Kiss Me, Annabel

Imogen’s teeth shone white when she smiled. “Neither do I.”

“But you might fall in love with him as well.”

“Inconceivable.”

Annabel didn’t really believe Imogen would love again either. She had encased herself in ice after her husband died, and it would take time to melt away.

“Please,” she said. “Please don’t do it, Imogen. I don’t care about Mayne, but it wouldn’t be good for you.”

“Since you are nothing more than a maiden,” Imogen said with her new, bitter smile, “you have no idea what would be good for me, at least as pertains to men. We can have this discussion once you have some experience of what it means to be a woman.”

Imogen was clearly longing for a pitched battle of the kind they used to have when they were children. But as Annabel opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort, the door opened and their chaperone, Lady Griselda Willoughby, waltzed in. “Darlings!” she trilled. “I have been looking everywhere for the two of you! The Duke of Clarence has arrived, and—”

Her words died as her eyes moved from Annabel’s furious face to Imogen’s rigid one. “Ah,” she said, sitting down and adjusting her exquisite silk shawl around her shoulders, “you’re squabbling again. How very glad I am that I have only a brother to plague me.”

“Your brother,” Imogen snapped, “is hardly anyone to desire as a family member. In fact, we were just talking of his manifold virtues. Or rather, the lack thereof.”

“I have no doubt but that your assessment was correct,” Griselda said serenely, “but it was a patently unpleasant comment, my dear. I notice that when you are angry your nose becomes quite thin…You might wish to think about that.”

Imogen’s nose flared magnificently. “Since I have no doubt but that you will wish to rebuke me as well, I might as well tell you that I have decided to take a cicisbeo!”

“An excellent decision, my dear.” Griselda opened a small fan and waved it lazily before her face. “I find men so useful. In a gown as narrow as the one you wear tonight, for example, one can hardly walk with ease. Perhaps you could choose a particularly strong man who can carry you about London.”

Annabel bit back a smile.

“You may fun all you like,” Imogen said through clenched teeth, “but let me be very clear about my decision. I have decided to take a lover, not a jumped-up version of a footman. And your brother Mayne is my primary candidate.”

“Ah,” Griselda said. “Well, likely it is wise to start with someone so very experienced in these situations. Mayne does tend toward married women rather than widows; my brother has a genius for avoiding any woman who might prove eligible for matrimony. But mayhap you can persuade him otherwise.”

“I believe that I can,” Imogen stated.

Griselda waved her fan meditatively. “An interesting choice lies ahead of you. Were I to take a lover, for example, I should wish to continue the affair beyond two weeks. My dear brother certainly has had many ladies on whom to practice, and yet he invariably drifts to another woman within the fortnight. Moreover, I myself would find the notion of being compared to the many beautiful women who had come before me unnerving, but I expect I am simply squeamish.”

Annabel grinned. Griselda looked a perfectly docile, perfectly feminine lady. And yet…

Imogen looked as if she were thinking. “Fine!” she said finally. “I’ll take the Earl of Ardmore, then. Since he’s only been in London for a week or so, he can’t possibly compare me to anyone else.”

Annabel blinked. “The Scottish earl?”

“The very one.” Imogen gathered up her reticule and shawl. “He’s not worth a penny, but his face can be his fortune, in this case.” She caught her sister’s frown. “Oh, don’t be such a pinched ninny, Annabel. Believe me, the earl won’t get hurt.”

“I agree,” Griselda put in. “The man has a palpable air of danger about him. He won’t get hurt, Imogen. You will.”

“Nonsense,” Imogen said. “You’re simply trying to talk me out of a decision I’ve already made. I’m not willing to sit around in the corners, gossiping with dowagers for the next ten years.” That was a direct insult to Griselda, who had lost her husband years ago and had (to Annabel’s knowledge) never entertained a thought either of a lover or a husband.

Griselda smiled sweetly and said, “No, I can see that you’re an entirely different kind of woman, my dear.”

Annabel winced, but Imogen didn’t notice. “Now I think on it, Ardmore is an altogether better choice than Mayne. We are countrymen, you know.”

“Actually, that’s a reason not to distract him,” Annabel had to point out. “We know how hard it is to live in an old rambling house in the north country without a penny to support it. The man has come to London to find a rich bride, not to have an affair with you.”

“You’re a sentimentalist,” Imogen said. “Ardmore can take care of himself. I certainly shan’t stop him from courting some silly miss, if he wishes. But if I have a cavalier servente, the fortune hunters will leave me alone. I shall just borrow him for a while. You’re not planning to marry him, are you?”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” Annabel said with something less than perfect truth. The Scotsman was absurdly handsome; a woman would have to be in her grave not to consider him as a consort. But Annabel meant to marry a rich man. And she meant to stay in England. “Are you considering him as a possible spouse?”

“Certainly not. He’s a lummox without a fortune. But he’s pretty, and he dresses so somberly that he matches my clothing. Who could want more in a man?”

“He doesn’t appear to be a man to fool,” Griselda said, serious now.

“If he needs to find a rich wife, you ought to be straightforward,” Annabel added. “He may well think that you would consider matrimony.”

“Pish,” Imogen said. “The role of a hidebound moralist doesn’t suit either of you. Don’t be tedious.” And she swept out of the room, closing the door behind her with a little more force than necessary.

“Though it pains me to admit it,” Griselda said meditatively, “I may have mishandled that situation. If your sister is determined to make a scandal, she would have done better to direct herself toward Mayne. At this point, it is almost a rite of a passage for young women to have a brief affaire with my brother, and so the ensuing scandal doesn’t really take fire.”

“There’s something about Ardmore that makes me wonder if she can control him as easily as she thinks she can,” Annabel said with a frown.

“I would agree,” Griselda said. “I haven’t exchanged a word with him, but he has little in common with the average English lord.”

Ardmore was a red-haired Scot, with a square jaw and broad shoulders. To Annabel’s mind, he was a world away from Griselda’s sleek brother.

“No one seems to know much about the man,” Griselda said. “Lady Ogilby told me that she had it from Mrs. Mufford that he’s poor as a church mouse and came to London specifically to find a dowried bride.”