No one had informed her Derek would be there for tea.
He never came for tea. Not ever.
God in heaven, wasn’t seeing him the night before bad enough? Her face still ached from the effort of smiling through the small party Margaret had arranged. The celebration had been a thoughtful gesture, and she knew both Thomas and Margaret wanted nothing more than to support her decision to marry Alfred. The entire Drake family had always treated her as one of them and they had been wonderfully enthusiastic about the upcoming wedding, but unfortunately, it was expected that Derek would be invited to everything. He always was, but usually he declined the mundane entertainments. Except the night before, when he’d appeared unexpectedly, looking sinfully handsome
and
bored out of his mind. He’d left early also, escaping not long after dinner. She’d managed to be polite during their brief exchange of pleasantries, but did she really have to go through it again so soon?
“Forget something, child?”
She whipped around at the sound of her guardian’s voice, to see Thomas smiling down at her, his good-natured face creased with his usual smile. He said, “It seems we’re both a bit late, aren’t we? I’m quite parched and a scone would be lovely right about now. Shall we go in?”
What choice was there? She should have run up to her room and pleaded a headache when she had the chance instead of dithering at the door. She could have sent her maid down with the news she would not be joining them for tea because she was indisposed. She just hadn’t been thinking quickly enough. “Yes,” she muttered in a bald-faced lie because her stomach felt suddenly in knots, “that sounds delightful.”
They entered together and though she wished she didn’t have to acknowledge the Earl of Manderville’s presence, when he politely rose to his feet she gritted her teeth and managed a stiff nod. It was all so familiar—the clutter of blue chairs covered in brocade, the old pianoforte in the corner, the cream and indigo rug in an Oriental pattern, even the tea trolley parked by the polished antique table—but everything looked different with
him
there.
It was always that way. If he was in the room, she didn’t notice anything else, and she felt a fierce resentment over the affliction.
Margaret, plump, pretty, and ladylike, smiled serenely, her cup in hand. “Derek stopped by at just the right moment and I insisted he stay for tea.”
Annabel said nothing, averting her gaze, knowing there was no possibility that Thomas and Margaret hadn’t noticed the current state of animosity between their nephew and herself. Once Thomas had even tentatively inquired over it, but it was hardly like she was going to tell anyone about either the fateful kiss or what she’d stumbled upon later.
It was still vivid enough in her memory, burned there with painful clarity. Derek bent over Lady Bellvue—who happened to have the nerve to be sophisticated and beautiful—her bodice unfastened, his mouth on . . .
At that point, tears had blurred her vision and Annabel had run out of the conservatory as fast as possible, before she broke down in a sobbing mess right in front of them both. No, she’d saved that for later. When she reached her room, she cried until there were no more tears left in her. It was ironic that the tender kiss in the library had been the culmination of all her romantic fantasies; then in the same day he’d destroyed her idealistic dreams.
She had grown up in that flat second when she realized the appearance of the young man with the easy smile and generous nature was a facade to conceal his shallowness and indifference to the feelings of others. She’d always thought of his innate good-humored intelligence as a measure of him as a human being, but now she understood his flaws far exceeded his virtues. The rumors were all true. All he wanted was a willing tumble. The callousness of it turned her stomach. How many hearts had he broken besides hers? What she thought she’d loved had been an illusion, no more.
“. . . tart?”
Annabel looked up and blinked. “Excuse me?”
The subject of her thoughts gestured toward the plate on the tea cart. His vivid blue eyes were veiled, but there was just a slight glossing of a smile on his well-shaped mouth. “May I have one?”
“I am sure you’ve had many.” The words just came out, and to make matters worse, the saccharine-sweet malice in her voice was a betraying sign of her antipathy.
Good heavens, had she really just said that out loud?
Margaret murmured, “Oh dear.”
Derek’s dark blond brows shot up. In a lazy pose in his chair, his long legs extended and one hand holding his cup, he looked infuriatingly amused. He was, as usual, impossibly good-looking in a dark blue jacket, tan breeches, and polished boots, his cravat as always tied to perfection. The light from one of the long windows gilded his hair with gold highlights and accented the clean line of cheek and brow. He drawled, “I admit to a fondness for tarts of all kinds, but with tea I prefer lemon.”
Chagrined, because she promised herself every single day she cared nothing about what had happened between them any longer, Annabel grabbed the plate of sweets and thrust it at him. The confections slid dangerously toward the edge, but luckily none fell on the expensive floral-patterned carpet. She’d made a fool out of herself fast enough without making a mess as well.
Damn him, he took his time about selecting one, making her hold the plate like some groveling serving wench. No doubt he bedded those as well, she mused hotly, not sure if she was more angry with herself for losing her self-possession so fast or with him for finding it comical.
His confidence and ease always seemed to emphasize her lack of similar sophistication, but she was learning. She’d made an art form out of avoiding him ever since that horrible evening, and she’d wondered more than once if he wasn’t making a conscious effort to decline invitations to events where she’d be present also. Naturally, on family occasions they had to interact a little, but neither of them did more than barely acknowledge the other’s presence.
Derek
never
dropped in for tea. Especially not when he knew she’d be there.
“Thank you.” He plucked a sweet from the tray and set it on his plate. The movement was graceful and elegant in a completely masculine way, just like everything else about him, including that irritating smirk on his face.
“You’re welcome,” she ground out, hating the rasp in her voice.
“I don’t believe I’ve gotten a chance to congratulate you yet on your formal engagement, Annie. Last night you were very busy and I had to leave early.”
Dear God, don’t call me Annie.
He was the only one who used the nickname. He always had, ever since she was a child. But she wasn’t a child now, she was a woman, and the soft familiar sound of the way he said it brought back memories better dismissed.
She stiffened but managed to nod. “I will tell Alfred you wish us well.”
“He’s a pleasant enough fellow.”
She felt a flicker of irritation at the tone of his voice. Just the slightest hint of disparagement, as if pleasant went along with dull and stodgy. No, Alfred wasn’t dashing or exciting, but he was steady. Defensively, she pointed out, “He’s a true gentleman.”
Her implication was clear that Derek did not belong in that category. Or she certainly hoped it was, for she meant it that way.
“I agree with Derek, Lord Hyatt is quite amiable.” Thomas looked bland and sipped his tea. “A nice sort. Reliable and all that.”
“Not a bad thing in a husband,” Margaret said in agreement.
“Or a horse.” Derek sank down a little more in his chair, the muscular grace of his tall body a contrast to the pastel color scheme of the room. If he was insulted by her snide barb, he—as usual—did not show it.
“A horse?” Outraged at the comparison of her fiancé to an equine, Annabel glared at him.
He looked as innocent as a depraved rake could manage. “Yes, indeed. Do you disagree? Which would you prefer to ride, a placid, dependable animal that will get you where you wish to go in an uneventful way, or a more spirited beast?”
She might be legions less experienced than he, but she couldn’t miss the sexual innuendo. To her complete and utter mortification, she blushed.
Only Derek could say such a thing and get away with it. He was accustomed to using his looks and ease of manner to excuse himself for any number of sins. It worked on everyone else too, damn him. But not her. Not any longer.
The trouble was, she knew him. Knew that dry wit, the teasing glint in his eye, and in the past, she might even have laughed. However, they were talking about her marriage to another man and that he could joke about it . . . well, it was hurtful.
No, it wasn’t, she argued inwardly, stiffening her spine. Derek no longer had that power over her. He’d abdicated it the day he’d kissed her and then shattered her heart with a casual betrayal that mocked her feelings.
Annabel looked him in the eye. “There is a lot to be said for dependable.”
His smile faded and he countered softly, “Even the wildest creature can be tamed when the right touch is used.”
“Not all are worth the effort,” she shot back.
“It’s hard to say if one doesn’t try.”
Margaret interjected in a lame effort to change the subject, “I thought the party went well, didn’t you?”
Annabel nodded, but it was an absent gesture, detached from her. “It was lovely.”
“You looked very beautiful,” Derek murmured as if commenting on the weather.
No, he hadn’t just said that. The compliment was so smooth, so sincere in the inflection in his tone, she was momentarily taken aback. He looked at her in the way only he could and for one single moment she forgot both Thomas and Margaret were there.
Like a stupid little fool.
Even if he meant it, what did it matter? Why did she care what such a disreputable, immoral man thought of her? Why had she chosen her dress with such care the night before just because she’d known he would be there?
It simply was not possible to stay so close to him for another minute. The realization swamped her, made a flare of panic tighten her throat. It was certainly more comfortable when they’d avoided each other, though she wasn’t convinced he’d bestirred himself to that extent. One paltry kiss would not be significant to a libertine of his status. She was the one who had put too much emphasis on it.
But still . . . that kiss. The soft but firm touch of his lips as they possessed hers, the glide of his tongue, the tantalizing feel of his arms holding her close. His scent, his taste, his potent low sigh into her mouth, as intoxicating as any drink . . .
No. She didn’t care to remember it. It was infuriating it still lingered in her mind.
“Please excuse me.” Annabel rose and glanced at the clock in the corner, seeing the ornate metal hands were perched at some angle, not even really registering the time. “I have a mound of letters to write, I’m afraid, and a slight headache. I think I will retire upstairs until dinner.”
The afternoon was so warm that Caroline had removed the jacket of her riding habit, and it hung over the pommel of her saddle as their horses ambled along what barely passed for a path along the bank of a lazy river. Overhead the sky was pure, pristine blue, unmarred by a single cloud, and the air smelled of fragrant meadows as the slightest breeze brushed her face.
The idyllic day matched her spirits perfectly.
Caroline was well aware she was getting the brunt of the infamous Rothay’s charm for a deliberate reason—the scandalous bet—but she was more than willing to accept the fantasy.
After a night of discovery and abandoned pleasure in his arms, they’d slept late, had a light breakfast together, and passed the rest of the day with similar casual, relaxed companionship, including their current late-afternoon ride.
It was a blissful change from her usual mundane existence and not all her enjoyment was due to her newfound sexual awakening. An attractive man paying attention to her was something she could get used to, especially since she felt surprisingly comfortable around him. Maybe it was just the sexual intimacy, but maybe it wasn’t.
Though they hadn’t yet culminated the actual act of intercourse, she was becoming less apprehensive and more and more curious. So far he had given her his full attention, the opulent pleasure of his touch enlightening, but he had taken nothing for himself.
Of course. All because he wanted to win the wager.
As if he could read her thoughts, Nicholas said, “I should do this more often.”
She glanced over. He also wore no coat, the fine linen of his shirt spanning wide shoulders, the garment open at the throat revealing tanned skin, his seat in the saddle easy and graceful. He rode every day without fail and had horses sent ahead, since he didn’t stable any in Essex. His mount was a magnificent bay that matched its rider, sleek and powerful, and her dappled gray mare the most well-mannered horse she’d ever ridden.
“Do what more often?” Caroline lifted a brow. “Whisk a stranger off to the country for sexual tutelage?”
His easy laugh rang out. “Well, no, that wasn’t precisely what I was thinking, but now that you mention it, so far things have gone rather well.”
Remembering the revelation of the night before, she could hardly disagree. It had been about sinful pleasure, every touch, taste, movement unique in her experience. His reputation was well deserved if he was always so selfless. The excess of sensation left her so exhausted she’d actually drifted to sleep while lying in his arms and if someone had predicted that a few days ago, she would have scoffed at the notion.
Unbridled enjoyment and a growing sense of freedom, even if it was born of nothing more than a masculine contest provoked by overindulgence in liquor, were exactly what she’d been looking for when she made her scandalous proposition. When this was over, she was going to be forever in his debt, for Nicholas Manning had at least shown her what
could
be.