He jerked her round so that his broad shoulders shielded her from curious eyes. "Hush,
"
he soothed. "You
'
re exaggerating. Get hold of yourself, Annabelle. I told you in Paris that I would not tolerate that milksop hanging on your skirts. If you had listened to me then, it would not have been necessary to reveal as much as I did.
"
"You take too much for granted, my lord,
"
she said scathingly. "I
'
ll have you know, Lord Temple has asked me to marry him.
"
Eyes which a moment before had been as soft as velvet
hardened into flint. "Has he indeed? And what does your husband have to say about that, may I ask?
"
"Husband? What husband?
"
asked Annabelle shrilly.
"Your
late
husband,
"
said Dalmar.
"Oh,
"
said Annabelle, and carefully lowered her lashes. "You
'
ve discovered that I
'
m a widow.
"
There was a silence, and Annabelle peered up at Dalmar. "I didn
'
t really lie to you,
"
she offered. "You jumped to conclusions. It seemed safer at the time to let your misconception stand.
"
"Safer?
"
he asked incredulously. "You let me think you were a woman of easy virtue. If I
'
d known you were a respectable widow
…
"
"Yes?
"
she encouraged, when he failed to complete the thought. "What then?
"
He shrugged philosophically. "In the circumstances in which we found ourselves, it probably would not have made a jot of difference. Who can say?
"
His tone became brisker. "
To get back to Temple…
are you going to marry him?
"
"No,
"
she answered at once. "But why I should tell you so is more than I can understand.
"
"Oh, I know why,
"
answered Dalmar. "Hold still,
"
he said, and carefully removed a thread of something from the nape of her neck. "Cobwebs,
"
he informed her. "Did you hide yourself in the cellars when you first saw me come in?
"
Ignori
ng his levity, she demanded, "W
hy did I tell you that I
'
ve refused Lord Temple
'
s offer of marriage?
"
"Mmm? Oh, because you like him, of course, and you wouldn
'
t want to see any harm come to him.
"
Grinning, he elaborated, "I
'
ve never heard of anyone marrying a corpse.
"
She could not tell from his smile whether or not he was trying to bluff her, and she stared unblinkingly into his face.
Reading her correctly, Dalmar remarked, "You needn
'
t worry. Couldn
'
t you tell? 'The Milksop
'
will never fight for you, whatever the provocation.
"
"And so I would hope,
"
answered Annabelle with feeling. "Haven
'
t you heard? There
'
s a law against dueling. And furthermore, Lord Temple is too much the gentleman to bring
scandal to my name by fighting a duel over me.
"
The unpalatable thought that Lord Temple had decamped with unseemly celerity when provoked by Dalmar she ruthlessly quashed.
"Here comes Temple now with your champagne,
"
said Dalmar. "We
'
ll talk of this later. Go greet your guests, Annabelle. You
'
re neglecting your duties.
"
He wandered away after that, deeming it expedient to keep his distance until the lady
'
s temper had time to abate. Nevertheless, he kept a proprietary eye on her. Not by a flicker of an eyelash did Annabelle betray that she knew he was watching her. He might have been a piece of furniture, for all the notice she paid him. His own eyes followed her like the needle on a compass.
There wasn
'
t any doubt in his mind that of all the ladies present, it was Annabelle who stood out of the crowd. Her gown was the color of a clear vintage claret. Very becoming, he thought, with its low-cut, square neckline, puffed sleeves, and rows of horizontal tucks down the bodice and back. It revealed just enough of her shapely, high-breasted figure to set a man
'
s imagination on a riotous flight of fancy. He noted the flare of her lush hips and the length of her leg, and his brows slashed together. He
'
d heard of the current mode where certain ladies of fashion, the dashers, dampened their petticoats to make their skirts cling. Annabelle had taken the fashion one step further. He
'
d wager his last farthing that beneath the sheer silk of her gown, she wasn
'
t wearing a stitch. The thought acted on him in a predictable fashion. He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to beat her.
He subdued the impulse to rush to her side and drag her away from all the men who were ogling her and forced his attention to his surroundings. Her house on Greek Street intrigued him almost as much as the lady herself. It was very small, all the public rooms being on the ground floor, but beautifully proportioned. Its most distinguished feature was the elaborate rococo plasterwork on the ceilings and around each lintel and archway, as well as the framed medallions picked out in white against the pale green walls. The carpets
were also green and matched the walls and curtains. The few pieces of upholstery he had observed in the various rooms i
n
use were either gold or white. Though the effect was Spartan, everything was chosen, as far as he could tell, with a meticulous eye to detail. Great vases of white calla lilies stood on the white marble mantels and on tables around the rooms. But it was Annabelle
'
s choice of wall hangings which he found oddly revealing. On almost every wall was to be found the picture of a medieval knight in armor. The background was invariably white, but the knight, to Dalmar
'
s untutored eye, was picked out either in gold leaf or in black ink. He chanced to mention it to someone and was told that the pictures were rubbings, a hobby in which Annabelle had indulged for a time. The house had Annabelle written all over it—spare, elegant, and with considerable dash. Apart from the gold and black knights which adorned her walls, her taste held no surprises for him. It was perfect, he thought. Too perfect. Just like Annabelle.
He spent the next half hour deliberately desecrating her perfect setting. It was easily managed—a few drops of wine spilled on her immaculate carpet; a bloom plucked from its vase and left hanging; a cushion tossed under a table; the elaborate folds of her draped curtains bunched into knots. He wasn
'
t being unkind, he told himself. He just wanted to leave his mark on her in any way he could.
His thoughts wandered to his own cluttered rooms in St. James Street and he wondered if it was time to open up the house in Cavendish Square. Since his uncle
'
s demise, the furniture had been kept under holland covers and the house left empty, with only a caretaker in residence. Should he give Annabelle a free hand to arrange things to suit herself, he was almost sure that she would begin by emptying the place. Perhaps that
'
s what the old mausoleum needed, a new chapter in its history written by Annabelle. Truth to tell, he was hoping that it was a project to which he could persuade her.
He turned his attention upon her guests, relying on Murray, the man who had brought him, to make the introductions, since it was obvious that Annabelle had no intention of making
things easy for him. They were a flamboyant lot and not the sort he would normally have given the time of day to—poets, writers and their patrons, and a sprinkling of academics, all of whom affected opinions which in a former era would have soon lost them their heads on the block. He absorbed everything but said little, and there was much that he might have said in rebuttal to the scathing criticism he heard on every side on Wellington
'
s conduct of the war. It annoyed him to think that Annabelle shared the naive opinions of such people.
His eyes came to rest on one of the footmen who was dispensing glasses of champagne from a silver salver, and his thoughts took a new direction. He had taken Somerset
'
s warning seriously. If there was any danger to Annabelle, however remote, he wasn
'
t taking chances. When he
'
d arrived in London the week before, he had been in a fever of impatience to find her and provide protection for her safety. He
'
d thought then that the task of finding her would be monumental. She could be anywhere in England, for all he knew. In point of fact, he
'
d discovered her direction the very day he
'
d arrived.
He
'
d dropped in on John Murray, the man who had brought him to Annabelle
'
s party, and who had the distinction of being Lord Byron
'
s publisher. He
'
d asked a few questions about Bailey
'
s Press and in a matter of minutes was listening to a glowing encomium on the woman who had taken over the helm of the almost bankrupt company some years before.
"That
'
s strong praise for a rival,
"
he
'
d said. "Aren
'
t you afraid of the competition?
"
"Not a bit of it. We
'
re not really competitors, you see. Longmans and I are the respectable academics of the business, so to speak. Minerva Press deals almost exclusively with romantic trivia.
"
"And Bailey
'
s Press?
"
"Annabelle has an eye for the exotic and unusual— anything that
'
s like to stir up controversy.
"
"So I
'
ve heard.
"
"She
'
s not really a lover of books so much as simply a first-class entrepreneur. It just so happens that Old Man Bailey left
her a half interest in a book business. If it had been in coal mines or steel, she would have made her mark there. Well, she has a thing about trends, you see, and is always one step ahead of the competition.
"
"I don
'
t think I follow you.
"
"She
'
s got a bee in her bonnet that Raikes
'
s Sunday Schools for the children of the poor have opened up a new market of readers. She
'
s rather eloquent on the subject.
"
"And what of it?
"
"They can
'
t pay the going price of our books. They
'
re poor. And their tastes
are something of an unknown. W
ell, it stands to reason
…
they may have learned to read, but one can hardly call them educated. Annabelle has her eye on this market.
"
"Surely
The Confessions of a Footman
has limited appeal?
"
"The Confessions of an English Footman in India,
"
corrected Murray. "It outsold every book on the market, with the exception of the Bible. Stands to reason, it would. Until then, we at home had always imagined our poor chaps in India as leading a rather lonely existence. You know—sitting around drinking tea with their legs crossed. What an eye-opener that book was, I can tell you! But you can vouch for its veracity. You were there.
"
Dalmar looked to be slightly offended. "We did more than just hop into bed with the local women.
"
"So it was true! I thought as much. Don
'
t look so savage. Not only did that book make a packet for Annabelle, but as I understand, it almost trebled the number of young men who rushed to enlist. Annabelle wasn
'
t a bit pleased when I teased her about it. Can you imagine, she
'
d thought to give the public a disgust of the British artistocracy? She
'
s rather an innocent, underneath that worldly exterior.
"