Romancing the Rogue (130 page)

~~~~

Annabella’s face flamed.
The bite of scone in her mouth might have been coated with mud for all she could taste the thing. How
dare
that intolerable ruffian mention their wicked night together as casually as an observation regarding the weather?

Smiling, he allowed his gaze to roam freely over her body. Everywhere his eyes lingered heated as though he’d reached out and stroked her. “I was rather looking forward to repeating the experience.”

“Repeating the experience?” she burst out, struggling to push away from the table. Her chair caught on the thick rug. “Have you gone completely mad?”

He popped the last bite of his tart into his mouth and chewed. “No-o-o… I don’t believe
I’m
the one who’s gone mad.”

Annabella shoved her plate aside, her scone only half eaten. “You have if you think I’ll ever let you touch me that way again.”

A predatory smile crept over his face. “Which way would you be referring to, my darling wife?”

“I’m your wife because you forced me to be.”

“I beg your pardon. No one forced
you
into the marriage, either. Had you protested with any conviction, the matter would have been settled.” He sipped his chocolate. “Now, what ways will you not let me touch you?”

Rage bubbled along her veins. He was right, of course. She’d been so afraid of involving her mother that she’d gone along with the scheme. “You know very well to which way I am referring, sir.”

“So I shouldn’t take you in my arms?”

“No!” she snapped. “You should
not
.”

“I shouldn’t hold you close and lay my lips against yours?”

Annabella’s lips tingled. Was that what he’d done? “No.”

He took another sip and set the cup back on the saucer. “I shouldn’t nuzzle your neck and tickle your ears with my warm breath?”

Annabella pushed a strand of hair from her face, grazing her ear as she did. Fiery wisps danced along the outer shell, and she quickly lowered her hand. “No.”

A satisfied heat ignited in Seabrook’s eyes as he bent forward over the table again. “And I suppose I shouldn’t unfasten your gown and move it aside so I can taste your delectable neck and draw my fingers along the curve of your… shoulder.”

She squirmed in her seat as her blood simmered.

He lowered his voice. “And I shouldn’t let your gown fall to the floor and encircle your waist with my hands. Shouldn’t caress you in all your most delicate places…”

Annabella shook her head. Her blood pulsed in her ears. Her skin quivered and warmed in all those delicate places. It was positively wanton the way her breath came in short gasps. What was wrong with her? She simply couldn’t fill her lungs.

Then he leaned even closer. “And if I shouldn’t do those things, then I suppose I shouldn’t lay you across my bed… shouldn’t join you there and…” He dropped his voice and murmured a shocking, unspeakable suggestion.

Flames burst free in her middle, swelled, and then surged through her body like an outgoing tide of molten lava. “Please…” she whispered, unsure what she was pleading for, certain the thrumming in her veins meant her ultimate destiny would be met in the devil’s lair.

Seabrook stood, his movements measured, purposeful. He was going to walk over to her and take her in his arms. He’d carry her to his bed and do everything he’d just mentioned and more. And — heaven’s angels help her — she’d enjoy it.

Annabella tensed as he drew near. His eyes glittered like black diamonds as they drifted from her face, wandered lower, then lower still. Never had she experienced such willful disregard for decency. She’d become a harlot… after one night she scarcely remembered. And now, she wanted him to—

“I have some estate business to conduct,” he said, his voice suddenly chilled. “I thought you might do well to have a bit of a rest.” He nodded toward the bedchamber. Without waiting for her reply, he turned on his heel and strode across the room. He didn’t so much as spare her a glance before he opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

The muted
thud
of the heavy door latching echoed in the thumping of Annabella’s heart. Trembling, she lifted her cup and took a sip of chocolate. It had grown as cold as her husband’s voice. She dropped the cup back on the saucer with a clatter.

Why would he express such intent and then leave her? She fanned her face with one hand, trying to put out the flames as she stared at the door. Had she affected a misstep? Had she not done something she ought? Her heart raced, striking like a blacksmith’s hammer in her chest. Was something wrong with him? With
her
?

Annabella shook her head and allowed rage to blossom. “That twisted, immoral, depraved, black-hearted, rutting
beast
!” She had allowed him to speak to her, to look at her… to make her feel things only a strumpet would feel.

“Oh!” she shrieked, picking up her cup and hurling it at the door through which he’d just vacated. “There’s what you can do with your refreshment, my
lord
!” The cup splintered, its pieces raining to the floor. The last of her chocolate rolled downward, staining the dark wood, reminding her of blond tears. The half-eaten scone on her plate came to hand next.

“Bring me here to your blooming castle and fill my head with your filthy words, your implications, your promises of… of…” She flung the flattened cake after the chocolate.

The door pushed inward. “My lady? Lord Seabrook sent me to— Oh!”

The scone smashed into the crisp black uniform worn by the soft-spoken maid. With deft motions, she captured it before it dropped to the floor and wiped at the smear of cream from the front of her dress.

Remorse filled Annabella, but it wasn’t enough to temper her fury. “What is it?” she snapped.

“B-beggin’ your pardon, m’lady. Lord Seabrook instructed me to help you lie down so you can… rest.”

Annabella narrowed her eyes. “Oh, did he?” She swept her hand around, indicating the suite. “If he thinks he can bring me here and lock me in a tower—”

The maid paled. “Oh, ’tisn’t a tower you’re in, m’lady. The towers are closed off except for—”

Her words abruptly ceased under Annabella’s quelling stare.

“I’m sorry to disappoint his lordship, but I shan’t be lying down.” Annabella shot a glance at the luggage sitting discreetly just inside the door to the bedchamber. “In fact, I think I shall change into fresh clothing and then set about exploring my new home.” She marched across the cornflower blue carpet and picked up her small valise.

“But, my lady…” protested the maid amid a flutter of hands. “Lord Seabrook instructed—”

Annabella released an inpatient sigh. “My husband labors under the misapprehension that I require rest after traveling. I do not.” She paused in the doorway to the bedchamber. “So if you will please help me change gowns, I shall find my way around and save him the trouble of showing me.”

Stones scattered under
Jon’s feet as he half walked, half slid down the hill. When he reached the bottom of the little vale, he widened his stride to make it over the stream that trickled through the woods. More stones crunched as he scrambled up the slope on the other side. When he reached the top, he followed the track to the right and stomped up the next hill.

How far had he come? The burn in his muscles suggested it had been quite a distance. The molten fire coursing through his veins told him it hadn’t been nearly far enough. Jon pressed on, down one hill, up the next.

Whatever had possessed him to torment Annabella with such indecent talk? Oh, she hadn’t been unaffected. The way her eyes had widened and then swirled with glints of gold in their depths, those short gasps for breath. The deep shade of rose that had blossomed in her cheeks and spread to cover her entire face.

How she had fidgeted in her seat.

Oh yes, his words had touched her deeply. Trouble was, they’d had a similar effect on him. It had been all he could do not to lock them in the suite and follow up on those bawdy suggestions.
She’s your wife,
his dishonorable self whispered.

Jon shook his head. A wife he hadn’t exactly acquired in an honorable fashion. Removing himself from her presence had seemed the only alternative. But that left him with far too much unsettled energy.

Of course he had no estate business. The estate was so effortlessly run by his father and older brother, it seemed to conduct its own business. So he’d left, just walked through the solarium and out the back door and strolled into the field adjacent to the forest. And then he’d spotted one of the trails he and Nicholas had run along when they were boys.

He was breathing heavily from exertion as he exited the woods onto a narrow lane sheltered by trees. Barely wide enough for a gig and mostly overgrown, the road had fallen into disuse long ago. Pausing, Jon squinted up the lane then down, seeking any sign of familiar landmarks. Once, the whole of the forest had been familiar territory for him and Nicholas. No nook or cranny hadn’t been poked into by him and his brother. No log unturned, no hill too high. But even then, Nicholas had approached their play with a sense of ownership.

Turning left, Jon topped the next rise and stopped beside an ancient stone cairn, probably the remnants of some boundary marker. Plenty of those remained scattered about the countryside, falling down, largely meaningless except to those who cared about the land’s history. He pulled in several deep breaths and blew them out with force, trying to ease his body’s starvation for air. Sweat beaded on his brow. The fire in his muscles became a dull ache. Perhaps the next time he decided to punish himself, he’d simply run into a stone wall instead.

When he glanced around, laughter burst forth as he recognized where he’d ended up. A magpie scolded from the lowest branch of a nearby elm. Ignoring the noisy thing, Jon widened his stance and settled his hands on his hips as he looked out over the valley below. Hedgerows and stone fences formed an intricate pattern of lines that broke up the meadows into smaller bits of land.

“Halt!” Nicholas sprang up from behind a rather large gray boulder and pointed a long stick that had been cut to resemble a sword at Jon’s chest. “What business have you in Blackmoor?”

Jon grinned. “I’m the Tenth Earl of Seabrook. I’ve come to warn the Duke of Blackmoor that the enemy approaches from the south.”

The stick sword wavered and began to drop. “You’re not supposed to laugh about it.” Narrowing one eye, Nicholas raised the stick again. “What proof do you offer?”

Jon held out a round, flat stone with a curious gouge across the middle. “I have a talisman given to me by the Duke of Blackmoor himself, when last we met.” A giggle freed itself.

“How do I know you didn’t steal the talisman?” Nicholas leaned closer. Brilliant sunlight reflected like an orange candle flame off his hair. “You look like one of those barbarous southerners with your black hair and black eyes.”

Gales of laughter nearly rocked Jon off his feet. “Better a barbarian than a ginger-haired buffoon.” He pulled a short stick from beneath his coat and jabbed it at his brother like a dagger, touching him on the chest. Had it truly been a weapon he’d have struck a killing blow.

Nicholas fell forward, thrusting his stick toward Jon’s middle.

“Aieee…” shrieked Jon, falling to the side and rolling onto his back. “You’ve killed me.”

Nicholas dropped next to him with a low moan.

The clearing fell silent save for the titter of some finches in the gorse bushes.

“When I’m the Duke of Blackmoor, I plan to expand the Seabrook land.” Nicholas pushed himself up on one elbow and gazed over at Jon. “It’s not fair that I inherit everything, and you get such a small amount of land because I was born two years ahead of you.”

Jon rolled to a sitting position and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me. Blackmoor can keep all the land.” He stared out over the valley, taking in the green hills dotted with black-faced sheep. “I’m not meant for here.” Ever since he’d returned from a trip south with their father, Jon had wanted to go back there. One day… one day.

The hills blurred… the sheep disappeared as Jon blinked away the memory. Yes, indeed. One day. And mayhap that day had arrived. With the fulfillment of his inheritance terms, he would have the ability at long last to pursue his dream of starting a shipping company. The notion of journeying to distant lands fascinated him. And if Annabella truly found him objectionable, his time spent away from her when he traveled might make their marriage tolerable.

But until then, he’d have to make certain their marriage remained intact. And that meant conversing with the woman who had probably cursed his name to the devil and back for the past couple of hours. He turned around and started for Blackmoor Hall at a slightly less punishing pace.

~~~~

The servants had
done a fair job of surreptitiously watching her.
Oh, by all means, please follow me around
. It certainly wouldn’t do if Lord Seabrook’s bride got lost in her new home — or worse, got caught making off with the family treasures. And she’d certainly seen plenty of those.

If the oil paintings and marble sculptures prominently displayed in every room she’d poked her head into were any indication, Lord Seabrook apparently had plenty of feathers to fly with. Or was it only family money? Annabella snorted. Perhaps her husband was purse-pinched. That might explain the harrowing ride on the mail coach.

Well,
she
certainly wouldn’t have to worry about finances in the foreseeable future. She smiled as she crept through the salon toward the rear of the house. No one would find the banknotes where she’d hidden them under the mattress.

Each step across the plush carpet molded it around her satin slippers like a crimson caress. Portraits hung at intervals along the wall, stern faces she didn’t recognize, except a couple bore a resemblance to Seabrook without his irritating grin. She shivered.
It must be some sort of ancestral gallery.

On the stone wall at the far end of the salon hung a long leather shield decorated with metal knobs around the edge. A simpler version of the family crest sculpted over the door to the castle had been tooled into the leather. A lethal set of medieval battle axes formed an X on the stone wall to the left. On the opposite side, a pair of battered broadswords mimicked the placement of the axes. A shudder raced through her. Had some ancestor of Seabrook wielded these weapons in battle? Had the cold metal armaments tasted human flesh as they delivered mortal blows?

She turned to the right, anxious to remove herself from the deadly tools. The hallway was narrower. Charcoal sketches and small paintings clung to the walls on both sides, spaced between lit sconces, which provided only light enough to negotiate.

She paused in front of a drawing of three women standing in a meadow, dresses fluttering about their feet, dark hair cascading over their shoulders. Two of them seemed to be plucking bows while the third looked on.

“Well, they certainly do like weaponry here,” she murmured.

As she took another step forward, candlelight danced off a modest oil painting of a black-haired woman standing alone in a field. A pale cream dress in the fashion of a previous generation kissed the ground, completely obscuring her feet. Her hair was piled on top of her head, but she wore no hat, and Annabella could almost feel the wind rifling through the dark curls framing her face. A bow had been slung over her back and just showed above her right shoulder. She cradled a gleaming silver arrow in the crook of her right elbow like one would an infant. But it was her grin that halted Annabella’s next breath.

Seabrook’s grin.

“I’ve married into a family of grinning jackanapes.” With a sigh, Annabella moved on.

The door at the far end was the first she’d seen that hadn’t been open. She’d had never liked closed doors… never appreciated being told she must stay out. The smooth oak cooled her palm as she defiantly pushed on it. Surely the staff wouldn’t follow her through. But she glanced over her shoulder nonetheless. Seeing no one, she shut the heavy door with a firm click, turned, and surveyed her surroundings.

The room overpowered. It loomed around her, intimidating. Bookshelves lined every wall from the floor to the ceiling, making the study seem much smaller than it was. Although several lamps shined and the curtains were drawn back, the dark décor seemed to cast everything in a dominating shadow. Yet, it didn’t seem dim, just… depressing, not happy.

Nothing at all like Seabrook.

Annabella tried to picture him sitting at the oversized mahogany and bronze writing desk, but she simply couldn’t imagine him working in such a study. At least not the Seabrook who’d stayed at the cottage. But what of the Seabrook who had grown up at Blackmoor Hall? Did he enjoy living there? Now that they were married, would they live there together, or did he have a home of his own?

She shook her head. Why should she care? It wasn’t as if she’d be with him very long, so why worry overmuch about it?

Her heart seemed to drop just enough to make her stomach flutter. The sensation was foreign. Something she’d never experienced before. Disappointment? No, that couldn’t possibly be. She was just anxious about being caught snooping was all. Would one of the servants alert Seabrook that she had invaded what was obviously a very private room?

I should leave.
But she didn’t want to. She was doing nothing wrong. Besides, as her inconvenient husband seemed so fond of reminding her, she
was
Lady Seabrook.

With a sigh, she moved to the matching mahogany armchairs in front of the desk. Exotically sculpted griffins with their wings thrown back as if holding up the armrests dominated the chairs. Annabella trailed her fingers over one of the carvings. Each feather had been etched out with precise detail. Her hand continued up to the head. The cold bronze stood in sharp contrast against the smoother wood of the rest of the body.

She glanced behind the desk to the window. A bronze pedestal stood on each side, but the bright sunlight streaming through the glass made it difficult to make out the figures on top of the stands. Transfixed by curiosity, Annabella stepped around the desk to get a closer look. The pedestal on the left held a wolf statue. “Oh!” Annabella jerked backward and shied away. The animal seemed to be leaping off the stand, teeth bared, eyes intent on his prey — her.

She stepped to the other pedestal. No less intimidating was the griffin. Wings expanded, beak open, it appeared to be swooping down on her. They were both breathtaking and frightening at the same time.

She backed up until the desk chair stopped her. With a final glance at the statues, she sat at the desk. Everything was quite neatly arranged. The writing dais held a fresh brown blotter. A pewter sculpture of a griffin’s leg and foot to the right of the platform turned out to be an inkwell with several quills resting in tiny receptacles around the base.

Annabella caught her breath. “I can send a letter to London,” she whispered. Surely one of the servants would be willing to earn an extra bit of coin to post the letter from the mail depot in Coventry. She frowned. How could she work out the problem of sending Juliet some funds with which to return to Wyndham Green? Would the servant know how to handle the matter?

Seabrook would know.

She didn’t want to involve him. She still had no idea as to his intent. Why hadn’t he simply held his tongue when Vicar Hamilton had discovered them at the brook? He couldn’t possibly want to be shackled to her any more than she desired the union.

She opened the narrow drawer beneath the writing dais. Fine ivory-toned paper had been stacked inside as though waiting for her. Her shoulders relaxed for perhaps the first time since her untimely marriage, and she smiled as she lifted out a fresh sheet, smoothing it on the blotter in front of her.

Then she chose a quill, pleased to find the well filled with black ink. She placed the tip of the quill to the paper, paused, and lifted it again. Should she address the note to “Annabella” or to Markwythe? The idea of writing to her stepbrother in the guise of her mother left a bad taste in her mouth. He’d know. He already knew she’d sent an imposter. The quill tickled as she brushed it along one cheek. Aunt Charity! Her aunt would see that “Annabella” received her message. She had to warn her friend and help her leave London.

She set the quill to the paper again.

“Please don’t do that.”

Annabella jumped, jamming the quill into the paper. Ink spilled from the snapped feather, and she let out a curse. Then she narrowed her eyes at the annoying man standing in the doorway.

“Seabrook, it’s terribly rude to sneak up on someone,” she mumbled as he crossed the room toward her. “If I had one prayer it would be for the devil to put me out of my misery and take you now!” She looked up and caught his somber expression. Her breath hitched.

“Annie, please don’t.”

How could she answer when she had no idea what he meant?

“Annabella, please.” Jon touched her arm. Liquid warmth ran up her arm and exploded in her heart. Her heart? At his touch?

The breath left her lungs, and she jerked away. But something in his face… his eyes… gave her pause. A part of her wanted to confess everything to him. Beg him to help her. But she was still so angry at him for allowing Vicar Hamilton the knowledge he’d compromised her so they’d have to get married…

“Don’t
what?
” she asked, injecting a chill into her tone.

“Don’t alert your friend to the fact that you’ve been found out,” he said simply.

“Seabrook, I—”

“Annabella, for once in your life — I’m sorry.” He ran one hand through his hair. “I believe it is past time we had a conversation.

“A conversation about… what precisely?”

Seabrook eased into the room, wariness gleaming in those nearly black eyes that he kept locked on her. “I sent Grey a message — the morning after my arrival at Wyndham Green. He was…” He shrugged. “…concerned regarding your welfare. I dispensed with his concern by confirming his suspicions that you were, in fact, not in London, and I assured him of your wellbeing.”

Horror chilled her blood. “You knew?” she murmured slowly, trying to work it out as she spoke. “All that time and you
knew
who I was? I thought the vic—” She shook her head. “Why did you let—” A purple mist swamped her vision.

“Annie!” barked out Seabrook, startling her with the alarm in his voice.

Breathe!
Annabella inhaled sharply, and the room cleared. Seabrook leaned in close, and she retreated another step, rapping her ankle on something hard. Frowning, she glanced down at the griffin’s pedestal.

“Did you find it amusing to have me acting as your maid?”

Seabrook quickly glanced away. Not so fast, however, that she didn’t catch the twitch of his lips and the merry little twinkle in his eyes. Fury swarmed through her veins.

“You horrid, wretched, vile—” She rolled her hands into fists. If she could get just one good strike in before he reacted, it would be worth whatever he might do to her. “I’m
not
some pathetic child to be toyed with like — like—” She broke off with a gasp.

A message to Markwythe! Juliet!

Seabrook made an impatient slicing gesture in the air. His dark eyes hardened into black onyx. “I never considered you someone to be trifled with. I wasn’t certain who you were. And I didn’t know for certain who was calling herself Annabella in London. I suspected, but I didn’t know at the start.” He took a step forward, crowding her against the window. The air between them became charged.

“Why did you say nothing?”

“I—” He pulled a hand down his face, drew in a deep breath, and shook his head. “I can’t answer that. I… don’t know.”

Annabella willed her heart to slow its incessant charge against her chest. He didn’t know? What manner of answer…? She stole a closer look. She must have gone mad, for he looked almost… vulnerable.

“What reason do you have for asking me to refrain from contacting Juliet?”

“Your broth—” He sighed. “I merely confirmed to his grace that the lady in London is not you and that you are unharmed. He has no idea she is the daughter of a servant. When I left he was… tolerating her presence. I think she fascinates him, actually. And I do not believe the two of you intended… harm. If you send your missive…”

Markwythe will know. Already does know.
A message would compound their deception, and it might cause him to go harder on Juliet.

“What am I to do? I cannot just leave her there,” snapped Annabella.

Seabrook’s expression softened. “On my honor, Grey will not harm your friend.”

Desire to believe him rushed the words from her mouth. “How can you say that? How do you know?”

“Because I am closer to him than to my own brother.” Shaking his head, Jon spread his hands. “He’s intrigued by her… and he is aware she is not you. Had he in it to harm her, he’d have called her out.”

Annabella pondered his words. Perhaps she might wait…“If it means so much to you, then—”

The soft knock on the study door startled them both.

“Come.” Seabrook stepped away from her and turned, carrying his electrifying intensity with him.

Samuel entered slowly, his spine straight, chin tucked. “Begging your pardon, my lord. Her grace requests your presence at dinner along with your wife. The attire is to be formal.”

Seabrook might have cursed under his breath, though Annabella couldn’t be certain, and the butler showed no indication in his stoic features.

“Thank you, Samuel. You may inform her grace that we shall be there.”

“Robert Carson has been assigned as your valet, my lord, and Marie Penny shall take on the responsibilities of Lady Seabrook’s maid.” With a quick nod, Samuel turned and walked from the room, closing the door with a soft click.

Seabrook turned and held Annabella in his regard. “I assume you brought something suitable.”

She shuddered. “I shall not be — joining you for dinner. I’m…” What excuse could she use? Perhaps the one her mother had often used when she was avoiding callers. “I fear I’m far too exhausted from traveling to accept an invitation to dinner.”