Susan Johnson (5 page)

Duff immediately came to his feet. “I’ll be right back. Will you be comfortable alone?”

Looking up, she smiled. “I doubt these bluff yeomen will harm me.”

He grinned. “I’m sure they won’t. I just didn’t want you to think me discourteous, leaving you by yourself.”

“Good God, Duff, I’m not made of swansdown. I’m of sturdy stock.” She waved her hand. “Go.”

A
few moments later, Annabelle watched Duff walk up to Eddie in the inn yard and apparently give him some instructions. Eddie only nodded from time to time, not speaking until the marquis turned to go.

Whatever Eddie said, Darley didn’t like. He shook his head.

Apparently undeterred, as family retainers were often wont to be, Eddie pulled a slim leather box from his saddlebag and thrust it at the marquis.

Darley took a step backward.

With a smile and a brief comment, Eddie closed the small distance between them and slipped the box into the marquis’s coat pocket.

Darley instantly swung around and strode back toward the inn, a frown creasing his brow.

Annabelle had seen those pretty red boxes from Grey’s often enough, her admirers sending her jewelry from the prestigious shop in hopes of gaining her favor. So the marquis had come bearing gifts—the posy and now this.

She smiled faintly.

Or at least his batman had come bearing gifts.

Darley’s expression had softened by the time he approached her, but his mood had not. Scanning the empty table as he dropped into his chair, he growled, “The service here is wanting.”

If Annabelle hadn’t been so absorbed in the scene outside in the yard, she might have noticed no one had so much as set a jug of water on the table. But before she could respond, both barmaids came their way bearing wine, glasses, and dinnerware.

Annabelle smiled. “There, you see—they were waiting for you.”

“Please, don’t start.” But his smile was cordial, the churlishness gone from his voice. “We agreed to speak of more interesting things.”

“Your batman found you, I see.” She knew how to take a cue, or, more aptly, how to please a gentleman. That she was inclined to do so caused her a moment of trepidation—quickly erased. She was past the point of having her head turned by a handsome man.

“Eddie could track me through the desert,” Darley replied. “And on occasion he has,” he added.

“And where would that desert be?”

“In Morocco. We took the caravan route to Timbuktu once in search of bloodstock and became separated in a sandstorm.”

“The most exotic location I’ve ever seen was Venice during Carnivale.”

His brows rose. “Definitely strange, and outlandish as well.”

“Nothing to compare to Morocco, I suspect.”

“Come with me sometime,” he said, as though they were long-standing friends, as though he frequently offered ladies invitations to travel abroad with him, as though he ever did.

“How generous you are.”

He smiled. “It depends on my company.”

At Darley’s warm smile, the older barmaid who had reached the table first shot a resentful glance at Annabelle and plunked down the wine jug with such force, wine splashed over the front of Annabelle’s gown.

“So sorry, mum,” the maid murmured, her voice sweet with malice. “Mayhap you should go out back to the pump and wash that there wine off your gown.”

“It’s of no concern,” Annabelle replied calmly. “The frock is old.”

“Are you sure?” Duff asked, eyeing the stains on her gown, his gaze resting on her bodice perhaps a moment too long. He cleared his throat, not quite sure how to offer his assistance without appearing forward. Forcing his voice to a bland neutrality, he said, “If you need help rinsing—”

“No, no, really, this gown is absolutely out of fashion,” Annabelle quickly interjected, not sure why the thought of him touching her in even so innocuous a manner unnerved her, but it did. Purposely speaking in as neutral a voice as he, she added, “I was planning on discarding this frock anyway.”

“Then all is well.” He grinned. “Perhaps you’d like some wine in your
glass
?”

How smooth he was, how polished. “Yes, please,” she said, smiling back with equal affability.

And for the next few moments, they both sipped on their wine and allowed their unsettled sensibilities to return to normal while the two barmaids served them their rustic fare: roast beef; coarse bread; creamy butter; the inevitable boiled potatoes.

Annabelle noticed that the marquis was being granted expansive views of the serving girls’ plump breasts as they bent low to set each dish before him. She reminded herself that she wasn’t in competition with serving maids; more to the point, she was without amorous intentions apropos the marquis. That she was even deliberating about female competition, she chose not to acknowledge.

Duff maintained a bland expression throughout the flaunting of female flesh. And only when all the food was in place did he ask, “Might you have some pudding?” knowing better than to mention that the lady wished it.

“Cherries are in season, me lord,” the younger girl replied. “Cook done herself proud with a right nice cherry puddin’.”

“Excellent. I should like some,” the marquis observed. “With clotted cream.”

With a last low-dipping curtsy, the two maids retreated.

“My, my,” Annabelle murmured, unable to restrain herself after such an overt exhibition. “You are obviously in great demand.”

Duff leaned over and poured her more wine. “If I were in great demand with you, I would be considerably more gratified.”

Lifting her glass, she fluttered her lashes prettily. “If I weren’t rusticating in the country to avoid such things, I might be
tempted
to flatter you.”

Offering sincerity to her arch flirtation, he said, “What if I tried to change your mind?”

“Not today, Darley. We’re out for a ride and no more. Remember?”

He smiled faintly. “You can’t fault a man for trying.”

Her gaze was cool. “I can, actually.”

“Then I beg your forgiveness.” As though his apology reminded him of the box in his pocket, he drew it out and set it on the table before her. “Accept this as a small token of my honorable intentions.”

“The gift your batman insisted you take.”

He shrugged. “Not necessarily.”

“Come, Duff, you didn’t want to.”

“Actually, I didn’t know if
you’d
want it.” He blew out a small breath, slid lower in his chair, and held her gaze. “Look—Eddie is persuaded you’ll like me more if I curry your favor with gifts. He
really
wants you to like me. My dark moods are making him nervous. So, take it for Eddie’s sake,” he said with a small smile. “He’d be most pleased.”

“You’ve been worrying him?”

Duff’s brows arched faintly. “An understatement of vast proportions.”

“So if I take this, I would be allaying some of Eddie’s concern.”

“Definitely.” Duff grinned. “And the news of my recovery will spread to my parents’ house at lightning speed—servants’ gossip being what it is.”

Her lashes fell slightly. “Not that gossip is the exclusive prerogative of servants.”

“Touché. You’ve been the subject of gossip often enough, haven’t you?”

She smiled. “Once or twice.”

“Is that why you’re rusticating in the country?”

“It’s part of the reason.”

“Tell me the other part.” Sliding up in his chair, he leaned forward and, resting his elbows on the table, offered her an open, unclouded gaze.

She made a moue. “I don’t know if I wish to.”

His shoulder lifted in an infinitesimal shrug. “How can it matter? I go nowhere. I see no one. I don’t even answer my mail.”

“You tell me first why you’re a hermit. I may need another glass of wine or so before I’m willing to divulge my reasons.”

“In that case, drink up,” he said, his smile boyish and warm.

She laughed. “I have no idea why I’d want to tell you anything.”

“Then again, after a glass or two you might not mind, and consider, I might not remember what you say if
I
drink enough.”

She gave him an assessing look. “Do you drink a good deal now?”

He shook his head. “Hardly at all. I’m not looking for more nightmares. Although, thanks to you, they seem distant at the moment.”

“Perhaps it’s not me—perhaps any distraction would do as well.”

He dark gaze was direct. “Allow me to disagree.”

“Very well,” she noted briskly, his glance much too provocative, or perhaps only her reaction to it was. “I’m so glad they have cherry pudding,” she added brightly. “It happens to be my favorite.”

She reminded him less of a woman of the world at that moment, and more like some uncertain ingenue fresh from the schoolroom. Not that he was in any position to question whether or not she was fully in control of her emotions when he’d been struggling to balance his own since Waterloo. And as she’d reiterated often enough, this afternoon was about a ride in the country and nothing more. Brushing aside all the more complicated issues of why he and she were here, he instead set about putting her at ease and enjoying himself in the bargain.

They drank and ate and spoke idly about the races and the local countryside, about the weather and crops, about the coming horse fairs as though they were simple farmers like the others in the room. They particularly found common ground in their passion for racing bloodstock and the turf.

“Not that I’ve had time lately to indulge those interests,” Annabelle noted. “It takes enormous time and resources to keep a stable, neither of which I have at the moment.”

“Because of your family situation.”

“Yes.” She met his gaze, glanced down and exhaled softly. Looking up again, she quietly said, “I suppose there’s no point in being obtuse. Everything comes out sooner or later, I’ve found.”

“Whatever you say goes no farther. My word on it.”

She hesitated a moment longer, then said in a rush as though needing to speak headlong or not at all, “You must understand—one of my top priorities is to avoid Walingame for a great many reasons I choose not to enumerate. You must give me your
assurance
you will speak of this to no one.”

“I assure you, whatever you say will be kept in the strictest confidence.” He’d never liked Walingame—a bully of a man—and whether it was fear or repulsion he saw in her eyes, he proceeded to offer her his protection. “If you need a deterrent to Walingame, please allow me to be of assistance.”

“Thank you, but I’ll manage.” Like she had in the past.

For a man who had defended English interests throughout the campaigns in Europe, helping a woman was a minor affair. “In any case, the offer holds should you change your mind.”

“You’re very kind.” Perhaps the wine had loosened her tongue, or maybe it was comforting to confide in someone after so long. She couldn’t discuss her concerns with her mother in her current state—no more than she could have in the past, she conceded. For the sake of her family’s reputation, Annabelle had always sanitized her life in London.

But Darley knew who she was and what she was and took exception to neither. That he’d been suffering his own demons gave him a vulnerability she found appealing. There was a benevolence in him as well—an understanding of adversity and hardship unusual in men of his class.

“You may regret asking for an account of my visit to Shoreham,” she said with a rueful smile. “It’s not a pretty picture.”

“Nor is my nightmarish life of late. In any case, I am beyond shock at this point if ever I was.”

“Very well.” She took a breath, exhaled, and began. “Several months ago, I learned my sister was being kept prisoner by her husband and immediately came to Shoreham armed with barristers—you know George Martin’s firm—and several Bow Street Runners. My sister was in a nearby village, and with the aid of my small army, I was able to free her from her abusive situation. But she didn’t long survive, dying only days later after giving birth to Cricket. I’ve been in Shoreham ever since. Walingame is looking for me, I’m sure; we didn’t part on good terms. And there it is. Not a happy story.”

“I’m sorry for the loss of your sister. It must have been terrible to find her so abused. If I can help in any way, you need but ask. We have family barristers who could exact retribution on her husband if you like.”

“I want nothing more to do with any of them. If I were inclined to take action against them, I fear they may retaliate by taking Cricket away. Legally, they have every right. Fortunately, they only wanted Chloe’s dowry and have no interest in her child.”

“At least you have comfort in that.”

“Yes. And thank you for your offer, but we are managing willy-nilly. Molly has been a virtual godsend, and in time I’m hoping Mother will recover. Losing Chloe unhinged her completely.”

“I’m aware of what trauma can do to the mind. Perhaps too much aware.”

She held his gaze. “I’ve bared my soul; it’s your turn. Tell me about your seclusion.”

He explained, in an edited fashion similar to hers, how Eddie had literally brought him back from the dead after finding him in the mass of slain bodies at Waterloo. “He nursed me with the help of a local peasant family, and after a very bad week, he tells me, he began to have hope that I might survive. My family was frantic, of course; they’d come over to Belgium looking for me. Eventually, we were reunited, I was carried home, and I’ve been here ever since. Recuperating but not recuperated.” He smiled tightly. “Your mother and I could no doubt share accounts of our mental travails.”

“So we are all struggling to find our way.”

“Constantly. Although recently, you’ve brought a great deal of pleasure into my life.” He held up his hand at the sudden closed look coming over her face. “I make no demands of you. None at all. Now, enough of this grimness on a pleasant summer day. Open that box from Grey’s and tell me if you like what you see.”

“I shouldn’t,” she said, understanding it would be prudent to reject all overtures from a man of such formidable charm.

“It’s the merest bagatelle,” Duff returned with a casual wave of his hand. “A curate’s wife could accept it without a qualm.”

She gave him an amused look. “Are you in the habit of giving gifts to curates’ wives?”

He grinned. “Not lately.”

“But you have.”

“I hope we’re not going to share tales of our amorous adventures.”

“Yours, perhaps, were more adventuresome than mine.”