He wanted to punish her. He wanted to protect her. But more than anything, he wanted to stake his claim to her. He knew, then, that with or without the ambassador
'
s commission, there had never been any question that he would run Mrs. Annabelle Jocelyn to earth. On that cheering thought, he doused the candle and went to bed.
Chapter Five
F
or a full fortnight, with unwavering perseverance, and until she was word perfect, Annabelle rehearsed in her mind exactly how she would handle the situation if she should have the unlikely misfortune to meet up again with Dalmar. She would be everything that was civil, Annabelle decided, but remote, perhaps even faintly regal, and should he be ungentlemanly enough to so much as hint at what had transpired between them in his rooms in the Palais Royal, she would widen her eyes just a fraction and plead ignorance. And if the gentleman should dare to go further and cast her conduct in her teeth, she would look him in the eye and call him a liar.
Dalmar
'
s eyes held hers across the throng of people in the drawing room of her house in Greek Street, and Annabelle felt her knees turn to water. Since her return from Paris, she had refused every invitation, cutting herself off like some recluse, and all to avoid the calamity which had overtaken her like a bolt from the blue. He had caught up with her in her own drawing room, during one of her own parties. She could not quite take it in and stood rooted to the spot, her mind spinning in every direction.
Holding her in the steel of his gaze, Dalmar took one step into the room. There flashed before Annabelle
'
s eyes a scene from a book she had recently
published—the picture of a man-
eating tiger stalking the poor little lamb which had been used as bait to lure the ferocious feline into the open. As far as she could remember, no one ever gave a fig for the fate of the lamb.
Dalmar took another step in her direction, and Annabelle let out a strangled yelp, one hand fluttering wildly at her throat as if to protect her jugular.
"Annabelle,
"
said a feminine voice in her ear, "I think your
protégé
is on the verge of creating a scandal, and enjoying every minute of it, by the looks of him. Those unprintable words which he promised to eliminate from his vocabulary? They
'
re tripping off his tongue as if someone had just opened the sluice gate to his mouth! Lady Holland looks to be in dire need of smelling salts, and she
'
s no prude. Annabelle, are you listening? You
'
ve got to do something.
"
Annabelle
'
s shocked eyes turned upon her friend and companion Beatrice Pendleton, a moderately handsome woman of fair complexion whose habitually serene expression had given way to a graver mode. "Bertie,
"
said Annabelle, her voice unnaturally husky, "hold the fort! I
'
m needed in the kitchen,
"
and she picked up her skirts and bolted.
Annabelle heard her friend
'
s dismayed plea raised in protest at her back, but she did not so much as slow her stride to look over her shoulder. She came to a door and whisked herself behind it. By degrees she became aware that she
'
d shut herself in the broom closet at the top of the short flight of stairs which led to the kitchens. Though her breathing finally slowed to normal, her mind continued to keep pace with the thousand questions which rattled around in her head.
How had he found her? What was he doing here? How could she evade him? What had he learned of her? Should she ask him to leave? And if he refused, how could she make him? Oh, how had he found her, and what did he want?
It took every ounce of willpower to subdue her emotions and put her thoughts into some kind of order. It was just possible, she chided herself, that he
'
d come on a whim. After all, there were no gilt-edged engraved invitations to her literary soirees. Her parties, by Mayfair standards, were very informal affairs; her guests, with few exceptions, of a sort that were rarely met in ton circles. Friends of a literary bent vouched for their friends. It was understood that only those who held unorthodox views, were given to some eccentricity, or could
claim an exotic background were assured a welcome. Perhaps Dalmar, at a loose end, had taken up a friend
'
s suggestion and had come merely to satisfy his curiosity.
She examined her conjecture from all angles and almost immediately discarded it. He was here for a purpose which boded no good for Annabelle Jocelyn. She could feel it in her bones.
By the time she returned to her guests, she thought she had herself well in hand. Bracing herself for Dalmar
'
s sure and certain onslaught, she paused just inside the arched entrance to the ground-floor drawing room. Her eyes quickly scanned the noisy, milling throng. She found him almost immediately. His back was to her, but she would have recognized him anywhere. She almost groaned aloud when she saw the man with whom he was deep in conversation. It was the Viscount Temple, the gentleman whom Dalmar derisively referred to as "The Milksop,
"
and whom he had mistaken for her lover.
Annabelle expelled a shaky breath. From all appearances, the thought of a duel was the farthest thing from their minds. Dalmar was conversing as if he and the Viscount were on the best of terms, and his companion
'
s lips formed a smile.
She wondered, then, if Lord Temple had taken a few drops of laudanum before the party. He seemed more relaxed than he
'
d been in an age. The rigid lines of pain and tension which frequently disfigured his finely chiseled features had softened, revealing a face that was more beautiful than handsome. Not for the first time the word
pretty
flashed into Annabelle
'
s mind, and she suppressed it, feeling vaguely disloyal. If Temple lacked something of his companion
'
s uncompromising masculinity, she counted it a virtue.
Temple looked up at that moment, and catching sight of her, beckoned with his index finger. Annabelle composed her features into a mask of well-bred civility and forced her legs to carry her to the small alcove where the gentlemen had secluded themselves. She steeled herself for the coming introduction.
"Annabelle,
"
drawled Temple with that faintly proprietary air which she heartily disliked, "I
'
d like you to meet an old
school friend whom I haven
'
t seen in an age. I thought for a moment I
'
d walked into the wrong house when I saw him in your drawing room.
"
His next words were patently derisory. "He
'
s one of our brave soldiers who
'
s given the best years of his life to king and country. A Tory and proud of it!
"
Annabelle squirmed at the insult in Temple
'
s words, and she flashed a look of apology at his companion. Though it was true that she held unshakable convictions about the inefficacy of war in general, and in particular on Tory policies in the last number of years, she made it a rule never to attack the man, but only his dogma. Temple
'
s inflammatory remarks embarrassed her. If anyone else had said them, a quick rebuke would have sprung to her lips. But she understood the bitterness which had provoked her friend to rudeness. Those who fell in battle became instant heroes. The war-wounded became objects of pity. It was only natural that men such as Dalmar should incite their less fortunate comrades to envy.
The look she turned on Dalmar was eloquently expressive of all that she was feeling. Her smile was sincere. It wavered a little as she caught the surge of something not quite nice that came and went in the depths of Dalmar
'
s eyes.
"Lord Dalmar,
"
began Temple, "may I present
…
"
"Annabelle!
"
exclaimed Dalmar, capturing her small hand and holding it firmly. "I came just as soon as I could get away. Forgive me for the delay.
"
"You know each other?
"
asked Temple, his narrowing eyes flicking from Dalmar
'
s roguishly taunting smile to Annabelle
'
s frozen expression.
"Know each other?
"
echoed Annabelle, casting frantically around in her mind for a suitable answer. There was nothing to guide her, for in her exhaustive rehearsals of how she would manage the man who was now revealed not as plain Mr. Dalmar but as a titled gentleman, she had never imagined that he would publicly claim an acquaintance with her.
"Know each other?
"
repeated Dalmar, and his accents deliberately colored the innocent words with a meaning that was far from innocent. "My dear Temple, when a gentleman takes up arms to defend a lady, I think you may safely say
that they are more than a little acquainted. Yes, we know each other.
"
She gave what she hoped was a convincing laugh, and laying a restraining hand on the stiff-hacked figure of Lord Temple, essayed, "I owe Lord Dalmar a debt of gratitude, Gerry. It was he who very kindly came to my assistance when I was attacked the night before we left Paris. You may remember I mentioned something of the sort to you.
"
She had given Temple only the sketchiest account of what had happened, and only because her maid had inadvertently let slip that she had been missing all night. As far as Temple knew, it was the British army that had intervened to save Annabelle
'
s skin.
Into the charged silence, Temple said, "Permit me to thank you for any trifling service you may have undertaken on Annabelle
'
s behalf. You may be sure, Dalmar, that if the opportunity presents itself, the debt shall be repaid in kind.
"
Rather wildly, Annabelle interjected, "I don
'
t believe either of you has had a chance to meet the guest of honor this evening. He
'
s rather a rough diamond, but terribly clever. He
'
s a sort of poet-cum-philosop
her. His political commentary is
biting, but amusing if one has a taste for irony. We
'
d better hurry if we want to catch him. He drinks like a fish and is almost always castaway before a party is half over.
"
For a moment it looked as if her ploy had succeeded. Lord Temple obligingly offered his arm, and Annabelle wasted no time in placing her fingers upon it.
They had taken only one step when Dalmar threw out, "Forget about the debt, Temple. Annabelle has already paid it in full.
"
Annabelle
'
s hand tightened along Temple
'
s arm, urging him forward. Beneath her fingers, he seemed to turn to stone. She could not move him. She felt a sense of dread wash through her as he gently turned her to face Lord Dalmar.
Temple
'
s face was carefully blank as he said, "I beg your pardon. I don
'
t think I understand.
"
"Ask Annabelle,
"
said Dalmar, his gray eyes turning silver bright as they surveyed the Viscount.
With her face almost cracking under the strain of appearing
totally in command of herself, she looked from one to the other and said, "Lord Dalmar suffered some injury, and I helped nurse him. It was the least I could do under the circumstances.
"
Her eyes dared Dalmar to reveal more.
He seemed to hesitate, but only a little. His eyes baiting, he said, "Annabelle
'
s a wonderful
…
'nurse.
'
"
Desperation unglued Annabelle
'
s tongue from the roof of her mouth. "I
'
m delighted to see that you are fully recovered,
"
she quickly interposed.
"Oh, I shall never fully recover from what transpired in Paris,
"
said Dalmar, flashing Annabelle a complacent grin.
Lord Temple
'
s eyes, hard with suspicion, darted from one to the other. Annabelle smiled weakly, and Dalmar affected an interest in the intricate plaster ceiling.
Suddenly the Viscount smiled. Relief swept through Annabelle as she heard him offer to fetch her a glass of champagne. She watched his progress until he was out of earshot, then she turned on Dalmar, her bosom heaving.
There was a slight break in her voice when she hissed at him, "How
dare
you embarrass me like that?
"
With remarkable unconcern, Dalmar replied, "Temple deserves to know where he stands. Sometimes one has to be cruel to be kind.
"
"Kind?
"
repeated Annabelle, her voice wobbling alarmingly. "Was that kind to me? You might just as well have taken out an advertisement in the
Times
and blazoned our
affaire
for the whole world to read about.
"
Her cheeks were vivid with color.