Samantha James (3 page)

“Ever the intrepid adventurer, our Annie.” Alec smiled mildly.

“And yet another McBride with no technique,” John observed.

Anne was vastly annoyed. Oh, traitors, all! she decided. Rising, she dropped her napkin on her plate. “Well,” she said lightly, “it seems you are all rather easily amused.” She pushed back her chair. “Mother, perhaps it’s time we took the entertainment to the music room.”

Vivian rose gracefully to her small feet. “An excellent idea, Anne. Mr. Blackwell, you’ll join us, won’t you?”

Moments later Vivian was running her fingers nimbly across the piano keys. But Anne seized hold of the opportunity now afforded her. Before her mother could begin a melody, before any of the rest of them had even take a seat, she held back. “Oh, dear,” she said with a forced laugh, “I fear I must beg my excuses. I suddenly find I’ve developed quite the headache.”

Vivian looked up at her in silent question. It wasn’t like her to be sickly—ever. And Caro’s mouth formed an “O” of surprise. Alec’s ice-blue eyes sharpened, and even John was frowning. As for Simon Blackwell, well, she knew the instant his regard settled on her; she felt it with every pore of her being. It was vastly annoying, she thought, wondering what the devil had come over her. Yet was it any wonder she felt like a bug beneath a glass? She kept her gaze trained on her mother—and away from him.

Vivian inclined her head. “Of course, Anne,” she said. “Feel better soon, darling.”

And with that, Anne bobbed a curtsy—and once she was out of sight, she nearly ran to her room.

An hour later, Anne had just thrown back the coverlet on her bed when she heard a faint cry from down the hall. She paused, one knee perched on the bed. Footsteps scurried by; she spied their shadow beneath the door. Reassured, she slipped beneath the covers, then picked up the book at her bedside, intending to read a short while. A scant minute later there was a light tap on her door.

Caro opened it. “Annie?”

“Come in, Caro.” Anne set aside her book. “Jack?” she inquired.

“Izzie. John went in to her.” Caro stepped into the room and closed the door. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” Anne lied.

Caro looked at her closely. “You do seem a bit pale. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Anne picked up the other pillow and settled it against her chest. “I’m much better, Caro. I think perhaps it was the heat.” She didn’t dare say it was the company…

Caro peered at her earnestly. “We didn’t mean to make sport of you, you know.”

“I know.”

And it was true. It wasn’t their teasing. It wasn’t that at all.

It was he.

Simon Blackwell.

But it had been a cowardly thing to do—to flee the way she had. Already she regretted it. But it was done and—

“I didn’t mean to worry anyone.” She patted the place beside her. “Come sit, love.”

Caro settled herself next to her.

“Mr. Blackwell made an early evening of it as well. He left a scant half hour after you went upstairs.”

“Did he now?” It was a statement, not an inquiry.

“Oh, Annie, don’t look like that! I know you do not care for him.”

“You’re right. I do not. Indeed, he struck me as quite the…unconventional sort.”

Caro winced. “Unconventional? What, now you’ve decided to temper your words?”

“What?” Anne queried, knowing full well what Caro meant.

“Annie, why, you all but called him an eccentric! And merely because he chooses not to frequent London. Why,
you
much prefer the country to London. Yet you dared disparage him for it.”

“I did not disparage him. I did not
call
him an eccentric. I merely made an innocent query.”

“Innocent? Annie, it was quite apparent to everyone you think him an ogre!”

Anne secretly smiled her satisfaction. Simon Blackwell was…well, exactly as she expected.

“Annabel McBride! Do not look like that. He’s hardly a beast! I stand by my initial impression.”

“And mine is but confirmed. I think he’s the stuffiest man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“Anne!” Caro injected. “I cannot believe we’re discussing the same man.”

“And I cannot believe you had the audacity to inquire as to his marital state!”

“I did not inquire. I merely made the discovery that our Mr. Blackwell is unwed.”

“He is not
our
Mr. Blackwell.” Anne longed to throw up her hands.

Caro was wide-eyed and demure. “Oh, do forgive me.
Your
Mr. Blackwell.”

“Caroline Sykes! I tell you now, Simon Blackwell and I would never suit.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, but I do.” Anne was adamant. The idea of her and Simon Blackwell…Why, it was ridiculous. More than ridiculous, really. Whatever was Caro thinking?

“Why do you find him so objectionable?”

“Caro!” Anne shot her what she hoped was a quelling look. “Either way, it’s not worth arguing over.”

“Oh, come. We never argue.” Caro smiled. “Well, almost never.” Which was very true. Anne was reminded of days gone by. So often, she and Caro need not say a word to know what the other was thinking.

Though Caro was eyeing her curiously, it appeared Caro was reminded as well. “Annie,” she said softly, “do you remember when we used to stay up almost the whole night through? We’d throw open the window and gaze into the night wishing on stars.” She smiled wistfully. “There’s nowhere in the world that has more stars than Gleneden, is there?”

Anne tacitly agreed.

“We talked…and talked more, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” Anne said dryly, “that’s mostly what I remember.” She paused. “The last time was the night before you married John.” She grinned. “Caro, I’ve never seen anyone so excited!”

“I’ve never
been
so excited. Too excited to think of sleep!”

They both laughed. Caro sighed. “I miss those days.”

Anne arched a brow.

“What, Annie, you don’t?”

“Well, yes, of course. But we’re both older now and—”

“And I know what you’re going to say, Annie. I have a husband and children. So yes, it’s different, yet as I sit here now, it’s just the way it used to be. Why, it’s just the way it’s always
been. And…Annie, oh, Annie, I have a secret!”

Anne leaned close. “What?” she whispered.

Caro whispered back. “Annie, I think that I…” She laid a hand on her belly.

Anne’s eyes widened. “What, again?” She hastily amended her words. “Oh, Caro, I didn’t mean—”

“I know, love. Oh, I know! But”—she bit her lip—“oh, my, I haven’t even told John yet! I shall have to rectify that tonight.”

“Yes, I rather suspect he’d like to know,” Anne injected wryly, then smiled. “He’ll be thrilled, won’t he?”

“He will,” Caro admitted. “And this is another girl, I just know it.”

“Do you now?”

“I do,” Caro insisted. She paused, then reached for Anne’s hand and sighed. “Oh, Annie, if we were wishing on stars, do you know what I’d wish for? I’d wish for you to be as happy as I am.”

Anne tipped her head to the side, a faint smile on her lips. “But, dearest, I am happy.”

“Oh, yes, yes, I know, but…oh, you’d have a bit of catching up to do, but Annie, wouldn’t it be grand if—if you had a little girl, too? And someday the two of them…why, they’d stay up all night the way we used to.”

“Like sisters,” Anne said softly. “Like us.”

And all at once a vivid picture appeared in Anne’s mind—the image of two little girls
whispering and tiptoeing barefoot across the floor, then erupting into giggles as Nurse threw open the door and scolded, sending them scampering back to bed and ducking under the covers—only to emerge the instant the door closed.

Suddenly there was a gigantic lump in Anne’s throat. Oh, how she loved Caro! They hugged each other, each wearing a sloppy, sentimental smile, but neither cared.

“Well, dearest, I suppose it might be wise to find a husband first before the children come.” Anne’s laugh held a breathless quality.

Caro still clutched her hand. She squeezed her fingers. “Above all, I want you to have what I have,” she said softly.

“Someday I will,” Anne said.

And in that moment, there was never a doubt in her mind.

Simon knew, the moment he stepped into the McBride residence, that he shouldn’t have come. He knew it as soon as he crossed the threshold.

The McBrides were a close-knit family. He liked them. Truly he did.

All but the girl. All but Anne. And it wasn’t that he disliked her.

But she disliked him. She disliked him intensely.

Yet still she occupied his mind the entire way home.

What was it that made him so uncomfortably
aware of her? Was it her spirit? An adventurer, her brother had called her. Yes, he could see that trait in her. He’d sensed it this morning.

All at once Simon’s memory was suddenly far sharper than he wished. In his mind’s eye, he recalled every detail. She had dark slivers of eyebrows. Her eyes were a deep sapphire, but darkened to midnight when she was displeased. Her hair was like sun-drizzled honey and chestnut all melded together.

And—God above—but he could not help it. When she’d turned toward him, he’d glimpsed the sweet swell of her breasts where they peeped above the scalloped lace of her gown. There was a luminous, almost pearlescent quality to the fairness of her skin. It looked supple. Firm. He’d had to stop his gaze from dwelling long and hard on the rise and fall of her chest.

What was it? he pondered. The scent of warm flesh and vibrant woman? The faint scent of roses? The scent of
her
? He thought of the way she moved, her long, leggy stride—a stride that bespoke confidence, yet not vanity.

Why couldn’t they have seated him next to her cousin, the married one? he wondered impatiently. Of course, if he’d refused the invitation in the first place, there would have been no problem. Never mind that it would have been the height of rudeness. What did he care? What did he care about anything?

Stepping into his lodgings, he strode straight to the bedside table, where he splashed a liberal portion of whisky into a glass. He downed it quickly, welcoming the burning as it slid down his throat, the hazy fuzz that began to surround his mind.

It did little to still the questing in his being. Indeed, it only made it worse.

Moving to the bureau, he untied his cravat and dragged it loose. Dear God, what was wrong with him? Yet even as the question slid through his mind, he knew the answer.

One night had forever changed him.
That
night.

It was then he had turned to solitude. It was then he shut himself away.
To hide
, sneered a voice in his soul. But within him was a heart-ache too painful to reveal—to anyone.

If only he could feel numb. But five years of widowhood had changed him. Five years of widowhood had made him distant. Perhaps even hard. God, he thought disgustedly. Was it any wonder that Anne disliked him?

He’d always regarded himself a most astute observer of human nature. He’d always been sensitive to the moods and feelings of those around him.

But he wasn’t the man he used to be.

Absently he rubbed his right shoulder. Beneath the cloth of his shirt, the skin was tightly
drawn and puckered. He’d learned to live with the near-constant ache, accepted it for it was now a part of him as much as his memories. Yet if he was honest with himself—as he usually was—the ache in his heart was a thousand times worse.

And tonight the door to the past had been flung wide open.

“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”

It was Duffy, whose rheumatism had begun to slow his gait. Simon glanced up at the stoop-shouldered man who had served him since he was a boy. The old man had come in and turned down the bed and he hadn’t even been aware of it.

“Duffy,” he said, “do you find me difficult?”

Duffy ran a head over his bald pate. “Sir—” he began.

“For pity’s sake, you needn’t mind your tongue,” he stated gruffly. “You know damned well I won’t dismiss you. Come now, out with it.”

Duffy cleared his throat. “What I think, sir, is that you’ve suffered too long already. And I wonder how much longer you will continue to make yourself suffer.”

Brave words. True words. Well, Simon thought with a twist of his heart, he
had
asked.

“Will that be all, sir?”

Simon inclined his head. It was Duffy who saw that he was clothed and fed. If not for the
old man, he wondered with a touch of cynicism, what would have become of him?

“Very well then.” With a quickness that belied his age, Duffy stepped up. “I’ll just tidy up a bit first,” he said cheerfully. He reached for the bottle of whisky.

“No,” Simon said. “Leave it.”

Duffy’s faded gaze came up questioningly.

Almost defiantly, Simon curled long fingers around the neck of the bottle.

“Good night, Duffy,” he said.

When he was alone, Simon made his way to the desk near the window.

Slowly he reached for his glass—and then his journal. It was habit, he supposed, rifling through the pages. But he reasoned that even in his disordered mind, there must be some sense of right.

And all at once, his rage at God, his rage at the world at large surged to the surface. A tearing rage ripped through him. A rage he had not felt in weeks. Months. Just when he’d thought the hurt had begun to fade…

Once again, he was bleeding inside. His lungs burned. To have so much, all that a man could treasure—and then in an instant, it was gone. Everything. How could it be?

He wanted to scream. To cry. He thought of Rosewood. Of Ellie. Of Joshua and little Jack, ever the bright-eyed, mischievous sprite. Of cherub cheeks and dimpling smiles. And for
long, horrifying moments, he felt himself locked in torment. Locked in time—plunged back into the midst of a nightmare.

He’d let them die. He’d
made
them die. Their lives forever gone.

And his forever dark.

He slumped in his chair.

Oh, God.

All because of the blasted girl, he thought bitterly. Anne. Damn her, he thought.
Damn her
. She’d seen his reaction. It was almost as if she’d known…

Damn her to hell for reminding him.

Pray God he did not see her again. Pray God he did not want to.

Pray God it did not happen.

Again and again the neck of the bottle dipped into the glass. Again and again he raised it to his lips.

The pages of his journal flipped open. Then the quill was in his hand, scratching across the paper. When he was finished, he stared at the words he’d written. His writing—his name—so neat and precise, so unlike the jumble of his life.

He stared until his eyes were burning and dry, until they began to blur, whether from tears or drink he did not know. And he could not forget.

His name is Jack
.

Anne was in the habit of walking daily. Even at Gleneden, when the Scottish winds blustered and squalled, only the fiercest of weather kept her indoors. If she was not walking, she was riding. Admittedly, as she ambled toward Hyde Park, the notion of crossing paths with Simon Blackwell again cropped up in her mind. But that was silly. She wouldn’t allow anyone to keep her from her pleasure, certainly not him.

The day was not as hot as the previous day, but it was still very warm. Anne rested her parasol on her shoulder, quite enjoying her stroll. She passed a man angling in the Serpentine—and then she saw him.

Oh, no. It could not be. It simply could not be.

Their eyes tangled. He stopped short—or was it she?

Anne had the oddest sense he didn’t know what to do as well, or what to say. But it appeared there was no help for it.

“Well, well, my lady, I see your dilemma. You are uncertain whether to acknowledge me or ignore me.”

His bluntness took her aback, but only for an instant. “And I see you’re as eager to see me as I am to see you.”

He accorded her a faint bow. “I trust you’ve quite recovered from your headache?”

His tone was politeness itself. He knew, damn him, he knew it had been a lie!

But Anne was ever one to take up the gaunt-let. “And I trust that your dashing rescue has left you none the worse for wear?”

They eyed each other. The oddest thought shot through Anne’s mind. He was dressed entirely in severe black. No one would ever accuse him of being a peacock, that was for certain. And just as she had last night, she sensed power and strength beneath the clothing.

Her heart was pounding oddly as well. Anne swallowed. “There is no one present,” she said. “We need not stand on pretense as we did last night.”

“Pretense? Is that what it was?”

His gaze had sharpened along with his tone.

“The truth is, I didn’t expect that you would come to supper last night.” The confession emerged before she could stop it.

“My dear Lady Anne, I was invited.”

“So you were.”

“And if I hadn’t come, would that have made me a coward in your eyes?”

“Of course not,” she stated shortly. “It would simply indicate that you’ve a mind of your own.”

There was a sudden glint in his eye. “Some might take that as a challenge, my lady. But perhaps we should adopt the facade of good manners now. For the benefit of those around us, of course. Shall we walk?”

His tone was utterly pleasant, but Anne was
not of a mind to trust him. “Must we?” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon?” Now there was a faint edge to his tone.

Anne lifted her chin and said nothing.

He offered his elbow. “Shall we?”

If it hadn’t been for the presence of a young couple passing not three feet away, Anne might have refused. No, she
would
have refused. Instead she smiled and laid her fingertips on his sleeve.

“I gather,” he remarked, “that you’re a rather outspoken young woman.”

“I suppose I am. Do you criticize or do you commend?”

“Neither. I merely wonder what I’ve done that you malign me so.”

Anne compressed her lips.

“You need not hide it, you know. You don’t like me, do you?”

God rot it, did he have to sound so reasonable? And why did she feel so suddenly
un
reasonable?

“Lady Anne,” he said gently, “why don’t you simply admit it? You don’t like me.”

Anne pondered her dilemma. If she agreed, it would be most impolite. If she disagreed, well, it would be a lie, yet another one!

Her chin rose a notch. “I do not know you, sir. Nothing but the little I learned last night,” she said stiffly. “What I do know is that upon
our first encounter, you were not particularly polite to me. If you recall, you gave me quite the dressing-down…why, almost in this very spot!” Their stroll across the grass had brought them nearly to the track of Rotten Row.

He stopped short. “Ah, so that’s it. And now you seek to even the score, is that it? You wish me to grovel.”

“Somehow,” she retorted tartly, “I don’t believe you’re the groveling sort.”

“That’s quite a statement for a woman who says she does not know me. And I suspect that’s not all, which leads me to ask what other grievous misdeed I’ve performed.”

What approach should she take to
that
? “Are we inclined to be frank?” she asked sweetly.

He inclined his head. Beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes were a dark pewter. “By all means.”

“Despite your gallant rescue of Jack yesterday, I am given to wonder why you even bothered, for I rather suspect you dislike children.”

He stiffened. “You’re mistaken,” he said curtly.

“Am I?” His reaction but confirmed it. “I did not imagine your distaste in holding Jack last night?”

He stepped back. The movement dislodged her grip on his elbow.

“My dear Lady Anne, you are correct in your earlier assessment. You do not know me. But
if it is an apology you seek, I shall endeavor to give it. I apologize.”

His delivery was clipped and abrupt, almost staccato-like. Anne was more shocked than hurt. She could not help it. Her jaw fell open.

“And now,” he concluded with a tight smile, “I shall rid you of my presence and bid you good day. That should please you, will it not? Or perhaps you wish my escort home?”

Anne was too stunned to say a word.

“No? I thought not.” A stiff bow, and he strode away.

Anne stared after him, still openmouthed…and suddenly fuming mad.

The man was no more than she presumed, no less than she expected. He was detestable. Disagreeable. Unbearable. She could think of a dozen other ways to describe him, none of them particularly flattering.

Her pleasure in her walk had vanished. She proceeded home. The door slammed as she stepped inside, her skirts whipping as she turned toward the drawing room.

Caro had just descended the stairs. “Well,” her cousin observed mildly, “you’re in a bit of a tizzy today.”

Anne yanked at the ties of her bonnet. “It’s him. That dreadful man.”

Caro paused on the last step. “Oh, my. Dare I ask who this man is? Or are you having secret assignations without my knowledge?”

“If I were having secret assignations, it would not be with Simon Blackwell!”

A hint of a smile flirted at Caro’s lips. “Ah,” she said.

“Do not look like that,” Anne said crossly. “Caro, this is not amusing!”

“Dearest, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so passionate about any other man.”

“Passionate is hardly the word I would use. He is a most crusty man, Caro. So much so that I wonder he does not splinter into pieces. I vow that should I ever see him again, I shall tell him so.”

“Hmmm. That may happen sooner than you think, dearest. Though I would advise you to bite your tongue, considering that he will be a guest in your mother’s home.”

“Never tell me you have invited him to dinner again!”

“No. But your mother has.”

Anne nearly shrieked. “What?…When?…Why?”

“The Dowager Countess of Hopewell’s birthday fete will be held here instead of Lady Creswell’s. She’s fallen ill, I’m afraid. And your mother insisted on hosting it.” Caro paused. “And Annie—”

“What, there’s more?”

“No. But do you know what I think?”

Anne didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“I suspect you’re about to tell me. Indeed, I know it.”

“You say he’s stuffy. Crusty. But there’s something almost sad about him.” Caro hesitated. “Annie, I know you may not agree, but I think he’s lonely. John thought so as well.”