“Oh, no, I’m not being hypocritical. I’m quite ready to admit guilt by association…and wh-whether or not I come to the garden tonight, I’m part of the group. It’s just that…” She paused and continued quite softly. “I don’t th-think you want Lord Kendall. Not as a man—not for what he truly is. And now after having come to know you a little better, I…I don’t believe that marriage to him will make you happy.”
“But it will,” Annabelle argued, her tone sharpening until it had caught the Bowmans’ attention. They stopped chattering and stared at her curiously. “No one could possibly come closer to my ideal than Lord Kendall.”
“He’s perfect for you,” Lillian agreed firmly. “I hope you’re not trying to sow seeds of doubt, Evie— it’s far too late for that. We’re hardly going to jettison a perfectly good plan now, when we’ve almost achieved victory.”
Evie shook her head instantly, seeming to shrink in her chair. “No, no…I wasn’t tr-trying to…” Her voice faded to a mumble, and she threw Annabelle an apologetic glance.
“Of course she wasn’t,” Annabelle said in Evie’s defense, summoning a reckless smile. “Let’s go over the plan once more, Lillian.”
Lord Kendall reacted with amused complacency when Annabelle Peyton urged him to slip away with her for an early-evening walk through the garden. The air was soft with twilight, settling damply over the estate with no breeze to stir the thick atmosphere. With most of the guests dressing for dinner, or idling and fanning themselves in the card room and parlor, the outside grounds were mostly unoccupied. No man could be unaware of what a girl wanted when she suggested an unchaperoned walk in such circumstances. Apparently not adverse to the prospect of a stolen kiss or two, Kendall allowed Annabelle to coax him along the side of the terraced gardens and behind the drystone wall covered with climbing roses.
“I rather think we should have enlisted a chaperone,” he said with a slight smile. “This is decidedly improper, Miss Peyton.”
Annabelle flashed him a smile. “Steal away with me just for a moment,” she urged. “No one will notice.”
As he went with her willingly, Annabelle became aware of the growing weight of guilt that seemed to press on her from all sides. She felt as if she was leading a lamb to the slaughter. Kendall was a nice man—he didn’t deserve to be tricked into a forced marriage. If only she had more time, she might have been able to let things progress naturally and pry a genuine proposal out of him. But this was the last weekend of the party, and it was imperative that she bring him up to scratch now. If she could just get this part of her plan over with, things would be so much easier from then on. Annabelle, Lady Kendall she reminded herself grimly. Annabelle, Lady Kendall…she could see herself as a respectable young matron who lived in the peaceful world of Hampshire society, taking occasional trips to London, welcoming her brother home from school on the holidays. Annabelle, Lady Kendall would have a half dozen fair-haired children, some of them endearingly fitted with spectacles like their father. And Annabelle, Lady Kendall would be a devoted wife who would spend the rest of her days trying to atone for the way she had deceived her husband into marrying her.
They reached the clearing beyond the pear orchard, where a stone table had been set in a graveled circle. Coming to a stop, Kendal looked down at Annabelle, who had leaned back against the edge of the stone table in a studied pose. He dared to touch a stray curl that had fallen to her shoulder, admiring the glints of gold in the pale brown strands. “Miss Peyton,” he murmured, “by now it must be evident to you that I’ve developed a decided preference for your company.”
Annabelle’s heart had begun to hammer high in her throat, until she thought she might choke on it. “I…I have found great pleasure in our conversations and walks together,” she managed to say.
“How lovely you are,” Kendall whispered, drawing closer to her. “I’ve never seen eyes so blue.”
A month ago, Annabelle would have been overjoyed for this to happen. Kendall was a nice man, not to mention attractive, young, and wealthy, and titled…oh, what the devil was wrong with her? Her entire being was suffused with reluctance as he bent over her flushing, tightening face. Agitated, bewildered, she tried to hold still for him. Before their lips could meet, however, she wrenched away with a muffled gasp and turned away from him.
Silence descended in the clearing.
“Have I frightened you?” came Kendall’s inquiry. His manner was gentle and quiet…so different from Simon Hunt’s arrogance.
“No…it’s not that. It’s just…I can’t do this.” Annabelle rubbed her suddenly aching forehead, her shoulders stiff amid the florid puffs of her peach silk gown. When she spoke again, her voice was heavy with defeat and self-disgust. “Forgive me, my lord. You are one of the nicest gentlemen I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. Which is exactly why I must leave you now. It’s not right for me to encourage your interest when nothing could come of it.”
“Why do you think that?” he asked, openly confused.
“You don’t really know me,” Annabelle said with a bitter smile. “Take my word for it, we’re an ill-matched pair. No matter how I tried, I wouldn’t be able to keep from trampling you eventually—and you would be too much of a gentleman to object, and we would both be miserable.”
“Miss Peyton,” he murmured, trying to make sense of her outburst, “I can’t begin to understand—”
“I’m not certain that I understand it, either. But I am sorry. I wish the best for you, my lord. And I wish…” Her breath came in irregular spurts, and she laughed suddenly. “Wishes are dangerous things, aren’t they,” she murmured, and left the clearing quickly.
CHAPTER 19
Railing at herself, Annabelle strode along the path that led back to the house. She couldn’t believe it. Right when everything she wanted had been within her grasp, she had thrown it all away. “Stupid,” she muttered to herself beneath her breath. “Stupid, stupid…” She couldn’t begin to imagine what she should tell her friends after they arrived at the clearing only to find it empty. Perhaps Lord Kendall would remain where she had left him, looking like a horse whose feed bag had been yanked from his jaws before he had the chance to eat.
Annabelle vowed that she would not ask the other wallflowers to help her find another potential husband—not when she had just thrown away the opportunity that had been handed to her. She deserved whatever happened to her now. Her pace increased to a near run as she headed to her room. She was so intent on her frantic retreat that she nearly plowed into a man who was walking slowly along the path behind the drystone wall. Stopping suddenly, she murmured “I beg your pardon,” and would have rushed around him. However, his distinctive height and the sight of the large, tanned hands withdrawing from his coat pockets immediately betrayed his identity. Stunned, she staggered backward as Simon Hunt looked at her.
They regarded each other with identical blank stares.
Having just run from Lord Kendall, Annabelle could hardly fail to note the differences between them. Hunt looked positively swarthy in the gathering dusk, big and potently masculine, with the eyes of a pirate and the casually ruthless air of a pagan king. He was no less arrogant than he had ever been…no tamer, no more refined…and yet somehow he had become the object of such all-consuming desire that Annabelle was certain she had lost her mind. The air around them felt charged, crackling with passion and conflict.
“What is it?” Hunt asked without preliminaries, his eyes narrowing at the sight of her tumult.
The task of distilling her emotions into a few coherent sentences was impossible. Nevertheless, Annabelle tried. “You left Stony Cross without a word to me.”
His gaze was as hard and cold as ebony. “You put away the chess game.”
“I…” She looked away from him, biting her lip. “I couldn’t afford distractions.”
“No one’s distracting you now. You want Kendall?—Have at him.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said sarcastically. “It’s so kind of you to step aside gracefully, now that you’ve ruined everything.”
He glanced at her alertly. “Why do you say that?”
Annabelle felt absurdly cold in the swaddling of summer-warm evening air. A fine trembling began in her bones and rose upward through her skin. “The ankle boots I received when I was ill,” she said recklessly, “the ones I’m wearing right now—they were from you, weren’t they?”
“Does it matter?”
“Admit it,” she insisted.
“Yes, they were from me,” he said curtly. “What of it?”
“I was with Lord Kendall just a minute or two ago, and everything was going according to plan, and he was just about to…but I couldn’t. I couldn’t let him kiss me while I was wearing these blasted boots. No doubt he thinks that I’m deranged, after the way I left him. But you were right after all…he’s far too nice for me. And it would have been a terrible match.” She paused to inhale raggedly as she saw the sudden blaze in Hunt’s eyes. His body was predatory in its alert stillness.
“So,” he said softly, “now that you’ve thrown Kendall aside, what are your plans? Going back to Hodgeham?”
Goaded by the jeering question, Annabelle scowled. “If I do, it’s no business of yours.” She spun on her heel and began to walk away from him.
Hunt reached her in two strides. He whirled her around to face him, his hands closing around her upper arms. Giving her a soft shake, he bent his mouth to her ear. “No more games,” he said. “Tell me what you want. Now, before I lose what’s left of my patience.”
The smell of him, soapy and fresh and wonderfully male, made Annabelle dizzy. She wanted to crawl inside his clothes…she wanted him to kiss her until she fainted. She wanted the despicable, arrogant, mesmerizing, devilishly handsome Simon Hunt. But oh, he would be merciless. Her threatened pride asserted itself, clotting in her throat until she could hardly speak. “I can’t,” she said gruffly.
Drawing his head back, Hunt gazed down at her, his eyes glinting with wicked amusement. “You can have whatever you want, Annabelle…but only if you can bring yourself to ask for it.”
“You’re determined to humble me completely, aren’t you? You won’t allow me to retain one particle of dignity—”
“I, humble you?” He raised one brow in a sardonic slant. “After two years of receiving cuts and slights every time I asked you to dance—”
“Oh, all right,” she said balefully, beginning to shake all over. “I’ll admit it—I want you. There, are you satisfied? I want you.”
“In what capacity? Lover, or husband?”
Annabelle stared at him in shock. “What?”
His arms slid around her, holding her quivering frame securely against his. He said nothing, only watched her intently as she tried to grasp the implications of the question.
“But you’re not the marrying kind,” she managed to say weakly.
He touched her ear, his fingertip tracing the fragile outer curve. “I’ve discovered that I am when it comes to you.”
The subtle caress set fire to her blood, making it difficult to think. “We would probably kill each other within the first month.”
“Probably,” Hunt conceded, his smiling mouth brushing over her temple. The warmth of his lips sent a rush of dizzying pleasure through her. “But marry me anyway, Annabelle. As I see things, it would solve most of your problems…and more than a few of mine.” His big hand slid gently down her spine, calming her tremors. “Let me spoil you,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you. You’ve never had anyone to lean on, have you? I’ve got strong shoulders, Annabelle.” A deep laugh rumbled in his chest. “And I may possibly be the only man of your acquaintance who’ll be able to afford you.”
She was too stunned to respond to the gibe. “But why?” she asked, as his hand traveled up to her unprotected nape. She gasped as his fingertip dipped softly into the shallow depression at the base of her skull. “Why offer to marry me when you might have me as your mistress?”
He nuzzled her throat gently. “Because I realized during the past few days that I can’t leave doubt in anyone’s mind about to whom you belong. Especially not yours.”
Annabelle closed her eyes, her senses flooded with euphoria as his mouth wandered slowly up to her dry, parted lips. His hands and arms compressed her willing flesh into his demanding hardness. If there was mastery in the way he held her, there was also reverence, his fingertips discovering the most sensitive places on her exposed skin and teasing in whisper-light strokes. She let him coax her lips open, and she moaned at the gentle probe of his tongue. He ravished her with tender kisses that assuaged her need, yet made her desperately aware of empty places that longed to be filled. As Hunt felt the urgent quiver of her flesh against his, he soothed her with a long caress of his mouth, while his arms supported her body. Cradling her blood-hot cheek in his hand, he drew his thumb across the satin veneer of her lips. “Give me your answer,” he whispered.
The warmth of his hand sent fine shivers across her skin, and she nestled her cheek deeper into his palm. “Yes,” she said breathlessly.
Hunt’s eyes gleamed with triumph. He tilted her head back and kissed her again, stealing deeper and deeper tastes. His palms clamped gently on either side of her head, altering the angle between them until their mouths fit together perfectly. The rhythm of her breath became capricious, and she was suddenly light-headed from the inrush of too much oxygen. Reaching for him, she clutched at the support of his hard-muscled body, her fingers digging into the broad-cloth of his coat. Without breaking the kiss, Hunt helped her to hold on to him, reaching for her hand to draw it around his neck. When he was satisfied that her balance had been secured, he moved his hand to her corseted waist and applied light pressure to bring her body closer to his. He kissed her with rising urgency, until the potent influence of his mouth had reduced her to sensual delirium.
Eventually he took his mouth away and hushed her as she moaned in protest, telling her in a low murmur that they had company. Sleepy-eyed and bewildered, Annabelle peered out from the circle of his arms. They were confronted by a group of witnesses who could hardly avoid the sight of a couple embracing in the middle of the path by the drystone wall. Lillian…Daisy…their mother…Lady Olivia and her handsome American fiance, Mr. Shaw…and, finally, none other than Lord Westcliff. “Oh, God,” Annabelle said feelingly, and turned her face against Hunt’s shoulder, as if closing her eyes would make them all disappear.