Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) (21 page)

“A minor matter. See?” He swung his arm and winced.

“All clear,” Hart called from below.

They all trooped downstairs to the small drawing room, where Hart had already located a bottle of brandy and some glasses. Thorne noticed that he had also thrown a small rug over the spot on the carpet where Beelson had lain. He, Wyndham, Luke, and Annabelle took chairs in another part of the room.

Hart announced that he would look for some glasses in the kitchen and Stimson and Winters took care of seeing that Chet and Jake were incarcerated in the very jail they had assigned to Annabelle and Luke.

“We need to speak,” Marcus said to Annabelle, his glance also including Luke and Thorne.

Annabelle drew in a deep breath, afraid she knew what Marcus would say. Then he uttered precisely the words she feared he would.

“Annabelle, it appears that you have been thoroughly compromised.”

“I know,” she said softly, unable to look at Thorne.

“Never mind, Annabelle,” Luke said, sounding very grown up and very brave. “We shall marry as soon as it can be arranged.”

Her words came out more forcefully than she intended. “Luke Wainwright! You know very well that that is a perfectly ridiculous idea!”

“I have already procured a special license,” Thorne said, drawing the document from a pocket inside his coat.

Annabelle was devastated. Thorne was—just willy nilly—going to marry her off to his brother? Then her temper flared. Nobody—and certainly not the lofty Earl of Rolsbury—was going to control and manipulate her life!

“Well, that was foresight on your part, Rolsbury,” Marcus said.

“See?” Luke cajoled. “It’s not so ridiculous at all.” But Annabelle thought there was little enthusiasm in his voice.

“Well, I will not have it!” She rose and stood looking into the ashes of a cold fireplace. “I have an aunt in the former colonies. She married a Boston banker. I shall go to her.” Her voice became softer as she turned to look at Luke. “Luke, you and I are
friends.
You do not care for me as a man should care about his wife. I do most sincerely appreciate your willingness to protect my name, but I will not allow you to do it for me. And I will
not
marry where my heart is not engaged.”

Thorne pushed himself out of his chair to go and stand beside her. “And if your heart
were
engaged, would you marry then?”

She held his gaze and spoke softly. “Yes . . . but only if the man in question loved me, too.”

“Even if he also considered himself a friend?”

“Especially
if we were also friends.”

“Look at this license, Annabelle, and tell me it is not wasted.”

She read it with a growing sense of wonder. “Thorne? It ... it has
your
name . . . and mine.”

“Yes, it does. And I meet your qualifications, I think. You will marry me, will you not?”

“Yes! Yes, I will. But . . . but . . . how did you know?”

“I read your book.” He laughed softly and enclosed her in his arms. He kissed her very gently, but very soundly. “And now you are truly compromised here in front of your guardian and my brother. You will have to marry me.”

She looked at the grinning faces of Marcus and Luke and then back at Thorne, who had an equally silly grin on his face. “Yes, I suppose I will.”

Stimson and Winters returned, followed by Hart with a tray of glasses in which he poured brandy for all. These three were quickly apprised of what had transpired as they were out of the room.

“I
thought
there was a distinct odor of April and May in here,” Stimson said. “Congratulations, Rolsbury. And to you, dear heart, my very best wishes.” He kissed Annabelle on the cheek and she felt tears in her eyes.

Hart raised his glass. “A toast to new beginnings.”

Others said, “Hear! Hear!” and downed their drinks. Annabelle took only the smallest sip of the burning liquid as her eyes met Thorne’s in a time-honored promise.

“At the risk of casting cold water on this happy occasion,” Winters said, “I feel I should point out that it is getting late. If we are to have a prayer of making it back to town before it is pitch dark, we need to leave now.”

Annabelle rode double with Thorne and Luke rode Beelson’s mount to the nearest village. There they informed the magistrate of what had happened back at the hunting box and left the matter in his hands. Thorne hired a post chaise for Annabelle and himself and the others secured new mounts. She thought Thorne welcomed not being in the saddle, for he rubbed his leg rather vigorously.

“Does it hurt so very much?” she asked.

“No.” He placed an arm around her, drawing her closer. “I hired this closed carriage mostly to be alone with you.”

“How did you know none of the others would join us?”

“I threatened them with dire consequences if they did.”

She giggled at this and raised her face for a rather resounding kiss.

“Thome?

“Hmm?”

“Did you really know I love you from the book? Catherine told me it was a declaration of love.”

“And she forced me to read it because it was.”

“You were not offended . . . or embarrassed?”

“Humbled is more like it.” His breath at her ear was doing strange and wonderful things to the rest of her body.

“Humbled?”

“By the miracle. The miracle that you could love me with the same depth and feeling as I love you.”

This declaration was punctuated by a very long, very satisfying kiss.

“I think the sooner we use this special license, the better,” he said, going back for another kiss.

She merely responded in kind.

 

 

A few days later, the Earl and Countess of Wyndham hosted the grandest ball of the Season to celebrate Miss Richardson’s coming of age. Only she was no longer Miss Richardson at that point. She was already the Countess of Rolsbury—and she was contemplating a new book tentatively titled
Love Returned.

WILMA COUNTS lives in Nevada. She is currently working on a historical romance set in the Regency period. Look for it in May 2002! Wilma loves hearing from her readers and you may write to her c/o Zebra Books. Please include a self-addressed stamped envelope if you wish a reply. Or you may e-mail her at [email protected].

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Copyright © 2001 by J. Wilma Counts

 

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ISBN: 978-0-8217-7042-9