A Night Like This (7 page)

“We will be gone for a week,” Lady Pleinsworth continued. “Please make sure you pack enough lessons to keep the girls busy.” A week? At the home of Lord Winstead? With Lord Winstead in residence?

Anne’s heart sank and soared at the same time.

“Are you certain you are all right?” Lady Pleinsworth asked. “You’re looking terribly pale. I do hope you have not caught Sarah’s complaint.”

“No, no,” Anne assured her. “That would have been impossible.”

Lady Pleinsworth looked at her.

“What I mean to say is, I haven’t been in contact with Lady Sarah,” Anne said hastily. “I’m perfectly wel. I need only a bit of fresh air. It is as you said. It cures everything.”

If Lady Pleinsworth found that stream of babble to be out of character, she did not say so. “Wel, then, it is good timing that you have the afternoon to yourself.

Do you plan to go out?”

“I do, thank you.” Anne rose to her feet and bustled over to the door. “I had best be on my way. I have many errands to attend to.” She bobbed a quick curtsy, then dashed back up to her room to colect her things—a light shawl, in case the air grew cool, her reticule with a bit of pin money, and —she opened her bottom drawer and slid her hand under her meager stack of clothing—there it was. Carefuly sealed and ready to be posted. Anne had enclosed a half crown in her last letter, so she was confident that Charlotte would be able to pay the postage when this one arrived. The only trick was making sure that no one else realized who had actualy sent the letter.

Anne swalowed, surprised by the lump in her throat. One would think she’d be used to it by now, having to sign a false name in her letters to her sister, but it was the only way. Doubly false, actualy. She didn’t even sign them Anne Wynter, which she supposed was as much her name as Annelise Shawcross had ever been.

Carefuly, she placed the letter in her reticule and headed down the stairs. She wondered if the rest of her family had ever seen her missives, and if so, who they thought Mary Philpott was. Charlotte would have had to have come up with a good story for that.

It was a fine spring day, with just enough breeze to make her wish her bonnet was more securely fastened. She headed down past Berkeley Square toward Piccadily, where there was a receiving house just off the main road where she liked to drop her letters. It wasn’t the closest spot to Pleinsworth House, but the area was busier, and she preferred the deeper cloak of anonymity it offered. Besides, she liked to walk, and it was always a treat to do so at her own pace.

Piccadily was as crowded as ever, and she turned east, passing by several shops before lifting the hem of her skirt a few inches in order to cross the street. A half dozen carriages roled by, but none quickly, and she easily picked her way across the cobbles, stepped onto the pavement, and—

Oh, dear God.

Was it . . . ? No, it couldn’t be. He never came down to London. Or at least he didn’t. That was to say, he hadn’t, and—

Anne’s heart pounded in her chest, and for a moment she felt the edges of her sight begin to blacken and curl. She forced air into her lungs.
Think
. She had to think.

The same coppery blond hair, the same devastatingly handsome profile. His looks had always been unique; it was difficult to imagine he had an unknown twin in the capital, gadding about on Piccadily.

Anne felt tears, hot and furious, burning behind her eyes. This was not fair. She had done everything that had been expected of her. She had cut off ties with everything and everyone she had known. She had changed her name, and gone into service, and promised that she would never, ever speak of what had happened in Northumberland so very long ago.

But George Chervil had not kept his part of the bargain. And if that was indeed him, standing outside Burnel’s Haberdashery . . .

She could not stand there like a target and wait to find out. With a choked cry of frustration, she turned on her heel and ran . . . into the very first shop she came across.

Eight years earlier . . .

T
onight
, Annelise thought with growing excitement. Tonight would be the night.

It would be a bit of a scandal, her becoming engaged before either of her older sisters, but it would not be entirely unexpected. Charlotte had never shown great interest in their local society, and Marabeth always looked so pinched and angry—it was hard to imagine anyone wanting to marry her.

Marabeth would have a fit, though, and their parents would surely console her, but for once they would not force their youngest daughter to give up a prize for the sake of the eldest. When Annelise married George Chervil, the Shawcrosses would become forever connected with the most important family in their corner of Northumberland. Even Marabeth would eventualy realize that Annelise’s coup was in her best interest.

A rising tide did indeed lift all boats, even prickly ones named Marabeth.

“You look rather like a cat in cream,” Charlotte said, watching Annelise as she examined herself in her mirror, testing one set of earbobs against the other. They were paste, of course; the only proper jewels in the Shawcross family belonged to their mother, and all she had besides her wedding ring was a small broach, with three tiny diamonds and one large topaz. It wasn’t even very pretty.

“I think George is going to ask me to marry him,” Annelise whispered. She never could keep secrets from her sister. At least not until recently. Charlotte knew most of the details of Annelise’s monthlong secret courtship, not
all
of them.

“Never say it!” Charlotte gasped with delight and clasped both of her sister’s hands in hers. “I am so happy for you!”

“I know, I know.” Annelise could not keep herself from grinning. Her cheeks would hurt by the end of the night, she was sure. But she was so happy. George was everything she had ever wanted in a husband. He was everything
any
girl had ever wanted—handsome, athletic, dashing. Not to mention incredibly wel-connected.

As Mrs. George Chervil, Annelise would live in the finest house for miles. Her invitations would be coveted, her friendship desired. Maybe they would even go to London for the season. Annelise knew that such travels were dear, but George would one day be a baronet. At some point he would need to take his proper place in society, wouldn’t he?

“Has he been dropping hints?” Charlotte wanted to know. “Given you gifts?”

Annelise tilted her head to the side. She liked the way she looked when the light hit her pale skin just so. “He has not done anything so obvious. But there is such history behind the Midsummer ball. Did you know his parents became engaged at the very same event? And now that George has turned twenty-five . . .” She turned to her sister with wide, excited eyes. “I overheard his father saying it was high time he married.”

“Oh, Annie,” Charlotte sighed. “It’s so romantic.” The Chervil family’s Midsummer ball was
the
event of the year, every year. If ever there was a moment when their vilage’s most eligible bachelor would announce his engagement, this would be it.

“Which ones?” Annelise asked, holding up the two sets of earbobs.

“Oh, the blue, definitely,” Charlotte said before grinning. “Because I must have the green to match my eyes.” Annelise laughed and hugged her. “I am so happy right now,” she said. She squeezed her eyes tight, as if she couldn’t possibly keep her feelings contained. Her happiness felt like a living thing, bouncing around inside of her. She had known George for years, and like every girl she knew, had secretly wished he would pay her special notice. And then he had! That spring she had caught him looking at her differently, and by the dawn of summer, he’d been secretly courting her. Opening her eyes, she looked at her sister and beamed. “I didn’t think it was possible to be so happy.”

“And it will only get better,” Charlotte predicted. They stood, hands clasped, and walked to the door. “Once George proposes, your happiness will know no bounds.”

Annelise giggled as they danced out the door. Her future was waiting, and she could not wait to reach it.

A
nnelise saw George the instant she arrived. He was the sort of man one couldn’t miss—briliantly handsome with a smile that melted a girl from the inside out. Every girl was in love with him. Every girl had always been in love with him.

Annelise smiled her secret smile as she floated into the balroom. The other girls might be in love with him, but
she
was the only who had been loved in return.

He’d told her so.

But after an hour of watching him greet his family’s guests, she was growing impatient. She had danced with three other gentlemen—two of them quite eligible—

and George hadn’t once tried to cut in. Not that she’d done it to make him jealous—wel, perhaps a little. But she always accepted invitations to dance, from anyone.

She knew she was beautiful. It would have been impossible to grow up with so many people saying so, every single day, and not know it. Annelise was some kind of throwback, people said, her glossy dark locks the result of an ancient Welsh invader. Her father’s hair had been dark, too, back when he’d had hair, but everyone said it hadn’t been like hers, with the shine and bounce and ever-so-gentle curl.

Marabeth had always been jealous. Marabeth, who actualy looked quite like Annelise, but just not . . . as much. Her skin wasn’t quite as pale, her eyes not quite as blue. Marabeth was forever painting Annelise as a spoilt little shrew, and maybe it was for that reason that Annelise decided, on her very first foray into local society, that she would dance with every man who asked. No one would accuse her of reaching above her station; she would be the kindhearted beauty, the girl everyone loved to love.

Now, of course, every man did ask, because what man didn’t want to dance with the most beautiful girl at the ball? Especialy with no risk of rejection.

This must be why George was showing no signs of jealousy, Annelise decided. He knew she had a kind heart. He knew that her dances with the other gentlemen meant nothing to her. No one could ever touch her heart the way he had.

“Why hasn’t he asked me to dance?” she whispered to Charlotte. “I will perish from the anticipation, you know that I wil.”

“It’s his parents’ ball,” Charlotte said soothingly. “He has responsibilities as a host.”

“I know. I know. I just . . .
I love him so much
!”

Annelise coughed, feeling her cheeks grow hot with mortification. That had come out louder than she’d intended, but luckily no one seemed to have noticed.

“Come,” Charlotte said with the brisk determination of one who has just seized upon a plan. “Let us take a turn around the room. We shal walk so close to Mr.

Chervil that he will expire from wanting to reach out and take your hand.”

Annelise laughed and linked her arm through Charlotte’s. “You are the very best of sisters,” she said, quite seriously.

Annelise laughed and linked her arm through Charlotte’s. “You are the very best of sisters,” she said, quite seriously.

Charlotte just patted her hand. “Smile now,” she whispered. “He can see you.”

Annelise looked up, and indeed, he was staring at her, his green-gray eyes smoldering with longing.

“Oh, my goodness,” Charlotte said. “Just look at how he watches you.”

“It makes me shiver,” Annelise admitted.

“We shal walk closer,” Charlotte decided, and they did, until there was no way they could not be noticed by George and his parents.

“Good evening,” his father boomed jovialy. “If it isn’t the lovely Miss Shawcross. And another lovely Miss Shawcross.” He gave them each a tiny bow from his head, and they curtsied in return.

“Sir Charles,” Annelise murmured, eager for him to see her as a polite and dutiful young lady who would make him an excelent daughter-in-law. She turned to George’s mother with the same deference. “Lady Chervil.”

“Where is the other
other
lovely Miss Shawcross?” Sir Charles asked.

“I have not seen Marabeth in some time,” Charlotte replied, just as George said, “I believe she is over there, by the doors to the garden.” Which gave Annelise the perfect opening to curtsy to him and say, “Mr. Chervil.” He took her hand and kissed it, and she did not think it was her imagination that he lingered longer than he needed to.

“You are as enchanting as ever, Miss Shawcross.” He released her hand, then straightened. “I am bewitched.” Annelise tried to speak, but she was overcome. She felt hot, and tremulous, and her lungs felt funny, as if there was not enough air in the world to fill them.

“Lady Chervil,” Charlotte said, “I am so enamored of these decorations. Tell me, how did you and Sir Charles find just the right color of yelow to signify summer?”

It was the most inane of questions, but Annelise adored her for it. George’s parents immediately launched into conversation with Charlotte, and she and George were able to turn ever so slightly away from them.

“I haven’t seen you all night,” Annelise said breathlessly. Just being near him made her shiver with anticipation. When they had seen each other three nights earlier he had kissed her with such passion. It had burned in her memory, leaving her eager for more.

What he had done after the kiss hadn’t been quite as enjoyable, but it had still been exciting. To know that she affected him so deeply, that she could make him lose controll. . .

It was intoxicating. She had never known such power.

“I have been very busy with my parents,” George said, but his eyes told her that he would rather be with her.

“I miss you,” she said daringly. Her behavior was scandalous, but she
felt
scandalous, as if she could take the reins of her life and chart her own destiny. What a grand thing it was to be young and in love. The world would be theirs. They had only to reach out and grasp it.

George’s eyes flared with desire, and he glanced furtively over his shoulder. “My mother’s sitting room. Do you know where it is?” Annelise nodded.

“Meet me there in a quarter of an hour. Don’t be seen.”

He went off to ask another girl to dance—the better to deflect any speculation about their hushed conversation. Annelise found Charlotte, who had finaly finished her discussion of all things yelow, green, and gold. “I’m meeting him in ten minutes,” she whispered. “Can you make sure that no one wonders where I am?” Charlotte nodded, gave her hand a squeeze of support, then motioned with her head toward the door. No one was watching. It was the perfect time to leave.

It took longer to reach Lady Chervil’s sitting room than Annelise had expected. It was clear across the building—probably why George had chosen it. And she’d had to take a circuitous route to avoid other partygoers who had also chosen to make their celebrations private. By the time she slipped into the darkened chamber, George was already there, waiting for her.

He was on her before she could even speak, kissing her madly, his hands reaching around to her bottom and squeezing with proprietary intimacy. “Oh, Annie,” he groaned, “you’re amazing. Coming here right in the middle of the party. So naughty.”

“George,” she murmured. His kisses were lovely, and it was thriling that he desired her with such desperation, but she was not sure she liked being caled naughty.

That wasn’t what she was, was it?

“George?” she said again, this time a question.

But he didn’t answer. He was breathing hard, trying to lift her skirts even as he steered her to a nearby divan.

“George!” It was difficult, because she, too, was excited, but she wedged her hands between them and pushed him away.

“What?” he demanded, eyeing her with suspicion. And something else. Anger?

“I didn’t come here for this,” she said.

He barked with laughter. “What did you think was going to happen?” He stepped toward her again, his eyes fierce and predatory. “I’ve been hard for you for days.”

She blushed furiously, because she knew now what it meant. And while it was exciting that he wanted her so desperately, there was something discomfiting in it, too. She wasn’t sure what, or why, but she was no longer so sure she wanted to be here with him, in such a dark and secluded room.

He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward him with enough of a jerk that she stumbled against him. “Let’s have a spot of it, Annie,” he murmured. “You know you want to.”

“No, I— I just—” She tried to pull away, but he would not let her go. “It’s the Midsummer ball. I thought . . .” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t say it because one look at his face told her that he had never intended to ask her to marry him. He had kissed her, then seduced her, taking the one thing that should have been saved for her husband, and he thought he could take it again?

“Oh, my God,” he said, looking as if he might laugh. “You thought I would marry you.” And then he did laugh, and Annelise was sure that something inside of her died.

“You’re beautiful,” he said mockingly, “I’ll grant you that. And I had a
fine
time between your thighs, but come now, Annie. You have no money to speak of, and your family certainly will not enhance my own.”

She wanted to say something. She wanted to hit him. But she could only stand there in dawning horror, unable to believe the words that were dripping from his lips.

“Besides,” he said with a cruel smile, “I already have a fiancée.”

Annelise’s knees threatened to buckle beneath her, and she grabbed the side of his mother’s desk for support. “Who?” she managed to whisper.

“Fiona Beckwith,” he told her. “The daughter of Lord Hanley. I asked her last night.”

“Did she accept?” Annelise whispered.

He laughed. Loudly. “Of course she accepted. And her father—the
viscount
—declared himself delighted. She is his youngest, but his favorite, and I have no He laughed. Loudly. “Of course she accepted. And her father—the
viscount
—declared himself delighted. She is his youngest, but his favorite, and I have no doubt that he will provide for us handsomely.”

Annelise swalowed. It was getting hard to breathe. She needed to get out of this room, out of this house.