The reluctant cavalier (23 page)

He was right. It
was
difficult not to do it again, for she wished his kisses to go on forever. And he was also right about the weakness: she felt her legs could not quite support her and was glad she could hold on to him.

"Enough," he said, kissing her cheek. "Enough." He kissed her neck, whispering the word against her skin. "Stop."

Annabella laughed. "If it is enough, then why do you keep kissing me?"

"Because I cannot have enough of you," he said, smiling at her so that her breath caught in her throat. "And I don't want to stop. I have held myself away from you for so long ... I feel a wealth of kisses rising in me, and where else am I to spend it but upon you?"

An aching warmth curled around Annabella's heart, suppressing all her words, and she could only stare at him.

"Don't look at me like that, Bella, or I will kiss you again, and we need to return home."

"Yes, of course," she said and sighed.

He helped her onto her horse, then he untethered his own. But before he mounted it, he looked about the clearing and frowned.

"Is there something wrong, Parsifal?" Annabella asked.

He continued to look around him, then shook his head. "No... for one moment I thought there might be someone ... but no." He smiled reassuringly at her. "I have become wary lately, and I am sure it is because of the scandal. It is nothing, I am sure."

"You know, I was quite wrong," she said when he mounted his horse and rode up next to her.

He raised his brows in question.

"I implied you were not dashing some days ago, and I was very wrong."

He gazed at her, clearly surprised. "I? Dashing?"

Annabella smiled widely. "Yes. It was very dashing of you to hold up the farmer's cart and keep it from hurting someone. You were brave, also."

"Well." Parsifal cleared his throat, and she could see a blush rising in his face. "Well. I am sure anyone else might have done it. I was in the way, really, and it might have injured my horse if I had done nothing. Or me, for that matter." He smiled wryly. "There is nothing dashing about saving oneself from injury."

Lord Grafton's words after the incident of the cart came to her suddenly, and a cold chill clutched her heart. "Do you have any enemies, Parsifal?"

"I? I don't think—I wish I knew. I have thought perhaps I might, for why else was the body of Sir Quentin in my garden? I suppose some madman might deem himself my enemy, but I don't know why anyone might choose me for his target. I am an insignificant fellow, after all."

"Your brother believed the traces on the runaway cart were deliberately cut so as to cause harm to someone."

Parsifal shrugged. "There were many people behind the cart. It could have been anyone."

Annabella nodded, and they talked of other things, but she was not satisfied. When she went up to her chamber to dress for dinner, she mulled over the week past, the two masquerades at which she met the Cavalier, and the times at which she saw Parsifal. While she did not know if Parsifal had been at the Laughtons' masquerade ball, she was certain Caroline had attended, for her friend Corisande had said she had. If Caroline had been there, Parsifal could have been also, as her escort. He had probably been invited, too, for Parsifal had talked familiarly of Lord Laughton in the past.

Then there was the ball at Wentworth Abbey. She had not seen Parsifal, but he must certainly have attended, for he often acted the host when his brother was in London. Did he stay at the masquerade while the Cavalier chased off her mother's attacker and carried her to the Blue Room?

The odd, niggling feeling that had been plaguing her from time to time rose up again, and when the maid finished tying the sash on her dress, she dismissed the girl. Annabella gazed out the window, trying to bring up the idea behind the feeling.

There it was. Annabella drew in her breath. How had the Cavalier known the direction of the Blue Room? If he were a stranger to the house, he would not have known. Perhaps he was a close friend or relative to the Wentworths and knew how the rooms in the house were situated. Annabella closed her eyes, recalling the night of the masquerade ball as well as she could. He had carried her mother into the house ... he had called a servant and commanded that the doctor be summoned. Except. . . except, would a friend, however close, remember the names of the household servants? It was unlikely.

The fleeting thought that perhaps a ghost might know such things arose, but she dismissed it. That had been a silly notion of hers. It was far more likely that the Cavalier was someone—possibly Parsifal—quite real. Caroline's acting ability had made Annabella quite inclined to believe in a ghost, and she wondered if Parsifal had thought her a pea-goose for speaking of it. She winced at the thought, but reflected he could not think her all that objectionable if he kissed her.

Kissed ... Annabella's eyes widened as she remembered the Cavalier's words the first time she met him, and how he said he would give her a clue to his identity ... and kissed her. He had kissed her again at the Wentworth masquerade. And each time she thought of Parsifal kissing her, the sensation of the Cavalier's arms around her, his lips upon hers, had intruded upon her thoughts.

She had believed it was because she was enamored of the Cavalier—and she was, for he could not be anyone but Parsifal. She closed her eyes, remembering how she had felt being kissed by the Cavalier, the strength and comfort she felt in his embrace—as she had felt with Parsifal. The two men were one and the same—they must be!

A flicker of anger and bewilderment went through her at the thought. Why had Parsifal not told her? There were any number of times he could have told her—why, in the garden, for instance, when she had confessed to having a
ten-Are
for the Cavalier. A blush suffused her cheeks, thinking of how she had blurted her feelings to him. Had he secretly laughed at her? The image of him rose before her, his eyes warm—with love, she had thought—No, no, he must have been sincere, surely?

Annabella mentally shook herself. Parsifal was not a man who mocked or sneered; he was truly a gentle man. There must be some good reason why Parsifal wished not to tell her that he had been the Cavalier, or that he had kissed her. Perhaps it was his natural reticence ... although that could not matter now, could it? She suddenly remembered the Bowerlands' card party and laughed. There was her answer. If she had been the Cavalier who saved Lord and Lady Bowerland from the highwayman, knowing Lady Bowerland's tendency toward strong histrionics, she would not want to reveal her identity either. She could just imagine how Lady Bowerland might have behaved upon finding she'd been rescued from a highwayman. Parsifal no doubt preferred to keep such performances to a minimum.

Well,
I
will not reveal his secret, thought Annabella. But perhaps I can coax it from him, little by little. She turned to the mirror, smoothed a wrinkle from her dress, smiled mischievously, and went down to dinner.

The ink dried on Parsifal's quill poised above the account books as he stared off into space, a smile slowly growing on his face. There were times when he could not believe that Annabella loved him, though she had said it. But her words on that day in the woods rang in his ears, and he could still feel the kisses on his lips from that time, and in the week since then.

He frowned briefly. There was something elusive about Annabella, as if she were reluctant in some way. He knew she had not yet told the duke of her decision, and he wondered about her hesitation. Did she love him, or not? He did not want to press her, but he did not like the delay. Most of all, he wanted to make his feelings for Annabella known to Lady Smith, especially since she was nearly recovered enough to go home. Perhaps . . . perhaps he should do it anyway, despite the understanding between the duke and Annabella's parents. It did not sit right with him, but concealing his wish to make Annabella his wife sat ill with him even more. Yes, he would tell Lady Smith and hope she would look upon his suit favorably.

He sighed and brought his attention back to the sums before him and dipped the quill in the inkwell again. But as he wrote the words "Drained west field, sown with Barley, expect good harvest in Autumn, given good weather" in the margin next to a column, a vision of ripe barley fields and blue skies floated before his eyes. He was there, running, laughing, and he stretched out his arms to catch Annabella, who fell into his arms laughing also, and he covered her face and neck and breasts with kisses. She kissed him in return, her body rising beneath his as his mouth explored hers softly and deeply—

A knock sounded on the door, splintering the vision before him. Parsifal let out his breath in a rush and gazed, half irritated, at the door. "Yes?" he called.

"Parsifal, you must know it is half an hour until the time you must be painted!" said Lady Grafton as she entered the library. He stared at his mother as a repulsive image came to him of someone applying rouge to his face.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Parsifal? Signore Forcelli will be waiting for you to sit for your second session. Do get yourself ready, for he says the light is perfect at this time of day." She looked at him, a discontented expression on her face. "And have you seen Geoffrey? I wanted him to escort Miss Smith about the gardens, but I cannot find him!"

"I am sure he is about, Mother, but I do not know where." Parsifal repressed a smile. He had heard it rumored that Geoffrey had got into a bit of trouble regarding a singularly unhappy husband in London, which was why he had deigned to grace Wentworth Abbey with his presence. But Parsifal did not care, for it was Geoffrey's own business what he did, and he seemed uninterested in Annabella, much to Parsifal's relief. He wondered briefly if Geoffrey had fallen in love with some lady also, but dismissed the thought. It was difficult to think of his brother settling down with one woman, with his wild ways. He could not think of another reason why Geoffrey had not fallen in love with Annabella, for what woman could be more desirable than she?

Lady Grafton cast him a disgruntled look. "Geoffrey is not behaving as he ought, at all! What could be more pleasant than a walk in the gardens with Miss Smith?"

"Indeed—that is, you know it is difficult to make Geoffrey do what he does not wish to do. Besides, I have already shown Miss Smith around the gardens."

"And that is another thing, Parsifal!" his mother exclaimed, eyeing him sternly. "What are you about, escorting Miss Smith here and there so often? I have seen you walking with her and riding with her also! I cannot like it, for a match between her and Geoffrey is far more appropriate."

A flicker of anger burned briefly, but died. Annabella loved him, not Geoffrey, after all. He shrugged. "If Geoffrey cannot act the host, then it falls to me to do so." He moved away from the escritoire. "If you will excuse me, Mother, I need to see to some errands."

"But Parsifal!" she protested. "The painting—!"

"I am not going to pose for the painting. I have more important matters to which I must attend. I would advise that you ask Geoffrey to pose for it—he is the earl, after all, and should have the ... honor of doing it. I think Signore Forcelli might even be able to capture that certain arrogant expression Geoffrey is so good at showing."

"Parsifal!" Lady Grafton exclaimed. "I do not think—"

But what she thought, Parsifal did not hear, for he had left the library and shut the door. As far as he was concerned, he was finished posing for Signore Forcelli. It was about time, anyway, that Geoffrey contribute something to the estate, or at least to their mother's wishes. Presenting his case to Lady Smith so that he could ask for Annabella's hand in marriage was more important. He did not want to wait any longer.

His steps slowed, and his mouth felt dry, thinking of it. He knew he was being precipitate and should wait a little longer, but he could not feel right about kissing Annabella and not declaring his intentions to her parents. And it was impossible not to kiss her, now that he had already done so as himself, Parsifal, instead of as the Cavalier.

A twinge of conscience caught him. He knew he should have told Annabella that he was the Cavalier, but he did not want her to have false ideas of him. He smiled wryly. She already thought him dashing because he had stopped the farmer's cart from running into the villagers, when it was only self-preservation on his part. He wanted her to care for him, Parsifal, as he really was, not some mysterious fellow in a costume, whose allure would fade as quickly as mist in sunlight once the man beneath was revealed. It was not he, really, who had come to the Bowerlands', Annabella's, or Lady Smith's rescue.

He found himself at Lady Smith's chamber, faster than he had thought he would. Well, this was it then. He stared at the door for a moment, took a deep breath, and knocked.

"Come in," Lady Smith said, motioning the maid to put aside her tray. She felt better today, not so dizzy, and had put on a day dress and taken her luncheon sitting properly in a chair instead of in a bed. Her foot still pained her, but if she kept herself occupied, she could manage to ignore it from time to time. She looked up as the door opened, and Mr. Wentworth entered, looking uneasy.

"You will excuse me if I do not rise," Lady Smith said, smiling and extending her hand, and he bowed over it a little awkwardly. He was clearly anxious, and Lady Smith felt some compassion for him. Mr. Wentworth was a good young man, she was sure, but he was clearly lacking in social grace. "I am recovering quite well, I believe, but I still do have some dizzy spells, and am not sure how long I can stand on my foot."

"I am glad to see you improving, ma'am. Perhaps you would like to have a footstool on which to elevate your foot? I understand it will help lessen the pain, or so Doctor Robinson has told me." She watched as he edged toward a footstool, obviously wishing to keep himself occupied so as not to show his nervousness.

"Yes, thank you." He brought the stool and placed it gently under her foot. He retreated immediately as soon as he had done it and put his hands behind his back, staring somewhere past her left ear. "Is there something you wish to say, Mr. Wentworth?"