Once Upon a Wager (14 page)

“I hope her trip was an easy one.”

“I know she'll be eager to help your efforts. I will send a note straight away. And I can escort both you and Miss Layton to her home on Park Lane tomorrow. Would that be convenient?”

“That will be perfect. Annabelle will enjoy renewing her friendship with the countess. And I must thank you, Lord Dorset. You're doing the right thing.”

“Somehow I doubt that Miss Layton will share your opinion.”

• • •

As they sat down to tea in the small boudoir off of her bedchamber—an elegant room with Sheridan furnishings and chinoiserie paper—Annabelle couldn't conceal her anxiety.

“Please tell me that you did not do it. Surely, you are jesting, Aunt Sophia.” She and Mary had returned from a long walk in the past hour, only to discover that her aunt had been busy making plans for their time in London. Plans involving Alec Carstairs. “Lord Dorset can hardly have an interest in squiring me about the Season.”

“My dear, he was more than happy to offer his assistance, and that of his mother.”

It was shocking, really. She could find no reason why he'd wish to involve himself. Then suspicion dawned. “Aunt Sophia? What specifically did you say to Lord Dorset?”

Her aunt smiled mysteriously. “I may have inadvertently told him about the many struggles you've faced since the accident.”

“Oh, you did not!” she said softly. “Why should he even care?”

“My dear, surely you cannot be so naive? Do you not see yourself when you look in the mirror?”

She could not deny that men were once again sprouting up around her like flowers, but Alec Carstairs would never be counted among them. She'd learned that long ago.

“Beauty makes things so much easier,” Aunt Sophia continued. “Not to mention more fun. You have allowed an old infirmity to color your view of yourself. You have no idea of the power you could yield, if you so choose.”

“Alec has no interest in me,” she said. “He has made that abundantly clear.”

“Then we must settle for allowing him to help you, my dear. Your brother would have wanted you well settled. The Carstairs family has the influence to show you off to your best advantage. I've been too much abroad these many years to offer the same.”

“I have always admired Lady Dorset, but whatever am I to say to her son? We can barely stand the sight of each other. Surely you saw that in the park?”

“You'll come up with something. Besides,” Aunt Sophia smiled wickedly, “he was looking tremendously attractive. One must always appreciate tight trousers on a man like that.”

In the past, Annabelle might have blushed over such a comment, but it was difficult to preserve one's naiveté around Aunt Sophia. There had been that morning in Bath, after all, when she'd stumbled upon her aunt and Thompson, the footman, wrapped in a heated embrace. She hadn't even known garters came in that color.

“Do you still have feelings for Lord Dorset?” her aunt asked. “It's obvious you once did.”

Annabelle looked down at the tea cup in her hands. “I once thought I loved him. Not that he is to blame for that. We were friends of convenience, it seems, and nothing more.

“But I can and do blame him for leaving me when any friend would have stayed,” she continued. “No one would tell me the full details of what had happened. I don't even know why they raced that day. At the very least, Lord Dorset could have told me that before he vanished.”

“My dear, you will be much in each other's company in these coming weeks. Perhaps, at last, you'll have an opportunity to pose those questions to him yourself.”

Alec was the one person who could speak about the accident. If she was brave enough to ask, would he tell her the truth? Was she to blame for the whole of it? Was the anger she directed at him better directed at herself?

Marchmain's

Back once more in the front hall of Marchmain House, Alec tried not to let his annoyance show. The countess had manipulated him quite thoroughly yesterday; he could see that now. But he also knew she was right. He had come to that realization during a long and mostly sleepless night. This was a duty he owed to Gareth, who would have seen to it that Annabelle married well, if he'd lived long enough to grow out of his dissipations.

He was still angry with Annabelle. Perhaps he always would be. He did not like the person she'd become—cold, haughty, and distant—but she had suffered terribly. He must remember she had been as much a victim that day as her brother, even though she'd recovered physically, as far as he could tell.

Her aunt came alone down the staircase to greet him. She was clad in a jonquil morning dress with a cream underskirt that rustled as she walked. “Lady Marchmain, will Miss Layton not be joining us?”

“She is already waiting in the small sitting room. Canby, our butler, will show you the way. I have just a few things to collect before we visit your mother.”

The ever-solicitous Canby was immediately at his right, and with a faint nod, he led Alec toward the sitting room door, only to open it a fraction and then step aside. With a deep breath, Alec knocked gently and walked in. At first glance, the room was empty. The day was a gray one, and the room was limned in shadow. It seemed melancholy. Yet there she was, a slender figure in silk, as she stared out of the bow window that faced the street.

“Miss Layton?”

She slowly turned, and he realized again how very beautiful she was. For some reason, that particularly rankled this morning. She was wearing a fitted blue spencer with a high winged collar and plush cuffs, over a lemon muslin underskirt. She hadn't yet donned her hat. Her blond hair was parted down the center, and pulled back. On another woman, the style would have been too severe, but on Annabelle, it only served to highlight the rare symmetry of her features, and the intense blue of those bewitching eyes.

There it was again. That curious sensation, fluttering in his chest. It was most unpleasant.

“Lord Dorset,” Annabelle said. “I want to thank you for offering your assistance this Season.”

She was very nervous. He hardly wanted that. He wasn't a beast, after all. Just because they were no longer friends didn't mean he wanted her to be uncomfortable. He felt enough discomfort for the two of them. “Miss Layton,” he replied carefully. “For Gareth's sake, I'm happy to help in any way I can.” Of course, he was not happy, and he didn't do this for Gareth alone. He did it for himself, as well. The sooner she was married and gone from London, the better.

She flushed, but whether in anger or because of something else, he couldn't say. There was a long and awkward pause. It was deathly quiet in the room. “How was your trip to Bath?”

“I enjoyed it very much.”

“Did you see any of the sights? Did you visit the Assembly Rooms?”

“We did,” she said with a half smile. “Aunt Sophia and I went to a number of the evening soirees there, and we both loved the dancing. It's been such a very long time since I danced.”

“I am glad you enjoyed yourself.” He was determined to be pleasant. “Your mother used to despair that you'd ever learn to dance. If I recall, tree climbing was more to your taste.”

“That was because all of my dance masters were old and humorless,” she said, taking a step toward the fireplace, as if to warm herself. “They creaked and smelled of liniment, and badgered me about my posture.”

He didn't know if he should laugh at that or take offense. “I taught you a number of dances, and I've never used liniment.”

“No,” she admitted, turning again toward him. “You rather made dancing fun. Aunt Sophia is quite a dancer, as well. She has been trying to show me the waltz, but it's difficult to learn when one only knows the woman's part.”

“I hope she didn't do so in public. The waltz is still considered forward, and you'll need the permission of the Almack patronesses before you attempt it.”

“Surely, that is one of society's sillier rules. One would think they could find a better use for their time.”

“All the same, here in London, certain proprieties must be adhered to if you want to be accepted in the best circles.”

“Both Aunt Sophia and I are cognizant of polite behavior, Lord Dorset,” she said, frowning now.

“I'm certain you are.” Even if that had not always been the case. He ruthlessly suppressed an unbidden image of Annabelle in the fountain. “However, Lady Marchmain asked for my family's help because she's concerned that her eccentricities—her reputation, if you will—might be a burden to you. My role in this is to help steer you in the proper manner.”

“The insinuation being, of course, that I am incapable of behaving myself. I must be steered, rather like a pushcart.”

“Miss Layton, you are putting words into my mouth. You've been sequestered in the country these past several years—no matter the circumstances—and it's to be expected that you will need some guidance.”

“So you are offering me your advice,” she said, her voice rising slowly in volume. He'd obviously angered her. She walked deliberately closer, eyes narrowed, skirts swishing about her long legs. “I have some questions, then, concerning our activities in Bath. May I ask you about them? I should hate to think I've behaved improperly.”

“I'm happy to help, if I can.”

“When we danced in the Assembly Rooms, I drank champagne, and found it wonderful and well worth drinking again. Is that acceptable?”

“Only if the serving is very small, Miss Layton. A woman must never appear to be inebriated.”

She was directly in front of him now, and he wished that she would take a step back. She was too distracting. He could smell the subtle hints of her soap. It was no longer honeysuckle, but a spring-like scent with the faint hint of French lilac.

“What about whiskey? Aunt Sophia had me try some in Bath.”

“Most definitely not. Whiskey consumption by a woman is an appalling breach of etiquette.”

“That's a relief, then. It burned on the way down, and I promptly spit it back up into my glass. I shall never touch it again, per your strong recommendation.”

“One does not mention bodily functions of any kind in society,” he said, faintly alarmed. “Surely you remember?”

“Perhaps I'd forgotten. Let me see, what else. Oh yes, I was kissed by a man one evening outside of the Assembly Rooms. Aunt Sophia was there, but she did not immediately see me. Was that appropriate?”

“Damn and blast, Annabelle! What has gotten into you? You can't run about casting lures at men.” She hadn't lost her audacity, had she? “Let me warn you, I'll not allow you to do anything to embarrass the Carstairs name while you're here in London. I value its good reputation, even if you do not.”

She watched him for a long moment. “It has finally happened, hasn't it?” she said, her voice tight. “You have turned into your father.”

The observation made him uncomfortable, but instead he said, “He taught me the value of restraint and propriety, two things for which you have regularly evinced disdain.”

That remark hit home. Her eyes were flashing dangerously as she raised a long, elegant finger and jabbed him in the shoulder. “Let me tell you what I know about proper behavior, Lord Dorset. I know that it's inappropriate to say things like ‘damn and blast' in front of a woman.”

Of course, she was right.

“I know that it's impossibly rude to use a woman's given name when you have not been granted permission to do so.”

There was that, as well, he realized with an accompanying flare of discomfort.

“And,” she said as she flattened both of her hands against his chest, “it's beyond rude to impugn a woman's character because you have made assumptions about her. I'll have you know the kiss was not freely given. Aunt Sophia fell just a short way behind us, and the man took advantage. I fended him off until she arrived.”

She pushed at him with such force that he fell back a step. Quickly bracing himself, he grasped her upper arms and held them tight against her sides. He'd hardly give her the chance to push him again. She struggled briefly, but as they stood there and she stared up at him, eyes mutinous, he realized several things. First, that she had goaded him deliberately, and in the most unladylike way. Second, that she was hardly a cold woman; she was practically breathing fire. And third—that holding her was a very bad idea. Because he wanted all of that forbidden passion. He always had. He wanted to lean down, trap her mouth beneath his own, and run his hands over her exquisite body. He'd never forgotten the feel of her.

Instead, Alec pulled his hands away, and took a step back, because he was no better than that beast outside of the Assembly Rooms. “Annabelle … Miss Layton,” he said after a deep breath. “I am sorry you were subjected to such an unfortunate experience.” He wanted to say more, but at that precise moment, Lady Marchmain entered the room in a rustle of jonquil skirts.

“Is your carriage ready, my lord?” She didn't seem to notice that he'd been standing far too close to Annabelle. “I, for one, am eager to renew my acquaintance with your mother. It was most kind of her to offer her help.”

“Indeed, it was, Lord Dorset,” Annabelle said, quickly moving away from him.

They exchanged trivial comments as they walked out onto the steps of Marchmain House. The countess wondered aloud if they would see rain later in the day. Annabelle commented again on his mother's kindness, acting as if nothing untoward had happened. Alec, for his part, hardly knew what inanities he spouted. His thoughts were in disarray.

He should never have touched her. It was far easier to ignore her beauty when there was an impersonal distance between them. In the park the other day, for example, he'd done quite a good job of remaining immune both to it and to her. She'd reminded him of one of the Dresden figurines in his mother's collection room. Undeniably beautiful, but all brittle gloss, cold and unfeeling. That image, though, had just been shattered. His hands still pulsed with the warm feel of her.