Romancing the Rogue (119 page)

Using both hands,
Annabella squeezed Seabrook’s neck. At least in her mind, it was his neck she twisted instead of the remains of her very last lemon. But it was so much more satisfying to imagine the infuriating visitor’s neck under her hands. She gave the yellow rind a vicious twist. As the juice dribbled into the goblet of water with pathetic little splashes, the sour smell tormented her nostrils. If she never had another lemon…

She set the depleted rind on the table and paused. The yellow peel performed a slow unfurling, like the sudden bloom of a wild rose on the trellis outside, lending the impression it was somehow still living. She frowned. As revolting as it was, the bit of lemon was all that was left of her edible sustenance. Once she gave it to him, she’d have nothing to eat unless she wanted to consume sticks and bugs.

A quick shake of her head dispelled the notion of starvation. Abby would bring her some food.

Annabella crossed to the window and peered out, but no one strode along the pathway toward Rose Cottage. With a sigh, she returned to the table where she’d been preparing the lemonade for Seabrook.

Her gaze fell on the little silver pot Juliet had tucked into her canvas valise. Annabella had danced with delight when she’d discovered it contained a generous measure of sugar. That had been the only thing to make the lemonade palatable. She reached for the container. The silver had gone black with tarnish. Wherever Juliet had pilfered the sugar pot from, it hadn’t seen use in some time. When she lifted the lid to discover only half of the white sugar remained, Annabella’s spirits fell a bit. If she added a pinch to his lemonade, she’d have less for herself. Shouldn’t she save the confection for her own use? After all,
she
hadn’t invited him into her home.

Still… The lemonade would be quite bitter without it.

Of course, she wouldn’t be drinking it, so why should that matter to
her
? She started to set the lid in place but paused with her hand hovering over the sugar bowl. It
would
be truly horrid to offer him just lemon dripped into water with no sugar to cut the tartness. Adding just one pinch would help. And maybe it would improve his insufferable disposition to boot.

All the sugar in the world won’t sweeten that one.

A smile tugged at her lips. Well, she didn’t have all the sugar in the world, but maybe enough… The smile blossomed, and her mood lifted as she set the lid on the table and lifted the sugar bowl. Humming to herself, she upended the pot and tipped the contents into the goblet then picked up a spoon and gave a hearty stir.

“M’lady?” asked a soft voice from behind her.

With a gasp, Annabella whirled, clutching at her chest where her heart beat wildly. “Gracious, you gave me a fright.”

Abby stood in the open doorway, a wicker basket in one hand and one of Annabella’s best canvas valises looped over her other arm. “I sent Herbert to the front door with Lord Seabrook’s luggage… told him I was still working in the kitchen, that it’s a disgrace and in no condition for him to traipse through.” She glanced around the room as she spoke, her features well schooled, so it was impossible to determine if she had an opinion.

Annabella studied the room as well, taking in the dust that coated everything and the cobwebs that clung to the ceiling.
I did my best.
A mutinous notion rose, and she pushed out her lower lip, but thought better of pouting and quickly arranged her features into a proper expression.

When the maid placed the basket on the wooden table next to the lemonade, the aroma of roasted meat drifted up and curled into Annabella’s nose, beckoning for her to come closer. Closing her eyes, she bent and inhaled deeply, uncaring if Abby heard the appreciative rumble from her hungry stomach.

“Thank you,” she murmured with a sigh. “This smells heavenly.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Lady Annabella, but Cook sent the meal along for Lord Seabrook.”

The maid’s words doused Annabella’s sense of satisfaction sure as a cold, wet rain put out a fire.
No!
Her eyes sprung open, and she stared at the girl in dismay. Annabella pressed a hand to her stomach as her sense of elation wilted. “Oh. Oh, yes, of course.”

Abby’s glance slid from the basket to Annabella with thinly veiled interest. Then she rolled her lips inward.

Annabella pointed to the valise. “Are those my dresses?”

“Oh! Yes, m’lady.” The bag landed on the table next to the basket with a soft whoosh. “I got everything you told me.”

“Thank you.” Annabella forced her lips into a smile. “I’ll see to it that Lord Seabrook receives his meal. Remember our arrangement when you go back to the house. No one must know that I’m here.”

Abby opened her mouth and drew a breath, but after only a slight hesitation, she closed it again with a single nod, curtsied, and slipped out the door.

Annabella longed to carry the valise to the room upstairs and go through it. Except she no longer had a room upstairs. Without asking permission, her hands balled themselves into fists. But then the aroma of meat and freshly baked bread wafted upward again, and her stomach contracted with searing, knife-sharp pain.

She stole a glance at the basket.
No! He can’t have it. If I don’t eat something soon, I will surely perish in a most horrible manner.

Decision made, she darted her glance around the kitchen. There! On the sideboard! She scooped up the basket and her valise and carried both to the table near the window. Out of the way so even if he came into the kitchen — and she’d do everything in her power to keep him out — the meal might go unnoticed.

Something bumped from beyond the door to the great room. Was he coming before she could stop him? After a glance over her shoulder to be certain, Annabella shoved the basket against the wall and tossed her valise in front of it. Then she drew a deep breath, snatched up the tray that held the goblet of lemonade, and carried it toward the door. Balancing the tray was tricky — how did the servants learn such things? Finally, she managed to lift the latch with her elbow. Then she turned around and pushed the door open with her backside.

~~~~

After the footman
left, Jon set his traveling bag on the steps. He’d take it up later. The way Annabella had balked at tidying the great room, he probably didn’t have a prayer of persuading her to finish opening the bedchamber upstairs.

How long had she been hiding in the cottage? Since she’d sent the maid to London, most likely. Had the little imposter arrived on Grey’s doorstep on the second or the third? Either way, seven or eight days was quite a long while for pretty little Annabella Price to have spent taking care of herself. No wonder she looked a bit ragged. Had she slept in that excuse for a bedchamber along with the mice?

He shook his head. What the devil were those two silly chits up to?

The hallway door opened, and the object of his musing glided through clutching a silver tray in both hands.
Speaking of devils…

“Here’s your refreshment. M’lord,” she said in a brassy voice that sounded far more like a servant’s than it had when he’d first come upon her. But that slight hesitation before addressing him directly told the tale.

Jon hid a smile by looking away from her and nodding at the drum table by the window. “You may set it there. Thank you.”

She fairly swaggered across the room with a sway that he imagined would hold up against that of any bit of muslin to be found in Covent Garden. Good sense stole away his inclination to smile.
Not the way to be thinking of your best friend’s sister…
He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the urge to wipe off the sudden frown pinching his forehead. When he opened them again, the urge to smile returned.

She had placed the tray closest to the broken chair.
Hoping for a bit of entertainment, perhaps? Thinking “Seaside” might fall on his backside and then run off, eh? Oh, yes, I found your little surprise.
The crack running the length of the front leg had been obvious once he’d figured out where to look.

Switching the identical chairs had been a simple matter. His only concern had been whether she would walk in on him changing them around. But she’d taken her time about bringing the lemonade, and he’d accomplished the move just before the footman had arrived with his luggage. Odd how the servant had presented to the front door. Perhaps the staff at Wyndham Green played by less formal rules than those in Grey’s London townhouse. Though, even there, the Duke of Wyndham encouraged a familiarity most would consider unseemly. Jon shrugged. Time for dwelling on that later.

After he decided what to do about the lady currently pretending not to be one.

“Won’t you have a seat?” As he walked to the chair she’d none-too-subtly assigned him, an imp of mischief seized his mind, and Jon gestured toward the other seat with his most congenial smile. “We can discuss my… expectations of you whilst I’m staying here.”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth gaped. But she shored herself up admirably, clamping her lips together and tossing her head. “Very well — my lord.” She perched lightly on the edge of the chair, her back as straight and her demeanor as proper as those of any fine young lady’s.

Jon caught his breath, waiting for the inevitable crack of wood, ready to spring forward and save her from a nasty spill.

The chair remained intact. Had he confused them in the switch? No, it wasn’t possible. Still… He could hardly crouch down and examine the legs of his own chair without showing his hand. Maybe he should pace… or stand near the hearth rather than taking a seat. No, that wouldn’t work. Striving not to appear too hesitant, he lowered his bulk onto the stained ivory damask.

The movement from the other side of the table was barely perceptible, and he only caught it from the corner of his eye, but Annabella tensed and leaned forward.

His chair held, and he squashed the impulse to rock it and make certain it would continue to do so. Cautiously, he eased out a breath then turned to meet Annabella’s gaze.

Her oh-so-straight shoulders drooped, but her gaze sharpened, narrowed in on him as she leaned in his direction. She laid one hand on the drum table, almost as a feeble shield against an expected onslaught.

He toyed with his goblet, pushing away revulsion at the streaked and somewhat grimy appearance of the crystal. Sunlight splashed through the filmy window and fell across the tray upon which his refreshment rested. Instead of an answering flash from the silver, the light was swallowed by the blackish film of tarnish. Surely it wouldn’t take much effort to polish the serving tray.

With an impatient sigh, he snatched his hand back. It wasn’t his place to notice such things. Just as it wasn’t truly her job to keep the cottage in order. But he did spare a moment to wonder once again at the state of disrepair. What did Wyndham Green’s servants do all day if not look after the estate? It just didn’t seem like his old friend to allow such laxity. Grey’s London townhouse was impeccable.

Across from him, Annabella shifted ever so slightly on the seat.

He struggled for words that would start a conversation without displaying a threat. None came to mind. Finally, he spoke, needing only to fill the silence. “How long have you been working for his grace?”

Annabella blinked slowly and then returned a blank stare. “His grace?” she whispered after a moment. Then understanding clearly dawned. “Oh, Mar— the Duke of Wyndham. I don’t — That is, I’ve worked on the estate for a short while, only. I’ve not… seen his grace in that time.” Her eyes took on wariness. “Has… he come with you?”

“He has not.”
Odd question that…
Jon cautiously sat back and eased his right leg over his knee. She put the fibs to words quickly enough, didn’t she? “And in what capacity have you been employed?”

Her lazy blink just as she turned her lips inward nearly undid his resolve. But when she leaned over, once again showing a rather brazen view of her tantalizing curves, his body warmed, and lascivious thoughts began to present themselves to his unruly brain. Impatient with his rather predictable reaction, he dropped his leg and sat forward whilst he waited for her to form her answer.

“Most often I served as Lady — Annabella’s maid.” She actually flinched when she spoke her name. Intriguing.

Had he got it wrong after all? Was this or wasn’t it the lady he sought? Ignoring the sticky dust in the deep crevices of the cut crystal, he lifted the goblet of lemonade to his lips, trying not to grimace. He’d had far too much of the watered-down, bitter swill while socializing with the gentle young debs in London. But he needed something to do in the absence of his ability to form words. This could hardly be any worse than any of that. Nothing could
possibly
be worse than that.

Lukewarm liquid caressed his lips. The bite of the lemon chased over his palate. Sticky syrup followed, clinging to his lips, his teeth, his cheeks. His tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth, mired in sticky sweetness.

He’d been wrong. Something definitely could be worse.

The flickering candle
did little to chase the darkness from the pantry. The golden light certainly didn’t reach far beyond her immediate vicinity. Annabella had shied away from exploring the tiny, airless room during daylight hours the moment she’d determined nothing edible had been stored in its dusty recesses.

As she lifted the lid of the empty barrel she’d noticed earlier, the strong aroma of wine or some kind of spirits assailed her nostrils. Her nose wrinkled, rejecting the horrid scent. Perhaps a bottle had broken inside at some point.

She hugged the precious hunk of fresh bread and log of goat cheese to her chest. Would the smell permeate her food? She let out an exasperated sigh and lowered her cache into the barrel. As hungry as she was, she’d eat it regardless. At least the barrel was dry, and more to the point, it would probably keep out the mouse. When she slid the top over, it fell into place with a hollow
thunk
.

“There, let’s see you get into that, you filthy vermin.” She glanced around the pantry, but the mouse wasn’t to be found. “Should have known you’d run at the first sign of trouble. Wish my other uninvited guest would do the same.” A shudder chased a chill along her spine to settle in the small of her back. She picked up her candle and shuffled toward the pantry door. With any luck, Seabrook would have no reason to wander into the servants’ area, so her secreted food should be safe from him as well.

Another shiver shook her. The night chill making itself known. It couldn’t possibly be thoughts of Seabrook and his sudden arrival. She frowned. Had he noticed his portions were a bit on the small side? He’d barely glanced at his meal before dismissing her.

Dismissing her.

Her.

True, she’d taken the opportunity to scamper back into the kitchen and make short work of the bits she’d collected from his supper before serving it to him. But his vague nod and the callous wave of one hand had prickled at her awareness with every bite of her pilfered meal.

If he knew my real name, he wouldn’t be so…
She drew in a deep breath and released a slow sigh. Of course, that was the point. He mustn’t ever figure out her true identity.

Scratching from the floor jolted her back to her surroundings. Something scurried in the shadows, and she jumped away from the sound. So her little friend was around after all. Her heel bumped something hard and broad, and she whirled away from it before common sense declared that of course it was too large and too solid to be a rodent. But she pulled in a few breaths to calm herself before she lowered the candle to the floor to see what she’d run into.

The iron cooking pot lay exactly where it had landed when she’d hurled it at the mouse earlier. A nervous giggle squeezed past Annabella’s lips as she bent over. She’d no sooner grasped the pot by the rim when a bit of gray fluff lunged from the inside with a dreadful squeak. Its black beady eyes glinted in the candlelight; its mouth hung open showing a row of hideous needle-sharp teeth. The candle slipped from her grip and
thudded
to the floor.

As her giggle became a shriek, Annabella flung the pot — and the wretched rodent — as hard as she could. The cast iron vessel struck the wall with a horrific crunch. Surely the mouse must have met its demise. Annabella scrabbled on the dusty floor for her candle before it went out. By some miracle, the pewter holder had landed upright. With hands that trembled, she lifted the candle and backed toward the door, intent only upon putting as much distance between her and the creature in the black receptacle that rested against the far wall.

Her heart galloped against her chest, and her breath caught in her throat. She was going to die. She was a thief and a liar, and this was her punishment — to die in a filthy, mouse-infested pantry of a dusty old, forsaken cottage—

The wall she bumped into wasn’t cold… nor was it particularly hard. In fact, it was warm against her back, soft and firm at the same time. The delicious scents of pine and sandalwood tantalized her nostrils. Then an arm snaked around her waist.

Annabella let loose with another screech and jerked forward, but the arm held her firm.

“Easy now. It’s just me.” Seabrook’s low voice murmured in her ear. “Whatever are you about in here?”

His breath tickled her neck, shooting shimmery tingles down her spine. In their wake, an odd sort of weakness overcame her, and her legs threatened to give way. She stilled her struggles against his grip, finding herself embroiled in a battle just to draw her next breath.

Heat from his body scorched her back, seeped into her until she became convinced she’d ignite at any moment. After far too long, Annabella regained her senses and jerked free of his hold. “What are you doing?” she asked, spinning around. “I’ll thank you to keep your hands off me.”

Seabrook pulled his arms up and back, holding them well away from her. “Whatever you wish, fair lady.”

The word became an arrow to her conscience, and her suspicions sharpened.

Does he know?

She lifted the candle to get a good look at his face and inhaled sharply as the golden light washed over him. Why, he was hardly decent! He stood before her coatless. The white shirt she’d admired earlier billowed over the waist of his tan breeches, buttons unfastened, and the front gaping at the neck. She should look away. Propriety and circumstances both demanded it. Try as she might, though, Annabella couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting to the expanse of dark skin and the thatch of darker hair framed in the V of his shirt.

Her mouth went dry. The disdainful words she’d been about to utter deserted her mind completely, leaving her speechless.

~~~~

Unsure whether to
turn around and stalk off or grab Annabella by the shoulders and give her a good shake, Jon simply stared. Candlelight limned her face and gilded the honey-gold curls that cascaded about her shoulders. Her skin glowed peachy soft, and her unusual dark green eyes gleamed like twin pools at midnight. She should have made him think of an angel. What she brought to his mind, though, was his gran’s favorite cat — the disagreeable brown tabby that hated everyone, particularly him, and never failed to spit and hiss whenever he got too close to her favorite perch.

Annabella jerked backward, reminding Jon that he’d been gaping. He raised an eyebrow and waited for her to gather her wits. As she straightened her back, she released an indignant gasp. Unfortunately, the sound only served to enhance the image of the angry tabby. Jon’s lips twitched as he fought a losing battle with a smile.

“Just what do you think you’re doing? Sneaking up on a body in the middle of the night!” She raked him with a scathing glare. “And in a most indecent state of undress.”

His struggle with the smile long since lost, Jon allowed his mouth to widen into a grin.

Predictably, the lady became even more incensed. “What is that — that — that
look
on your face?” She motioned with the candle in his direction.

Jon took an involuntary step away from the flame, but he refused to snuff his sudden good mood. “Beg pardon?”

“Why are you — grinning like a jackanapes?”

All hope of containing his mirth abandoned, Jon tossed back his head and loosed a hearty laugh. Then, crossing his arms over his chest, he shook his head. “Once again, the lady seeks to mortally wound me. I merely came rushing to the aid of a damsel in distress, and here she stands calling me a monkey.”

Annabella’s jaw dropped, and her eyes widened into saucers. After a moment, she snapped her mouth shut and narrowed her eyes into angry slits. Her heated glower slammed into him, as tangible as a punch to the jaw.

Jon’s heart stammered then thudded hard against his chest. Something about the light flickering over her face, or maybe it was the way her chin quivered and her lips twitched until she rolled them inward… Vulnerability threatened to overtake her natural defiance.

Oh, no. No, that would never do. Defiance he could handle. Vulnerability… vulnerable women. That was another story altogether.
Run!

Inwardly reeling, Jon retreated another step. “Right, then. Well… as it seems you are not, after all, in dire need of assistance, I shall get back to what I was doing when your shriek interrupted me.” Which had been pacing the confines of the bedchamber after lying on the lumpy mattress for a brief time in fruitless pursuit of sleep.

Annabella pulled in a long breath. “I. Do. Not. Shriek.” The frostiness in each bit-off word could etch a window pane.

Good.
Better that image following him to his bed as he continued the elusive endeavor of seeking sleep than one of pouting lips and trembling chin.

He inclined his head and smirked. “Oh well, if the lady doesn’t shriek, then it must have been a banshee I heard calling my name.”

“I did not call your—” She clapped her mouth shut and glared. Her pale chest rose and fell with each harsh, indignant breath. A tight smile widened her lips, though her eyes remained chilly. “Well, if a banshee
is
coming for you, I’ll be certain to welcome her at the door and conduct her to your bedchamber. At least she won’t be sneaking about and striking terror in unsuspecting hearts.”

Her quip sparked something inside — gave life to something that had too long lain quiescent. Jon stepped forward again, choosing to risk the heat of the candle should the lady decide to retaliate.

“Is that what I did?” he asked softly. “Struck you in your heart?”

Her eyes grew impossibly wider until they took over her entire countenance, threatened to draw him into the unguarded reaches of her soul. The sweet scent of flowers mingling with the tart aroma of lemons rose to tempt. Too close! Much too close, but too late to back off, so he held his ground and waited, well aware of the heated darts currently prowling his veins.

“I… you…”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. One would first have to
have
a heart in order for it to be struck.” His grin widened. “Is that not what you told me at our first meeting?”

Annabella released an angry gasp, but she didn’t back down. She pushed her chin out and stood straighter. “Yes, that
is
what I said. And it has become painfully obvious that I was correct in my assessment. If you must know, a mouse jumped out of a pot and bared its teeth at me.”

The light of the candle washed her exposed skin. Jon closed his eyes against the image then opened them again and deliberately leveled his gaze on her eyes. “And am I to understand your
shriek
had the desired effect? You have successfully dispatched the mouse to the devil? Because I’ve had a long day traveling, and I should find it sheer bliss were I able to sleep the night undisturbed by screams over unsuspecting rodents.”

Annabella tossed her hair over her shoulder.

Don’t look. Don’t dwell on whether it’s as silky as it appears.
He shifted his glance to the shadows over her left shoulder.

“Feel free to have a look for yourself,” she said, stepping aside and waving the candle around the room.

Jon swept the small pantry with one last glance. On finding nothing amiss — actually finding nothing much in the room at all — he offered a deep bow. “Your mouse, indeed, seems to have gone on his way.” With desperate need to remove himself from her proximity, he spun on his heel and ducked back through the door.

A slice of pale moonlight glimmered through the bank of soot-caked windows above the work area, hardly enough to navigate by. A fact well-proven when he placed his stocking-clad right foot on something hard and small like a pebble. “Should have taken the time to pull on my boots,” he muttered under his breath, kicking the offending bit of whatever out of his way. He stalked the short distance to the stone staircase and put his foot on the bottom step.

Annabella’s derisive snort followed him from the kitchen.

“Better still, I should have left the lady to her own devices. That harpy could put off the most vile of criminals.” He slammed the door to his room. Dust floated up from the wooden floor and began a slow ballet in the moonbeam slanting through the window.

The bits floating in the silver light seemed to drift together, forming vague shapes that became stronger as his mind supplied the music. Not mere humming this time but strings, lots of them, playing one of those swaying melodies Gran found so fascinating. When he’d come upon Annabella, she’d been dancing in the yard, a lady in a maid’s ill-fitting and dingy dress. But her light had shone so bright even in those circumstances that a blind man would have recognized the lady beneath the grime.

A lady who deserved to be dancing among friends and peers in a great hall bedecked with gleaming candles. Her head thrown back in happiness, eyes twinkling as they met his—

Gather your wits, man!

As the image faded back to dust motes floating on the moonlight, Jon shook his head. He had enough trouble without getting involved in whatever game Grey’s stepsister was about.

Sighing, he glanced at the bed. The thin blanket he’d been using lay tangled in a ball, half-on and half-off the mattress, a testament to his recent sleeplessness. What a pity it seemed… to find oneself sleepless and alone. He strode to the filthy window and scrubbed at the dirt with the edge of the tattered curtain. As he peered through the circle he’d cleaned, the moon slid behind a gray-edged cloud, blanketing the writhing, wind-rustled shrubbery in shadow.

The night threatened to run long.