girl like Annabelle! How dare you insinuate that she isn’t good enough for him, when obviously he’s the one who—”
“No,” Annabelle interrupted anxiously. “Please, Lillian—”
“Excuse us,” Mr. Shaw murmured with impeccable politeness, doing a poor job of concealing a grin. He pulled Lady Olivia’s hand through the crook of his arm and executed a graceful bow in no particular direction. “I believe that my fiancée and I will excuse ourselves from the proceedings, being somewhat de trop. I think I can safely speak for the both of us when I say that we intend to be as deaf, dumb, and blind as a trio of Hong Tze monkeys.” His blue eyes sparkled with good-natured humor. “We’ll leave the rest of you to decide just what has been seen and heard tonight… or not. Come, darling.” Drawing Lady Olivia away with him, he escorted her back toward the manor.
The earl turned to the Bowmans’ mother, a tall woman with a narrow, foxlike face. She had worked her expression into one of righteous indignation, but had held her tongue out of a desire not to miss anything. As Daisy later explained ruefully, Mrs. Bowman never had her conniptions in the middle of an act, preferring to save them for intermission.
“Mrs. Bowman,” Westcliff asked, “may I prevail on you to maintain your silence regarding this matter?”
Had the earl, or any other titled man within reach, asked the ambitious Mrs. Bowman to jump headfirst into the flower bed for his amusement, she would have done so with a perfect somersault. “Oh, of course, my lord—I would never spread such distasteful gossip. My daughters are such sheltered innocents—it grieves me to see what their association with this…this unscrupulous girl has brought them to. I’m certain that a gentleman of your discernment can see that my two angels are completely blameless in this situation, having been led astray by the scheming young woman they sought to befriend.”
Casting a skeptical glance at the two “angels,” Westcliff replied coldly. “Quite.”
Hunt, who had retained a possessive arm around Annabelle’s waist, surveyed the lot of them coolly. “Do as you please. Miss Peyton is going to be compromised tonight, one way or another.” He began to pull her along the path with him. “Come.”
“Where are we going?” Annabelle asked, resisting his hold on her wrist.
“To the house. If they’re not willing to be witnesses, then it seems I’ll have to debauch you in front of someone else.”
“Wait!” Annabelle squeaked. “I’ve already agreed to marry you! Why must I be compromised again?”
Hunt ignored the combined protests of Westcliff and the Bowmans as he replied succinctly. “Insurance.”
Annabelle braced her heels, refusing to budge as he pulled at her arm. “You have no need of insurance! Do you think I would break my promise to you?”
“In a word, yes.” Calmly, Hunt began to drag her along the path. “Now, where should we go? The entrance hall, I think. Plenty of people to witness you being ravished there. Or maybe the card room—”
“Simon,” Annabelle protested, as she was hauled unceremoniously in his wake. “Simon—”
Her use of his name caused Hunt to stop suddenly, turning to look down at her with a curious half smile. “Yes, sweet?”
“For God’s sake,” Westcliff muttered, “let’s save this for amateur theatrical night, shall we? If you’re so bloody bent on having her, Hunt, then you may as well spare us all any further exhibitions. I’ll gladly bear witness from here to London about your fiancée’s besmirched honor, if only to have some peace around here. Just don’t ask me to stand up with you at the wedding, as I have no desire to be a hypocrite.”
“No, just an ass,” came Lillian’s murmur.
Low-spoken as the words were, it appeared that Westcliff had heard. His dark head whipped around, and he met Lillian’s deliberately innocent expression with a threatening scowl. “As for you—”
“We’re all agreed, then,” Simon interrupted, preventing what surely would have evolved into a prolonged argument. He glanced at Annabelle with purely male satisfaction. “You’ve been compromised. Now let’s go find your mother.”
The earl shook his head, exhibiting a degree of frosty offense that could only be achieved by an aristocrat whose wishes had just been gainsaid. “I’ve never heard of a man being so eager to confess to the parent of a girl he’s just ruined,” he said sourly.
Chapter 20
Philippa’s reaction to the news was one of astonishing calmness. As the three of them sat in the Marsdens’ private parlor, and Simon relayed the news of their betrothal, and the reason for it, Philippa’s face turned white, but she made no sound. In the brief silence that followed Simon’s spare recitation, Philippa regarded Simon with an unblinking stare, and spoke carefully. “As Annabelle has no father to protect her, Mr. Hunt, it falls to me to ask for certain reassurances from you. Every mother wishes for her daughter to be treated with respect and kindness …and you must agree that the circumstances…”
“I understand,” Simon said. Struck by his soberness, Annabelle watched him intently, while he focused his attention completely on Philippa. “I give you my word that your daughter will have no cause for complaint.”
A flicker of wariness crossed Philippa’s face, and Annabelle chewed her inner lip, knowing what was coming next. “I suspect you are already aware, Mr. Hunt,” her mother murmured, “that Annabelle has no dowry.”
“Yes,” Simon replied matter-of-factly.
“And it makes no difference to you,” Philippa said with a questioning lilt in her voice.
“None whatsoever. I am fortunate in being able to set aside financial considerations in the matter of choosing a wife. I don’t give
a damn if Annabelle comes to me without a shilling to her name. Moreover, I intend to make things easier for your family—assuming debts, taking care of bills and creditors, school tuition and the like—whatever is required to see that you’re comfortably settled.”
Annabelle saw Philippa’s hands tighten in her lap until her fingers were white, and an unfathomable tremor of what could have been excitement, relief, embarrassment, or some combination of the three, shook her voice. “Thank you, Mr. Hunt. You understand, if Mr. Peyton was still with us, things would be much different—”
“Yes, of course.”
There was a contemplative silence before Philippa murmured, “Of course, without a dowry, Annabelle will have no source of pin money…”
“I’ll open an account for her at Barings,” Hunt said equably. “We’ll start it at, say, five thousand pounds?… and I’ll refresh the balance from time to time as necessary. Of course, I’ll be responsible for the maintenance of a carriage and horses …clothes… jewelry…and Annabelle may have credit at every shop in London.”
Philippa’s reaction to the news was lost on Annabelle, whose mind spun like a top. The thought of having five thousand pounds at her disposal …a fortune…it scarcely seemed real. Her amazement was tinged with a tingle of anticipation. After years of deprivation, she would be able to go to the best modistes, and buy a horse for Jeremy, and refurbish her family’s home with the most luxurious furniture and fittings. However, this blunt discussion of money coming on the heels of a marriage proposal gave Annabelle the disquieting feeling of having sold herself for profit. Glancing cautiously at Simon, she saw that a familiar taunting gleam had entered his eyes. He understood her far too well, she thought, while unwanted heat climbed up her cheeks.
Annabelle kept silent as the conversation touched upon lawyers, contracts, and stipulations, discovering that her mother had the persistence of a bull terrier when it came to marriage negotiations. The businesslike discussion was hardly the stuff of high romance. Furthermore, it did not escape Annabelle that Philippa had not asked Hunt if he loved Annabelle, nor had he claimed to.
After Simon Hunt had left, Annabelle followed her mother to their room, where they would undoubtedly talk some more. Worried by Philippa’s unnatural quietness, Annabelle closed the door and considered what to say to her, wondering if she had reservations about the prospect of Simon Hunt as a son-in-law.
As soon as they were alone, Philippa went to the window and looked outside at the evening sky, then covered her eyes with one hand. Alarmed, Annabelle heard the sound of a muffled sob. “Mama…” she said hesitantly as she stared at her mother’s rigid back, “I’m sorry, I—”
“Thank God,” Philippa murmured unsteadily, not seeming to hear her. “Thank God.”
Despite Lord Westcliff’s vow that he would not stand up with Simon at the wedding, he came to London in a fortnight to attend the ceremony. Grim-faced but polite, he even offered to give Annabelle away, assuming the place of her deceased father. She was strongly tempted to turn him down, but the offer had made Philippa so happy that Annabelle was forced to accept. And she even took a certain spiteful pleasure in obliging the earl to take a significant part in a ceremony that he so obviously opposed. Only Westcliff’s loyalty to Hunt had brought him to London, revealing a bond of friendship between the two men that was far stronger than Annabelle would have guessed.
Lillian, Daisy, and their mother were also present at the private church ceremony, their presence made possible only by Lord Westcliff’s presence. Mrs. Bowman would never have allowed her daughters to attend the wedding of a girl who was marrying outside the peerage and was a bad influence to boot. However, any opportunity to be in the proximity of the most eligible bachelor in England was to be seized on. The fact that Westcliff was completely indifferent to her younger daughter, and actively disdainful of the elder, was a minor hindrance that Mrs. Bowman was certain could be overcome.
Evie, unfortunately, had been forbidden to attend by her aunt Florence and the rest of her mother’s family. Instead, she had sent Annabelle a long, affectionate letter, and a Sèvres china tea service painted with pink-and-gold flowers as a wedding gift. The rest of the small congregation consisted of Hunt’s parents and siblings, who were more or less what Annabelle had expected. His mother was coarse-faced and stout of build, a genial woman who seemed inclined to think well of Annabelle until something happened to persuade her otherwise. His father was a big, angular man who did not smile once through the ceremony, though the deep laugh lines at the corners of his eyes indicated that he was a man of pleasant disposition. Neither of the parents was particularly handsome, but they had produced five striking children, all tall and black-haired.
If only Jeremy could have attended the wedding… but he was still at school, and she and Philippa had decided that it would be best for him to finish the term and come to London when Hunt and Annabelle had returned from their honeymoon. Annabelle wasn’t quite certain what Jeremy’s reaction would be to the prospect of having Simon Hunt as a brother-in-law. Although Jeremy had seemed to like him, Jeremy had long been accustomed to being the only male in the family. There was every chance that he would chafe at any restrictions that Hunt might impose on him. For that matter, Annabelle herself wasn’t terribly fond of the prospect of kowtowing to the wishes of a man whom, in all honesty, she didn’t know that well.
That fact was forcibly brought home to Annabelle on her wedding night, as she waited for her new husband in a room at the Rutledge Hotel. Having assumed that Hunt resided at a private terrace house like many bachelors, Annabelle had been more than a little surprised to discover that he lived in a suite of hotel rooms.
“Why not?” Hunt had asked a few days earlier, amused by her open perplexity.
“Well… living in a hotel affords one so little privacy…”
“I beg to differ. I’m able to come and go as I please, without a horde of servants to gossip over my every habit and gesture. From what I’ve seen, life in a well-run hotel is far preferable to taking up residence in a drafty town mansion.”
“Yes, but a man of your position must have enough servants to demonstrate his success to others—”
“Forgive me,” Hunt had said, “but I always thought one hired servants if they were actually needed to work. The benefit of displaying employees as stylish accessories has always escaped me until now.”
“They’re hardly slave labor, Simon!”
“At the rate most servants are paid, that’s an arguable point.”
“We will need to hire a great deal of help if we’re ever to live in a proper house,” Annabelle had said pertly. “Unless you plan to have me on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floors and cleaning the grates?”
The suggestion had caused Hunt’s coffee black eyes to glint with a wicked humor that escaped her. “I plan to have you on your hands and knees, my sweet, but I can guarantee that you won’t be scrubbing.” He had laughed softly as he saw her bewilderment. Gathering her close, he had crushed a brief kiss to her lips.
She had strained a little in his embrace. “Simon… do let go… my mother won’t approve if she sees us like this—”
“Oh? I could do whatever I want with you now, and she wouldn’t offer a single objection.”
Frowning, Annabelle had wedged her arms between them. “Oh, you arrogant—no, I mean it, Simon! I want this settled…must we live in a hotel forever, or will you buy a house for us?”
Stealing another quick kiss, he had laughed at her expression. “I’ll buy any house you like, sweet. Better yet, I’ll build you a new one, as I’ve gotten rather accustomed to the comforts of good lighting and modern plumbing.”
Annabelle had stopped squirming. “Really? Where?”
“I suspect we could get a fair amount of acreage near Bloomsbury, or Knightsbridge—”
“What about Mayfair?”
Simon had smiled as if he had been expecting such a suggestion. “Don’t tell me you want to live in some overbuilt s
quare like Grosvenor or St. James, staring out the window at pompous aristocrats waddling through their little iron-fenced yards—”
“Oh, yes, that would be perfect,” she had enthused, making him laugh.
“All right, we’ll get something in Mayfair, God help me. And you can hire as many servants as you want. Notice that I didn’t say ‘need,’ as that seems to be completely beside the point. In the meantime, do you think you could tolerate a few months at the Rutledge?”
Recalling the conversation, Annabelle investigated their large suite of rooms, all luxuriously appointed in velvet and leather and gleaming mahogany. She had to admit, the Rutledge certainly changed one’s perceptions about what a hotel could be. It was said that the mysterious owner, Mr. Harry Rutledge, aspired to create the most elegant and modern hotel in Europe, combining Continental style with American innovations. The Rutledge was a massive building located in the theater district, occupying five blocks between the Capitol Theater and the Embankment. Features such as fire-proof construction, food service lifts, and a private bathroom for every suite, not to mention a renowned restaurant, had made the Rutledge a favorite haunt of wealthy Americans and Europeans. To Annabelle’s delight, the Bowmans occupied five of the hotel’s one hundred luxury suites, which meant that she, Lillian, and Daisy would have frequent opportunities to see each other after she returned from the honeymoon.
Having never traveled outside of England in her life, Annabelle had been excited to discover that Simon intended to take her to Paris for a fortnight. Supplied with a list of dressmakers, milliners, and perfumers from the Bowmans, who had once visited Paris with their mother, Annabelle eagerly anticipated her first glimpse of the City of Light. However, before their departure on the morrow, there was still the wedding night to get through.
Dressed in a nightgown trimmed with lavish falls of white lace from the bodice and sleeves, Annabelle paced restlessly around the suite. She sat beside the bed and picked up a hairbrush from the night table. Methodically, she began to brush her hair as she wondered if all brides felt this apprehensive, uncertain as to whether the next few hours were something to dread or enjoy. At that moment, the key turned in the door, and Simon’s dark, lean form entered the private suite.