Samantha James (2 page)

Anne, who was rarely at a loss for words, stared at her cousin as they left Simon Blackwell behind. “Caro,” she said, once they were out of earshot, “what have you done?”

“I just invited my son’s rescuer to supper,” came her cousin’s breezy reply.

“But—he’s a stranger!” Anne was still rather aghast. “I mean, really, what do we know of him?”

“We know all we need to know! It’s hardly like you to be so tiresome, Annie. It’s obvious Simon Blackwell is a most pleasant gentleman. I know a man of good character when I see one.”

A gentleman, Anne conceded darkly as they crossed the street, but hardly a pleasant one.

“Oh, yes, a most pleasant gentleman,” Caro mused as they continued the walk north toward her mother’s town house.

Anne pursed her mouth. “Caro, if I didn’t know you were madly in love with John, I could almost believe you were playing the coquette with that man.”

“I was not. I was being polite, something that seems to have escaped you, dearest. And his looks are rather dashing, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Anne was annoyed. “Well, of course I did. But—”

Caro laughed out loud. “Excellent,” she nearly chortled. “Most excellent!”

Anne raised a brow. “And why is that?”

“Oh, come, Annie, you needn’t sound so prim. I know you better than anyone. You’ve had your share of suitors in the past. Why, I do believe Lillith Kimball has never forgiven you for stealing away Charles Goodwin.”

Anne scowled. “You know very well I did not steal him away.”

“Well, you cannot deny you had quite the
tendre
for him.”

Alas, it was true. In her first and only Season out—because of her father’s subsequent illness—Anne had been rather smitten with Charles Goodwin, a man whose blond, godlike countenance had many a miss, Anne included, vying for his attentions.

And it was Anne upon whom Charles had settled his attentions for the latter half of the Season, while Lillith Kimball had captured his attentions for the first half. But one single evening at the opera had cured Anne’s
tendre.

Charles had managed to secure the box next to her, Caro, and John. He’d proceeded to boast about the vastness of his holdings in England, his
appartement
in Paris, the fact that he was heir to his father’s earldom. Anne had never met a man so full of himself as Charles Goodwin. As relayed by the man himself, the list of his accomplishments—and his opinion of himself—was limitless. Anne was scarcely able to enjoy the performance for the way Charles prattled on about himself—and not a word about
anything
else. It had taken Anne but scant minutes to recognize her mistake—and acknowledge that there were more important facets to admire in a man than simply a handsome face.

Then, during the intermission when Caro and John had gone to seek refreshments, he’d
even tried to kiss her! It was the most acutely awkward moment of Anne’s life when she turned her face aside and lurched to her feet, mumbling an excuse about finding Caro and John. Moreover, Charles had called on her for some days afterward. It was Alec who had informed him rather cuttingly that there was little point in continuing to do so.

Anne glowered. “Oh, come,” she said rather crossly. “I certainly did not steal Charles away from her. In point of fact, after that horrid night at the opera, I’d have liked to steal away myself!”

“Well,” Caro said with a chuckle, “I rather suspect you’ll never convince Lillith Kimball of that. I do believe she still carries a torch for him. She has yet to marry, you know. And neither has Charles.”

“That is hardly my fault,” Anne said stiffly.

“Yes, I’m aware of that, love,” Caro continued breezily, “which brings me back to one Mr. Simon Blackwell. Need I remind you that you have no other suitors at present? After all, this is your first visit to London in nearly two years.”

“I fail to see what that has to do with anything,” Anne declared.

“Oh, but it has
everything
to do with it. I daresay Jack and Izzie would just adore having a little cousin to play with.”

Anne blinked, too stunned to say a word.

“For pity’s sake, Caro!” she managed finally. “Are you listening to yourself?”

Together they began to climb the steps toward the shiny black-fronted door. Caro cast her a sidelong glace. “What’s the matter with you, Annie? You act as if you’re…oh, I don’t know. Afraid somehow.”

“Afraid? Hardly!” For all her bravado, at the memory Simon Blackwell’s piercing gray eyes, Anne felt a curious shiver run through her.

“‘The lady doth protest too much,’” Caro quoted. “Come now, where is your pluck, my dear?” Caro sailed through the door, which had been opened by a footman. They handed the little ones to a maid. “You’ve always been the daring, adventurous one, unafraid of anyone and anything. I’ll never forget the way you once convinced me we should hide behind the screen in Alec’s room when he slipped Veronica Brooks inside.”

Anne bit her lip. Though Caro was a year older, it was Anne who had always taken the lead in their escapades. “Nor will Alec,” she admitted.

Caro chuckled. “That was wicked of us, wasn’t it?”

“And quite revealing. Oh, but it was Veronica who was revealed, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, but do not flutter those angelically wide blue eyes at me, love! Those who know you are
aware you are as feisty as ever!”

“How can you say such a thing?” Anne fought hard to suppress a smile and didn’t at all succeed. “I’ve reformed. Truly. And I would remind you, I’m hardly the one who invited that man home for supper. Your hero was quite rude to me, Caro!”

“John is my only hero, love. And while you say you’ve reformed,” Caro said lightly, “I know you, Annie. You’ll always be the same inside. You’re the vibrant, fervent one—that’s why we love you. Everything you do, you do with all your heart. Alec will always be as secretly devilish as you are, and Aidan, I’m sure, will ever be the man of adventure.”

Quite so, Anne admitted silently.

“Now, back to Mr. Simon Blackwell, love.” Caro’s eyes were alight with laughter. “Please don’t forget his name when he comes to supper.”

Anne’s nostalgic smile ended in a most unladylike snort. “If he even puts in an appearance. And if he does, well, then perhaps John should like to know that you were flirting with that—that
man,
Caro!”

Caro laughed. “John adores me as much as I adore him,” she pronounced cheerfully. “But you’re right. It wouldn’t do to behave in such an outrageous manner. Therefore, I shall be perfectly happy to leave the flirting to you, dearest.” With that, Caro blew her a kiss.

Anne sank down on the stairs with a moan.
How divine, she thought dismally.

It appeared she must resign herself to supper with the tyrant after all.

Precisely at eight o’clock, the knocker at the front door sounded.

The household was in a bit of an uproar. Izzie and Jack had just been bathed, but had escaped the clutches of their nurse and scampered downstairs. From the parlor doorway, Caro heaved a sigh and crooked a finger at Izzie. Just as the maid opened the front door, Anne scooped up Jack from the stairway, where he appeared intent on leaping from the last stair as his sister was so fond of doing. Anne gave him a quick
squeeze, loving the feel of his small body. Fresh from the bath, his round cheeks still glowing and rosy, he was adorable as always.

And then Simon Blackwell stepped inside.

Caro flashed a beaming smile. “Mr. Blackwell! How wonderful to see you again—and right on time.”

“I’m a man of my word,” Simon murmured with a faint lift of his brows. “It would be quite rude to be tardy.”

Would it have killed the man to smile?
It would be quite rude to be tardy
, Anne mimicked in her mind. She felt suddenly rather cross.

She wasn’t exactly pleased that Caro had been right—he had shown! And now that he had, it would be quite rude to claim illness, Anne admitted to herself, particularly when she was already here in the flesh. Well, no doubt Caro would be chortling later this evening.

He acknowledged Anne’s presence with a faint bow. “My lady,” he murmured. His countenance remained unsmiling, his tone utterly noncommittal.

Anne withheld a glare. The memory of his arrogance earlier in the day washed over her in full force. Nonetheless, she would show the grace and civility he had not.

Izzie, who had been closest to the door—and to him—turned suddenly shy. When the child slipped behind her mother’s skirts, Anne
wanted to grin wickedly.
Yes, poppet, you’ve decided he’s quite the tyrant too, haven’t you?

“Isabella, don’t be so shy, duckling! Don’t you remember, we met Mr. Blackwell in the park today.”

Isabella peeped out at him warily. Meanwhile, Jack had mashed his face into Anne’s shoulder, only to pop up an instant later. His eyes sparkling, he extended chubby hands toward Simon and leaned forward.

The gesture was unmistakable.

But Mr. Blackwell didn’t want to hold him. In the instant before he took the little boy, she spied it on his features; she sensed it as well. It was not distaste that flitted across his face, nor could she deem it reluctance.

She was suddenly indignant. What the devil? she wondered. He’d had no qualms about holding Jack when he’d rescued him; there had been something about his hold on the boy earlier today that indicated a familiarity with little ones. Perhaps that was why it suddenly seemed so odd now when it appeared he didn’t want to.

It might have been different had the little boy been dirty and sticky. But he wasn’t. His body was soft and sweet-smelling, and all at once, Anne was brimming with fire.

Her mouth opened. Anne was fully prepared to smite him with the sting of her tongue.

“Well, I see Jack is determined to make a pest of himself again.”

It was John, Caro’s husband, fair and ruddy-cheeked and ever jovial.

Simon turned his head. “Jack?” he repeated. “Isn’t his name…isn’t it John?”

Anne glanced at Simon sharply.

“It is,” said Caro with a chuckle. “But my husband John here”—she offered up her cheek for the brush of her husband’s lips—“has called him Jack since the day he was born. And despite my most ardent objection, nearly everyone in the family has followed his lead in calling our son Jack—even me,” she said with a laugh.

“Papa!” Jack squealed in delight.

“Here, I’ll take him,” John said easily. John scooped up his son and ruffled the youngster’s hair before handing him over to his nurse.

Vivian McBride, who had been napping, had descended the staircase to join them. Caro made the introductions, and then Alec strode in as well. Alec playfully chucked Anne beneath the chin, then turned to their mother.

“Mother,” he murmured, bending low to kiss one parchment cheek, “you’re looking particularly lovely tonight.”

And she did, Anne decided with a twist in her heart. Of course, Vivian McBride would have looked exquisite in a flour sack. Her frame was slight, her features porcelain and delicate. She wore a gown of pale lavender silk; it was only recently that she had come out of mourning. Her husband’s ravaging illness had been
long and difficult, but throughout, Vivian was cheerful and strong—and scarcely more than a few footsteps from his bedside.

Not until she’d said her private good-byes to the man she had loved throughout the course of thirty years and six births—though only Alec, Aidan, and Anne had survived—did she finally break. Only after his passing did the duchess close her eyes and weep, with only her children as witness. Yet when the duke was laid to rest, Vivian handled it as she did all else, with the utmost dignity and poise.

“Alec,” said the duchess, “may I introduce our dinner guest, Mr. Simon Blackwell? I understand Mr. Blackwell made a rather dashing rescue of little Jack today in Hyde Park. Mr. Blackwell, my son, Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden.”

The two men shook hands. “Ah,” drawled Alec. “So Jack was being a mischief maker, eh? I confess, I’m not terribly surprised.”

Anne was scarcely listening. She was still pondering the moment when John had appeared and called his son Jack. She wasn’t certain what had just happened, but
something
had.

What lay behind Simon Blackwell’s query?
I thought his name was John.
His voice had been so odd when he spoke Jack’s name. Rather hoarse and…well, just so peculiar. And his expression had been strange as well. It was as if, for a hairbreadth of an instant, everything
including the ability to breathe—had frozen solid. Caro didn’t appear to have noticed, nor did any of the others. Was she mistaken? Anne stole a glance at his profile.

He appeared completely recovered.

Vivian directed her smile at Simon. “Mr. Blackwell, would you be so kind as to escort me in to dinner?”

“Your Grace, I should be honored.”

No one would have called Simon Blackwell a man of lighthearted folly. From her place directly beside him—oh, but she had the feeling Caro was responsible for that!—Anne considered him ever so discreetly. His jaw was square and angular, cleanly shaven to the skin. He was deeply tanned; clearly he did not spend all his time in the pursuit of leisurely endeavors. There was in his demeanor a presence so strong she felt it like a jolt, an undercurrent that was almost overwhelmingly elemental.

Clearly he was a man of means. It wasn’t only his clothing that declared him such. Neither his pose nor his manner had suggested that he was uncomfortable in either their home or their presence.

He’d shed his morning coat for other attire. The collar of his shirt was high, nearly touching his cheeks, his cravat precisely tied. But for his shirt, he was garbed entirely in black. The cut of his jacket was several years behind the
fashion, plainly tailored, but hewn of the finest material. Still, the cut was dark and severe, a bit like the man himself, Anne decided with a touch of wryness.

But it was his size that sent her pulse skidding oddly. The fabric of his jacket was stretched taut; beneath, his shoulders seemed enormously wide. The span of his wrists was in similar proportion, the length of his fingers curled around a delicately fragile wineglass, strong but not meaty. The backs of his hands were liberally sprinkled with a netting of hair as dark as that on his head. All combined to make the contrast even more pronounced.

Anne was not a particularly small woman. In her younger years she’d been thin and awkward as a cat without fur. As her father had liked to tease, that was no longer the case. Yet the man beside her made her feel quite small and petite, a feeling most unusual to Anne.

He was hardly old, and yet…She pondered his age, most suddenly—and most curiously. At his temples gleamed a smattering of silver. She glanced between the three men. Alec was seven years her senior, and John the same age, yet thus far neither displayed any sign of gray.

Considering her dislike of him, she didn’t expect to find him—drat it all!—so handsome. And not just handsome, but quite exquisitely
handsome. Drat! Why had Caro pointed it out?

And why did she even notice? inquired a silent voice in her head.

It was most vexing. And she was decidedly short of breath. Had Agnes laced her up too tightly? Surely that was it. Still…

“Damnation!” she muttered, her fingers clenching her napkin in her lap.

Her mother turned large blue eyes upon her. “Anne? What did you say, dear?”

Anne swallowed. “Nothing, Mama.”

Vivian turned her regard back to their guest. “Is your primary residence in London, Mr. Blackwell?” she inquired.

“No, Your Grace.” He paused. “Actually, I rarely visit London. I spend most of my time in the country. The north country, to be precise.”

Anne reached for her wine. “In the country? What, sir? Are you an eccentric?” The question slipped out before Anne thought better of it.

Vivian had merely to raise a finely arched brow and fold her hands in her lap to display her displeasure. And now Alec was glaring at her in that disapproving way he sometimes had, she noticed with annoyance. He was her older brother, and he was a duke, but she certainly would never quail before him!

Anne could not deny she had erred. She couldn’t precisely say what had come over her. At some other time she might not have been so
stubborn. But tonight…
What?
she wanted to shout.
What?

It did not lessen when she felt the scrutiny of their guest settled on her. Their eyes met. A curious tension seemed to hum between them. “What makes you think that?” he asked pleasantly.

Her chin came up. Anne took a sip of her wine before glancing his way. “Well, sir,” she pointed out, “you did say you rarely visit London. Perhaps you’re a recluse then.”

Alec interjected. “You must forgive my sister’s forwardness,” he said lightly. “Our only excuse is that we come from the wilds of Scotland where manners occasionally fall by the wayside.”

Anne longed to give an unladylike snort. Alas, her mother continued Alec’s unwanted rescue.

“London can grow tiresome, can’t it? I’m always glad to go home to Gleneden.”

“I can imagine it is, Your Grace. But actually Lady Anne’s assumption is correct. I would probably not have come to London were it not for the occasion of my Aunt Leticia’s seventieth birthday.”

Vivian’s fork poised in mid-air. “Leticia,” she repeated. “Leticia Hamilton? The Dowager Countess of Hopewell?”

“The very same, Your Grace.”

Vivian made a sound of pleasure. “Why, she was my patroness at my come-out years ago.

Indeed, her birthday celebration is the day after next—at Lady Creswell’s.”

“Precisely why I’m here, Your Grace.”

Oh, but she should have known. What had begun as a pleasant enough day was continuing its descent. Of course Anne was aware that her mother and the countess were dear friends. They called upon each other whenever they were in London and corresponded regularly.

Gritting her teeth, Anne disguised her annoyance.

It wasn’t just Caro. Now it appeared Simon Blackwell had succeeded in winning over the heart of her mother—and with scarcely any effort at all!

But it was Caro who said brightly, “Forgive my presumption, but did your wife accompany you, Mr. Blackwell?”

Anne was mortified. Beside her, she could have sworn Simon Blackwell was uncomfortable as well.

Caro practically cooed her satisfaction. Anne longed to slink beneath the table.

“No,” he answered. “I live alone.”

It appeared John had been studying him as well. He tipped his head to the side. “Do we have a previous acquaintance, Mr. Blackwell?”

“I was thinking the same as well,” said Alec. “You look familiar. And your name as well. I thought perhaps we’d met before, but I don’t believe we have.”

“Nor do I, Your Grace—”

Alec waved a careless hand. “No need to stand on formality, man. Call me Alec.”

“Very well then, Alec. I’m certain I’d remember if we had.”

“Perhaps not. But you attended Cambridge, didn’t you?” Again John spoke.

Simon’s brows shot high. “So I did.”

“By God, you were an oarsman, weren’t you? The year the colors were chosen.”

He referred, of course, to the annual boat race between Cambridge and Oxford, and the colors of the crew. Oxford wore dark blue, Cambridge a lighter hue. John and Alec were mad for the race that was now an annual event; both made it a point to be in London every year since they’d left Cambridge.

“It was my second year at Cambridge. I always aspired to the Blue Boat, but I was told I had no technique,” Alec said.

“That, gentlemen, was eons ago.” There was a hint of amusement in Blackwell’s voice. “Though I do believe Cambridge will ever have the advantage.”

“Hear hear.” John raised his glass high for a toast. “Indeed.”

Anne made a faint sound. Three pairs of male eyes turned her way.

“My sister,” Alec said dryly, “is no longer fond of rowing. She and Caro were once
stranded for hours in the middle of the loch at Gleneden, our home in Scotland.”

Anne sent Caro an arch look, for Caro was biting her lip, clearly struggling to hold back a laugh.

“I don’t believe I’ve heard this particular story before,” John remarked.

“It was after dark when they were discovered,” added the duchess. “A storm had blown in and drenched them to the skin. I recall the poor dears suffered quite a fever for some days afterward.”

Alec’s eyes gleamed as he glanced at Anne. “We laugh about it now, but my mother and Caro’s were quite frantic.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Of course it might have been averted somewhat if they had told someone their intentions.”

“True,” Caro agreed, “but I expect it wasn’t Annie’s intention to lose both oars either.” Anne’s cousin maintained her silence no longer. She wiped tears of laughter from the corner of her eyes. “I shall never forget the look on your face, Annie, when you scrambled after the first oar, only to hear the splash of the other as it fell into the loch. Though you made quite the heroic effort to retrieve it,” Caro amended on seeing Anne’s baleful expression.