Trouble at the Wedding (18 page)

Chapter Eleven

A
nnabel's first impression of England was simply that it was wet, for they disembarked at Liverpool amid pouring rain. It was also cold, with a biting spring wind, and though it was April, the inclement weather made her appreciate Christian's words about how cold an English castle could be in December.

In addition to being cold and damp, it was also dark by the time hired carriages took them to a hotel near the train station, and Annabel was given little opportunity to study the landscape of the country she had intended to make her home, until the following day when they were aboard the train.

Most of Annabel's belongings had been shipped via cargo freighter and would not arrive for another week, so Arthur arranged for them to be stored in Liverpool before they boarded the train for London. Christian and his sister were also on board, but their compartment was farther down the corridor, and Annabel didn't expect to see much them during the six-hour journey. That was probably a very good thing, she reflected as the train pulled out of Liverpool, at least in Christian's case. After all, only yesterday, she'd had to fight the impulse to shoot him with a gun.

As the train took them south, she was able to have her first real look at the English landscape, and even in the pouring rain, it was every bit as beautiful as she'd imagined. She didn't know if that fact made her feel better, or worse, about everything that had happened.

Either way, she loved the dark green hedgerows, stone walls, and wooden stiles. She loved the statuesque beauty of the ancient churches and priory ruins. She loved the quaint villages, with their half-timbered pubs and thatched-roof cottages.

It was a far cry from what she'd felt upon arriving in New York. Her first view of that city, with its twelve-story skyscrapers, its awe-inspiring Brooklyn Bridge and Statue of Liberty, and its elegant brownstones had seemed far more intimidating to her than this bucolic countryside.

That thought brought a rueful smile to her lips. Despite all her efforts to escape where she'd come from, she was still just a country girl at heart. She didn't know if she'd ever end up living in England permanently, but it was reassuring to know that her first impression of it was a favorable one. After all, staying here was her best option, at least for now, provided that the plan she'd cooked up proved successful.

Even if it didn't, she could probably still find herself some impoverished English peer to marry her, but somehow, that idea no longer held much appeal.

“Are you all settled in, Mrs. Chumley?”

The brisk voice of Lady Sylvia broke into her thoughts, and Annabel turned to find the other woman standing in the doorway to her family's compartment.

“Yes, my lady, thank you,” Henrietta answered.

“Excellent. Then would you care to join me in the dining car for a spot of tea?”

“Tea?” Dinah bounded up from her seat. “Can we have scones and jam, too?”

“Dinah Louise, you don't need anything to eat,” Henrietta chided. “You just had breakfast two hours ago, and if you eat scones now, you'll spoil your lunch.”

“Oh, just one,” Dinah pleaded, making Sylvia laugh.

“Don't worry, my dear,” she consoled the girl. “This afternoon when we arrive at Cinders, Mrs. West shall have fresh, hot scones ready and waiting for us, I promise you. For now, we shall have to settle for tea alone.” She glanced past Dinah to where Annabel sat by the window. “Shall you come, too, Annabel?”

Annabel considered, then shook her head. “Thank you, no. You all go on without me.”

They did so, and Annabel returned her attention to the view out the window and thought about why the possibility of finding someone else to marry left her so cold.

The discovery of Bernard's unfaithfulness had left a sordid taint behind. No doubt about that. Also, this was the second undeniable failure of her own judgment when it came to men, and she wasn't sure she could trust herself to choose right the third time around. And though she hadn't been in love with Bernard, she had been genuinely fond of him. She had regarded him as both her friend and her partner, and though that wasn't perhaps a very romantic view of matrimony, she'd thought it a realistic and sensible one. Of course, she'd also thought she and Bernard had mutual affection and respect on which to base a lifelong union, and it was both painful and embarrassing to know those feelings had never been mutual. The brutal truth was if Bernard had a shred of either affection or respect for her, he'd never have gone to a prostitute a week before their wedding.

Respect? He doesn't respect you.

Christian had been right. Right about her, right about Rumsford, right all along. What an awful admission to have to make.

A sound caused Annabel to turn from the window and she found the object of her thoughts standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching her.

“Well, what do you think of England so far?” He sank down in a seat beside the door and nodded to the rain-drenched scenery on the other side of the window. “Is it living up to all your expectations?”

She lifted her chin. “I like it. It's very pretty.”

“Prettier than Mississippi?”

“Seems prettier to me.” She pointed to some thatched cottages they were passing. “Those cottages are a lot more picturesque than the shack I grew up in, that's for sure.”

“And the people that live in them might say the same about Mississippi, were they on a train passing through Gooseneck Bend.”

“No, they wouldn't.” She made a face. “Not in the summertime, anyway. Our weather would send 'em right back home.”

He gave a shout of laughter.

“What?” she asked, turning her head to look at him in puzzlement. “Did I say something funny?”

“Annabel, England is famous the world over for having the worst weather possible. It's dreary and wet and cold nearly the whole year around.”

“If today is an example of what you mean, then I have to disagree. I like the cooler weather and I don't mind rain.” She leaned back in her seat, smiling a little. “In Mississippi in the summertime, it's so hot you can cook eggs on the sidewalk, rain or shine. And New York City isn't much better, which is why everybody goes to Newport. We used to go to Newport, too, but it was so dreadful that after a few summers, we stopped.”

“Dreadful in what way?”

“Oh, I don't know,” she said lightly. “The parties we never got invited to. Women sticking their noses up in the air and pretending not to see us when we walked up Bellevue Avenue. Sitting at Polo Field with the other outsiders, thinking we might just as well be in Kalamazoo. You'd think all the outcasts would band together and have our own parties, but that's not how it works. Summer in Newport was awful for us.”

“I can imagine. But trust me, Annabel, an English winter is worse. It's dreary beyond belief.”

“But you have English Christmas to brighten things up.”

He made a scoffing sound. “As much as I adore plum pudding and roast goose, it isn't worth it.”

She didn't quite believe him, and her face must have shown it, for he went on, “I suppose a few years from now, when your titled English husband wants to take you to Nice or Juan-les-Pins for the winter, you'll say, ‘No, no, darling, I couldn't possibly. I much prefer England's slush, soot, and freezing rain to the heat of the Riviera.' ”

It was her turn to laugh. She couldn't help it, not when he talked nonsense like that.

“Ah, laughing at my jokes,” he said, smiling back at her. “That's a good sign. After yesterday, I began to fear you hated me.”

She should, a reminder that stopped her laughter. “Maybe I do hate you.”

His smile vanished. He looked steadily back at her, his eyes sky blue in the gray light, his expression suddenly grave. “I hope not.”

For no reason at all, her heart slammed against her ribs, and she looked away, returning to the safe subject of the weather. “But I meant what I said. I like rain.”

“I suspect you'd say that even if you didn't mean it. Just to show me I was wrong.”

That was so true, she almost laughed again, but she held it back. She didn't want him to make her laugh. She didn't want to like him. Not after what he'd done.

“Anyway,” she said, pointing to the window again, “I know the people who live in those cottages are probably every bit as poor as I ever was, but I still think their surroundings are prettier than mine were.” She gave him a defiant glance. “I suppose you think I'm making England more romantic than it actually is. I know you thought that's what I was doing with my decision to marry Bernard.”

“Weren't you?”

“I reckon I was.” She paused, grimacing at the admission. “But I thought I was being practical. Realistic. Completely unromantic.”

“That only proves that even though you want to be hard and mercenary, you're not.”

She looked at him. “I wish I was.”

“Don't wish that, Annabel.” His lashes lowered and when they lifted again, she saw in his eyes the same fierce intensity that she'd seen the day they'd first met. “Don't ever wish that. It's hell to have no ideals. I ought to know.”

The question she most wanted the answer to was out of her mouth before she even realized it. “You said you didn't stop the wedding for the money, but if that's true, then why did you do it?”

He looked away, staring past her out the window for so long, she thought he wasn't going to answer. “I don't know. I owe you an explanation, I realize, but I have none. As I said, I was drunk, and that's the only thing I can tell you.” He tore his gaze from the window, smiling faintly as he looked at her again. “If you did hate me for it, I wouldn't blame you a jot.”

Annabel stared into his face, and she knew she couldn't hate him. That was such a dismaying realization, it jerked her to her feet. “I don't hate you,” she said, and stepped past him to the door.

“You don't?”

“No.” She stopped in the doorway and turned to give him a rueful look over her shoulder. “Don't look so surprised,” she said with a sigh. “I've always had a soft spot for bad boys.”

As she walked away down the corridor, she began to fear she always would.

W
hen Christian returned to his own compartment, he found Arthur waiting for him, and the grim set of the other man's mouth showed that the visit was not to be a friendly one.

Not that he'd expected otherwise. In fact, the only surprise was that it had taken Arthur this long to rake him over the coals.

“I ought to punch you in the mouth,” Arthur said, and stood up from the seat he'd taken by the window. He turned toward Christian, fists clenched. “Do you know why I haven't?”

“I can't think of a single reason,” Christian admitted, “except perhaps the fact that your niece already did it for you.” He touched his jaw with a grimace. “Did a deuced fine job of it, too, by the way.”

“That's not why.” Arthur sat down again heavily. “The reason I haven't beat the tar out of you is that I'm the one who's really to blame. I hired one fortune-hunting scoundrel to get rid of another.”

Christian, hoping they were now safely past a round of fisticuffs, moved to take the seat opposite the older man. “Mr. Ransom, if you've come for an explanation—”

“I don't need your explanations,” Arthur cut him off. “It's obvious why you did it. But if you think I'd pay you a plug nickel for that stunt you pulled, you're mistaken. I'm here,” he went on before Christian could correct his mistaken assumption, “because I want to explain some things to you, not the other way around.”

Now that was a surprise. “Indeed? What explanations could you possibly wish to make to me?”

“I agreed to Annabel's plan because it seemed the only alternative other than go home, and Annabel wasn't having that. One thing about that girl, she's no coward. And she's not seeming all that het up to find another English peer to replace Rumsford, so that's all to the good. She says she just wants to enjoy herself, and I think she means it. And with you and your sister sashaying them around London, introducing 'em into society and taking them to parties, they're sure to have a good time. So I'm not cutting up rough about it. But,” he added, once again looking grim, “I expect this plan to work, and it's up to you and your sister to see that it does.”

“I assure you, both Sylvia and I shall do our best to ensure that Annabel is a smashing success.”

“Good.” Arthur stood up. “Because if you do anything else to hurt or embarrass my niece, I'll do more than punch you in the mouth. I'll kill you.”

C
inders was a charming structure of yellow stucco and red brick, with large arched windows and a view of the Thames. When the ducal carriages Sylvia had arranged for halted in the graveled drive just after five o'clock, they had barely stepped down before an elegantly dressed man was opening the front door to them.

“Traverton,” Christian greeted him as they bustled into a spacious foyer of black and white tiles, soft yellow walls, and white painted woodwork. “Everything all right while we've been away?”

“The second footman had to be let go, Your Grace,” he answered, his ponderous, melancholy voice so much like Christian's imitation of a butler that Annabel almost laughed. “But I am confident his replacement has a better understanding of how things are done in a duke's household.”

“Excellent.” Christian's voice was grave, but Annabel didn't miss his wink in her direction. He introduced the butler to Annabel and her family, adding, “If there is anything you need, Traverton shall be happy to help, won't you, Traverton?”

“Of course,” the butler said with a bow, and turned to Lady Sylvia. “Lady Helspeth and Lady Kayne shall be arriving for their monthly committee meeting with you at six o'clock, my lady.”