Romancing the Rogue (135 page)

~~~~

The wind whistled
through the archeria on the battlement. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the murmur of his brother’s voice. The north tower had been a favorite hideout when Jon and Nicholas had been in a mood to avoid Daphne and Edith.

With so many years between the two sets of children, the girls had worshipped their older brothers and often followed them about. Planned outings on horseback too often had become an indulgent afternoon of hitching the ponies to the cart and watching as a groom led them around the stable yard. Jon smiled. The girls hadn’t believed them about the ghost in the tower until he and Nicholas had proven it early one morning when they’d seen Gran heading up there to shoot arrows through the arrow slots.

“That’s the ghost of the very first Duchess of Blackmoor, herself — from the far north and held captive here by her husband,” said Nicholas to the pair of them. “It is said that she waits up there for someone to join her and then she’ll steal that person’s body and use it to travel to her homeland.”

Daphne had taken a bit more convincing, but little Edith had run crying to her nursemaid and never set foot near the north tower again, even after they’d both come to understand that their grandmother occasionally let a few arrows fly on the breeze from on high.

If he strained, Jon could just make out the archery range through the archeria. Every so often sounds that might have been voices drifted toward him, carried by the stiff wind, but it was never enough to even discern the tone, let alone the words themselves.

He scowled. What on earth was Gran doing with his wife out there? He stared at the pair of them standing in the center of the range. The targets looked like they’d been moved in closer. When Gran stood next to Annabella and guided her through shooting an arrow, he took a deep breath and sighed. Gran only shared her sport with those she cared about. Mayhap Annabella would find a reason to stay.

Even if that reason isn’t me.

Jon gripped the rough stone so hard his fingers turned white. Quite suddenly, he didn’t want to think of a future without her in it.

He wanted to stand there, watching the pair of them, but he had business to conduct, a venture to put in motion. After a final glance at Gran and Annabella, Jon turned and left the tower.

Jon leaned back
in the chair and stared at the ledger in front of him. A sense of satisfaction warmed him, and he smiled. It was going to happen. Grandfather’s estate settlement would nail the plan. All that remained was for Jon to contact Mr. Webber, the family solicitor, to inform him of the marriage between Jonathan Durham, the Fourth Earl of Seabrook and one Annabella Price, daughter of the late Bernard Price, Third Baronet of Kedelston. That ought to settle the suitability requirement. A twinge of something he vaguely recognized as guilt churned his stomach, but it did little to deter his focus from the goal.

When the tingling began in the back of his neck, though, Jon’s smile faded.

Gran and Annabella had been on that blasted archery range for far longer than he’d expected. He’d been glad that Gran seemed to have a calming influence over highly strung Annabella. Now… he wasn’t so certain. Unable to shake the sudden feeling of unease, Jon’s gaze strayed to the study window. He had no need of a clock to tell him midday had come and gone. Afternoon sunlight slanted across the floor, though the brilliant glow failed to brighten the rich burgundy carpet. The room fit Nicholas with his too-serious nature, but Jon had always found it depressing.

Actually, he’d have welcomed depressing, for at the moment, he was finding only a sense of disquiet in the air. Something had gone awry. The quivering that began at the base of his spine and shot darts into his neck told him so.

Why, of all places, had he brought Annabella to Blackmoor Hall? He could have stayed in the cottage with her. Taken her to Scotland. Gone south to Plymouth. Anywhere but the family home… and Gran.

You definitely mucked this one up. Might as well have taken her to Grey’s townhouse in London. Probably would have fared better with him than Gran.

The door to the study flew open, and Gran marched in, a glower on her imperial face.

Well, either that explained the prickling in his neck, or he’d conjured the devil’s wife herself. Too late he realized his mistake in staying home. He should have made himself scarce as he’d done the day before.

“You never intended on telling that poor girl the truth of it, did you?” Gran’s snappish tone sent waves of dread washing over him.

No. Annabella would never —
could
never have confessed
that
to Gran. And yet… His throat tightened, making speech impossible. Surely the heat on his face would be less were he to stick his head in the fireplace.

Gran widened her stance and crossed her arms. “Well, what have you to say for yourself?”

Irritated and in no mood to discuss something so intimate, he tossed the pen on the desk and snapped the ledger closed. “Forgive me, Grandmother, but this isn’t a subject I feel comfortable discussing with you.” Yes, he definitely should have gone to London and faced Grey instead. At least that would have been a quick death.

“Forgive
me
, but I can and
will
prohibit you from collecting your inheritance if you don’t explain to me the reason for keeping it from your wife. Doesn’t she have a right to know?”

Jon hissed out a curse and raked his hands through his hair. So that was her objection. He almost wished Gran
had
been talking about him letting Annabella believe they’d been intimate before their wedding. That would be easier to explain. Perhaps.

“To what end does she need to know? Grandfather left me an inheritance upon my marriage…” Jon stood and stalked to the window, but the view through the panes was a blur of green and gray, and he turned back to his grandmother, allowing his irritation to surface. “What does it matter to her from where my finances originate? So long as my wife is cared for, looked after—”

“Your
wife
is but a rose, her petals still young and blossoming. You must handle her gently so—”

Jon waved his grandmother off as he returned to the desk and flopped back into the chair. “Yes, yes. So as not to damage the ‘delicate flower’.”

Gran raised her brows. “I was going to say so as not to be pricked with her thorns… Besides, it’s often the flower with the torn edges that gives off the sweetest scent.”

He snorted. “Please. That girl is about as sweet as a colony of very angry bees.”

Amusement danced in Gran’s eyes, and the corners of her lips turned up into a glimmer of a smile then split into a toothy grin. She perched on the edge of her favorite chair, deep, tall-backed and made of dark brown leather. “Ah… so that’s the way of it. Just like when you were a child… had to go poking the beehive, couldn’t resist it, as I recall.”

The insufferable woman always made him feel like he was a young boy again. Would he ever grow up in her eyes? He flipped the ledger back open and retrieved his pen. “I’m not in need of a lecture. Nor am I in the mood.” With luck, Gran would take the hint and leave him to his sulking.

Gran held up her hands in surrender. “Fair enough. At any rate, your wife made her feelings on the matter quite apparent, so no reason for me to point it out.” Her hands dropped to her lap. “Really, Jonathan, whatever possessed you to think removing the door was a good idea?”

The warmth still on his cheeks ignited into a blazing inferno, radiating out to his ears, making them ring. Apparently his darling wife
had
confided in Gran. He didn’t know what was more humiliating, that Gran knew he’d removed the door or that she knew Annabella had banned him from his own bedchamber.

“I suppose I should be relieved my wife tried to exact her revenge with violence as opposed to filling Blackmoor Hall with more
cats
,” he snapped.

The smile dropped from Gran’s face, and her eyebrows shot up nearly to her hair. “Don’t you get cheeky with me. If you intend to behave as intolerably as your grandfather, then prepare to spend as much time removing thorns from your backside as he did.”

“So I should let her do as she pleases, not learn her place?”

“I beg your pardon, ‘learn her place’? And what, pray tell, do you mean by that?”

Jon sighed. “I meant no offense. It’s only — she has a nasty habit of letting her emotions control her. Cause her to make poor decisions—”

“And marrying her then hauling her halfway across the country was controlling
your
emotions? Forcing the girl’s hand is a choice you’re proud of? Not to mention you cheated the poor girl of a proper engagement and wedding. Do you now think she’ll thank you for that?”

Dejected, he fell against the chair back. “No. Much as I wish it weren’t true, she’d be right to hate me for the rest of her life.”

Gran chuckled. The woman was actually laughing at his predicament. Maddening. Women were utterly maddening.

“I’m glad I could be so amusing. But I fail to see the humor behind my misery.”

“And therein, my boy, is what makes it so funny,” she said, laughing harder.

Jon rolled his eyes. “Am I supposed to guess at what you mean?”
I do hope Grey is having as devilish a time with his houseguest as I am with Annabella.

“You really do have the intelligence of a rabbit and about as much wit. It would serve you right if I didn’t tell you.” She raised her hand when he opened his mouth to protest. “Think about it, Jonathan. That girl stayed in a cottage alone, refusing to be forced into going to London — yes, she told me the whole of it. Do you really think she would then allow you to pressure her into something if she didn’t want to do it?”

The air rushed from his lungs as though he’d been punched in the gut. How was it he’d never considered that?

“And is this marriage you forced even legal?” Gran leveled a knowing stare on him. “I recall no banns being read in our parish. Nor were any inquiries made here as to your eligibility.”

The churning in his stomach became a tempest, but he managed an indifferent shrug. “Some extra coin may have crossed the right hands.”

“So the marriage is dissolvable.”

Jon sighed. “If she chooses to have the Bishop of Guildford thrown into prison for falsifying the marriage record, I suppose it is, but — she won’t do that.” He hoped.

“So she married you without
too
much fuss — she’s not as thick-headed as you think, either, by the way — and now you repay her by not letting her see the real you.”

He furrowed his brow. Riddles. Why must Gran always speak in such riddles? Of course Annabella allowed herself to be married. He’d tricked her into it… Hadn’t he?

Gran tsked and stood. “I can tell by the expression on your face that you can’t yet see the honey for the bees. Have it your way, then.” She stepped around the chair then paused and turned around, angling her head and subjecting him to thoughtful scrutiny. “But I wonder… Do you think… possibly… maybe…”

Exasperated and his ire beyond controlling, Jon tossed the pen on the desk. “Out with it, Gran.”

“Bees do have a nasty sting, but would Cook’s pastries and biscuits be quite as good without the added pleasure of their honey? Almost makes it worth the pain.” Gran swung around and strode to the door, pausing at the threshold and subjecting him to a final scrutiny. “Don’t leave it too long to tell her the truth, Jonathan. Omissions have a nasty way of including themselves at the most inopportune times.”

Then she was gone, closing the door behind her.

“Huh!” Jon stared at the ledger in front of him without seeing it. Worth it, indeed. He had enough welts to last him a lifetime.
Then why don’t you take her to London and hand her over to Grey? Let her be his problem.

A chill crept lazily along his spine and brought on a shiver. Shocking, how quickly he rejected the idea of taking her to Grey, refused to even consider it. Blast it all! Gran was right. He enjoyed getting a rise out of Annabella. Liked starting a spark that she’d then turn into a brilliant flame. And when she’d stormed into the dining room with her hair flowing, face flushed with anger, green eyes shooting daggers, she’d aroused a passion in him that he hadn’t ever felt before. A passion he had no intention of letting go of, no matter how many times he got stung.

Yes, Seabrook, you’ve gotten yourself stuck between a thorny rosebush and beehive full of angry bees.
Going to the devil was looking better and better… but not nearly as fun.

~~~~

The brush soothed
as Marie drew it through Annabella’s hair. Every so often, the bristles caught on a tangle and pulled. Marie frequently stopped and worked a knot loose. Though the young girl was not nearly as efficient and gentle as Juliet, Annabella did her best not to complain, grateful for the attention. But oh, how she missed Juliet’s tender care.

I hope she fares well.

“Shall I turn down the bed, m’lady?” asked Marie, setting the brush on the vanity.

“Yes, please, Marie, and if you would, please add a log to the fire. I’m a bit chilled tonight.”

The maid’s eyes slid along the front of Annabella’s dressing gown, but she kept silent. Annabella followed her gaze, noting the bit of silk chemise that peeked through a tiny gap between the fastenings.

Perhaps it was silly to leave the more practical nightwear resting in the wardrobe. It hadn’t been nearly as fun wearing it, since she couldn’t actually torment Seabrook with the decadent thing. Partway through her lesson on the archery range, she’d realized that she enjoyed the feel of the silk against her skin. She’d found her mind drifting to rather naughty thoughts and wondering about the feel of a touch — his touch — through that cool fabric.

“Whatever are you squirming for?” the dowager demanded, lifting the pot of chocolate.

Annabella answered with candor. In truth, the dowager scared her so much she dared not fabricate any other answer. “The undergarments that were packed for me at Wyndham Green are… er, they’re very sheer and cut from silk and lace, your grace, and I’m not accustomed to such. They feel… strange.”

In the middle of pouring her second cup of chocolate, the dowager’s hand jerked, and a few pale brown droplets spilled over the edge of the cup and onto the saucer before she stopped pouring with a sigh. “Gracious, you do speak frankly, don’t you, my dear?”

Annabella sighed. “My apologies, your grace, but you did ask.”

The dowager stiffened. Pursing her lips, she set the chocolate pot aside and stared at Annabella for an endless moment.

Bloody hell! Would she never learn to hold her tongue?

“That I did, Frenchie!” The dowager chuckled as she picked up her cup of chocolate. “That I did. Now, your… unmentionables are French also, are they?”

“No, your grace. My aunts despise the French. The garments were sewn in London of Indian silk and Italian lace.”

The dowager pursed her lips. “Your aunts, eh? Do they know your own tastes run a bit differently than theirs?”

Heat rushed into Annabella’s face. She opened her mouth to deny the subtle accusation but closed it again and remained silent.

“Did you pack a nightdress?”

Annabella nodded.

“Serviceable and warm, I suppose?” Why did she sound so disapproving?

“It is adequate, your grace.”

The dowager snorted. “My dear, if we’re going to make my grandson regret removing that door, he needs to be made aware. You shall have to wear your fancy silk and lace to bed tonight and leave your serviceable garment in the wardrobe.”

Annabella stared, unable to believe the dowager was serious, but the old cat had already turned her attention to the plate of scones.

“The bed’s been turned, m’lady,” murmured Marie, returning to the dressing table. “And I’ve laid a new log on the fire. Will there be anything else?”

Juliet would have stayed for a bit of conversation. But once again, Annabella had to remind herself that this maid was not her old friend.
Juliet…

“Did you collect the paper and pen I requested?”

“I did, m’lady.” Marie nodded. “I left them on the writing table near the window with a fresh inkwell.”

“Thank you, then. I shall need nothing more for the evening.”

The maid scampered from the bedchamber as though making a narrow escape from the devil’s lair.

Annabella wandered to the writing table, but she didn’t sit. Running her fingers over the polished oak surface, she contemplated the revelations of the past day. If Jon were to be believed, Markwythe already knew the truth of the ruse she and Juliet had affected, and yet he had not done anything about it.

But would the situation stay that way?

I have to get word to her… give her a way to get away from him before things go from bad to worse.

She sank onto the chair in front of the desk, struggling in her mind for the right words. She’d let her friend down, but she didn’t want Juliet to feel as if she had no hope.

Could she trust Seabrook’s assessment that Markwythe wouldn’t bring harm to Juliet? Annabella sighed. Seabrook had nothing to gain by lying. Did he?

And yet, he had misled her about their night together and for what? To cause her misery by locking her into an unwanted — and
unnecessary
— marriage?

She smoothed her dressing gown and brushed her hand over the gray damask of the armless chair, enjoying the feel of the fine material.

Wyndham Green had once shown such splendor. Of course, she’d been a child and hadn’t appreciated such finery then. She flushed as she recalled an adventure involving a sewing needle and one of the duke’s fine wooden tables. Glancing at her present surroundings, she tried to imagine carving her initials in one of the mahogany dressers and chuckled. His grandmother would likely mount her head on a pike in the garden with the cat statue.

No, Annabella just couldn’t picture Seabrook marrying for money. And in any case, she hadn’t any more than a modest dowry to contribute to their marriage. Her father’s estate had been quite small. She didn’t imagine much was left from that.

Unless the late Duke of Wyndham had provided for her in ways she was unaware — and he might have, she acknowledged, as she never paid attention to such things. Either way… next to the obvious wealth at Blackmoor, any meager amount she did have would seem pitiful at best.

But that left… her. Certainly, the man had made it clear he desired her…
that
way. She shuddered, but if asked, she couldn’t have called it an action of revulsion.

She shook her head, impatient with the direction of her thoughts. It no longer mattered why Seabrook had married her. They need not stay married — surely she could find her way out of the mess she found herself in. And Juliet could return to Wyndham Green.

Annabella picked up the pen, another swan’s quill, and dipped it into the inkwell. After a moment’s hesitation, she began to write, forming each word with painstaking care. She had so much to tell Juliet, but most of it would have to wait until they were together again. When Juliet could call her a chicken brain. For the moment, it was enough to simply explain that Markwythe was aware of their plot and that Juliet must leave London.

She signed an A at the bottom of the missive, since there was no longer any point to pretending to be her mother. Annabella yawned and stretched. She would decide to whom the note should be posted on the morrow. Carefully, she folded the paper into thirds. Her eyes drifted to the bed, where she’d secreted the banknotes. Perfect!

She checked the adjoining bedchamber. A fire had been lit, but the lamps remained dark. Of Seabrook she saw no sign, not even when she poked her head into the parlor. She left the door to the parlor ajar by an inch so she would hear him if he entered. Then she retrieved the velvet bag and slid Juliet’s message into it alongside the banknotes. Quickly, she replaced the bag in her hiding place under the mattress.

The click of the door closing in the outer room was barely noticeable. Had Annabella not been listening sharply, she’d never have heard it.
She loosened the tie on her dressing gown as she stepped away from the bed. Would Seabrook enter her room and try to take up where they’d stopped the evening before? He’d been cordial enough at supper, though largely impersonal.

Almost as though she’d been no more than an uninvited guest for the meal.

Except she had been invited, hadn’t she? The prick of a thousand needles raced along her skin like a blanket of irritation. No, not invited. Carried to Blackmoor with neither her knowledge nor her permission. She glared at the door to the parlor, willing it to open, ready to continue their battle.

Nothing happened. She could hear movements on the other side, but Seabrook never opened the door. Annabella forced slow, even breaths. A flash of light through the adjoining door caught her eye, and she turned. With his back to her, Seabrook rounded the bottom of his bed and crossed to the window.

This would be her moment. She arranged her dressing gown to fall open in the front, fluffing it to give a more natural drape. Then she turned to gaze in the long mirror next to the wardrobe and gave a delicate cough, watching his shadowy figure reflected in the mirror.

Seabrook startled and whirled about. He held a candle in his right hand. A golden glow spilled upward and bathed his face in an intriguing mix of light and shadow, darkening his skin to bronze. His eyes became glittering diamonds in the dark.

And they were sliding over her form, raising heat every place they landed, though he was several feet distant.

She hadn’t counted on that. Her heart quickened, her breaths came shallow and short. All the possibilities Seabrook had murmured to her at breakfast the previous morning tumbled over themselves in her imagination, and the gentle warmth from the stoked fire didn’t compete with the inferno raging within her.

I can do this. It’s not unseemly. He’s my husband.

What had started out as a means of tormenting the man became the way she could entice him. She chanced another look in the mirror, seeking his gleaming eyes, wondering if his blood had become as heated as hers.

He was gone.

Annabella blinked. She whirled, certain he was sneaking up on her, unable to resist what she offered, what she now knew she
wanted
to offer.

No one was there.

Gone! Through the door, she could see the abandoned candle flickering on his dresser. She barely felt her footsteps as she rushed across her room to the open doorway. Would she find him waiting just beyond? She no longer cared if he perceived it as weakness. His friendly politeness at dinner had left her on edge. They were married.
I am Lady Seabrook, for better or—

He wasn’t there.

—worse.

He’d rejected her. Utterly. The fires of arousal became icy darts of humiliation. She lowered herself to the bed blinking back hot tears.