Kiss Me, Annabel

“Lord Ardmore,” she was saying, and the misery in her voice was written plain. The poor lass was in a bad way.

He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Imogen, her name was. Imogen, Lady Maitland. He felt a spark of gratitude at being able to remember. “Lady Maitland,” he said.

“I’d like to speak to you privately, if I may.”

“Of course. There’s a bit of land down at the bottom of the garden that’s marshy and less frequented by all these folk,” he told her.

She gave him a dewy smile that almost had him convinced that she was longing for him to drag her down there and have his way with her. “How very astute of you to remark the place,” she cooed.

He thought about defending himself—after all, he hadn’t been searching out trysting places—but gave up. Instead he held out his arm and they tripped along together in silence.

“Has your husband been gone long?” he asked. For all his reasoning that she would be a good candidate for marriage, he felt a queer reluctance to deepen the conversation.

“Long enough,” she said, giving him that look again. “I hardly think of him.”

Well, if that wasn’t a lie, he’d never heard one before.

They walked along some more, she taking little mincing steps because her dress was so narrow it was binding her at the knees. “Perhaps I’d better carry you down this last bit,” he said as they neared the slope. “That is, if it won’t create a scandal.” He glanced back toward the party, but no one appeared to be watching them.

“I don’t care about scandal,” she said. An idiot could tell that was true. So he scooped her up and carried her down the hill until they reached an wrought-iron bench under a large willow. The tree hung over the riverbank, emerald-green strands meeting the surface of the water and dropping below. It looked like an old dowager trailing her yarns behind her.

But Imogen was looking at him again, all fiery invitation. Ewan felt supremely uncomfortable. This was worse than the day when Mrs. Park, down in the village, caught him stealing plums and threatened to tell his papa. He cleared his throat but somehow the marriage proposal just refused to word itself.

She leaned toward him, and her bosom rubbed against his arm. She was a nicely proportioned woman, though she hung it out for all the world to see. Then she started running a finger over his chest.

He cleared his throat again. She looked at him, all expectant. The offer of marriage just refused to come out.

So she spoke instead, and of course her voice was all low and husky, like the Whore of Babylon’s, Ewan had no doubt about that. “This affair is so tedious,” she said, slipping a finger under the buttons of his jacket and caressing his shirt.

“I’ve been enjoying it,” he said awkwardly, trying not to move backward. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She was as vulnerable as a newborn calf.

“I haven’t,” she said, and she forgot that husky innuendo in speaking the truth. But it was back a moment later. “I’d very much like to…get to know you better, Lord Ardmore. May I call you Ewan?”

Now, how in the world had she learned his first name? He’d practically forgotten it himself, he’d been Lord Ardmore’d so much in the past few weeks. “Of course,” he said. “And I’d like to know you better as well.”

“In that case…why don’t we spend some time together?” The silky whisper was almost mesmerizing, as was that hand wandering over his chest.

He swallowed. “Of course.”

“Good.” She straightened. “I’ll come to you at eleven o’clock.” She looked about to stand up and leave.

“Wait!” He grabbed her wrist. “Are you saying…what do you mean, you’ll come to me?”

A little scowl knit her brow and perversely, he felt the first pang of attraction for her. “I’ll come to you,” she said painstakingly. “Since I’m not currently living in an establishment of my own—although I mean to buy a townhouse just as soon as I have a moment on my own—I shall come to you, rather than the other way around.”

“At eleven o’clock,” he repeated.

She nodded, quite businesslike now.

“At night?” he clarified.

That scowl was back. “Of course. I’m generally quite busy taking calls in the morning.”

“Ah.” Well. They appeared to have different ideas in mind. “I’m not the man for that,” he said, rather apologetically.

“No?” She looked stunned.

“No. I’ve come to London to find a wife, you see.”

Now the scowl was really ferocious. In fact, it wasn’t adorable anymore, and reminded him dangerously of his Aunt Marge who once broke half a set of Spode china. Against his uncle’s head.

“We’ve no real desire between us,” he said gently.

“Yes, we have!” she snapped.

Ewan glanced up the hill, but there was no one watching. Then he reached out and tilted her head back, lowered his mouth to hers, and kissed her. It was pleasant enough, but nothing more. To compare it to that kiss he shared with her sister would be blasphemy.

“You see, lass?”

She glared at him. “If you don’t wish to bed me, you needn’t make a song and dance about it.”

The pain in her eyes was so great that he instinctively put an arm around her shoulder. “Don’t touch me!” she shouted. “There are men out there who are more than eager to—to do whatever I wish.”

“I’ve no doubt of that,” he said, but she had pulled away from his arm.

“Don’t you dare pity me!” she hissed. “The Earl of Mayne will do just fine. He’s not a limp Scotsman. I can guess why you traveled to London to find a bride! It’s because all my countrywomen knew that you had problems in the bedchamber, didn’t they? I’ve heard that sort of news travels fast.”

“Thankfully, no,” he said. But a sense of alarm was growing in his chest, and he grabbed her hand. “You can’t turn to Mayne; I met him last night.”

“He wants me,” she said, struggling to free herself. “He wants me, and you don’t, and that’s all there is to it.”

“He’s too old for you.”

Her lip curled. “Mayne is in his early thirties. Since he was engaged to my own sister, I know all about him. And believe me, in all the pertinent facts, he’s in prime working order!”

“He’s not old in years, in other things,” Ewan said, knowing the truth about Mayne without hesitation. It was written on his face…a man didn’t reach thirty and above without leaving his scandals in his eyes. “Mayne’s a rakehell, a man who’s slept with far too many women. He’s tired.”

“Ha!” she said. “Tired may be how you’d excuse yourself, but I assure you that Mayne has never disappointed a woman.”

“And there’ve been so many of them.”

“Which means it will be all the more pleasurable for me,” she said defiantly. “If you don’t let go of me, I’m going to scream.”

“In that case, you’ll have to marry me,” he said, and finally the words were easy enough. This poor girl needed rescuing more than any waterlogged kitten he’d ever pulled from the millpond. She was in a desperate way. “Marry me, Imogen. Marry me.”