Trouble at the Wedding (12 page)

She ducked past him. “Now,” she said as he turned around to find her standing by the door, “kindly move this crate out of my way.”

Christian complied, and the moment he'd done so, she was out the door and racing down the corridor toward the stairs.

He didn't follow. He couldn't, not just yet. He was a bit dazed still from her abrupt withdrawal, and he was also fully aroused. A man couldn't go walking around the corridors of a ship in that sort of condition.

He sat down on the crate and leaned his back against the wall, rubbing a hand over his face. How the devil had it happened? he wondered. One minute, he'd been telling her the rules, and the next minute, he was breaking one of his own.

He never made love to unmarried women. Never. The risk a man took for that particular privilege was enormous, the possible consequences far too costly.

He shifted on the crate with a grimace, painfully aware that despite his cardinal rule, if Annabel had stayed one moment longer, he would have willingly taken the risks, and any possible consequences be damned.

A
nnabel raced up three flights of stairs, her boots pounding on each steel step in time with the thudding beat of her heart. Scarborough's voice, sleepy and aroused, echoed through her head as she ran down the long corridor of A-deck to her stateroom. Once inside, she shut the door behind her, but she couldn't shut out his words.

Don't you want love?

Breathing hard, Annabel leaned back against the door, wondering what on earth was happening to her brains. Wasn't Billy John enough stupidity for one lifetime? Wasn't one man who could undress a woman with his eyes enough to make her see the truth? Her family always said she was stubborn, and she had to agree, because she just couldn't seem to get one particular lesson through her thick skull.

Men like Scarborough were heartbreak in the making.

Annabel tapped the back of her head against the door three times, wishing she could knock some sense into herself.

Don't you want love?

Love? She made a sound of derision. That man didn't know a thing about love. Lovemaking, for sure, but that wasn't the same thing.

Too bad she seemed to have such a hard time remembering the difference.

But, oh Lordy, when he'd talked about what would keep her warm on cold nights, just his words had been enough to heat her up. Yessiree, she'd started melting into a puddle right then and there. By the time he'd got to the kissing part, she was all achy like she had a fever, and her knees were so weak she could barely stand up. How she'd managed to come to her senses long enough to get out of there without being kissed, she still didn't know.

When it came to sweet-talking a girl, the Duke of Scarborough even put Billy John Harding to shame, and that was saying something, for Billy John was the sweetest-talking scoundrel in the entire state of Mississippi.

She ground her teeth and hit the door again with the back of her head. She knew, none better, what it was like to fall hook, line, and sinker for a pair of blue eyes, a charming smile, and a line of sweet words. She also knew what it was like to be literally on your knees, sobbing, when a man who'd just taken your body walked out on you, and you were left with your pride stripped, your virtue gone, and your heart in pieces. She knew how it felt to be used and thrown away.

Annabel caught back a sob of frustration, pressing her fingers to her still-tingling lips, knowing just how close she'd come to betraying Bernard and their future together.

Enough to be faithful.

Her own words came back as if to mock her, words that she'd made sound so confident, but what she'd felt when Scarborough had tried to kiss her showed her words to be nothing more than bravado.

She took deep breaths, working to slow her pounding heart and regain her wits. She hadn't kissed him, she reminded herself. She hadn't done anything wrong. Yet.

She was getting married in four days, and the last thing she needed in the meantime was to test her resolve by being anywhere near the Duke of Scarborough. Annabel wondered dismally if she could just lock herself in her room until the wedding.

Chapter Six

L
ocking herself in her room was, unfortunately, not possible. She had engagements during the next few days that prevented such a course. The few hours she did manage to steal for herself only served to give her thoughts free rein, and those thoughts dwelled far too much on the man she wanted to avoid. She tried to spend as much time as possible with Bernard, but it seemed as if whenever she was with her fiancé, she found herself reassessing everything about him—his feelings for her, his opinions, even his chin. She began to notice how he avoided answering her more inconvenient questions and how he tended to make decisions for her without consulting her preferences, and these traits began to grate on her already raw nerves. Instead of being reassured by time spent with him, she found that being in his company only caused the whispers of doubt Scarborough had planted in her head to grow louder.

In looking for reassurance that she was doing the right thing, she found that being with her sister served her best, for Dinah was one of the main reasons she was doing all this, but despite that, and despite all Annabel's other efforts to quell her doubts, they persisted. By the time she was twenty-four hours from the ceremony, those doubts had mushroomed into a serious case of cold feet. She could only hope that the prewedding tea would provide the reassurance she so desperately needed.

The wedding gifts had been brought out for the event and placed on velvet-swathed tables in a private dining room, and as she walked with Bernard amid the silver plate, china, and crystal they had been given, she tried to see herself using them. She sipped tea and ate cucumber sandwiches with the ladies of Knickerbocker society, expressing her appreciation to Virginia Vanderbilt for the lovely silver teapot and to Maimie Paget for the unusual screen of Chinese silk with what she hoped was countesslike dignity. As she listened to Bernard and his sisters talk of Rumsford Castle and the beautiful countryside of Northumberland, she strove to regard it as her home, too. As the afternoon progressed, she began to feel as if her efforts were succeeding and she was regaining her equilibrium. But then Maude mentioned the king's visit to Rumsford Castle in the autumn.

Annabel stared at her future sister-in-law in horror, Scarborough's words echoing through her brain.

The king would take one look at you, my delicious little lamb, and start licking his chops.

She felt a knot of dread forming in her stomach.

“Annabel? Annabel, are you all right?”

She gave a start, Millicent's voice interrupting these awful contemplations. She turned to Bernard's second sister, and though she tried to paste on a smile and act like everything was fine, she just couldn't manage it. “I'm sorry, Millicent,” she choked out. “I was just . . . just . . .” Her voice trailed off, her mind suddenly blank.

For some reason, all three of Bernard's sisters laughed. “Look at her, my dears,” Alice said. “She seems a bit nervous at the prospect of a visit by the king.”

I've no doubt he'd make Rumsford step aside.

Nervous? Annabel felt sick.

“There is no need to worry, Annabel,” Maude assured her, smiling. “A royal visit is always a bit intimidating, but you'll do very well, I'm sure. The king adores American girls.”

Annabel set down her teacup with a clatter and jumped to her feet. She could feel all of them staring at her, including Bernard, but she couldn't seem to make herself sit back down. “Forgive me,” she mumbled. “I'm feeling a little faint. I believe I need some fresh air.”

She raced for the door and down the corridor toward the stairs, cursing Scarborough and all his stupid talk about rules. If she had the jitters, it was his fault.

Despite her words to her future sisters-in-law about needing fresh air, she didn't go for a walk on deck. Instead, she sought the dubious refuge of her room and spent a few minutes sitting on her balcony, breathing in the bracing sea air and keeping a sharp eye on the promenade deck below, ready to duck out of sight should she catch a glimpse of anyone else she knew, especially Scarborough.

A short time later, feeling much more composed, she was able to return to the tea. Afterward, she strolled on deck with her mother, and though she saw Scarborough out of the corner of her eye walking with his sister, he did not attempt to engage her in conversation, and she was relieved. The last thing she needed was another hot look from that man's blue eyes.

Knowing that, she decided not to risk having dinner in the main dining room, and she asked her mother to reserve a private one. She also asked Mama to make the appropriate excuses to Bernard and his sisters, explaining that she didn't feel well and didn't want them to see her when she wasn't feeling her best. After all, she couldn't tell any of them the truth. She couldn't say she didn't want to face Bernard this evening because she was having doubts about marrying him.

Henrietta complied with her requests, but as they dined that evening, Annabel could feel her mother's thoughtful gaze on her, and Arthur's, too. As a result, she spent the entire meal reminding herself that nothing had actually happened between her and Scarborough. There was no reason to have doubts now, yet she couldn't shake them.

I think you were about to let me kiss you.

Every time she remembered those words, all the aching warmth she'd felt when he'd first spoken them came flooding back, and she found it impossible to sit placidly through the meal. She pushed haricots verts around on her plate with her fork, fiddled with her bread until was it was in bits, and swirled her charlotte russe into a cream and cookie mess. Though she knew her mother and Arthur were watching her, she couldn't seem to stop wriggling in her chair. Before the meal was over, even Dinah noticed something was wrong.

“Sakes alive, Nan, what's wrong with you?” she demanded, frowning at Annabel across the table. “You've been jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof all night.”

“I'm fine, Dinah. Eat your dessert.”

“Has she been jumpy?” George, never the most observant of men, looked up in surprise from his charlotte russe. “What's wrong, dear?”

“I said, I'm fine. It's just prewedding jitters, is all.”

“Is that all it is, Annabel?” From his place beside Dinah, Arthur leveled his hard, shrewd stare at her. “Or are you having genuine doubts about marrying Bernard?”

“No!” She grimaced at once, that reply sounding far too emphatic to be sincere. “No, Uncle,” she said, striving to seem calm, resolute, and sure. “I'm not having doubts.”

“Because if you are,” he went on as if she hadn't spoken, “it's better to have them now than have them afterward.”

“Why would I be having doubts?” she asked, but she could hear the rising timbre of her voice, and she forced herself to bring it down. “Marrying Bernard is the right thing to do,” she said in a quieter tone, but she sounded about as convincing as a huckster at the fair, the kiss that had almost happened burning her lips.

Annabel reached for her glass.
Almost doesn't count
, she told herself, gulping down ice water.
Almost doesn't count
.

“You don't have to marry him,” George said, and his gentle comment only made things worse. Heavens, if her stepfather was noticing something wrong with her, she was about as transparent as glass. “It's not too late to call it off, Annabel.”

The knots of dread that had been in Annabel's stomach all day twisted and tightened. “I can't call it off,” she said, suddenly, inexplicably miserable. She glanced around the table, noted the steady gazes directed at her. “I can't!”

Her eyes welled up with tears of frustration and fear and an uncertainty she'd never felt about her engagement before. It was all because of that man. She hadn't felt any doubt at all until he'd showed up, and she was the biggest fool that ever lived if she thought even for a second that getting all weak in the knees over a cad she'd known only a few days was worth throwing away everything she'd ever wanted.

“I don't want to call it off,” she said in the most dignified tone a woman could manage when she was on the verge of tears. “And even if I did, I wouldn't dream of doing that to Bernard. He would be crushed.”

She didn't miss how Arthur and her mother exchanged glances at that, and she just couldn't take any more.

“I'm not calling it off!” she cried, tossing down her napkin, at the end of her rope. “I know that's what you want me to do, Uncle Arthur, but I'm marrying Bernard and that's that. Now, if y'all will excuse me, I am going to bed. I have a big day tomorrow, and I need my sleep.”

For the third time in less than twelve hours, Annabel found herself running away. She returned to her room, and this time, she intended to stay there until the wedding. She had Liza draw her a bath, hoping the warm water would help her relax. As an additional aid to her frayed nerves, she ordered a glass of hot milk and drank it while Liza helped her into her nightgown and brushed out her hair. Afterward, Annabel dismissed the maid for the night and slid between the sheets of her sleeping berth, telling herself all she needed was a good night's rest as she settled her head on the pillow. Tomorrow morning, in the clear light of day, with her mind refreshed and her resolve renewed, these insidious doubts and fears would be gone. In fact, they'd probably seem downright silly.

C
hristian was not a disciplined man, but he was a realistic one. He was also a gambler, and a good one. He knew when his luck was out, the chips were stacked against him, and it was time to fold his hand. By the end of the night, he knew he'd reached that point.

A man couldn't talk a girl out of marrying an idiot if he couldn't talk to her at all. After his conversation with Annabel down in steerage the other morning, Christian had tried to find a way to talk with her again, but there had been none. She had spent the past three days clinging to her fiancé or her sister like a limpet or hiding herself away in her room, leaving him no opportunity to have another go at changing her mind. It wasn't likely he'd have any chance tomorrow morning, either, since the ceremony was scheduled for ten o'clock.

He spent the evening before the wedding in the main ballroom, hoping if he could finagle a dance with her, he'd have one last chance, but she and her family had dined in a private room, and Arthur joined him in the ballroom only long enough to admit defeat. His niece, he said, had gone to bed.

There was nothing left to do, as far as Christian could see, unless he was prepared to barge into her room while she was donning her wedding gown to try talking some sense into her one last time.

A tempting idea, he acknowledged as he entered his stateroom suite late that night and closed the door behind him; tempting in more ways than one. Smiling a little, he allowed himself to imagine her standing before him in lacy white undergarments as he removed his dinner jacket and waistcoat and loosened his tie.

She'd be surrounded by filmy piles of lace and tulle, he thought, leaning back against the door behind him and closing his eyes. The sun from the window would light up her loosened hair, turning it to fire. As the picture in his mind became more vivid, the arousal he'd felt the other day when he'd almost kissed her, arousal he'd had to work for three days to suppress, came flooding back. Damn, he thought with chagrin, he had a fine imagination.

Still, while barging into her room might be a tempting idea, it was probably a futile one as well. Annabel Wheaton had proved every bit as stubborn as her uncle had made her out to be, and she wasn't likely to see reason at this late date. No, he'd played and lost.

Moving softly so as not to wake Sylvia, who'd gone to bed nearly two hours ago, he crossed the sitting room of the suite to pour himself a cognac. After all, if a man was going to bid farewell to half a million dollars, he definitely ought to have a drink in his hand when he did it.

He sat down in one of the chairs of the sitting room with his drink, trying to contemplate his next move. Upon arrival in Liverpool the day after tomorrow, he'd book a return passage to New York and carry on with his original plans. After all, what else could he do?

A sound outside his room suddenly diverted Christian's attention, a soft click that sounded like a latch being pulled back, followed by the sound of a door opening. He frowned, straining to hear, fancying it was the door to Annabel's stateroom suite that had just been opened.

He'd heard no one come down the corridor, he'd heard no knock or murmur of voices, so no one in her party had rung for a servant or the steward. The door closed again, and when the soft pad of footsteps passed his door, curiosity impelled him to have a look.

He set aside his glass, rose, and walked to the door of his stateroom and opened the door. When he leaned out, he saw that it was Annabel herself who had left her suite and was now walking away from him down the corridor. That dark chestnut hair was unmistakable, long, loose, and gleaming beneath the electric lights of the passage. She was dressed in a loose-fitting satin tea gown of ice blue, and dangling from her hand was a short, squat bottle that she carried by one finger hooked in the glass loop of the bottleneck.

Curious, he waited until she'd disappeared around a corner halfway down the passage, then he snagged his jacket and left his own room. He slipped into his jacket as he followed her, turning where she had just in time to see her vanish through the door that led to the servants' stairwell. Not wanting her to know he was trailing her until he knew where she was headed, he took care to be as quiet as possible as he went through the same door she had, and he slipped off his shoes before he followed her down the servants' stairs. He could hear the clatter of her shoes against the steel, and by listening carefully, he was able to discern from the rhythm of her footsteps whether she was going down steps or turning on a landing, and by the time he heard the click of a door opening, he knew she had gone all the way down to E-deck, the bottom of the ship. He doubted she was going to the engine rooms, so the only place she could be headed was cargo. Concern began to mingle with his curiosity. What on earth was she doing?