How to Lose a Bride in One Night (15 page)

Moments passed, and he angled his face, convincing her that he intended to kiss her. That he was just seconds away from closing that scrap of space and claiming her lips with his.

Suddenly he pulled back. “Close your eyes,” he chastised.

Nodding hastily, she shut her eyes with an indignant huff, but the heat still swarmed her face. She could not get the image of him hovering before her—his lips so close, ready to kiss hers—out of her mind. Her entire body strained, listening for a sound. Nothing. But that did not mean he wasn’t before her, ready to kiss her again. Her pulse quickened with excitement.

Disappointed that he had been near enough to touch her and she had not sensed him—and convinced she would not fail in that regard again—she whirled around, wildly swinging her arm, hoping to make contact.

“Now you’re letting frustration guide you. The moment you lose control, some villain has control over you. Stop. Concentrate.”

It was hard to think of villains with his deep voice curling around her. She knew he was still there. She felt him, sensed him. She took one sliding step forward, convinced she was moving toward him.

Her lips tingled, throbbed, recalling the pressure of his lips there,
still
feeling the intensity of his earlier gaze. Perhaps he was on the verge of finishing where they left off. The way he had been looking at her mouth, she suspected he’d wanted to.

“Owen,” she whispered, turning her face upward in offering.

She stood like that for several moments, face tilted, body leaning, straining forward until a stillness came over the air. Suddenly she felt chilled. As though all the warmth had suddenly been sucked out of the garden.

“Owen?”

Silence answered her. A bird chirped from a nearby tree. In the distance a horse whinnied. Gradually, she opened her eyes, as though emerging from a sweet dream that she didn’t want to leave. Because her gut warned her of what she already feared. What she already knew.

She scanned the empty garden, moving around a hedge, surveying everything all at once.

He was gone.

O
wen’s initial impulse was to storm from the house, but he’d run away enough times since meeting Anna. He wouldn’t flee her anymore. He’d agree to help her and he would see this through. At any rate, running only prolonged her stay in his life, her invasion into his world.

He ran his tongue over his lip. He could still taste her there. Pressing his mouth into a hard line, he walked rigidly into his bedchamber. Safe inside, door shut, he dragged both hands through his hair and allowed some of his composure to slip.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the cheval mirror. His reflection gave him pause. He looked wrecked. What was she doing to him? She had kissed him as boldly as the most experienced female, only she wasn’t. Nor had the kiss been. In the beginning.

At first her lips were tentative on his. Firm but unsure. Moving slightly. But not for long. He had seen to that.

With a groan, he dragged his hands through his hair yet again. He had almost kissed her in the garden. Working so closely with her would be a torment, but he would do it. He had to. Then he could be free.

His brother’s voice echoed through his mind.
I want you to find what I have found with Paget.

It simply was not possible. And certainly not with Anna. She was running from her own demons. That much was clear to him. Something haunted her. He could see it in her eyes. She was as broken as he was.

Chapter Seventeen

M
y lord, this just arrived for you.”

Owen looked up from his breakfast. A groom held out a silver tray with a single missive in the center. He swallowed his bite of toast and plucked it from the tray, shooting a look to where Anna sat, sipping her chocolate. Morning sunlight struck her brown hair, reminding him of a chestnut bay he owned as a boy, the shining coat he had brushed so lovingly.

Her gaze met his before sliding away. A pretty pink filled her cheeks, and he knew she was remembering yesterday. The kiss that had started as a means for her to distract him had turned into something else. Something more. He’d thought of little else since, wondering how he could continue in this manner with her and not kiss her again. Touch her. Taste her.

He’d made a mistake not taking up the invitation from the blonde at Sodom. Perhaps if he had done more than share her bed and actually sated himself between her thighs he would not feel so close to succumbing to this woman.
Perhaps it was simply Anna.

He shook off the distracting thought and forced his attention to the missive, opening it and scanning the words. He sucked in a breath, a heaviness building in his chest as the parchment dropped to the table with a whisper.

“What is it? Is everything all right?” Anna’s soft voice brushed the air.

Blinking, he tore his gaze from the discarded letter and faced her. It took him a moment to respond, his brother’s words within that letter pulling him in different directions all at once. He had determined to never return home. But this made him reconsider. As Jamie knew it would.

“Splendid. My brother’s wife safely delivered a son.” The corners of his lips lifted in a smile that felt false and all wrong on his face. Jamie and Paget had a son together. It seemed a strange thing to confront. Even odder than returning home to find them married. This. A child. Perhaps for the first time he understood how fully removed they were from him. That he would never have them back—that things would never be as they once were. In India, Jamie and Paget had been a world away. But now they suddenly felt like it.

“That’s wonderful news.”

He nodded and took a scalding sip of coffee, suffering the burn down his throat almost with pleasure.

She stared at him, her brown eyes sharp and measuring. “You don’t behave as though it’s wonderful.”

“They want me to come home.”

She studied him for a moment. “Of course they do. You should go. They’re your family.”

His fingers played with the spoon beside his plate. “It’s not easy. Being around them.” During his last visit he had felt like an outsider looking in, doubtlessly making them as uncomfortable as he was.

She nodded as though she understood. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Her gaze resumed its study of her cup of chocolate, a finger lightly tracing the rim. “This is your nephew. Your first, I presume?” At his single nod, she continued, “You should go.”

His jaw locked. Resentment stirred inside him. Mostly because she was right. He should go. But that did not change the fact that he did not wish to return home and suffer the happy company of his brother and Paget. Would there be that air of guilt swirling around them simply because he was there? The birth of their son was likely the happiest moment of their lives. He did not want to cast his shadow over it.

He rose, dropping his napkin on the table. “I have no place there anymore.” His voice rang with clear finality—almost as though he expected an argument from her.

She tilted her head back to look up at him as he hovered over the table. “Then stay here.” She uttered the words so simply. As though she harbored no judgment.

He nodded briskly. “Indeed. I’ll meet you in the foyer in an hour. Do you ride?”

She nodded, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Passably.”

“Then we shall improve on that. No individual can be truly independent with mere passable skills in the saddle.”

Her eyebrows arched over those expressive eyes of hers. “I should become a more than passable rider, then.” A smile brushed her mouth.

His gaze skimmed her ill-fitting blue morning gown. “See Mrs. Kirkpatrick about a riding habit.”

“I will. Thank you.”

With a slight bow, he departed the dining room, his strides stiff. He could feel her gaze on his back. Even though there had been no hint of judgment in her gaze at his refusal to return to Winninghamshire, he felt her disappointment just the same. For some reason, it mattered to him. It rankled. For some insane reason, her good opinion signified.

He wasn’t even to the doors of his study yet when a sharp expletive burst from his lips. He stopped and stared unseeingly ahead of him. The truth stared back.

There would be no ride this morning. How could he ride at his leisure knowing he had a nephew? A new life with whom he was inexorably connected. Jamie and Paget had a son. And despite the distance he felt yawning between them, both literally and metaphorically, they wanted him there.

And she thought he should be there, too.

Like it or not, that mattered to him.

Turning on his heel, he marched back toward the dining room, his movements stiff and mechanical. He arrived at the narrow double doors just as Anna emerged. He pulled up short of colliding into her.

“Oh.” Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Did you forget something, my lord?”

“I changed my mind.”

Her brow knitted. “You changed your mind?”

“We won’t be going for a ride this morning.”

Her expression fell. “Oh. I see.”

No. She didn’t.

She lowered her gaze, avoiding looking at him. She was disappointed. He needn’t see her eyes to know this. He felt her disappointment radiating off her in waves. It dawned on him that he hated to disappoint her again even if he was following her advice. And although the reason would be understandable, he had no wish to do so again. How could he even be assured she would be here when he returned? A jolt of discomfort coursed through him at that possibility. Had she not already suggested it was time for her to take her leave?

Before he could consider his next words, he heard himself saying, “Pack your things.”

Her head shot up, her brown eyes suddenly bright. “Are we going somewhere?”

“Home. To Winninghamshire.”

She blinked, her expression mirroring the shock he felt at his announcement. “You wish to take me home with you?”

He winced. When she uttered it like that, he regretted ever saying such a thing. It made them seem close . . . intimate. Something they were not. Something they could never be.

He nodded brusquely, quelling his doubts. “I can work with you there just as well as here. Perhaps better.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I can instruct you in firearms. Such knowledge is useful. And that instruction is better suited for the country.”

She looked elated. Like a child awarded a toy. “I shall pack. It won’t take long.”

He surveyed her ill-fitting gown. Indeed. Her wardrobe was limited—a matter he still needed to correct, but there was no time for that now. According to the letter, if they hurried they might make it to his nephew’s christening.

She sped past him, her gait somewhat lopsided in her haste.

“Easy,” he called after her. “Injuring yourself all over again will only slow us down.”

She shot him a glance over her shoulder, but slowed her steps.

He watched her take the stairs. As she disappeared from sight, he noticed that a smile shaped his mouth.

He had not even realized he’d been smiling.

T
hey did not arrive in time for the christening. He had mentioned to Annalise that he hoped to make it in time for the event, but when they arrived at the manor, the stodgy old butler informed them that Lord and Lady Winningham were in the village for their son’s christening and should be home shortly.

There was the slightest flicker of regret in Owen’s eyes before he masked it. “Very well, Jarvis. Will you see that our belongings are settled into rooms for the night?”

The butler inclined his head. “Very good, my lord.”

Annalise rotated in a small circle in the grand foyer. It was a most impressive house. Not quite as awe-inspiring as Bloodsworth’s ducal seat, but this manor house was warm and comfortable. It felt like a home. Not just some grand mausoleum. Children could be reared in this house. Children had. Children like Owen.

She surveyed him beneath her lashes, wondering about that boy. What manner of child had he been? Was he always the aloof, silent sort? Or had he run shouting beneath the vast domed ceiling? She grinned, imagining a harried tutor in pursuit of him.

“Would you and your companion care for refreshments in the drawing room until Lord and Lady Winningham arrive?”

Annalise could detect nothing in his voice as he uttered the word “companion.” The rail-thin butler was the very image of decorum, his aged, wrinkled face revealing nothing, but the word jarred her nonetheless as they were led to the drawing room. She felt its weight, the implication.

For the first time, she contemplated her presence here. How would Owen explain her?

She did not have long to contemplate. Voices erupted from beyond the doors. Happy and overlapping, it sounded as though a festive party had returned from the christening.

Owen rose from the chair he had only just occupied as the raucous chatter drew closer. Footsteps sounded outside the drawing room. Annalise folded and refolded her hands in her lap, unsure what to do with them—or herself, for that matter. Should she rise or remain sitting?

The door pushed open before she could decide. A handsome man cleared the threshold, pausing only for a fraction of a moment when he spotted Owen. His gaze swept over him as he continued forward in halting steps.

“You came,” he exclaimed, reaching Owen and pulling him into a hug. Clearly he was the brother, although the similarity was minimal. Lord Winningham possessed hair darker than her own. His olive complexion hinted at Mediterranean ancestry, a direct contrast to Owen, who looked like he descended from Vikings. Both possessed like height and build, however.

The brothers’ embrace seemed awkward—like they were unknown to each other and not kinsmen at all.

“I departed as soon as I received your letter,” Owen said, stepping free. “My apologizes for missing the christening.”

Lord Winningham scanned him from head to foot as if he could still not reconcile the sight of him in his drawing room. “Of course, I am simply happy you came to meet your nephew. Paget will be overcome. Best brace yourself.”

More people arrived then. Two men: one older and one young; and two young women chattering happily.

Annalise’s gaze fell unerringly on the woman with pale blond hair. She was small and lovely. With her fair hair and dark brown eyes, she possessed a haunting beauty. Her eyebrows and lashes were the same shade of brown as her eyes, and it was a striking contrast to her hair. She looked almost otherworldly.

Annalise knew at once that this was Paget. She would have known this even if she did not hold the small, swaddled infant in her arms. Lord Winningham arrived at her side in several long strides, taking the baby from her arms so that she might greet Owen.

There was no hesitation in her. None of the awkwardness that belonged to her husband as she tugged Owen down to her so that she could wrap her arms around his neck. She squeezed her eyes shut in a long blink as she embraced him, either indifferent to or unaware of his reticence.

“You came.” She breathed the words over his shoulder as though she were expelling a long-held breath. And Annalise knew. She understood. She was more than the girl who had married his half brother. They shared a past. A history. Perhaps Owen had loved her. Perhaps he still did.

A knot formed in her stomach at the notion, and she had the wild urge to rise and flee from the room. Jaw clenched, she forced herself to sit still, remembering she had suffered far worse than this discomfort in her life.

Unfortunately, at this moment, this reality was the only thing that signified—and nothing quite stung as the sight of Owen in close proximity to a woman he very well might still love. No matter that the lady was married to another and a new mother. If Owen loved her, he loved her. The heart possessed a will of its own.

Owen patted the countess’s back. “Of course. How could I miss meeting the future Earl of Winningham?”

She pulled back and beamed up at him. “He is beautiful, is he not? Hopefully, he’ll have many years tromping around the countryside first. As we once did.” She smoothed a hand over his chest with a familiarity that gave Annalise a pang in her stomach. Which was absurd. The lady was his brother’s wife. And even if she were not, she had no reason to feel possessive of Owen. His affections were not hers to keep. They were not hers at all.

“Do you not recall?” the countess continued. “We would leave home at dawn some days and not return until sundown.”

“Yes. Unless your father managed to find you first and haul you home.”

Chuckles followed this remark. “Oh. I never worried when she was with you,” the older gentleman murmured.