Kiss Me, Annabel

“I can guess,” she said.

“You’re beautiful,” he finished, a fleeting smile crossing his face.

He had his arms crossed over his chest now and was smiling down at her like a great giant.

“While I thank you for the compliment, I have to wonder why on earth you came to London to find a bride, given your first two requirements,” Annabel said.

“I came because I was told to do so,” he replied.

Annabel didn’t need any further information. Everyone knew that rich brides were to be found in London, and poor ones in Scotland. The man was hoping that her finery meant she had a dowry to match.

“You’re judging on appearances,” she told him. “My only dowry is a horse, although, as I said, I’d be happy to introduce you to some appropriate young ladies.”

He opened his mouth, but at that moment Imogen appeared at her shoulder. “Darling,” she said to Annabel, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Without pausing, she turned to the earl. “Lord Ardmore,” she purred, “I am Lady Maitland. What a pleasure to meet you.”

Annabel watched as the earl bent over her sister’s hand. Imogen was looking as beautiful as any avenging goddess. She gave Ardmore a look that no man, especially a man in search of a dowry faced with a wealthy young widow, would consider resisting. In fact, it looked very much like one of Annabel’s own come-hither glances.

“I have an unendurable longing to dance,” Imogen said. “Will you please me, Lord Ardmore?”

Unendurable? But Ardmore wasn’t laughing; he was kissing Imogen’s hand again. Annabel gave up. The man would have to find his own way out of Imogen’s net. Imogen had always been thus: once she made up her mind, there was no stopping her. “I shall return to my chaperone,” Annabel said, curtsying. “Lord Ardmore, it has been a pleasure.”

Lady Griselda was holding court in a corner of the room, their guardian sprawled beside her with a drink in his hand. Not that there was anything unusual in that; the Duke of Holbrook always had a drink. He came to meet Annabel when he saw her winding her way through the crowd.

Now that she had come to know a number of English nobility, she was more and more surprised by how unducal Rafe was. For one thing, he refused to go by his title. For another, he was as far from scented and curled and sartorially splendid as could be imagined. At least his valet managed to get him into a decent coat of blue superfine for the evening, but when he was at home he tended toward comfortable pantaloons and a thread worn white shirt.

“Griselda’s driving me mad,” he said without formality. “And if she doesn’t succeed, Imogen will finish me off. What the devil is she doing, dancing attendance on that Scottish fellow? I don’t even know the man.”

“She’s decided that she wants a cicisbeo,” Annabel told him.

“Stuff and nonsense,” Rafe muttered, running a hand through hair that was already wildly disarranged. “I can escort her wherever she needs to go.”

“She’s being plagued by fortune hunters.”

“For God’s sake, why’d she choose a penniless Scot to dance about with, then?” Rafe bellowed, only belatedly glancing about him.

“Perhaps she won’t care for him on further acquaintance,” Annabel said, trying to see whether she could glimpse Lord Rosseter anywhere. At the moment Rosseter was her first choice for spouse.

“She’s making an ass of herself,” Rafe said.

For some reason, Imogen’s antics always drove Rafe to distraction, especially since she’d returned to London and begun to order gowns that fit her like a second skin. But no matter how much he bellowed and raged, she merely smirked at him and said that widows could dress precisely as they wished.

“Surely it’s not as bad as that,” Annabel said absently, still searching the crowd for Rosseter.

She caught Lady Griselda’s eyes, who called: “Annabel! Do come here for a moment.”

Their chaperone was nothing like the dour old ladies who generally earned that label; she was as good-looking as the infamous, altar-deserting Earl of Mayne. It went without saying that none of them held her brother’s behavior against Griselda; she had been devastated when Mayne galloped away from Rafe’s house approximately five minutes before he was due to marry Tess.

“What on earth is Rafe bellowing about?” Griselda inquired, without much real concern in her voice. “He’s turned all plum-colored.”

“Rafe is worried that Imogen is making an exhibition of herself,” Annabel told her.

“Already? She is a woman of her word.”

Annabel nodded over to the right. A waltz was playing, and the Earl of Ardmore was holding Imogen far too tightly. Or perhaps, Annabel thought fairly, Imogen was doing the holding. Whatever the impetus, Imogen swayed in his arms as if they were in the grip of a reckless passion.

“Goodness me,” Griselda said, fanning herself. “They’re quite a couple, aren’t they? All that black on black…Imogen certainly was correct about the aesthetics of choosing Ardmore as a partner.”

“Nothing will come of it,” Annabel assured her. “Imogen was just blustering. I’m sure of it.” But the words died in her mouth as Imogen threw an arm around the earl’s neck and began caressing his hair in an outrageously intimate fashion.

“She wants a scandal,” Griselda said matter-of-factly. “The poor dear. Some widows do suffer through this sort of thing.”

She made it sound as if Imogen were coming down with a nasty cold.

“Did you?” Annabel asked.

“Thankfully not,” Griselda said with a little shiver. “But I do believe that Imogen’s feelings for Lord Maitland were far deeper than mine for dear Willoughby. Although,” she added, “naturally I had all proper emotion for my husband.”

Imogen was smiling up at Ardmore, her eyes half closed as if—Well. Annabel looked away.

What Imogen wanted, Imogen took. She had loved Draven Maitland for years, and never mind the fact that he was betrothed to another woman. The moment Imogen had a chance, she somehow sprained her ankle in such a way that she had to convalesce in the Maitland household. That ankle injury was remarkably fortuitous. The next thing Annabel knew, her sister had eloped with Draven Maitland. In fact, given Imogen’s strength of will, Annabel rather thought that Ardmore might have to find and woo his bride in the next season.

“Have you seen Lord Rosseter?” she asked Griselda.

But Griselda was mesmerized—as doubtless were most of the respectable women in the room—by Imogen’s behavior on the dance floor. “Imogen is not my duty,” she said to herself, fanning her face madly.

Annabel looked back at her sister. Imogen could not have made her intentions to engage in a scandalous affair more clear. She was clinging to Ardmore as if she’d turned into an ivy plant.

“Oh, Lord,” Griselda moaned. Now Imogen was caressing Ardmore’s neck, for all the world as if she meant to pull his head down to hers.

Annabel’s elder sister Tess dropped into a chair beside them. “Can someone please explain to me why Imogen is behaving like such a wanton?”

“Where have you been all evening?” Annabel asked. “I thought I caught a glimpse of you and Felton earlier, but then I couldn’t find you.”