Romancing the Rogue (133 page)

Annabella worked her way around to the side of the bed and sank onto the edge. She should have known nothing happened.

Part of you did,
whispered her heart.
Deep inside you knew.
Hadn’t she and Juliet secreted themselves outside the servants’ quarters at a tender age and listened to the scullery maids tittering about wedding nights? Hadn’t they stared at each other aghast at some of the things the women described? Hadn’t both their faces colored at the bawdy joking that a “proper” wedding night caused a girl to walk gingerly for a week?

Yes, I knew. I knew nothing had changed, but I chose to believe otherwise.
Why had she done it? And why had Seabrook let her think such a thing?

“Annie…” His muffled voice, calmer than before, came through the main door. “Annie, if you can hear me… I’m sorry. That’s what I came to tell you before we — It’s what I came to tell you.”

She used the hem of her gown to dry her eyes but didn’t answer him.

“I’ll not bother you tonight. We’ll talk things out in the morning. Just… please don’t do anything… impetuous. Don’t try to leave.”

She held her silence and glared at the door, wishing he would just go away as she’d asked.

“Right. I’ll see you in the morning then,” he said.

Stillness fell over the room.

Why had he lied? He couldn’t possibly have wanted
her
.
Why did he lie?

“Did I?”
Seabrook had countered to her accusation.

The candle burned down, but Annabella sat unmoving on the bed, mulling over her last days at Rose Cottage… in particular, since she’d awakened to find herself in Seabrook’s bed.

“He never said so outright,” she whispered. “I accused him, but he never admitted to anything. Not even when he talked to Vicar Hamilton…” Annabella sighed. “You chicken brain.”

When he’d returned her fan, he had said he wanted to talk. Annabella frowned. They certainly hadn’t done much of
that.
What had happened to her fan? A quick glance about the room turned up nothing. She must have dropped it when he—

She must have dropped it.

Her footfalls scarcely raised a whisper as she crept to the bedchamber door. If Seabrook was waiting on the other side… But when she opened the door, the room was empty.
You know you wish he’d been here.

Scowling at the intrusive thought, Annabella retraced the path he must have taken when he’d carried her to the bed. One slipper lay in the middle of the room. Her fan was nowhere to be found. Dropping to her knees, she looked beneath the chair but only found her other slipper. Then she scooted over to the drum table. No fan. Her gaze drifted to the hearth. Would he have…? Did he hate her enough to destroy something he’d taken such trouble to return? And where
was
he? He’d promised to leave her alone, but where had he gone? Shivering, Annabella shuffled back to the bedchamber.

To the bed where she and Seabrook had almost—

What did it matter where he went, so long as he kept to himself? Tingles began in her fingers and toes and danced along her skin.

“Liar,” she called herself in a harsh whisper. For suddenly it mattered very much.

~~~~

Jon sat on
the edge of the narrow bed in the dressing room and watched narrow fingers of blue-white moonlight play across the floor, poking their way into the shadows, pushing them back — showing who was the master — and then moving on. He’d given up hope of sleeping as emotions churned and tumbled over one another like the crashing surf in wintertime.

Annabella’s fan opened easily at his hand. He had no notion as to why he’d snatched the confounded bit of silk and lace from the parlor floor where she’d dropped it. Tracing the lacy edge with one finger, he sighed. Once again, he’d handled the matter badly. He’d had every intention of telling her the truth of their situation then perhaps sharing a bit about his own dilemma.

But her spark, her verve as she’d spoken her mind had distracted him from his mission. Merely being in her presence never failed to electrify his senses. He shouldn’t have kissed her. And when she’d kissed him back… He should have put a stop to it all until they’d talked.

Jon lifted his gaze and stared at the door connecting the dressing room to the bedchamber. She’d bolted it. He hadn’t known it was possible to move the bolt still, but she’d managed it. Driven by desperation to keep him at bay, she had set a lock that hadn’t been set for years. As if to pound home the thought, a ray of moonlight crept up along the doorjamb and caressed the iron hinges that held the door in place.

Annabella could be the most maddening creature he’d ever known, but since meeting her, he’d felt more alive than he had since he’d been a boy at play. And he’d spoiled it all by not tempering his lascivious reaction to a lovely woman. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It was more than his poor handling of the matter that rankled. His pride had taking a stunning blow.

To be chased from his own bedchamber, locked out by a reluctant wife. Gran would hear about it. The servants at Blackmoor were fiercely loyal to the dowager duchess, and she’d hear about the confrontation before the morning was out. To say the least, she wouldn’t be pleased.

Blast his ardent nature! Nay! He couldn’t cast the entire blame on his nature. In truth, he’d never been with a woman who set molten fire racing through his veins as Annabella did. When she was near, he became ruddy unhinged.

Unhinged.

Jon sat bolt upright. “Unhinged, indeed.”

Annabella rolled over
and stretched. When had her bed grown as soft as a cloud?
Where am I?
Yawning, she forced her eyes open. Red silk walls brightened into focus. Golden toned draperies framing the floor-to-ceiling windows hadn’t been pulled, and midmorning sun erupted through polished windowpanes.

Scattered bits of fine white porcelain glinted on the cream and burgundy carpet. A sad pile of wilted lilies brought memories flooding back. Annabella let out another unladylike yawn, quite proud of the way she’d stood up for herself.
I showed Seabrook I wasn’t to be trifled with. The man needed a good set-down. Lying to me…

True, had it not been for his revelation that they hadn’t… that they needn’t have married, she wouldn’t have been awakening to face the day alone. She had that to be thankful for, at least, didn’t she?

Now that she knew, though, she would… She frowned. She would what? Go to London and rescue Juliet? Truth be told, she hadn’t a notion how to get to London. The sooner she put Blackmoor Hall and Seabrook behind her, though, the better.

Seabrook had wanted to talk. Well, after she’d bested him the night before, he could expect to be doing a lot more listening than talking. Mayhap she could convince him to take her back, to…

A bubble of laughter rose unbidden. Oh yes, she had plenty to say, and he
would
listen. Annabella sat up and rang for the maid, anxious to get dressed and down to breakfast.

Moments later, Marie entered from the withdrawing room. “Good mornin’, my lady,” she greeted in a voice barely above a whisper. Her hand trembled as she drew back the heavy quilt. Her eyes flickered over the dinner gown Annabella still wore from the evening before, but she turned away quickly, saying nothing.

The breath of chilled morning air splashing across Annabella’s legs worked like magic to wake her. She stood and crossed to the seat in front of the dressing table, but she didn’t sit right away. “I think the pink gown this morning.” Yes, the pink one that reminded her of the roses at Wyndham Green.

“O-o-of course, m’l-lady.” The maid tugged the door on the mahogany wardrobe. With practiced movements, she shook out the jonquil yellow gown.

Annabella chuckled softly. “Marie? Perhaps you didn’t hear me ask for the
pink
gown?”

The maid dropped her gaze to the dress she held, and her eyes went wide. “Oh! Beg pardon, m’lady.” The yellow fabric slid through her fingers and pooled on the floor. She gasped as she stooped and snatched it up. Her hands fluttered as she laid the dress over the back of the gold brocade chair. After casting a sidelong glance at Annabella, she jerked the pink gown from the wardrobe and fluffed it.

“Yes, that’s the one,” murmured Annabella, smiling. Poor Marie really was in a state. “Thank you.”

“Y-yes, m’lady,” she whispered. “Shall I choose undergarments, or do you have a preference?”

Straining to hear, Annabella furrowed her brow. “Oh, whatever comes to hand,” she said breezily as she sank onto the green velvet bench.

Sheer relief settled over Marie’s face as she gave a nod and returned to the wardrobe. But she cast a startled glance at Annabella as she pulled a garment from the needlepoint valise.

The nearly transparent chemise was made of fine Indian silk and Italian lace instead of serviceable muslin. The snowy white undergarment seemed to add luster to the already bright room.

Annabella tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. “Oh, my,” she whispered. Her aunts had given her several such decadent undergarments on her last birthday. Annabella hadn’t known when she would wear any of them, but after one glimpse of the stark horror on her mother’s face, she’d embraced the gift. Then she had locked the unmentionables away, certain only whores wore such things.

Abbey must have packed them.

Shock coiled like a den of adders in her middle. After Seabrook’s unsavory talk the day before… and what had almost — Well, she couldn’t wear such — such
wicked
garments…

…could she?

The snakes struck, sending tingling frissons through her like lightning bolts. Annabella squirmed in her seat, suddenly unable to breathe. Chills raised goose flesh along her arms, but her face felt like she’d gone up in flames.

“Is this — acceptable, m-m’lady?”

Calm settled like a down quilt on a winter’s eve. Annabella smiled. She
would
wear it. She’d wear it and enjoy the knowledge that it would likely send Lord Seabrook over the edge into madness if he saw it. Her smile widened. And yet he’d never see it.

“That is absolutely perfect,” she said as she watched Marie scurry across the carpet with her clothing. Never in her life had Annabella felt more in control. Elation filled her as the maid helped her to dress.

The distressed servant appeared near to tears and kept her head down, eyes averted. It took her three tries to fasten Annabella’s dress. When the girl jerked Annabella’s head back sharply while brushing her hair, Annabella’s patience snapped.

“Marie! Is something amiss?”

“A-a-amiss, my lady?”

Annabella put her hands on her hips and swung around. Weak sunlight spilled in from the adjoining room. “Yes, amiss. You’re skittering about like a mouse. You nearly broke my neck just now. I have a mind—”

She stared at the perfectly made-up bed, just visible through the arched doorway. Two cast iron hinges slashed across her view like black half-swords, suspended from the doorjamb.

But the door she’d so carefully bolted the night before was gone.

Fury coiled from deep within and blossomed into a rage greater than any Annabella had ever known. “Why that — Where’s the ruddy door?”

Driven by her wrath, she opened her mouth and spewed a string of curses as she leapt to her feet. Her half-boots sat next to the dressing table, waiting for her to don them. Uttering a final murderous curse, she kicked them out of the way and stormed to the door.

“My lady, your hair,” protested Marie, one hand clutching the brush and the other pressed to her chest. “I’ve not finished.”

Annabella waved her off. “Never mind my hair.” With the toss of a hand, she pushed her tresses behind her shoulder and lifted the door latch. “That spawn of Satan to whom I am rather unfortunately wed is about to meet his devil father!”

~~~~

“Make sure to
remove the knives from the sideboard, Samuel.” Jon had no intention of keeping anything sharp within reach of his wife. “Probably should take the candlesticks from the table and the decanters as well.”

“As you wish, my lord.” The butler motioned to the footmen, who began gathering the objects and hurrying from the room.

Jon surveyed the array of mince pies, fruit, and breakfast pastries, a banquet of breakfast foods covering one end of the formal dining table, the result of Gran’s standing orders regarding taking breakfast in the main dining hall because that was where the cats preferred to eat. His gaze strayed to the felines’ table, already set up with steak and kidney pie and dishes of warm cream, and shook his head. It
was
good to be home.

“Seabrook!”

Jon winced. “I fear my wife doesn’t sound too pleased with me, Samuel.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

“Perhaps I should return to my study until her temper has improved.”

“Might I suggest locking the door, my lord?”

“Excellent idea. Now if yo—”

“Where are you, you son of the devil!”

The door to the dining room swung open and banged against the buffet.

The butler blanched. “Oh, heavens.”

Jon stood still and waited for her to see him through her blind rage.

Hair unbound the way he loved it, she stood in the doorway without benefit of shoes. At least she’d managed to change into a day dress, though he was well aware she’d slept in the gown she’d worn to dinner the evening before. She’d barely stirred when he had pulled the blanket over her shoulders and brushed her silky hair from her face. It had taken everything in him to walk away, so drawn to her had he been.

“You’re looking lovely this morning, Lady Seabrook.”

She whirled to face him, her gaze wildly darting until she focused on him. “You! You ill-mannered, unbearable, arrogant a—”

“Has something upset you, my dear?” Jon smiled as his world righted itself. His wife had returned in glorious demonic splendor.

Annabella’s chest heaved. “Eternal fire and brimstone are too good for you.” Annabella picked up the milky white vase of purple larkspur that had been left on the buffet and hurled it at him.

Thankfully, her aim was as foul as her mood. The unfortunate vase veered several feet to his right and shattered across the mahogany tabletop.

Feigning innocence, Jon directed his attention to Annabella and raised an eyebrow. “I wonder what can be troubling you this morning, Lady
Seabrook
.”

Annabella grimaced at his subtle emphasis on the name and began casting her gaze wildly about the room, obviously looking for more things to throw. The footmen had been quick and efficient in their removal of potential missiles. He’d see to a rise in their salary later.

Annabella froze, and a peculiar gleam entered her emerald eyes. Jon followed the direction of her stare toward the sideboard beneath the oil painting of the First Duke of Blackmoor. Harsh morning light slanted through the window to the left and flashed off a bit of gleaming silver just peeking from beneath a folded napkin.
A knife? No!
The polished butt of Gran’s Scottish flintlock pistol!

Alarm shot through him. Annabella was far closer to the weapon than he was. He didn’t have a prayer of reaching it before she did. His only hope would lie in distraction.

“Won’t you sit down and take some breakfast, darling?”

“I am
not
your darling,” she said through gritted teeth.

Jon ignored her and continued speaking in the even tone that always worked to calm Gran. “I’ve sent for a pot of chocolate to go with the pastries here.” He slid a quick glance to the doorway where Samuel hovered.

The butler made a quick motion to a footman, who in turn scampered in the direction of the kitchen.

Annabella paused, frowning. “Oh, you’d ruddy well like that, wouldn’t you? Think you can ply me with food and drink and I’ll bow before the Great Lord Seabrook, do you?”

“Not at all, lady fair.” Jon edged forward, a tactic with which he was becoming all too familiar of late. “I am merely—”

Annabella jumped sideways and snatched up the pistol, holding it in two hands and pointing it at his chest. “Don’t move another inch!”

Jon rooted himself to the floor. The gaping hole of the flintlock’s barrel stared at him, a giant black eye as big around as his thumb. The ball that emerged from the barrel would kill at such close range.

A grin of pure evil spread across Annabella’s face as she changed her intended target to a location somewhat lower and, oddly, far more uncomfortable than the thought of outright death.

He fought the instinct to cover himself with his hands. “Now, Annabella, be reasonable.” His mind raced. Had Gran managed to load the blasted thing the night before? Why had the blasted thing not been returned to its cabinet? Was it possible to dive out of the shot’s path? Would it kill him instantly, or would he die a slow death?

“Reasonable? You think I should be
reasonable
? Reason with this, you black-hearted scoundrel!” She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

Jon flinched. The sharp click echoed through the dining hall. He eased out a cautious breath of relief.
Misfire
.

He stepped forward with his hand extended. “That will be quite enough, Lady Seabrook. Hand that over before you hurt yourself.”
Or someone else. Me.

From the corner of his eye, Jon caught movement in the doorway. Gran, red-faced, eyes narrowed, and dressed for a day spent out of doors, stepped into the room, apparently summoned by one of the servants.

“What is all this shrieking?” She directed a glower at Jon. “What the
devil
is going on?”

Annabella half growled and half cried in frustration. With a stomp of her foot, she hurled the gun at Jon. The flintlock tumbled end over end as it flew through the air. Jon lunged forward, arms outstretched. If the gun hit the—

The flintlock landed with the heart-shaped butt nestled in the plush carpet, against the leg of one of the dining chairs. In a hissing puff of smoke and an explosion of flame, the shot burst from the barrel and stuck an iron wall sconce on the far side of the dining table with a loud clang. It then pelted across the room and embedded itself in the right upper corner of the First Duke of Blackmoor’s portrait.

“Gracious!” exclaimed Gran, racing across the room. “Have we been attacked, then?” She halted abruptly, staring at the footman who was busy stomping on the smoldering rug. “That is
my
pistol — my
favorite
pistol — that you are treating with such disregard. That is no way to use a gun, tossing it across the floor. Has no one taught you better?” Shaking her head, she made a tsking sound. “No, of course not.
You
like the
French
.”

Jon stole a glance at his wife. She stood pressed against the sideboard, her hands covering her ears, and a ghastly expression on her white face.

“I-I-I’m s-sorry.” Her voice shook with the tremors wracking her body. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I-I’d no idea it would d-
do
that. I didn’t kn-know it w-was
loaded.
”