Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (107 page)

The room was ominously quiet.

“If you must go, then go,” his father said at last. “But remember who you are, and what I expect. Don’t do anything that will have unfortunate repercussions. And stay away from Annabelle Layton.”

• • •

Annabelle was thrilled to see the familiar handwriting on the back of her note, but she was less thrilled reading it. In fact, only the most rigid self-control kept her from stomping one of her darling green half boots on the stone floor of the terrace. Could he not be done with it? Did he not remember the heat of that morning? The very air had simmered, like a pot set to boil. She’d been unable to sleep. Astley Castle’s fountain, hidden from view in the formal gardens, had beckoned like the wellspring of salvation.

She’d known full well that her behavior was scandalous. Ladies did not swim in fountains after all, but the water had felt so wonderful. And she
had
been wearing clothes: a linen shift, even though the water made it rather revealing. Certainly, she’d not expected Alec to be out wandering the castle grounds at dawn, a witness to her shameless display. He had gone utterly still at the sight of her, like a pillar of salt caught between Sodom and Gomorrah.

Even now, she could remember his eyes. Something had burned in them, and she’d hoped, despite her embarrassment, that he’d finally understood she was no longer a child. That she could be more to him than a friend. But the past two years had laid waste to those notions. The only thing burning that day had been his indignation.

Later—after she’d been trussed back up in a suffocating corset and a long-sleeved gown—he’d warned her about the dangers a young woman could face, sounding just like Parson Withersby at a Sunday service. Not that the parson had ever been so breathtakingly handsome.

Since then, however, Alec had come up with an astonishing array of excuses to avoid her. The amusing letters they’d once exchanged with great regularity were now limited, on his part, to polite inquiries about her well being. He was too busy in London being molded into the man his father thought he should be. A man who was hidebound and self-important.

Startled from her pique by the sound of laughter, Annabelle leaned over the terrace balustrade, looking out onto the back lawn. Her parents were chasing butterflies—her mother’s hair unbound and floating behind her, her father’s shirttails flying like flags in the breeze, both of them swinging their nets with wild abandon. Their plan was to catch dozens of the colorful insects, so they could be released in the Great Hall during Gareth’s party. However, she’d have to speak with Mother about that. Those plans had to be changed. Annabelle wanted this party to be remembered for its decorum. If only to shock Alec.

• • •

“Gareth, that is the largest trunk I’ve ever seen,” she said the next morning as her brother burst into the hall in blur of color. “I hope it means you will be staying for a while. It would do both you and your purse some good.”

“I can’t be poorly dressed at my own birthday party,” Gareth said, wrapping her in a quick hug after instructing the footmen to take his belongings to his room. He was wearing a bright green jacket over a puce-striped vest and fawn trousers—obviously a statement of high, if unfortunate, style. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with my purse. I’ve had a rush of luck at the tables lately, and I’m expecting to hear the news of my biggest win yet once Digby arrives.”

“Who is this Digby? You’ve not mentioned him before.”

“Damien Digby. I met him a few months back. He has got a gift for picking winners. I think you’ll like him.”

She doubted it. She didn’t like anyone who indulged her brother’s gambling habit. He regularly exceeded his allowance. Whenever he came home from London, he and Father closeted themselves in the study, arguing about money in angry whispers.

Of course, he invariably returned to the city with an additional bank draft. Her parents liked to joke that Gareth could charm the stripes off the famous zebra at Astley’s Amphitheater. With a ready smile, he was so undeniably good-looking that most of her friends were madly in love with him. He got whatever he wanted. They both did.

Which is what made the matter of Alec Carstairs so infuriating.

“You shouldn’t be spending so much of Father’s money, Gareth. Have you forgotten that I’ll be going to London for the Little Season in September?”

“How could I? You prattle on about it in every letter. I’ve warned all of my friends. We’re going to decamp en masse to Brighton.”

“I will ignore your insults,” she said, fighting back a grin. “Tell me, what does Alec think about this Mr. Digby?”

“You can guess the answer to that, Annabelle. Honestly, Carstairs has forgotten how to have fun. Any day now, I expect to find he’s gone old and arthritic.”

Even so, he was still the most handsome man she’d ever seen. And tonight, she would not be ignored. Mrs. Markum from the village had made up the most beautiful dress for her. It was the palest of cream silks, shot through with silver thread, and delicately embroidered with tiny flowers. Her hair would be pulled back with the clips Father had given to Mother on their wedding day. They were shaped like butterflies, the wings sparkling with dozens of small diamonds.

Tonight, she would dare him to find a trace of the girl he pretended her to be.

• • •

Just as evening fell, Alec walked up the crushed stone drive to Astley Castle. Despite its rather grandiose name, it was more accurately a fortified manor house, although it did have a moat. Briefly the home of Lady Jane Grey, England’s unfortunate Nine Days Queen, it had also served as a garrison for Cromwell’s forces during the Civil War before passing into the Layton family. Tonight, however, the house gave no hint of its troubled history. Japanese lanterns were strung, not only in the trees leading up the drive, but also in those surrounding the house, and the effect was magical. In the early dusk, a gentle light bathed the grounds, softening the lines of the old home, coloring it with pale pinks and darker purples. Alec heard strains of music and conversation. In fact, it appeared to be a remarkably conventional party, which was something of a surprise. Surely, circus animals were lurking somewhere.

The oversized front door was open to the evening air, and dozens of people were assembled in the Great Hall, which was brightly lit with wall lanterns. Chandeliers decked with wax candles flickered high above as Gareth’s parents received their guests. Sir Frederick, who often panicked in crowds, was hiding his misgivings well, and Lady Layton was radiant beside him. Gareth stood next to her, dressed in a colorful approximation of evening attire, but he seemed distracted. His eyes were darting the crowd and looking for someone. A footman with the champagne tray, no doubt. Alec did not see Annabelle.

But then familiar, melodious laughter washed over him, and he turned. A willowy, honey-tressed blonde stood at the center of a crowd of adoring men. Her face was hidden from view, but her gown—the color of moonlight—caressed her curves like a lover. Alec braced himself, every nerve taut. As if sensing his presence, she looked over her shoulder and smiled.

God in Heaven, he should never have come here tonight.

Annabelle had been only four years old the first time he saw her. He’d joined his mother on a neighborly visit to Astley Castle, and the little girl had utterly charmed him, struggling to sit still while Lady Layton served tea to her guests. Delicate, soft, and pink, like a rosy-cheeked doll, she’d roused all his protective instincts before kicking him in the shins to gain his attention.

If only he could see the girl she’d once been in the woman standing before him. Even two years ago, there had been hints of her, hiding in the body of a goddess. But there was nothing childlike about Annabelle now. She was spectacularly lovely, with arched brows, high cheekbones, and cornflower blue eyes that took his breath away.

Excusing herself from her admirers, she walked toward him with a slow smile. Then again, walking was not the right word. Swaying was the better choice, and all he could do was stand there, heart slamming in his chest as she approached, the gossamer silk gown caressing her curves. Were it dampened—as was the fashion with London’s faster set—it would be almost transparent. Just like that morning when she had gone swimming in the fountain, casting a spell over him like a sorceress.

“Alec, how nice you could join us this evening. I worried that in the end, something pressing would keep you in London. So often in these past two years, that has been the case.” Once, she’d have embraced him impulsively, laughing all the while. Now, she gave a surprisingly ladylike curtsey, extending one gloved hand. He leaned down to press a kiss upon it, and if his lips lingered a moment too long, he was rather proud of his self-control. It had been just enough to breathe in the scent of her—a familiar mix of honeysuckle soap and the lemon drops she loved. But there was also something new. Something dangerous.

“I wrote that I would be here, Annabelle. I am man who honors my obligations.”

She tilted her head, angling it up toward him, her eyes bewitching beneath half-lowered lashes. “Is that what I am now? An obligation?”

She would scramble his wits if he wasn’t careful.

“Of course not. We’re old friends, despite the distance between us.”

He’d been referring to the distance between London and Nuneaton, but he was certain she had leaned closer. His body all but screamed it.

“Perhaps we can ease that distance tonight.”

God above. Did she have any idea how that might be interpreted? He managed a self-conscious pat on her shoulder before stepping back, hoping he appeared collected and calm, instead of dizzy with the nearness of her.

“You are looking very well,” he said after a long pause. “How … big you have become.”

And with that asinine statement, he turned on his heels, vanishing into the crowd.

• • •

Why must Alec be indifferent to her, when so many other men were eager to gain her attention? There was Horace Briarly, the squire’s son from the village. He’d vowed his eternal love these past three years or more. Lord Percival Spencer, the rather rakish heir to a viscountcy in Warwickshire, made every excuse to visit her father with lepidopterological concerns—though it was obvious he had no interest in the hobby. And then there was the widower, Sir Boniface, an amateur artist. He’d already presented her with a number of lovely paintings, although it was embarrassing to have six portraits of oneself. Wherever Annabelle went, men seemed to sprout up like spring flowers.

But none of them was as endlessly
fascinating
as Alec Carstairs. So noble and decent. So restrained and responsible. The one reliable constant of her childhood, he’d become the man against whom she measured all others.

Not to mention the beauty of him. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, and long legs, all encased in immaculately tailored clothing. Dark brown hair, still wavy but shorter now than she remembered. Beautiful lips, wide and generous. Prominent cheekbones and a straight nose that flared slightly. Those toffee-colored eyes that always reminded her of Cook’s caramels, still warm from the stove.

Gaining his attention this evening required a new strategy. But she couldn’t plot effectively if she was caught up in a conversation with Horace, who was heading her way like a hound on a scent. She quickly blessed the wall of potted palms beside the door. With a quick movement, she slipped behind them, escaping out onto the drive.

As escapes went, it was poorly planned. It was a party, after all. Guests were getting out of their carriages and walking up the meandering stone pathway to the castle entrance. Distracted by thoughts of Alec, she walked directly into a small group of men who were newly arrived. One of them caught her with his arms, steadying her before she could knock both of them down. Glancing up at the blunt-featured man, she offered a hasty apology and spun away. He called after her, but she was in no mood to speak with strangers. She headed into the castle’s elaborate gardens and the swiftly descending darkness.

Passing clipped boxwoods and yews set in a pattern dating to Elizabethan times, she followed a gravel path into the heart of the gardens where a Roman folly stood, reflected in a semicircular ornamental pond, her fountain at its center. The pond was filled with gold and silver fish, and as a child, she’d loved watching sunlight shimmer on their scales through the water. Several bubbled to the surface at her approach, hopeful and expectant, but tonight, she had nothing to offer but a half smile.

There was a bench hidden behind the folly, and she took a seat there. Her collision had wreaked havoc with the elaborate coiffure her maid, Mary, had created. Annabelle fumbled with an errant clip, but that sent another wave of heavy hair tumbling over her shoulders. It wouldn’t do to be seen in this state. She could only imagine what Alec would think. At least, the new Alec. The one who was so stuffy. Thankfully, though, she was alone.

Until quite suddenly, she was not.

“I was sure my eyes had deceived me, but they did not. You are exquisite.”

The voice belonged to a strange man, his approach almost silent in the soft grass. Annabelle merely edged further into the shadows. “Sir, I don’t wish to be rude, but I would prefer to be alone.”

“But your beauty holds me spellbound,” he said easily, as if he’d practiced the line.

She looked up. It was the blunt-featured man. He had light brown hair and pale gray eyes, and while she could not guess at his age, he was far older than she. “This is hardly the time for false flattery. And the party is that way.” She pointed needlessly toward the house.

He moved slowly toward her. “What is your name?”

“As you well know, it would hardly be proper for me to say. We’ve not been introduced.” Nor should she be alone with him here in the dark.

“Such becoming modesty.” He smiled, flashing uneven teeth. “But I insist on knowing who you are.” He took another step closer as he slowly withdrew the glove covering his left hand. “Tell me, my dear, if I trailed my fingers down your cheek, would your skin be as soft as it appears?”