The Worldly Widow

A SCANDALOUS MEMOIR

Annabelle Jocelyn preferred to keep men at a distance. Indeed, the young widow's heart belonged to her business. As owner and editor of Bailey's Press, her current project was to secure a certain scandalous diary with which she hoped to cause a publishing sensation. But Annabelle's plans went decidedly awry when she crossed paths with the rakish Earl of Dalm
ar, a man—hardly a gentleman!—
who seemed to have a singular talent for getting her back up. He had an interest
—
no doubt a personal one
—
for suppressing the diary. But she was not about to be intimidated by his anger, nor tempted by the gleam in his eye
…

A DANGEROUS LIAISON

Brave soldier, handsome brigand, impossible philanderer
…
the Earl of Dalmar had never yet been denied anything he wanted. And if he had to resort to seduction to wrest the diary from the stubborn Annabelle, he wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of his skill. Then let the holier-than-thou widow discover how it felt to have one's peccadilloes aired in public! Besides, the more he sparred with the spirited beauty, the more he wondered if she would be just as fiery in his bed
…

Chapter One

T
he sound of laughter came to her through the open window of her chamber in the Hotel Breteuil. It was, Annabelle decided, thoroughly improper in nature—the sport of a man with a maid. For a fraction of a second, her hand stilled. She gave herself a mental shake and continued with her toilette, skillfully smoothing a film of rouge along her lips, making no attempt to disguise their rather full and sensuous curves. The laughter came again as she was carefully applying the blacking to her lashes. Her hand shook, and a blob of the sooty substance landed on her cheek.

Muttering softly under her breath, Annabelle reached for the washcloth and carefully removed the offending smudge. She leaned forward in her chair and dispassionately surveyed her reflection in the looking glass. For a lady who had just celebrated her thirtieth birthday, she thought that she had little to complain about. Her
chin was smooth, her skin fine-
pored, her blue eyes large and fringed by a thick sweep of gold lashes suitably darkened a shade or two, and her lips and cheeks artfully and becomingly rouged. And if her patrician nose was a smidgen long, there was nothing to be done about it, and Annabelle never repined for the impossible. She touched her finger to the small dark mole on her left cheek, slightly to one side of her generous mouth. A lady with a decidedly rakish air, she thought, to which her luxuriant dark hair, the color of rich sable, was the perfect complement. Satisfied with what her reflection told her, she moved to the tall armoire against
the wall.

Her fingers skimmed deftly over the outfits her maid had packed for the journey to Paris, fine kerseymere and velvet pelisses, and gowns in the sheerest silks and satins in shades of peacock blue, pomona green, and her favorite, full-bodied claret. In Mrs. Annabelle Jocelyn
'
s wardrobe, t
here were no pallid mu
s
l
ins in insipid pastel shades. She had an eye for color and fashion and had the temperament to carry off the bold look she preferred. She also had the advanced years, she admitted to herself with a faint sigh of regret.

Annabelle looked to the door as her maid entered. Among the other servants, Nancy, of an age with her mistress, was known as "The Queen,
"
and deservedly so. At that moment she was at her most regal.

Annabelle diplomatically affected not to notice her maid
'
s disapproving cast of countenance. She was well aware of Nancy
'
s sentiments on the inadvisability of a lady of quality traveling to Paris at such a time and with only a distant kinsman as escort, and taking up residence in a public hotel with only maids as chaperones.

In the normal course of events, Annabelle would have been accompanied by her companion, Mrs. Beatrice Pendleton. But Annabelle had decided that Bertie should remain in London with young Richard, Annabelle
'
s five-year-old son and the apple of her eye. Richard would have been just as happy to visit with his aunt and uncle to permit Bertie to make the journey. But Annabelle had rejected that suggest
i
on. Richard had already spent the better part of the summer with his cousins in the country. And Annabelle reasoned that a boy needed a certain discipline and order in his life, especially a boy who had lost his father when he was a mere babe. Annabelle was sorry to forgo the pleasure of Bertie
'
s company, but she was a conscientious mother and put her son
'
s welfare first at all times.

Annabelle became aware of her maid
'
s silence. "The blue silk today, Nancy, and the claret to go over it,
"
she said cheerfully.
"I
thought Paris would be warmer in September, but as you see, it
'
s no better than London.
"

Nancy accepted the blue silk, but made no move to retire.

Annabelle
'
s blue eyes gazed speculatively at Nancy
'
s thinned lips. That she was about to embark on an errand without an escort was a bone of contention between mistress and maid. Paris was a city of occupation, the Battle of Waterloo having been fought and won by the allies only three months before. Annabelle did not let that weigh with her. The capital was teeming with visitors, and the French whom she had met seemed civil enough, if not positively friendly.

Moreover, Annabelle had come to Paris for a purpose, and when Annabelle mapped out a course for herself, she was not to be diverted. Few people knew of her real design, and of those whom she had taken into her confidence, not one would approve her next step. There was no danger involved in the enterprise. Annabelle simply preferred to work alone, without interference. And though a certain modicum of prudence was essential, maids, chaperones, and escorts would prove an unmitigated nuisance.

Before the maid could voice what was on her mind, Annabelle
'
s cultured accents, polite, pleasantly modulated, and slightly distancing, interposed, "The silk could do with a press. Then you can set about packing for the journey home tomorrow. Oh, and leave out the green. I
'
ll wear that with the claret. D
'
you suppose our landlord can be persuaded to pack us a picnic lunch? Don
'
t forget, Lord Temple is fond of beefsteak. He
'
ll be calling for us at first light. Perhaps you would be good enough to remind Jerome. Thank you, Nancy, that will be all.
"

It was the voice Annabelle habitually employed to manage any difficult servant and, more especially, any difficult colleague at Bailey
'
s Press, the publishing house of which she was half owner and managing editor. It never failed in its objective.

Nancy murmured an acknowledgment and obediently draped the silk across one arm. A quick look at her employer warned her that to remonstrate, however mildly, would be utterly futile. She made a dignified exit, promising that the gown would be ready within half an hour.

Annabelle returned to the dressing table and had just unpinned her long mane of dark hair when it came again—low masculine laughter followed by a trill of feminine giggles. To
her surprise, she found that she was slightly irritated. She stood gazing reflectively at the vision in the looking glass, abstractedly combing her fingers through her shoulder-length hair. A flash of self-knowledge jolted her. The couple in the hotel gardens who were so obviously indulging in a little dalliance had brought to mind that she had attained her thirtieth birthday. For the first time in years, she was touched with a vague fear for the future and an equal regret for the path she had long ago chosen for herself.

"Fustian, my girl!
"
she told her reflection. "You
'
re letting Paris get to you. You
'
re here on business—not to engage in amorous adventures. Kindly remember that!
"

There it was again, that low, seductive, masculine laughter, and so thoroughly tantalizing.

"Oooh!
"
said Annabelle, annoyed as much with herself as she was by the couple who were cutting her peace to shreds.

Clutching the edges of her delicate lace peignoir, she moved quickly to the window, intending to shut out the disturbing sounds. She was forced to lean over the sill to grasp the handle of the open casement, which had been thrown wide. She tugged on the handle. Nothing happened. She chanced to look down.

The owner of the disturbing masculine voice had caught sight of Annabelle
'
s movement. He was staring directly at her. She recognized him immediately. In the four days since she had taken up residence in the hotel, she had been aware of his eyes following her as she came and went with Lord Temple. Annabelle was used to men
'
s eyes resting on her—eyes filled with admiration. This man
'
s eyes never registered any such emotion. If anything, he seemed to regard her with thinly veiled contempt. He made her so u
ncomfortable that she could not
bear to be in his proximity. She never lingered in the hotel foyer or dined in the public dining room. Mostly, she kept to her rooms or made the odd excursion with her faithful escort, the Viscount Temple.

She allowed herself the luxury of assessing him slowly and carefully, knowing that she would never have been so bold if she had been within arm
'
s reach. There was something about this man that made her nervous. She was not nervous now. Her confidence seemed to have increased in direct proportion
to the distance that separated them. Her eyes were as insolent as his as she took inventory.

His jacket was looped over one shoulder and held negligently with two fingers. He wore no neckcloth and his white shirt was open at the throat, displaying a thick shag of dark hair. His skin was deeply tanned, the distinguishing mark of every military man Annabelle had had occasion to meet. If she
'
d met him on a lonely stretch of road, however, she would have taken him for a bandit, she thought, and suppressed a shiver. She had an impression of strength and predatory grace, but her gaze did not linger on the breadth of his shoulders nor on his supple, pantherlike form. His eyes, bold and brazen, dominated his harshly handsome face. She carefully avoided the compelling stare. One arm was clasped around a young woman whom Annabelle immediately recognized as the chambermaid who had turned down the beds the night before. The girl lifted her head to follow the unwavering stare of her companion, who seemed to have forgotten her very existence. Though the gentleman looked to be in his mid-thirties, it did not escape Annabelle
'
s notice that the object of his attentions was a girl of little more than twenty or so. Unconsciously, Annabelle
'
s lip curled. The girl had red hair. Annabelle was not partial to red hair.

The stranger caught that contemptuous look and grinned, showing a flash of white teeth.

Annabelle gave him one of her cool, intimidating looks which never failed to make the unfortunate recipient of such a chilling feminine appraisal feel that he had been caught with his breeches down. The gentleman in question laughed outright and, setting his companion to one side, made an elegant leg to the lady at the window.

Annabelle did not recognize the affront to her dignity with so much as the flicker of an eyelash. Thankfully, the window came unstuck and she shut it with a snap, blocking out sight and sound of the gentleman who, in some sort, she felt had just thrown down the gauntlet.

She turned back into the room and almost tripped over the peignoir which had slipped unnoticed from her shoulders in her struggle to close the window. Hurrying to the looking glass,
she gaped at her reflection. With her mane of unbound hair spilling over her shoulders and the transparent wisp of silk barely concealing her soft feminine contours, she might easily be mistaken for a wanton! It was not a look Annabelle cared to cultivate. She strove for a bold allure that showed the face of a woman of the world. This utterly feminine and flagrantly sensual appearance was one she would not tolerate.

Thirty minutes later, dressed for the outdoors, Annabelle was reassured by a quick glance in the looking glass. Her bold, cutaway, high-waisted claret pelisse showing a slash of peacock blue silk, was everything she wished for. Her hair was severely swept back from her face and twisted in several fat ropes to lie provocatively at her nape and shoulders. She gave her reflection an approving nod as she donned her best bonnet with its flashy show of peacock feathers. The lady, supremely confident, projected that slightly rakish air which invited every male to admire but dared him to do so except from a respectable distance. Her beauty, indisputable, was faintly intimidating. In the years since she had become a widow, it suited her purposes to promote that image.

From the Rue de Rivoli, opposite the Tuileries, where the hotel was situated, was only a short walk to Annabelle
'
s destination, but she ordered her coachman to take the long way round to the Palais Royal. This was her last day in Paris and she settled herself back against the squabs to view the sights from the safety of an enclosed carriage.

In the Bois de Boulogne were the bivouacs of some English and Prussian regiments. In the Champs Elysees, the Scots seemed to have taken up residence. Uniforms of every color and description were very much in evidence, and Annabelle witnessed more than one altercation on the streets between soldiers of different nationalities. She
'
d heard that dueling was so common an occurrence that nobody batted an eyelash when the clash of steel or the shot of a pistol was heard coming from the Bois de Boulogne or some deserted street or other. As they passed the Arc de Triomphe, which was under construction, several groups of soldiers eyed the carriage speculatively, and Annabelle
'
s unease grew apace. The capital, though reputed to be largely under Wellington
'
s discipline, gave every evidence
of a license which she thought perilously close to anarchy. She was very glad that Nancy was not in the carriage to say "I told you so.
"