An Indecent Proposition (31 page)

Annabel went on, almost as if talking to herself. “He feels guilty about me. He’s admitted as much. So now he has conjured up a way to fix it and excuse himself from what happened before. Well, I’m not sure I’m willing to forgive or forget, and his capacity for constant love is still a very real question in my mind.”

At least there was a glimmer of speculation in the lovely Miss Reid’s voice.

“I know.” Caroline understood very well. She was all too cognizant of the ramifications of being in love with someone with a weighty reputation like Manderville. The Duke of Rothay hadn’t even declared deeper feelings for her, so she was one step behind.

For a moment they just looked at each other and seemed to draw a common breath of unique sisterhood.

Annabel smiled, a tentative offering. “Though I am not sure about how I feel about your visit, Lady Wynn, would you like a glass of sherry?”

“I’d love one and please, call me Caroline.”

Annabel let the piece of vellum slip through her fingers, her hands shaking. She watched the letter drift to the floor and settle there as she swallowed the lump in her throat.

What might have happened had she read this when it arrived? The point was moot, because she had still been in a shocked state of disillusionment, but surely it was significant she hadn’t thrown it away. Could part of all this be her fault? After all, Derek hadn’t asked to become her mythical knight, the gallant prince of her dreams, the handsome hero of every girlish fantasy. He was just a man, and therefore fallible.

She had built a picture of him that wasn’t quite real, and when he didn’t conform, it had shattered her world. He wasn’t exactly without fault, she reminded herself, thinking of the countess in his arms, but then again, maybe it wasn’t
entirely
his fault either.

The difference was, he had apologized.

She hadn’t.

T
he stuffy meeting room was less than ideal, and Derek felt restive and shifted in his chair. The session had gone on interminably and he was beginning to get a headache. Not until the yawning in the chamber took on epidemic proportions did Lord Norton seem to realize how long he’d been droning on and he finally wound down without ever having made a valid point.

If the alacrity with which the peers exited the House of Lords was any indication, Derek hadn’t been the only one bored to near tears. It was a relief to step out into the afternoon sunshine.

There had been a short note from Lady Wynn about her talk with Annabel a few days ago that expressed her hope it had gone well and she had done her best. Like some inexperienced schoolboy, Derek had paced around his study that afternoon, and later sat restlessly through a very terrible opera in which he had no interest. The only redeeming part of the evening had been that the woman he loved
hadn’t
appeared on the arm of her fiancé. At least he hadn’t been forced to sit there and studiously avoid looking at them. One small grace in a situation that seemed utterly set against him.

So now Derek had two choices. He could don his ridiculous costume and visit Caroline in the wee hours to beg for details on their conversation, or he could crawl into Annabel’s bedroom again and ask her.

Neither held much appeal. Both ideas had been rash the first time.

Derek was a man who was never rash. That is, unless he was kissing young innocent ladies in libraries or invading their bedrooms to give unwanted and unreciprocated declarations of love.

Well, maybe he
was
rash now and again.

It was clear he was going to have to
assume
it went well. But why should he think it did? No reason at all. Annabel had coldly dismissed him.

Well, no, she hadn’t. Not coldly. She’d dismissed him with the shimmering path of an unwanted tear on her cheek, and her voice hadn’t sounded in the least like her own.

It gave him hope. Maybe it was false hope, but he didn’t wish to give up. If this failed—if whatever Caroline had said to Annabel made no impression because he’d ruined things to the point of no return—he still intended to help Nicholas.

There was no way through the fire without getting burned a little.

Rothay House was an impressive mansion in Mayfair on Grosvenor Square with all the requisite galleries and palatial doorways, and a stone facade worthy of a royal residence. He instructed his driver to wait and climbed the stairs, hopeful that Nicholas had been just as anxious to get home after the debate as he had himself. The duke was in, he was informed by the stiffly formal butler, and if his lordship cared to wait in the study as usual . . .

Yes, Derek did. He helped himself to a drink too, before he settled into the usual chair by the fireplace. The room smelled familiar, of whiskey and old books.

“Not that it isn’t pleasant always to see you, but didn’t we just spend an excruciating afternoon together?” Nicholas entered and closed the door behind him. “If you came here to complain about Lord Norton’s point, I’m going to have to confess I lost sight of it halfway through his speech.”

Derek laughed and shook his head. “No, not for that. Don’t ask me either. When the prime minister drifts off and begins to snore, let’s be frank, you’ve lost your audience.”

“True.” Nicholas settled in behind the desk, long legs extended casually, his face unreadable. “So I guess politics do not play a role in this visit.”

“No. Caroline and I will leave Monday. I’ve secured a room at a secluded inn near Aylesbury. Not far, but not too close, and just right for a discreet rendezvous. Everything is in place.”

The Duke of Rothay wasn’t a legend without reason. He remained relaxed in his chair, but his dark eyes held a certain glitter that Derek was sure he recognized. There was a small, almost infinitesimal pause. “Then may the best man win.”

“That has been our intention all along, hasn’t it?”

Derek heard the clash of an imaginary sword, the jar of metal on metal almost audible in the quiet of the venerable room.

“
Exactly
our intention.” Nicholas sounded as cool as ever.

“You have no objection?”

“Why would I with no claim on the lady?”

Why indeed? The question of the day. Derek wasn’t fooled. Or at least he hoped not. “You seemed a bit involved after your return.”

It was a neutral statement. Nicholas flicked a glance at the window. “As you know, the term
involvement
is ambiguous. I felt a little involved. It passed.”

Was it true? No, it wasn’t. If so, his friend wouldn’t be so carefully nonchalant. Helena’s perfidy had left some permanent scars. Derek understood, but he recalled the look on Caroline’s face when he asked her if her feelings were engaged. He also remembered Nick’s terse instruction that afternoon at White’s.

“Once this is over, we at least won’t have to deal with this ludicrous bet any longer,” Derek said in a musing, introspective voice. “It was a daft idea to begin with, but the attention we’ve received has made going out in society downright uncomfortable.”

“Quite so.”

“After this next week, it will be settled.”

“You’ll find her enchanting.” Nicholas shifted again, as if he couldn’t get quite comfortable.

“I imagine I will.” Derek took a casual sip from his glass.

Nicholas opened his mouth to say something else, but snapped it shut and remained silent. He tapped his fingers on the desktop in a restless gesture, and then stopped that also, as if he realized the movement betrayed his feelings.

An objection? A request to call it all off? Derek understood to an excruciating degree the measure of Nicholas’s inner war. It was a simple equation. If Nick called off the wager, it would be a declaration of his deeper feelings for Caroline Wynn.

Satisfied all had gone according to plan, Derek got to his feet. “Just thought I’d drop by and let you know we’d made our arrangements. The two of you have been back for almost two weeks now, right?”

“Eleven days.” Nicholas caught the precision of his answer. “Or so,” he amended.

Derek just barely managed to choke back a laugh. It wasn’t that he enjoyed the torture his friend was going through, but he felt a sympathetic male understanding that he knew Nicholas wouldn’t appreciate until he came to terms with it himself.

“So I suppose we’ll see what the lady has to say when this is all over, then.”

“I suppose.”

“Better watch out, Nick—she’ll have forgotten you by that first night.”

His friend didn’t bat an eye. But neither did he give his usual quick repartee.

Derek left, reflecting that at least the seeds were planted. The question was, would they bear fruit?

 

The room was filled with bolts of fabric, chattering assistants, and the overpowering smell of the modiste’s gardenia perfume. One dark-haired girl knelt at her feet, adjusting the hem of her gown.

Annabel just stood rigid, her back straight, her hands laced together, misery like a lump in her throat.

“It’s quite glorious, Madame DuShane.” Margaret gave the hovering woman a smile of approval. “You’ll be an angel, Annabel.”

Did she have to use the word
angel
? It evoked images of a man with dark gold hair who was laughingly christened that epithet, though hardly for his saintly pastimes. A man with eyes so blue, looking into them was like gazing into a crystalline sea, and a smile so mesmerizing, no female within his range was immune to its power.

Should she really be standing there in her wedding dress and thinking about Derek Drake?

But what choice did she have? Annabel finally forced herself to turn and look in the long mirror. Yes, it was a lovely creation, the ice blue underskirt done in satin, a lace overlay giving an ethereal effect. It tucked close at the waist and then shaped upward to a modest bodice, showing just a hint of the top curve of her breasts. Small pearls had been sewn along the cap sleeves and the neckline, the shimmer catching the light.

The dress was stunning.

She, however, looked awful in comparison. She was ghostly pale, the faintest hint of shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep, and her mouth trembled as she fought an unbearable urge to burst into tears.

Why had she read that letter?

Margaret stepped behind her, reflected in the glass. “Annabel?”

“I can’t do it.”

The words came out only as a thin whisper. Margaret’s mouth parted and a flicker of alarm crossed her face. “My dear child, I—”

“I can’t marry Alfred.” Annabel whirled back around. “I’m sorry. . . . I am so sorry. . . .”

Madame DuShane was a disheveled-looking woman with a sharp chin and small black eyes. Her hands fluttered up in a dramatic gesture. “It is natural to be nervous, no? All brides feel so. It will pass. You are a vision in this gown. He will fall on his knees with love for you.”

The flawed logic that a piece of clothing could inspire an emotion she was pretty sure Alfred did not feel for her in the first place gave Annabel the macabre urge to laugh, but she didn’t. Instead her hands fisted at her sides and she shook her head. “It isn’t nerves, madame. The dress is very beautiful, but I doubt I’m going to need it.”

Margaret, realizing they were in a public venue, said quickly, “Darling, why don’t we have one of the girls help you out of the gown and dress. We can discuss this at home and then return for a last fitting at some other time.”

With swift efficiency Annabel undressed, replacing the wedding gown with her yellow day dress—the one she’d chosen because she hoped the cheery color would lighten her spirits—and followed Margaret out of the shop to the waiting carriage. They had planned on making several other stops, but Margaret gave the driver instructions to take them back home.

Annabel braced herself for a well-deserved lecture, given in Margaret’s understated and elegant way. Instead, the woman who’d raised Annabel like she was her own simply lifted her brows once the carriage was in motion. “Madame DuShane is a wonderful seamstress but also a terrible gossip. I think once we are home, you need to speak to Thomas right away so Lord Hyatt can be informed before he hears it from someone else. He’s a nice man and he is about to be jilted. The less humiliating you make it for him, the better.”

Margaret was right, of course. Lord, why did this have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t she just love
him
, not someone else?

“You aren’t surprised?”

“Dearest Annabel, I have eyes. Did I not ask you after the last fitting if you still wished to go through with the wedding?”

“Yes,” she admitted on a sigh. The tears were still there, stinging behind her lids. What else had Margaret noticed? The kindly sympathy in the older woman’s eyes further flustered her.