Susan Carroll (7 page)

Though she scarce felt in control of herself,
she forced herself to step away from the windows. It astonished her
that more people were not glancing her way. Mandell's kiss must
have left some indelible mark upon her.

Making her way past a flock of chattering
dowagers, Anne regarded herself in one of Lily's opulent gilt
minors. She was both reassured and disturbed to see she looked much
the same as ever. The same pale, dull old Anne. Her cheeks were a
little more flushed perhaps, but that could be attributed to the
heat of the ballroom. And her mouth? Her lips were composed into
that familiar prim line that Mandell teased her about. Only when
she moistened them could she seem to taste the heated fury of
Mandell's kiss.

How could she have been such a fool to have
trusted him, to have allowed him to lead her so deep into the
gardens? She should have known better. A wolf, no matter how benign
he might seem, was still by nature a wolf.

She had felt safe simply by virtue of her own
propriety, her lack of beauty. She was hardly the kind of woman to
inspire a man to unbridled passion. When Lily and Camilla had been
on the verge of coming out, Anne knew that her mother had taken
them both aside, warned them of the dangers of rakehells, how to
handle the company of such men. She had never felt it necessary to
have such a talk with Anne.

So how should she have best reacted to
Mandell? With icy dignity? With furious scorn? Anne had no idea.
She only knew what she should not have done, and that was to have
stood there meekly letting him kiss her, trembling like a
frightened doe. She could not begin to fathom his motives, why he
had singled her out for his attentions. Perhaps he had simply been
bored, found it amusing to see if he could fluster the “virtuous
Anne.” He had made no attempt to come after her. Likely he lingered
in the garden, laughing at the way she had run from him.

That thought cut her deeply, hurting Anne
more than she would have believed possible. She felt the stinging
of tears in her eyes, and swiped at them with the back of her hand.
That would be all she needed to make her humiliation complete. She
remembered that Mandell had asked her if she wanted to weep. He had
not sounded mocking then, only a little alarmed at that
prospect.

“That is what you could have done,” Anne told
herself sarcastically. “You could have blubbered all over him. That
would have taught him a lesson.”

Angered by her own weakness, she gritted her
teeth and tensed her hands into fists. She found some solace at the
thought of teaching Mandell a lesson of a far different sort the
next time he was ever so brash as to offer to let her hit him

But there was not going to be any next time.
She did not intend to let Mandell come within a dozen yards of her
again. And she doubted that he would try. He had already had his
diversion.

It had been a distressing incident, nothing
more. She would be wise not to make too much of it. She had other
worries at the moment, a far greater torment than Mandell to
contend with.

Lucien.

It was three in the morning before Sir Lucien
Fairhaven left the Countess Sumner's ball, He strode down the
curving stair into the entry hall, snatching his cloak from one of
the footmen before Anne realized her brother-in-law was on the
brink of departure.

Anne rushed to the door of the small parlor
where she had hid herself away since her walk in the garden with
Mandell. Regardless of the curious stares of Lily's servants, Anne
called out, “Lucien! Wait!”

She was certain he heard her, but he did not
once look back, stalking through the massive front doors into the
night. Anne felt the familiar despair tighten in her chest, and
cursed herself for the inattentiveness that had allowed Lucien to
escape.

She had retreated to the small downstairs
parlor for most of the evening, leaving the door ajar so that she
could observe all departures without running the risk of
encountering Mandell again. But the strain of too many sleepless
nights and an exhaustion of spirit had finally taken their toll.
She must have nodded off, for how long she did not know. Only the
clock chiming three had startled her awake in time to see Lucien
making his exit. A minute more and she would have been too late.
Perhaps she still was.

Refusing to accept that, Anne raced across
the hall toward the front door. Lily's elderly butler attempted to
intercept her flight. “My lady, wait. At least allow me to fetch
your shawl.”

But Anne brushed past him, all but stumbling
in her haste to clear the stone steps, the short span of walkway
leading to the pavement. She halted, gazing frantically about her.
The cobblestones yet rang with the clatter of cabriolets and
carriages pulled by smart-looking teams of horses. This accursed
city never seemed to sleep.

Anne feared that Lucien was already on his
way to his next round of entertainment. But no! There was his
elegant brougham pulled up to the curb at the corner. One of Lily's
own footmen had darted out to hold open the door.

“Lucien!” Anne cried, striving to be heard
above the rumble of a passing vehicle. Lifting her skirts, she
propelled herself forward with a desperate burst of speed.

Lucien affected not to hear her, but the
footman touched his sleeve, respectfully indicating Anne's
approach.

Lucien paused with one foot mounted upon the
step of his carriage. With obvious reluctance, he turned to face
her. The street lamp shone full on his blond hair and the harsh
planes of his once handsome countenance. The sullen set of his
mouth offered Anne no encouragement.

“What is amiss, Anne?” he snapped as Anne
drew up beside him. “Did I forget my gloves or something?'

Anne placed one hand over the region of her
heart, attempting to recover her breath. “No. You forgot—that is,
you know I wished to speak to you.”

“Another time, perhaps. The night is still
young. I have other engagements.”

“No, now!” Her voice sounded almost shrill.
Anne forced herself to speak in milder, more placating tones. “I
have been waiting so long.”

“To no purpose. You and I have little to say
to each other.”

“We have a great deal to talk about. That is
the sole reason Lily invited you tonight, so that we would have a
chance to heal our differences.”

Lucien's face washed a dull red. “The
countess might have spared herself the invitation. She certainly
did me no favor. An evening of cards with whelps and old men. And
you, hanging upon my sleeve, like some Covent Garden doxy seeking a
night's work.”

Anne flinched at his insulting words, aware
that Lucien's coachman leaned forward to listen with undisguised
interest. The young footman, holding the door, shuffled his feet
with embarrassment, pretending not to hear.

“Please, Lucien,” Anne said, striving to keep
calm and reasonable. “Come back into the house. We cannot discuss
this in the street.”

“We cannot discuss this at all, Anne. Now, if
you will excuse me, I have more important matters to attend.”

“Nothing is more important than this.”

Lucien turned as though he would mount into
the carriage, but Anne clutched at his arm, clinging with a
strength she never knew she possessed.

“For the love of God, Lucien. You have my
daughter. You brought her here to London. One of Lily's servants
saw a little girl exactly like Norrie being carried into one of the
houses nearby. You cannot deny it.”

“Why should I?” Lucien's mouth curved into a
hard ugly line. “I will tell you exactly where she is. I leased
number twenty-six, a most elegant house. You need not worry about
Eleanor. I have been giving her the best of everything.”

“You must let me see her!”

“Haven't you got enough else to amuse you in
London at the height of the season? You always have been a most
strange creature, my dear sister Anne.”

“You have kept Norrie away from me for three
months. Most of that time I did not even know where she was. You
have no right.”

“I have every right. She is my ward. Gerald
left guardianship of the girl to me.”

“He never meant for you to separate us in
this cruel fashion.”

“Gerald's intentions hardly matter now. Poor
Anne. That is the price you pay for choosing the wrong brother.”
His gloating smile only emphasized the coarse heaviness of his
features, the dark rings beneath his eyes. It was difficult for
Anne to remember that this man was actually younger than she and
that she had once harbored more gentle feelings toward him.

“Is that what this is all about then?” she
asked. “A revenge against me because I wed Gerald instead of
you?”

“I always told you that you would be sorry
one day.”

So he had, but Anne had taken it for nothing
more than the ranting of a wild, passionate boy. She had already
been betrothed to Gerald when she had first met his younger
brother. So at odds with the rest of the stolid Fairhavens, Lucien
was either reviled or ignored by his family. Anne had felt sorry
for him, had only thought to be kind. Never had she dreamed the
youth would fancy himself in love with her and propose a mad scheme
for their elopement. He had taken Anne's rejection most bitterly.
She had done her best to reason with the boy.

And now, although she knew it was hopeless,
she attempted to reason with the man. “Lucien, that all happened
over eight years ago. You were not really in love with me. If you
are honest, you will admit you only wanted me because I was
Gerald's bride.”

“And now I have everything that belonged to
my esteemed older brother—his title, his lands, his daughter. I
could even have you now.” Lucien's gloved hand stroked her cheek in
a gesture that sent a chill down Anne's spine. “Except that I don't
want you anymore.”

“You cannot possibly want Norrie, either. At
least allow me to see her. Surely that is not too much to ask.”

“Really, Anne! Most women gladly farm their
children out to servants or to wet nurses. There is something
unwholesome about this sickly attachment of yours to the girl. I
think it would be in the best interests of my niece if I sent her
off to school, perhaps abroad somewhere.”

Although Lucien mimicked Gerald's
sanctimonious tone almost to perfection, there was no disguising
the hint of malice that played about the corners of his mouth. Anne
could feel the blood drain from her face.

“You know Norrie is not strong enough for
anything like that. Her health has always been delicate and she is
only six years old.”

“Seven,” he mocked. “Did you forget your
beloved daughter had a birthday last month? She had a lovely day. I
gave her a pony and six new frocks. Your absence was hardly noted.
I vow the child has forgotten you already.”

Anne could not trust herself to reply. She
had spent the day in the bleak emptiness of the nursery, the
presents she had bought for Norrie stacked unopened upon the table
while she set stitches into the gown she was making for Norrie's
favorite doll, trying not to water the silk with her tears, trying
not to drive herself mad wondering where her daughter was, praying
that Norrie was not too frightened or unhappy.

Anne began hoarsely, “Lucien, you were my
friend once--”

“Before you married Gerald.”

“If I hurt you, I am sorry. But there must be
something I can do to make amends, to make you change your
mind.”

“You have never begged.”

“What?” Anne felt as though she had done
nothing but beg these past months, cajoling, pleading through
letters, through her solicitor, through repeated attempts to see
Lucien.

“You have never asked me nicely enough. You
have never begged for the return of your daughter.”

Wearily, Anne pressed one hand to her brow.
“Please.”

“No!” Lucien regarded her through hard,
bright eyes. “On your knees. Here. Now. In the gutter.”

The young footman made a muffled sound of
protest and Anne stared at Lucien in horror. He could not possibly
mean it But the lines of his face were implacable and she saw that
it would take nothing less than her complete and abject humiliation
to appease his wounded pride.

Anne swallowed hard, closed her eyes, and
thought of Norrie. That was all that it took to sweep the last of
her dignity aside. Stiffly, she lowered herself to a kneeling
position on the pavement, feeling the cold and damp seep through
the thin material of her gown. Raising her hands in supplicating
fashion, she said “Please, Lucien. I beg of you.”

The moment seemed to stretch into hours.
Dimly, Anne was aware of the restive movement of the coach horses,
the fact that tears were trickling down the young footman's
cheeks.

But her focus never wavered from the tall
blond man looming over her. Something softened in Lucien's eyes and
he reached out as though to stroke her hair. A wild surge of hope
rushed through Anne.

Then he turned his back on her, saying
coldly, “Get up, Anne. You are making a spectacle of yourself.”

As Lucien vaulted into the carriage,
something snapped inside of Anne, all the ache of too many nights
spent hovering over Norrie s empty bed, too many pleas that had
fallen upon deaf ears. A rage of despair tore through her, racking
her entire frame

“Damn you!” she cried.

She scrambled to her feet and launched
herself at the coach, managing to prevent the footman from closing
the door. Glaring up at Lucien, she said “Give me my daughter
back.”

“When hell freezes over, madam.”

“Give me Norrie or I vow I will kill you,
Lucien.”

With a snarl, he lashed out, dealing Anne a
shove that nearly sent her sprawling onto the pavement.

Before she could recover her balance, Lucien
slammed the carriage door himself, roaring out a command to his
coachman. With a crack of a whip, the team started into movement,
the brougham lumbering away from the curve.