Romancing the Rogue (118 page)

Annabella scrambled backward, intent on putting distance between her and the stranger.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, placing her hands on her hips. And why must her heart race so?

The stranger dared to laugh. Then he aimed a courtly bow in her direction. “I beg your pardon. I saw a lady dancing and in need of a partner and thought to oblige her with my services.”

Annabella narrowed her eyes. Who was this man with the glittering black eyes and the black hair that fell in soft waves across his forehead? Her mouth went dry, and all traces of hunger left her, replaced with a keen interest. His services indeed. She had an idea what services he’d like to offer.

“I fear you are quite mistaken.” She squared her shoulders.

The stranger’s eyes slid to her chest, and her over-exposed skin sizzled as though it craved the stroke of more than his heated gaze. A sly smile crept over his face. “Mistaken? You mean you weren’t dancing?”

Annabella sent him one of her best quelling stares, though she could hardly deny she’d been dancing. “I fail to see why anything I was or was not doing should be any concern of yours. And regardless, you are quite mistaken in the belief that I require a partner.”

Her tongue tingled as the lie crossed her lips. Her body vibrated with remembered energy of his touch as he’d swung her around.

The stranger clutched his chest with both hands. “The lady doth wound me with her sharp words that pierce my heart.” The dark tweed coat hung open in a rather unorthodox fashion, revealing his shirt and loosely knotted cravat. What would that linen feel like beneath her fingers? Would his hand be strong and firm as she cov—

He flashed an unruly grin, almost as though he knew where her mind had wandered.

How crass!

“Ha!” Face flaming, Annabella tossed her hair over her shoulder. “One must
have
a heart before it can be pierced.”

“Most assuredly I do possess a heart, m’lady.” Black eyes glinted like twin bits of obsidian as his grin widened, and he presented her with another deep bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. Jonathan Rupert Rhys Durham, Fourth Earl of Seabrook, and guest of the Duke of Wyndham.”

Seabrook. Annabella cocked her head to the side and considered him with one eye narrowed.
Markwythe’s guest? Had her stepbrother finally decided to take a hand in his property? Devil’s fire! Did that mean Markwythe himself had come along?

Lord Seabrook inclined his head to the side with an air of expectation. “Is it not customary in the country to return the favor of an introduction?”

“My name is Ann—” She caught her breath. She couldn’t give the man her name! Just when she’d found a way to carry out her plan, he would spoil everything by running to her stepbrother. And if Markwythe had come with him… “Annie, er — m’lord.” She nearly choked on the respectful form of address, but if she wanted him to believe the lie, she had to play her role.

Both his dark eyebrows shot heavenward. “Ah,” he said softly, his lips curving into a far too-engaging smile. “Then you must be the maid sent to open the cottage.”

Annabella stared, slack-jawed.
Open the cottage?
Of course.
Her heart sank. The task Abby had been sent to do. It hadn’t been a routine cleaning and airing after all. Well, invited or no, as long as she was living there, he’d not cross the threshold.

“I… that is, yes.” And now to be rid of the most unwelcome guest. “But I fear Rose Cottage is not at all suitable for living in. ’Tis dusty and overrun with rodents.”

“Indeed?”

“Most definitely, m’lord. My apologies, but you will be much more comfortable at the main house in one of the guest rooms.”

“Would I, now?” He widened his stance and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “And this discovery brought on an urge to sing and dance in the garden?”

Heat rushed upward from her neck and flooded her face. “Of course not! I was on my way to tell Geoffrey and the beauty of the day brought a song to my lips, is all.”

“And lovely lips they are, m’lady.” Fine lines crinkled the skin beside his eyes when he smiled. “I find myself wondering if you might grace me with another song, and perhaps allow me the honor of a dance.”

As if she would deign to dance with a rake such as he. Annabella sought her most disapproving voice. “Are you seeking a dalliance with one of his grace’s servants, sir?”

The insufferable lout leaned close. Close enough that his earthy scent tantalized, and her traitorous heart quickened. “I do beg your pardon, m’lady. I was merely seeking the pleasure… of the next dance.”

“Oh!” Annabella stomped her foot. “I shall go and tell Geoffrey that the cottage is not suitable for housing guests.” She stalked across the unkempt lawn, uncertain where she was really going, for she could hardly present herself to the butler.

“That won’t be necessary,” Seabrook called after her.

Good. Maybe the lout would turn tail and head back to wherever he’d come from — under a rock in London most likely. She slowed her steps and allowed the dawning smile as she turned back to him.

He offered another of his heart-stopping grins. “I’ll be staying as planned. So, if you will… kindly carry on the task to which you were assigned.”

Anger boiled Annabella’s blood. He was actually ordering
her
to clean and air the cottage! She opened her mouth to voice the likelihood of that particular order being carried out, but just as quickly closed it. Of course, she was supposed to be a servant; she could hardly refuse an order without revealing her identity.

You and your complicated tangle of deceit, Annabella.
She nodded, not having the vaguest idea how one went about cleaning and airing a cottage. But the alternative — admitting her true identity — was as unpalatable as the lemon in her pantry.
Juliet is correct. You are a chicken brain.

~~~~

“Annie” stalked across
the lawn. The pale hair tumbling about her shoulders reminded him of spun gold. One look at those high cheekbones, that aristocratic nose, the pouting lips, and Jon knew he’d stumbled onto Grey’s stepsister. And without a doubt, the lady was hiding. Had it been known she was residing in the quaint stone cottage, he’d never have been given leave to use it, no matter what directive Grey might have sent along. Sorting it all out was bound to prove entertaining.

Jon followed her into the cottage and found himself in a small sitting room. Most of the furniture stood shrouded, though a threadbare couch in dull red showed signs of use. Its cover had been dumped on the floor in a ball of disorganization. An ivory upholstered chair sat near the window next to a drum table, both similarly bare, but a companion chair remained cloaked in white.

Interesting… she must have spent her days fluttering like an undecided butterfly between the couch and the chair.
But why?

She stood in the center of the sitting room, her eyes flitting about, landing first on the couch, then the fireplace — why did she not have a fire? — over to the window, to the chair, to the discarded shrouds. Her gaze drifted to the door through which they’d just entered, then to another that led toward the rear of the cottage. Finally, they wandered to the small stone staircase nestled at the back of the sitting room. Why the devil was she so nervous?

“I…” Her eyes darted to the cover in front of the sofa, and she curled her lip. “I should…” She took a tentative step toward the couch then glanced over at the chair by the window. “That is, will you need all the furniture uncovered?”

Jon’s lips twitched, but he reined in the smile and schooled his features into something between friendliness and censure. “It is customary, I believe, for the guest to have full access to the comforts of home.” Deliberately, he allowed his gaze to fall on the expanse of skin between her neck and the top of the gray dress that didn’t quite fit.

Her eyes widened, and she went as still as one of the statues Grey had scattered throughout his London home. Indeed, that intriguing expanse of creamy skin with its unblemished smoothness reminded him of polished marble, though he’d dare to say it would be warmer under his fingers.

The imposter in Grey’s London home was a petite thing, and she’d seemed to shrink into the walls until Grey had pushed her limits. This one, though… combustible right from the start. But in his experience, the more temper a woman displayed, the more passion she had to tap. This one was tall with some curve to her that he’d wager would just fit against him with—

Every inch of his skin tingled with the sudden need to find out. His heart pumped liquid fire through his veins, reminding him of just how hungry a man could become for things other than food.

Annabella backed up a step, and Jon realized he’d likely been leering like Grey’s lecherous uncle. He cleared his throat and surveyed the room. “Yes, I see what you mean about the dust and disrepair.”

Her eyes lit with interest. “So… you’ll be staying at the main house, then?”

Well, well… how the chit did want him out of her hideaway.
What game are you playing at, Lady Annabella Price?
“The main house? No, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure if you start now you should be able to finish airing and cleaning before suppertime.” He gestured toward the staircase. “I presume those lead to the sleeping quarters?”

Something danced in her eyes — surprise? Irritation? A pink flush tinted her fair skin, working its way up her neck and staining her cheeks.

Because he wasn’t leaving? Or because he’d mentioned sleeping quarters? When she gave no response, Jon shrugged and walked to the steps. As he put his foot on the first one, a dull thud reached his hearing. Unless he missed his guess, she’d just stomped her foot like an irate horse

The first door creaked as he pushed it inward and disturbed a cobweb clinging near the jamb. Jon whisked that away with the back of his hand and stared, uncertain if he should venture in.

He might not make it back out.

Something small and gray darted from beneath the bed and scrambled along the wall. As the mouse raced behind the green velvet curtain framing the window, Jon shook his head.

She hadn’t lied about the rodents. Dust danced in the finger of watery sunlight poking through filthy glass. More cobwebs draped from the ceiling, wispy fingers that seemed to beckon him to come closer.

The bed lay in utter ruin. The mattress — what remained of it — hung askew, pieces of wool and feathers escaping from seams that had split wide. More of the small bits lay on the floor surrounded by mouse droppings and tiny footprints cutting a trail through the layer of dust. A bed rope hung low, its end rodent-chewed. If he tried to sleep there, he’d fall through to the floor within seconds of lying down.

Right. He backed out and closed the door, taking care to latch it tightly. Not that doing so would keep the rodents inside, but it made him feel better.

The hallway boasted one more door. The place really was fairly modest, just as Grey had warned him. But was his old friend aware of the near ruin the cottage had fallen into?

The second bedchamber was in better shape. The bed had been tidied and made up with a tattered quilt. The dust cover lay wadded up against the still-shrouded wardrobe. A wooden ladderback chair sat next to the window.

Did she sit there and look out upon the land like a princess in an ivory tower?

Tapping his leg, Jon returned his attention to their situation. With only one workable bed between them, would she give up her ruse and run for the main house?

Suddenly he didn’t really want her to give up her deception so easily. The idea of ferreting out her reasons for hiding had taken on a certain appeal. He took a long look at the bed. Of course, he should be a gentleman and sleep on the cramped Grecian couch in the drawing room… let her continue to reside in the bedroom with a small amount of privacy.

But then, there was that one little thing… he wasn’t particularly regarded as a gentleman.

He exited the room, pulling the door closed behind him, still mulling over his next course of action. How long
would
Annabella keep up the pretense? She obviously was
not
cut out to be a servant of any kind.

Voices drifted from the sitting room. One of the servants? Perhaps his luggage had been delivered. He paused and listened.

“So I can have it done by suppertime, can I?” muttered Annabella. Something thumped. “I’ll show him what he can have done. He can have his backside on the road back to London, and then I’ll have done with him.”

Jon raised an eyebrow as he waited for the other person to reply. But it was Annabella who ended the silence.

“I presume the sleeping quarters are up there.”

Jon jerked upright as she repeated his words in a particularly haughty tone. He peered around the corner. Annabella was alone. And talking to herself.

She barked out a harsh laugh. “Well, he can have the bed and everything that’s been crawling in it, so long as he doesn’t expect to find me crawling about in it as well.”

Jon pressed the back of his hand to his lips and held in a chuckle. He should let her know he was standing there. A gentleman certainly would. Blame it on his devilish nature, but he discovered he’d much rather listen to the lady — for she certainly was that for all her attempts to hide it — rant about his presence. He risked a glance around the corner in time to see her kick at one of the shrouds.

She bent and picked up the cover using just the tips of her thumbs and forefingers. Holding it away from her body, she half pushed and half dragged it across the floor to a mountain of similar cloths. There, she dropped it and jumped back, but not quickly enough to escape the eruption of dust.

A delicate sneeze overtook her. Then another. After a third, she sniffed and tossed her hair.

“There, the comforts of the home await.” She stomped her foot. “I don’t know why it all had to be uncovered. It’s not like he’ll park his behind in more than one seat at a time.” She paused and leaned in close to the chair she’d just uncovered then chuckled. “And he won’t sit in this one more than once. Maybe a sudden trip to the floor’ll send Lord Seaside’s backside on its way.”

Seaside?
Jon smiled at the deliberate twisting of his name — as insults went, it was fairly mild. Well, then. No need to wonder about her opinion of him. He’d certainly take care to avoid that particular chair. A snigger escaped despite Jon’s best effort to contain it, and he covered the sound with a cough as he stepped off the stone staircase.

Annabella whirled and placed her hands on her hips. She likely wouldn’t do that if she knew how the movement drew attention to her curvier aspects. Jon forced his gaze off her and around the room.

The furniture had, indeed, been uncovered, but it might have been kinder to leave it hidden. The muted afternoon sunlight clawing its way through the grimy window showed off every gouge in the wood, every pulled stitch in the upholstery. Jon shook his head. The poorest tenant working the land at Blackmoor lived better.

“Well? Are you going to stare at it or sit in it?”

Jon forced back a grimace of distaste. He’d rather sit on the ground outside now that he knew the state of things.

Then Annabella tilted her head and raised a questioning eyebrow at him. The gesture was so unconsciously arrogant, directly contradicting the image she was striving to present to him, he had to push back a laugh. Just who did she think to fool?

“I’ll… sit.”

Annabella’s mouth dropped open and she stared. Slowly, she straightened her back and allowed her arms to fall at her sides. After a moment, she closed her mouth.

What did I just agree to?
The words had just popped out, obviously surprising her. They’d certainly surprised him. But now they were out he had no choice. So he eased onto the worn couch. It held his weight just fine, so he leaned back and stretched out his legs.

“Thank you. This will do nicely.” He nodded at the heap of furniture shrouds. “You can deal with those after you’ve brought me some refreshment.”

Annabella’s eyes widened. “Refreshment?”

Jon nodded. “Why yes. Some brandy would be excellent, though I doubt you have any here as yet — we’ll have to change that. Er… perhaps some tea? You… do have a cook fire going don’t you?”

Annabella stared at him, her expression impossible to read except for the murderous glint in her eye.

“As a matter of fact, I can offer you some lemonade.”

“Thank you. Lemonade will do nicely.” He hated the slop, but something was happening… something Jon couldn’t quite figure out. If he had to drink the pale, tart liquid, so be it. Though he’d really rather have the brandy.

She whirled and started toward the rear of the house, her hands forming catlike claws at her side. As though experiencing a second thought, she halted her steps and turned back to him. Still with a lethal gleam in her eye, she dropped into a shallow and half-hearted curtsey. “If there’s nothing else, my —
lord
.”