Authors: Something Like a Lady
Kay Springsteen (5 page)
“
Thank you. Lemonade will do nicely.
”
He hated the slop, but something was happening… something Jon couldn
’
t quite figure out. If he had to drink the pale, tart liquid, so be it. Though he
’
d really rather have the brandy.
She whirled and started toward the rear of the house, her hands balled into tiny fists at her side. As though experiencing a second thought, she halted her steps and turned back to him. Still with a lethal gleam in her eye, she dropped into a shallow and half-hearted curtsey.
“
If there
’
s nothing else, my —
lord
.
”
Using both hands, Annabella squeezed Seabrook
’
s neck. At least in her mind, it was his neck she twisted instead of the remains of her very last lemon. But it was so much more satisfying to imagine the infuriating visitor
’
s neck under her hands. She gave the yellow rind a vicious twist. As the juice dribbled into the goblet of water with pathetic little splashes, the sour smell tormented her nostrils. If she never had another lemon…
She set the depleted rind on the table and paused. The yellow peel performed a slow unfurling, like the sudden bloom of a wild rose on the trellis outside, lending the impression it was somehow still living. She frowned. As revolting as it was, the bit of lemon was all that was left of her edible sustenance. Once she gave it to him, she
’
d have nothing to eat unless she wanted to consume sticks and bugs.
A quick shake of her head dispelled the notion of starvation.
Abby would bring her some food.
Annabella crossed to the window and peered out, but no one strode along the pathway toward Rose Cottage. With a sigh, she returned to the table where she
’
d been preparing the lemonade for Seabrook.
Her gaze fell on the little silver pot Juliet had tucked into her canvas valise. Annabella had danced with delight when she
’
d discovered it contained a generous measure of sugar. That had been the only thing to make the lemonade palatable. She reached for the container. The silver had gone black with tarnish. Wherever Juliet had pilfered the sugar pot from, it hadn
’
t
seen use
in some time
. When she lifted the lid to discover only half of the white sugar remained, Annabella
’
s spirits fell a bit. If she added a pinch to his lemonade, she
’
d have less for herself. Shouldn
’
t she save the confection for her own use? After all,
she
hadn
’
t invited him into her home.
Still… The lemonade would be quite bitter without it.
Of course, she wouldn
’
t be drinking it, so why should that matter to
her
? She started to set the lid in place but paused with her hand hovering over the sugar bowl. It
would
be truly horrid to offer him just lemon dripped into water with no sugar to cut the tartness. Adding just one pinch would help.
And maybe it would improve his insufferable disposition to boot.
All the sugar in the world won
’
t sweeten that one.
A smile tugged at her lips. Well, she didn
’
t have all the sugar in the world, but maybe enough… The smile blossomed and her mood lifted as she set the lid on the table and lifted the sugar bowl. Humming to herself, she upended the pot and tipped the contents into the goblet then picked up a spoon and gave a hearty stir.
“
M
’
lady?
”
asked a soft voice from behind her.
With a gasp, Annabella whirled, clutching at her chest where her heart beat wildly.
“
Gracious, you gave me a fright.
”
Abby stood in the open doorway, a wicker basket in one hand and one of Annabella
’
s best canvas valises looped over her other arm.
“
I sent Herbert to the front door with Lord Seabrook
’
s luggage… told him I was still working in the kitchen, that it
’
s a disgrace and in no condition for him to traipse through.
”
She glanced around the room as she spoke, her features well schooled, so it was impossible to determine if she had an opinion.
Annabella studied the room as well, taking in the dust that coated everything and the cobwebs that clung to the ceiling.
I did my best.
A mutinous
notion
rose,
and
she pushed out her lower lip, but
thought
better of pouting and quickly arranged her features into a proper expression.
When the maid placed the basket on the wooden table next to the lemonade, the aroma of roasted meat drifted up and curled into Annabella
’
s nose, beckoning for her to come closer. Closing her eyes, she bent and inhaled deeply, uncaring if Abby heard the appreciative rumble from her hungry stomach.
“
Thank you,
”
she murmured with a sigh.
“
This smells heavenly.
”
“
Beggin
’
yer pardon, Lady Annabella, but Cook sent the meal along for Lord Seabrook.
”
The maid
’
s words doused Annabella
’
s sense of satisfaction sure as a cold, wet rain put out a fire.
No!
Her eyes sprung open and she stared at the girl in dismay. Annabella pressed a hand to her stomach as her sense of elation wilted.
“
Oh. Oh, yes, of course.
”
Abby
’
s glance slid from the basket to Annabella with thinly veiled interest. Then she rolled her lips inward.
Annabella pointed to the valise.
“
Are those my dresses?
”
“
Oh! Yes, m
’
lady.
”
The bag landed on the table next to the basket with a soft whoosh.
“
I got everything you told me.
”
“
Thank you.
”
Annabella forced her lips into a smile.
“
I
’
ll see to it that Lord Seabrook receives his meal. Remember our arrangement when you go back to the house. No one must know that I
’
m here.
”
Abby opened her mouth and drew a breath, but after only a slight hesitation, she closed it again with a single nod, curtsied, and slipped out the door.
Annabella longed to carry
the valise to the room upstairs and
go through it. Except she no longer had a room upstairs. Without asking permission, her hands balled themselves into fists. But then the aroma of meat and freshly baked bread wafted upward again, and her stomach contracted with searing, knife-sharp pain.
She stole a glance at the basket.
No! He can
’
t have it. If I don
’
t eat something soon, I will surely perish in a most horrible manner.
Decision made, she darted her glance around the kitchen. There! On the sideboard! She scooped up the basket and her valise and carried both to the table near the window. Out of the way so even if he came into the kitchen — and she
’
d do everything in her power to keep him out — the meal might go unnoticed.
Something bumped from beyond the door
to
the great room. Was he coming before she could stop him? After a glance over her shoulder to be certain, Annabella shoved the basket against the wall and tossed her valise in front of it. Then she drew a deep breath, snatched up the tray that held the goblet of lemonade, and carried it toward the door. Balancing the tray was tricky — how did the servants learn such things? Finally, she managed to lift the latch with her elbow. Then she turned around and pushed the door open with her backside.
****
After the footman left, Jon set his traveling bag on the steps. He
’
d take it up later. The way Annabella had balked at tidying the great room, he probably didn
’
t have a prayer of persuading her to finish opening the bedchamber upstairs.
How long had she been hiding in the cottage? Since she
’
d sent the maid to London, most likely. Had the little imposter arrived on Grey
’
s doorstep on the second or the third? Either way, seven or eight days was quite a long while for pretty little Annabella Price to have spent taking care of herself. No wonder she looked a bit ragged. Had she slept in that excuse for a bedchamber along with the mice?
He shook his head. What the devil were those two silly chits up to?
The hallway door opened and the object of his musing glided through clutching a silver tray in both hands.
Speaking of devils…
“
Here
’
s your refreshment. M
’
lord,
”
she said in a brassy voice that sounded far more like a servant
’
s than it had when he
’
d first come upon her. But that slight hesitation before addressing him directly told the tale.
Jon hid a smile by looking away from her and nodding at the drum table by the window.
“
You may set it there, thank you.
”
She fairly swaggered across the room with a sway that he imagined would hold up against that of any bit of muslin to be found in Covent Garden.
Good sense
stole away his inclination to smile.
Not the way to be thinking of your best friend
’
s sister…
He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the urge to wipe off the sudden frown pinching his forehead. When he opened them again, the urge to smile returned.
She had placed the tray closest to the broken chair.
Hoping for a bit of entertainment, perhaps? Thinking
“
Seaside
”
might fall on his backside and then run off, eh? Oh, yes, I found your little surprise.
The crack running the length of the front leg had been obvious once he
’
d figured out where to look.
Switching the identical chairs had been a simple matter. His only concern had been whether she would walk in on him changing them around. But she
’
d taken her time about bringing the lemonade, and he
’
d accomplished the move just before the footman had arrived with his luggage. Odd how the servant had presented to the front door. Perhaps the staff at Wyndham Green played by less formal rules than those in Grey
’
s London townhouse. Though, even there, the Duke of Wyndham encouraged a familiarity most would consider unseemly. Jon shrugged. Time for dwelling on that later.
After he decided what to do about the lady currently pretending not to be one.
“
Won
’
t you have a seat?
”
As he walked to the chair she
’
d none-too-subtly assigned him, an imp of mischief seized his mind, and Jon gestured toward the other seat with his most congenial smile.
“
We can discuss my… expectations of you whilst I
’
m staying here.
”
Her eyes widened and her mouth gaped. But she shored herself up admirably, clamping her lips together and tossing her head.
“
Very well — my lord.
”
She perched lightly on the edge of the chair, her back as straight and her demeanor as proper as those of any fine young lady
’
s.
Jon caught his breath, waiting for the inevitable crack of wood, ready to spring forward and save her from a nasty
spill
.
The chair remained intact. Had he confused them in the switch? No, it wasn
’
t possible. Still… He could hardly
crouch down and examine the legs of his own chair without
showing his hand.
Maybe he should pace, or stand near the hearth
rather than taking a seat. No, that wouldn
’
t work. Striving not to appear too hesitant, he lowered his bulk onto the stained ivory damask.
The movement from the other side of the table was barely perceptible, and he only caught it from the corner of his eye, but Annabella tensed and leaned forward.
His chair held and he squashed the impulse to rock it and make certain it would continue to do so. Cautiously, he eased out a breath and then turned to meet Annabella
’
s gaze.
Her oh-so-straight shoulders drooped, but her gaze sharpened, narrowed in on him as she leaned in his direction. She laid one hand on the drum table, almost as a feeble shield against an expected onslaught.
He toyed with his goblet, pushing
away
revulsion at the streaked and somewhat grimy appearance of the crystal. Sunlight splashed through the filmy window and fell across the tray upon which his refreshment rested. Instead of an answering flash from the silver, the light was swallowed by the blackish film of tarnish. Surely it wouldn
’
t take much effort to polish the serving tray. With an impatient sigh, he snatched his hand back. It wasn
’
t his place to notice such things.
Just as
it wasn
’
t truly her job to keep the cottage in order. But he did spare a moment to wonder once again at the state of disrepair. What did Wyndham Green
’
s servants do all day if not look after the estate? It just didn
’
t seem like his old friend to allow such laxity. Grey
’
s London townhouse was impeccable.
Across from him, Annabella shifted ever so slightly on the seat.
He struggled for words that would start a conversation without displaying a threat. None
came to
mind. Finally, he spoke, needing only to fill the silence.
“
How long have you been working for his grace?
”
Annabella blinked slowly and then returned a blank stare.
“
His grace?
”
she whispered after a moment. Then understanding clearly dawned.
“
Oh, Mar — the Duke of Wyndham. I don
’
t
— That is, I
’
ve worked on the estate for a
short while
, only. I
’
ve not… seen his grace in that time.
”
Her eyes took on wariness.
“
Has… he come with you?
”
“
He has not.
”
Odd question that…
Jon cautiously sat back and eased his right leg over his knee. She put the fibs to words quickly enough, didn
’
t she?
“
And in what capacity have you been employed?
”
Her lazy blink just as she turned her lips inward nearly undid his resolve. But when she leaned over, once again showing a rather brazen view of her tantalizing curves, his body warmed and lascivious thoughts began to present themselves to his unruly brain. Impatient with his rather predictable reaction, he dropped his leg and sat forward whilst he waited for her to form her answer.
“
Most often I served as Lady — Annabella
’
s maid.
”
She actually flinched when she spoke her name. Intriguing.
Had he got it wrong after all? Was this or wasn
’
t it the lady he sought? Ignoring the sticky dust in the deep crevices of the cut crystal, he lifted the goblet of lemonade to his lips, trying not to grimace. He
’
d had far too much of the watered-down, bitter swill while socializing with the gentle young debs in London. But he needed something to do in the absence of his ability to form words. This could hardly be any worse than any of that. Nothing could
possibly
be worse than that
.
Lukewarm liquid caressed his lips. The bite of the lemon chased over his palate. Sticky syrup followed, clinging to his lips, his teeth, his cheeks. His tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth, mired in sticky sweetness.
He
’
d been wrong. Something definitely could be worse.