Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) (12 page)

BOOK: Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance)
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“Thank you, Luke. I am so glad we have come to that.”
“To what?”
“Being friends. I like you so much better as a friend ...” Her voice trailed off as she worried that she might be embarrassing him.
“Better than a suitor, you mean,” he said frankly.
“Well . . . yes.”
She saw color flood his face briefly. “I suppose I was pretty obnoxious,” he admitted glumly.
“Well . . . yes.” She deliberately repeated her words and smiled to take the sting out of them. “But I must own that such attentions were flattering, too. Mind you,” she warned, “I need no more such flattery.”
“Never fear, my friend. I learned my lesson. If Thorne had not impressed it upon me, that Bennet woman’s ridiculous story would have done it!”
“Did that story hurt you so very badly then?”
“Truthfully?”
“Yes, truthfully.”
“At first I was mad as hops about it. People kept giving me these sly looks, you know. But then, after a while, I reread the thing. It really is pretty funny.”
“Do you truly think so?”
He chuckled. “Yes. Especially the part where the older brother was giving ‘Lester’ advice how to butter up a young lady with flummery.”
Annabelle said nothing, but she squirmed inwardly.
Luke went on. “ ’Course, Thorne didn’t think it was so funny—at least not then.”
“And he does now?” She wondered if Lord Rolsbury would be able to forgive and forget.
“I don’t rightly know. He hasn’t said anything lately. I imagine he’s still peeved about it, though. Thorne usually just blows up about things—and then it’s over. He has not been able to vent his anger at the unknown Miss Bennet, you see.”
“Oh, I would not say that,” Annabelle argued.
“You refer to that article he wrote?”
“Yes, he was quite specific in his criticism there.”
“I suppose he was.” Luke’s tone was rather vague. “Don’t tell Thorne, will you? ... But I didn’t read all of that article. Not my cup of tea, you see.”
“Oh, yes. I do see.” She was silent for a few minutes, then a movement near the boat caught her attention. “Look, Luke! Look! There’s a fish. It’s hu-uge!”
He laughed. “Not that huge at all. But this lake is full of carp and they can get quite large.”
“Well, it looks big to me,” she said defensively.
A number of others had joined them on the lake and there was some banter about the fish and competition among the rowers. Annabelle was glad to leave the subject of Emma Bennet.
 
 
Thorne was very conscious of Annabelle’s going off with Luke. Was Luke even now attempting to advance his suit with her? Well, so be it, if that were so. And if he were to be successful? Well . . . Thorne had no idea how, but he would learn to live with such a possibility.
Thorne had included on his guest list other young, single people in addition to his brother and Miss Richardson. There were the Rhyses, of course, as well as Clara Wentworth, a red-headed sprite who had made her come-out this Season. She had arrived accompanied by her parents. Thorne was well aware that the mama in that quarter harbored some hope of her daughter becoming a countess.
He was therefore pleased but puzzled by Luke’s behavior. Having returned from rowing on the lake with Annabelle, that infernal boy joined a party including Miss Wentworth to go off hunting wildflowers. Later, Luke joined Miss Wentworth when the luncheon was served.
The meal was an
al fresco
affair with the food arranged attractively on a table brought for that purpose. A server stood behind the table ready to offer assistance and replenish dishes as needed. Guests filled their plates and then found convenient spots at any of a number of rustic tables with benches that seemed permanent fixtures at this site. When they were settled, footmen offered them a choice of drinks.
Seeing Annabelle momentarily alone, Thorne thought to join her, but he was waylaid by Helen Rhys.
“Will you join my brother and me?” she asked brightly. “Oh, and do allow me to assist you, Thorne. I am sure that infernal stick of yours is most inconvenient.”
He found himself rather resenting her ostentatious kindness. After all, had he not planned this affair carefully so that he would not
need
such assistance? Immediately, he also wondered why he felt resentful toward Helen. Had he not on previous occasions happily accepted such aid from Annabelle?
Nevertheless, he joined the Rhys brother and sister and the Sawyers. The meal over, a number of guests, fully sated, stretched out on the blankets. Others took leisurely strolls around the abbey ruins. Certain couples chose this time to go rowing, and Thorne saw that Luke had taken Miss Wentworth out this time. Helen hinted strongly about going out on the lake, but Thorne managed to escape this by pleading duties as host. He made a small show of conferring with his aunt to cover what might otherwise appear to be rudeness.
Lady Conwick chuckled softly. “That gel’s got to you, has she?”
“I ... uh ... which one?”
She laughed even harder, though discreetly, and leaned closer. “I wondered how long you would welcome those clinging ways. Miss Rhys has her eye on you—or I miss my guess.”
“Aunt Dorothy! Do you never cease seeing possible matches in unmarried persons?”
“No. Never.” There was not a shred of embarrassment in her tone. “I have never understood why anyone would go to a menagerie to watch animals cavort. Watching people is far more entertaining.” They sat in silence for a few moments, then she added, “You know, I have been forced to alter my opinion of Miss Richardson.”
“Oh? In what manner?” He tried to sound casual.
“Well, I doubt she is a fortune hunter.” This time her laugh had a touch of irony.
“No. She is not.”
“And—now that I have seen her in action, so to speak, I doubt she is one of those misses who measure their own worth by the number of broken hearts they leave in their wake.”
“Is that so?” He made no effort to hide his amusement at his aunt’s change of heart.
Lady Conwick’s tone became more serious. “But I fear that young lady is in for real disappointment in life.”
“Why would you think that? She has looks, wealth, charm—all the attributes that sell well on the marriage mart. And,” he added softly, “she is intelligent, well-read... and ... and, well, interesting.”
He knew he had said too much when his aunt cocked her head to the side and gave him a questioning look.
“Well—they do. Sell well. Do they not?” He sounded lame even to himself.
She apparently decided to let him off the hook. “Oh, yes. Those are worthy traits. But Miss Richardson is an all-or-nothing kind of person. She holds out for a love match.”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard her talking with her friends, Mrs. Hart and Lady Winters. They were teasing her rather unmercifully about Lord Stimson.”
“And . . . ?” he prompted, again striving for a casual tone to cover inward tension.
“And she did not hesitate to put them in their places. Told them very precisely that she would never marry for any reason but love.”
“Did she now?” He felt a heavy packet of lead lying in his gut. “Well, Luke—”
“Luke!” Aunt Dorothy issued a decidedly unladylike snort. “No, the wind does not lie in that direction—any more than with Stimson. In three Seasons, that little gel has not found a direction. I wonder if she ever will.”
Thorne did not respond. Was his aunt right? Was poor Luke doomed to disappointment after all? Why did that notion fill Luke’s brother with relief?
He looked around and spotted Annabelle in the center of a small group. He saw her lean forward and pat Frederick Hart’s arm, then she threw back her head and laughed, her hair catching the sunlight.
In that instant, he knew. He was himself in love with Annabelle Richardson.
Eleven
So—the stalwart Earl of Rolsbury was not immune to Cupid’s capricious arrows. This discovery rocked Thorne mightily. He tried to hide it away, even from himself. However, for the rest of the afternoon, his eyes strayed to wherever Annabelle was and he noticed—jealously—whoever it was she talked or laughed with.
When the day waned and chill threatened, the party returned to the Manor house. Throughout the evening he found himself looking first for Annabelle whenever he stepped into a room. Much, much later as he lay abed, he tried to examine this strange behavior. Then it hit him. He had, in fact, been doing these things for weeks. He fell asleep wearing a silly grin. The next morning he would ride with Annabelle again.
Morning brought a wake-up of another sort. Here he was—looking forward to a meeting with Annabelle, but he truly had no idea of her feelings—or Luke’s. Years of looking out for Luke’s welfare and the more recent ones of watching and guiding as his younger brother bridged the gap between boyhood and manhood would not be forsworn. If Luke’s feelings were truly engaged. . .
He shook himself. That was not likely. Had Luke not spent most of the previous afternoon with Miss Wentworth? Yes, he had—but he had also been Annabelle’s partner at a card table most of that evening. What was more—or what was worse from Thorne’s perspective—Annabelle always had a ready smile for Luke and the two of them seemed to enjoy a special camaraderie.
Again, he shook himself. His whole world was turned topsy-turvy. Never before had he been in the untenable position of envying his younger brother!
He reached the stables only moments before Annabelle arrived. He hesitated briefly before deciding not to ask a groom to accompany them. He might never again have time alone with her and he was in no mood to share her company. So what if they continued to bend the rules of propriety a bit?
Annabelle’s blue riding habit set off the honey-brown color of her hair. Designed on the popular pseudo-military style, it was trimmed with black epaulettes and black frogging. Her black silk hat was also a feminine version of masculine headgear, the light blue veiling on it adding a softness to the whole look. Thorne thought she looked very fetching—even before she flashed him that glorious smile.
When she was mounted, she gathered up her reins and waited for him to mount, then shook an admonitory finger at him. “No wagers today, Thorne. I am inclined to think you and that black beast there took unfair advantage of poor Jessie and me the other day.”
“Unfair advantage—? May I remind you, my dear, that her
real
name is Jezebel?”
She patted the mare’s neck. “Do not pay him any mind, will you, Jessie?”
They rode aimlessly and in comfortable silence for a few moments.
“Have you a preference on where you would like to go?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “I reread Mr. Wordsworth’s lines on Tintern Abbey last night. I should like to see that view again.”
“By all means. We shall come upon it from a slightly different direction, though.” Her wanting to repeat an experience they had shared pleased him.
As they rode through a wooded area, the sounds of birds and the mild wind soughing through the trees mingled with occasional creaks of leather and the horses’ hooves on rocky trails.
Annabelle took a deep breath. “The country has its very own perfume, does it not?”
“Wood and pine and dead leaves—that is your idea of perfume?” He gave her a teasing smile.
“I smell violets as well—and ... perhaps honeysuckle?”
“Perhaps.”
“I freely admit I am not much of an English country girl. My earliest memories are of Jamaica and the plantation. Then I came to England and that first—truly horrid—school.”
“I think most boarding school experiences—male or female—can be pretty awful at times,” he said sympathetically.
“Mine was better than some. The best thing to come out of it, though, was my friendship with Letty.”
“Interesting. Winters and I were good friends at school, too.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You do?” He was mildly surprised.
“Letty told me.” She pulled on the reins to stop her mount and pointed at the side of the path. “See? Violets.”
“Yes. Now—if we find honeysuckle as well, you will be fully vindicated, my dear.”
They rode on at a leisurely pace.
“Well,” she said, returning to their topic, “school was tolerable, but I really learned more useful lessons from Marcus and Harriet. She was my principal instructor for nearly a year.”
“Was she?”
“Then Letty and I both changed to a school Celia attended. That was great fun. However,” she added in a firm tone, “should I ever have children, they will be educated at home until they are about . . . oh, thirty, I think.”
He gave a bark of laughter at this absurdity.
“Well, maybe a little earlier,” she conceded. “But, believe me, my children will not be sent off to a boarding school to be rid of them.”
“Will your husband not have some say in the matter?”
“Oh, yes. But if he intends any degree of domestic felicity, I believe he will cooperate on this small matter.”
“Small matter.” He laughed again. “I can see you will be a wife to be reckoned with!”
She blushed furiously and laughed. “However did we get off to such a topic?” They broke out of the shade of the trees and there was relief in her voice as she said, “Ah, we are here, I see.”
He dismounted, then reached to help her dismount. He grabbed his walking stick, which he had thrust into a special loop on his saddle. It was still early and the sun shone on the scene below at an oblique angle, casting strange and interesting shadows. They stood very close and in utter silence, taking it all in. He caught a whiff of the lilac scent of her hair and leaned closer to breathe more deeply of it. Just then, she turned and their heads bumped.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“My fault.” He was embarrassed, but not uneasy. “You are wearing a lilac scent, I believe.”
She gazed into his eyes and said, “Yes, they are my favorite flowers.” However, the words were lost in the message of her eyes.
“I like them, too,” he said meaninglessly.
He pulled her close and lowered his mouth to hers. He dropped the stick and tightened his arms around her, conscious of her arms around his neck. She was neither shy nor coy. Her response was open, honest, and enthusiastic. When he pulled back, she seemed dazed.
“Thorne?” It was a question.
“I ... Annabelle ...” He could not help himself. He took her lips again in a kiss that was at once firm yet gentle, demanding and seeking. And—wonder of wonders—what he demanded she gave. What he sought, she supplied.
He finally gripped her shoulders and put her from him slightly. “My God!” he breathed. “I never . . .”
“Nor did I,” she said, almost as though she read his mind. She wrenched her gaze from his and turned in his arms to look out on the increasingly sunny scene below them. He wondered fleetingly how much of it either of them actually saw. He clasped his hands around her waist and pressed his face against her neck. He drank in her scent, lilac mixed with some special essence of her, and touched his lips against the soft flesh beneath her ear.
“Annabelle? You felt it, too. I know you did.”
“Yes, Thorne, I did.” Instead of gladness, there was remorse in her tone. “But it cannot be.”
He released her. “I see.” He stared silently out on the scenery before them. But he did not see—not at all.
He bent to pick up the abandoned walking stick and it crossed his mind that perhaps that was the cause of her hesitation. Well, he thought bitterly, why would a young, vibrant woman such as Annabelle Richardson—a woman who could have practically any man of her choosing—why would such a woman welcome the addresses of a cripple?
He helped her remount and they turned the horses toward the stables. They engaged in polite conversation, but later he remembered not one word either had said—and he would have wagered she did not remember either.
 
 
That kiss had unnerved Annabelle as nothing else in her life ever had. The previous kiss, in the garden at the Finchley ball, had been but a prelude to what this one had done to her. She had noted his casual use of endearments. It probably meant little, but she hugged it to her. She had been on the verge of telling him about Emma Bennet, but she could not stand the thought of seeing his warm regard for her turn to disgust. She had foolishly compounded the initial problem by not owning up to writing that infernal story. Of course, she had had no notion of falling in love with the man—
Falling in love?
Had she indeed fallen in love with the one man in all of Britain who had the strongest of reasons to dislike her?
Surely not.
But she had.
And her own foolishness, her own cowardice had doomed that love before it had even blossomed.
Thank goodness she and the Wyndhams were leaving Rolsbury Manor on the morrow, she thought miserably.
 
 
Thorne returned to the house in despair. But he was also angry. He could not believe Annabelle would reject him only because he walked with a limp. Not after that “dance” at the Finchley ball. Yet she offered no other reason. And she had certainly not been repulsed by his kiss. However, he was damned if he would go crawling to her, begging for an explanation. That really would be the mark of a weak cripple!
He tried—none too successfully—to put the matter from his mind. She had not yet come back down when he went to the breakfast room. He hurried through the meal, chafing at the necessity to keep up with the inane chatter around him. He finally escaped briefly to the library.
He was sitting, staring unseeing at papers on his desk, when his housekeeper asked for a word with him.
“What is it, Mrs. Petry?” He noticed she had a sheet of paper in her hand.
“My lord, while your company was away for the day at the picnic, the staff took the opportunity to do a thorough cleaning.”
“Very good,” he responded absently.
“One of the maids found this paper in the desk in the drawing room. It appears to be waste, but she wasn’t sure and neither was I. There is no name of a guest on it.” She laid the paper on his desk.
He glanced at it. It was a letter—or the beginning of one. To a Mr. Murray. Now why was that name familiar? He examined the thing more closely. The tone was quite formal. A proposal for a book? Then he remembered. Of course. Murray was a publisher. Emma Bennet’s publisher, among others! He looked more closely at the script.
With a sinking feeling, he opened a desk drawer and retrieved the sample of Emma Bennet’s handwriting he had obtained from the printer. It was a perfect match.
Good God! The woman had been a guest in his home for the past week! But who was she?
“Mrs. Petry, will you please find Lady Conwick and ask her to wait upon me here?”
“Certainly, my lord.”
A few minutes later, his aunt came in with a puzzled look on her face. “What is it, Thorne?”
He held out the paper. “This was found in the drawing room yesterday. It must have been written the previous day.”
She took the paper and sat down in a chair opposite him to peruse it. She turned it over. “There is no name on it. You think one of our guests . . . ?”
“Must be one of them that wrote it. It was found in the writing desk in the west drawing room.”
“Would you like me to ask the ladies who might have written it?”
“I doubt any of them would own up to it. Did you notice anyone writing at that desk?”
“Not really. I think several letters have been written in the last few days. Have you not franked some of them?”
“Yes. But none from this hand.”
“What is so particular about this? It appears to be waste paper with all these ink splatters.”
His voice was grim.
“This
was written by Emma Bennet.”
“Emma—? Ohhh.... Are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Right here in your own home?”
He gave a bitter laugh. “That’s right. A viper has been in our midst.”
“Oh, dear. What will you do?”
“I am not sure. I need to think on it. At least this narrows the hunt down considerably.”
“How is that?”
“Instead of all the women in London, it has to be one of the twelve or fifteen who have been guests here the past week.”
“But which one?”
He ran his hand distractedly through his hair. “I cannot call them all together and ask for handwriting samples. I am sorely tempted to do so, mind you, but I am no Bow Street Runner.”
“You had best act quickly, dear boy. The Meltons are leaving after luncheon today and most of the others depart tomorrow morning.”
“I am aware of that,” he said glumly.
“Wait! I know!” She leaned forward eagerly.
“You know who wrote this?”
“No. But I know how you may find out who did.”
He raised a quizzical brow and waited.
“Thank-you notes!”
“Thank-you notes?” He wondered if his aunt spent too much time talking only with her dogs.
“Yes. Do you not see? Each of the women will undoubtedly pen you a thank-you note. It is the polite thing to do. And then you will have your answer.”
Thorne was dubious about this solution. If it produced no results, he
would,
by God!, hire Bow Street Runners to track down every woman who had been here in the last week!
 
 
The house party wound down and he bade his guests farewell. Mrs. Wentworth seemed disappointed and Helen sighed heavily, but finally they, too, were gone. Annabelle and the Wyndhams were among the earlier departures.
Luke seemed at loose ends for a few days and finally took himself off to join a friend’s yachting party. There was no mention of his calling on Annabelle. Thorne buried himself once again in estate business, often going out to join laborers in hard physical work. However, Annabelle’s passion and rejection and Emma Bennet’s deceit were never far from his mind. He mentally ticked off the female guests. Who among them would have the intelligence and talent to produce Miss Bennet’s work?
BOOK: Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance)
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