Once Upon a Wager (18 page)

Jane was as pale as one of the Townley Marbles at the British Museum. Her face glistened with a sheen of sweat, and she appeared to be in terrible pain, her breath wheezing in labored pants. “Jane, are you all right?” Annabelle asked. “Lord Dorset, something is happening to Miss Fitzsimmons.”

Alec, who was standing at the back of the box with his mother and Aunt Sophia, turned first to her, and then to Jane, his features stark with concern. As all three rushed forward, Jane winced, turning toward her.

“Please,” Jane said haltingly, as she covered her eyes with a shaking hand. “I have a headache, nothing more. I've suffered severe megrims since I was a small child.”

“May I get you a cold cloth?” she asked. “Is it the light that bothers you?”

“Could someone … see me home? I don't wish to be a bother, but I cannot stay.”

“We'll get you home as quickly as possible,” Alec said gently, clasping her hand. “Ladies, I'm sorry that our evening must be cut short, but we need to get Miss Fitzsimmons into her father's care.”

A butler entered the box with refreshments, and Alec asked him to gather the ladies' wraps and notify their coachman that they would be departing. At that, his mother spoke up. “Alec, my dear, if you help me escort Miss Fitzsimmons to the carriage, I will see her home. She should lie down for the duration of the journey, but she can hardly unbend and be made comfortable if you come along.”

Jane nodded weakly, so Alec agreed, and together they helped her to stand. “Lady Marchmain, Miss Layton, please make yourselves comfortable. I'm sorry to leave you unescorted, but I will ask the steward to stand by the door and turn away any curious onlookers. I'll return as soon as I am able.”

“We understand, Lord Dorset,” Aunt Sophia replied. “We will hope for Miss Fitzsimmons' quick recovery.” He returned his attention to Jane and carefully escorted her from the box, his mother fluttering anxiously behind them.

• • •

This evening was an exercise in frustration. Alec had returned to the theater with Act IV well under way—the opera was a bravura performance if the response of the crowd was anything to go by—but he'd barely glanced at the stage. He couldn't seem to look away from Annabelle, who now sat beside him. She glowed with joy, and like some pathetic creature locked outside on a bitter night, he craved her warmth.

She'd always been that way. Even as a child, he'd been drawn to her vitality, but now that she was a grown woman, it was an insidious thing. He was increasingly helpless in the face of it. He remembered the feel of her when they'd danced in Lady Marchmain's music room, her body smooth and supple as it moved with his. He could see the compassion in her eyes when he'd spoken of the war.

When the opera was done, Alec fought to keep them moving through the crowds in the lobby. Everyone and their mother wanted an introduction to Annabelle, and he was hardly interested in watching people make simpering fools of themselves. When Lady Marchmain spotted a friend and wandered off into the throng, he was able to maneuver Annabelle outside, but they waited by the carriage for what seemed like an eternity. He was intensely aware of her all the while. The curve of her back. The rhythmic tapping of her feet. The sway of her body as she hummed a song from
Figaro
. And when finally, at long last, a steward arrived with a note from the countess, he wanted to curse out loud. Lady Marchmain wanted him to return Annabelle to Grovesnor Square.

Insufferable woman. One didn't abandon an unescorted debutante. She was the very worst of chaperones! Didn't she realize that being alone with her niece in closed quarters would be torture? He helped Annabelle into the Dorset carriage and quickly climbed in behind her, calling out to the coachman to be off. The fewer people who saw them together and alone, the better.

• • •

“Alec, I can't thank you enough for bringing me to the opera,” Annabelle said as soon he settled onto the squabs across from her. “Signora Catalani has the most magnificent voice.”

“I'm glad you enjoyed it.” Even in his acutely frustrated state, he couldn't help but smile. “Napoleon himself was so captivated when she visited France that he refused to let her leave. She had to disguise herself as a nun to escape the country.”

“Well, that is yet another reason to dislike Emperor Bonaparte,” she said emphatically. “Tell me, how is Miss Fitzsimmons? Was she any better as she left?”

“She was in a great deal of discomfort. I'm eager to get an update on her condition.”

He stared at his hands in his lap; in all truth, he hadn't thought about Jane since returning to the theater. It was not something he was proud of.

“I only wish she'd said something earlier. I'm afraid she could see how much I was enjoying the opera, and did not wish to draw attention. She was suffering terribly.”

“She has offered to help with your debut, and she didn't wish to falter in any way.”

“You seem to like her a great deal.”

He looked up. Her eyes were focused intently upon him. “Yes, of course. She is in all ways admirable.” And she was. He must remember that.

“She's very pretty.”

He gave a wry smile. “Coming from you, I know she would appreciate the compliment.”

Annabelle looked out the window. They were well away from the theater now, threading a path along the dark streets of London. “Do you remember when the three of us would act out the stories I had written?” she asked quietly. “You and me and Gareth?”

“I remember you invariably gave me the most embarrassing role.”

“That is unfair. You were always the hero. Gareth had to play the villain in every piece, while I was the distressed damsel.”

“You should have played the villain, for all of the things you made me say and do.”

“Leaving you to play the damsel, I suppose?”

“Absolutely not.” He chuckled. “You could have played both. Indeed, you had enough enthusiasm to play all the roles simultaneously.”

“After you both went away, that's what I was reduced to. It was not nearly so much fun.”

No. It was never so much fun again.

As the streets continued to roll past, her face became pensive, and it grew very quiet in the carriage. There was only the sound of the horses clip-clopping on the cobblestones beneath them. “I still miss him every day,” she whispered at last.

“Annabelle … I have never told you how very sorry I am that Gareth died so tragically. I will always regret the role I played.”

Those blue, blue eyes were on him again. “Mother blamed you, you know.”

His gut clenched. “It was a terrible accident. You must believe me.”

“I have never thought you responsible, Alec. I may have blamed you for other things, but never that.”

She could not have surprised him more if she'd leaned over and kissed him. “Thank you,” he said, his throat suddenly tight. “That means a great deal.”

She looked down, seemingly absorbed by a shaft of moonlight on the floor of the carriage. “I think Mother blamed you for the accident, because the alternative was too difficult to bear.”

“What do you mean, Annabelle? What alternative?”

“I was in the carriage with Gareth, although I don't remember why. Perhaps I was hiding, like I used to do when we were children and you would not let me race with you. Perhaps I distracted him ...”

“You don't remember?”

“Nothing of the accident, nor of the first days that followed. Dr. Chessher told me it was not uncommon, given the head wound I suffered, but he expected my memories would come back. I only remember the night of the dance and the fight with that stranger from London. I remember this horrible sense of foreboding.” She was on the verge of tears, trying not to let them fall. “Then the whole world ripped apart.”

To think that she'd regained consciousness, alone and in agony, only to find she had no recollection of how she'd come to be that way. No idea of the horrors lying in wait.

He had been angry after the accident because she'd put herself in harm's way. The sight of her there, so desperately injured, had nearly torn his heart out. But he'd never dreamed that she might blame herself for the whole of it.

“Perhaps you thought that you could help,” he said, wondering what he could possibly say. “You were always the better driver.”

“But he was a grown man, and I was nearly grown. I would never have wanted to embarrass him. I must have startled him in some way.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I must have drawn his attention from the road.”

“Oh, Annabelle. You weren't in any way responsible.”

Her tears began in earnest then, coursing down her cheeks in trails that looked silver in the moonlight. Suddenly, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to move across the rocking carriage to where she sat, to pull her into his arms and hold her close, as he had done so often when she was a child.

As one arm held her, he withdrew his other hand from its glove, and rubbed her back in an effort to calm her, while he tried to ignore the shape of her through her cloak. He kept whispering her name as she sobbed, because he didn't know what else to say, other than she was not to blame, and he was so very sorry she had suffered. He could feel her heart pounding against him.

Slowly, as the carriage swayed, her crying ebbed, and then stopped all together. Still, he held her. Somewhere in the back of his mind, an alarm bell sounded, but he was merely offering comfort. Even though her body, nestled against his, was soft and lushly curved. Her head was tucked against his shoulder, her breath fanning his neck. He reached into his pocket to withdraw a handkerchief and touched his hand to her chin, so that he could tilt her face up toward his. Her eyes glistened as he dried her tears, smoothing the handkerchief down her cheeks and along her jaw.

Her skin was a marvel, silky and lustrous, like trailing one's fingertips through a bowl of cream. And that mouth. Unthinking, he let the handkerchief drop between them and touched a forefinger to her lips, slowly tracing their outline, utterly fascinated. She caught her breath in surprise, her lips parting slightly. He'd never seen anything so tempting in his entire life, and before he could ponder the innumerable reasons why he shouldn't, he tilted his head, and leaned in to kiss her.

It had been so long. The feel of her lips on his was indescribable, her mouth warm and plump beneath his own. He lightly touched his tongue along the fullness of her lower lip, marveling at the sensations that it aroused. When he drew her lip into his mouth, sucking slightly, she opened her mouth with a gasp.

This was so wrong in every way, despite the fact that he'd never wanted anything more. But then she leaned into him, her hands reaching up and curling into his hair, as she tentatively touched her own tongue to his mouth. Its hot, wet stroke evaporated his self-control, and suddenly, he couldn't get enough of her. He ran his hands along her shoulders and up into her hair, pulling at its pins until it fell in great waves about them, its lilac scent filling the carriage. He brought his hands back down to pull her even closer, his mouth still entwined with hers. The feel of her breasts pressed against him inspired all sorts of carnal images. He imagined pulling her dress from her shoulders, exposing those breasts, and taking them into his mouth.

He trailed his lips down the long column of her throat, to the soft swell of her décolletage, and ran his hands along the curve of her breasts, his fingers gently tracing their shape, caressing the exposed flesh just above her neckline. And because the temptation was simply too great, he dipped a thumb into her bodice, and rubbed it across the nipple of one breast until she moaned, and then he tucked a forefinger in as well, squeezing the nipple until she writhed beneath his hands.

This was madness! He had to end this before there was no going back for either one of them. Somehow, he pulled away, disengaging his hands, and moved back to the other side of the carriage. The vehicle had stopped.

Dear God. How long had they been outside of Marchmain House?

Annabelle's face was flushed, her lips faintly swollen. Her breath was coming in pants, soft and quick, as if she had been running very fast. He imagined her naked above him, her breath hitching with those short, hot gasps as she rode his body.

And he was the worst sort of degenerate. He put his head into his hands, trying to will his painful arousal away. At the inn, she'd said she no longer trusted him, and he had been so mortally offended, so willing to judge her. But she'd been right. He did not deserve her trust. Because nothing could come of this.

“Alec?” Her eyes had never seemed so wide and bright. Would he see his own dark heart reflected in their depths if he looked deeply enough? “Why did you kiss me?”

“Annabelle, I am sorry.”

“You did not answer my question,” she replied, her voice still slightly breathless as she made an effort to put her hair back in order and straighten her clothing. The movement highlighted the curve of her breasts, and he nearly groaned.

“I'm not sure you want to hear the truth, Annabelle.”

“I am stronger than you think I am. But I need to know how to act when I see you again. I need to know why this happened.”

She wasn't afraid to ask difficult questions, was she?

“Annabelle … you are unbearably tempting. But that cannot happen again. I don't have that right.”

Her eyelashes lowered, and before he knew what she was about, she gathered her things and sprang from the carriage. The butler must have spied the coach from a window, because before he could even make a start at running after her, the door of Marchmain House opened and shut, tucking Annabelle safely inside.

• • •

How odd that she could still perform mundane tasks, as if nothing had happened and her world had not been upended. If Canby noticed Annabelle's disheveled appearance when she barreled through the front door, flushed and agitated, he didn't say anything. He asked after the performance. She replied politely that the opera had been marvelous, and that her aunt would not be home until late in the evening. She walked up the long marble staircase to her room with its soothing patterns and colors, and Mary helped her change out of her evening attire. She'd already laid out Annabelle's bedclothes.