"Now that little matter has been disposed of,
"
she heard him say, "what
'
s to stop us getting married next week or even sooner?
"
"My preference,
"
she stated, knowing that the tartness in her tone was occasioned by the vague feeling of having been taken advantage of when her mind was elsewhere.
"But why?
"
He seemed to be honestly at a loss. "Because,
"
she said, trying not to antagonize him, "as I said before, I have everything I want—my business, my house, my son, my friends. A husband would just be an added distraction, and one I can well do without. Don
'
t forget,
"
she said roguishly, trying to take the sting out of her words, "I
'
m thirty years old—too
old to change my ways to suit any man.
"
"And what about passion?
"
he said, moving closer. "Where does that fit into your life?
"
Rather primly, she retorted, "That
'
s something ladies have no interest in.
"
Grinning devilishly, he replied, "That
'
s what I thought until I met you. And to think I
'
ve steered clear of the breed since I was a greenhorn! If I
'
d known then what I know now, I wouldn
'
t have been so averse to the thought of marriage. Annabelle, you
'
re the most responsive woman it
'
s ever been my pleasure to take to bed. I can
'
t wait to repeat the experience.
"
She went as stiff as a poker when he sat down and crowded her to the edge of the bench. "It was very kind of you to give Richard a set of knights,
"
she said, and raised her knitting needles in an involuntary defensive gesture.
"Was it?
"
he asked, smiling broadly, and prised the weapons from her fingers. "I love this mole.
"
He brushed her cheek with his knuckles.
"I
'
m sure he
'
ll have hours of fun playing with them,
"
she went on, determined to steer the conversation into safer waters.
"Will he?
"
With his forefinger he gently traced the delicate arch of one dark brow.
Distracted, Annabelle babbled, "Actually, the Black Prince has never been one of my favorites. It
'
s his brother, John of Gaunt, whom I
'
ve always admired.
"
"Mmm. You have the longest, silkiest eyelashes I
'
ve ever seen.
"
"In my opinion, he
'
s never had the recognition that he deserves. What do you think?
"
"What I th
in
k is that I love the way they quiver when I bring myself into your body.
"
Her eyes darted to the windows at the back of the house. "Please, David,
"
she begged. "Someone will see us.
"
"I
'
m only talking,
"
he said, his voice turning husky. "No one but you can hear what I
'
m saying.
"
His fingers brushed the nape of her neck, then lost themselves in her hair. Annabelle squirmed. "Don
'
t!
"
she
pleaded. Her skin felt as if it was melting where he touched it.
"Don
'
t you like it?
"
he crooned. "Better get used to it, Annabelle. Next time I take you to bed, I won
'
t be incapacitated because of injuries.
"
His tone darkened, became liquid and overlaid with a masculine intent that was flagrant in its attempt to seduce. "I have a million fantasies I want to act out. There are ways I want to take you, things I want to do to you
…
"
Her breathing suddenly became lodged in her throat. "Please
…
"
"You
'
re remembering, aren
'
t you?
"
he whispered, and she felt the stroke of his tongue in her ear. "Good. I
'
m never going to let you forget how it was between us.
"
She tried to rise, but he prevented it by the simple expedient of stretching one arm along the back of the bench, confining her shoulders. "My son
…"
she
groaned, trying to marshal her defenses.
"…
is occupied,
"
he answered. "You can
'
t breathe, can you? And your heart is pounding fit to burst. I know. I
'
m feeling it too.
"
He captured her hand and brought it to his lips. "I
'
m not touching you in any way that counts, and yet you
'
re burning with fever, aren
'
t you? That
'
s why we are right together. You don
'
t feel this way with anyone else, and neither do I. Passion, Annabelle
…
it
'
s important.
"
"No
…"
Her eyes were closed, her lips open, and he could feel the deep, shuddering breaths that lifted her shoulders.
"Give me more Annabelle,
"
he whispered, his voice unsteady, hoarse. "I want those little sounds you make when I
'
m thrusting into you.
"
Her head angled b
ack on his shoulder. "David…
stop.
"
Words, hot and heedless, spilled from his mouth. "You don
'
t want me to stop. Not really. I could take you now if I wanted to. If I stroked my fingers into you, I know what I would find. You
'
re ready for me now, aren
'
t you Annabelle?
Aren
'
t you?
"
She cried out and curled into him, her fist clutching at the lapel of his jacket.
Relentlessly, as if driven by a demon, he pushed her. "You
want me as much as I want you. Say it.
Say it!
"
Bewildered more by the anger than by the passion in his voice and more confused still by the strength of the unfamiliar and unwelcome longings which swamped her, she began to
weep.
Instantly contrite, he murmured, "I
'
m a brute! Hush, love!
"
He turned her face up and kissed away her tears.
"Why?
"
she asked, between sobs.
He angled her a droll look of mingled apology and reproach. "I never thought to see Annabelle Jocelyn reduced to tears. And here I was, hoping that you would throw yourself into my arms and kiss me into silence. You certainly know how to depress the pretensions of a ma
n who is trying to make love to
you.
"
She gave a very watery smile, followed in quick succession by several watery sniffs. "This isn
'
t my usual mode,
"
she carefully explained. "I never cry.
"
He laughed, a sound filled with delight and heartwarming tenderness. "You don
'
t have to tell me that. No really, I expected you to box my ears. Though frankly, those tea
r-
brimmed eyes are devastating—a secret weapon on a par with Congreve
'
s rockets. See how you
'
ve taken the wind out of my sails?
"
Between sniffs, she said, "I hate women who use tears as a weapon.
"
He produced a handkerchief and carefully dabbed her cheeks. "Better?
"
He gave her one of his unconsciously heart-stopping smiles which Annabelle had long ago decided was his own secret weapon in the war between the sexes.
"You didn
'
t answer my question,
"
she said, and lifted her eyes to look directly into his. "Why?
"
"I wanted to
prove something to you.
"
"That I
'
m a woman without morals?
"
He was tempted to laugh, but he said gravely, "No. That you are a woman of passion, and that passion belongs to me. You made it so when you gave yourself to me that first night. We have something unique, and I
'
m not about to let you throw it away in your ignorance. And you
are
ignorant in the game of love, Annabelle—a veritable novice, if memory serves. Are
you blushing?
"
"No. I never blush,
"
said Annabelle, blushing.
"Mmm. In the same way, I suppose, that you never cry. Annabelle, you
'
d argue with me on any and every triviality. But this fight is too important. I won
'
t let you win it. Better make up your mind to it. I
'
ve tasted your passion, Annabelle Jocelyn, and I won
'
t settle for anything less.
"
"But I don
'
t
want
passion,
"
she averred, as if he had just suggested that she harbor a felon in her bed. A secretive smile curved her lips. "You
'
re not offering love, I notice, and frankly,
I'm
not interested in anything less.
"
Laughing, he said, "You would like that, wouldn
'
t you—for me to fall in love with you? It would give you the upper hand, and we both know it. Annabelle, you may expect a soldier to know a few tricks when it comes to the art of self-preservation. Trust me. Love is a weapon that weakens even the strongest. I wouldn
'
t wish it on my worst enemy.
"
His smile widened. "How would you like it if I were to make you fall in love with me?
"
"You could try,
"
she said, her eyes dancing at the thought of the challenge.
"No. I don
'
t particularly want your love. I
'
m happy with what we
'
ve got. I
'
ve never wanted any woman as much as I
'
ve wanted you. And I know the feeling is mutual.
"
A gong sounded from within the house.
"Dinner,
"
said Annabelle, patently relieved.
Ignoring the hint, Dalmar prevented her from rising. "I warn you, I
'
m not going to let up for a minute until you finally give in. And don
'
t be so quick to turn up your nose at what I
'
m offering—a home, children, a father for your son, a husband whose fidelity and protection y
ou can always count on, and…
"
his voice dropped to a husky whisper, "your nights filled with the sweet heat of passion.
"
His eyes were too bold, his grin too knowing for comfort, thought Annabelle. Her own feeble smile and evasive glances lacked something in comparison. Squaring her shoulders, she said in the most confident voice she could muster, "I
'
ll think about it, Dalmar, and that
'
s a promise.
"
Inwardly, she told herself there was nothing to think about.
Still, it left her wondering about the delicious feeling of anticipation which seemed to bring every sense and faculty alive in his presence. The emotion was not unlike those she had experienced when she
'
d first taken over the reins of Bailey
'
s and faced down an officeful of hostile employees. And now she had them all eating out of her hand. The thought was positively tantalizing.
Chapter Nine
F
rom her house on Greek Street, traversing the south side of Soho Square, to her offices in
Frith Street took Annabelle all of ten minutes on foot. She had always had a fondness for this cosmopolitan corner of the city.
Émigrés
and their descendents, refugees from persecution in their own countries, Greek, Portuguese, Dutch, French Huguenots and, more recently, victims of the French Terror—all were to be found in and around Soho Square. For the most part they were prosperous artisans and found a ready market for their skills and wares. Shop windows displayed a plethora of goods—fine lace, handcrafted violins, delicately wrought silverware, elaborately carved furniture, and, Annabelle
'
s particular temptation, bolts of the finest kerseymeres and satins skillfully dyed in a profusion of colors. Annabelle, wise to her vices, made it a rule never to arrive at her office before ten of the clock, the hour when shutters came down and shopkeepers opened their doors. Nevertheless, street hawkers, selling everything from eels to eyeglasses, were already peddling their wares, and their raucous cries as they tried to din each other out rose, on occasion, to an-alarming pitch.
Annabelle, with footman in tow—a tiresome convention, in her opinion—observed the scene with a spring in her step and a sparkle in her eye. It seemed to her on this particular fine Monday morning that colors were inexplicably brighter, the air crisper, the birds chirpier, the pedestrians happier, the sights and sounds around her more lively than she could ever
remember. Humming tunelessly under her breath, she purchased a small posy of daisies from one of the young coster girls who habituated the area and she swept into the imposing brick premises of Bailey
'
s Press, Booksellers and Publisher.
On the ground floor, fronting the street, to the right of the entrance, three rooms were given over to the bookselling part of the business. Annabelle called out a cheery greeting to the manager and sales assistants, who were folding away dust sheets and plying feather dusters along shelves and flat counters set out with books. She entered the door on her left and stepped into the printing shop.
Annabelle
'
s eyes flicked over her fleet of new printing presses and the small army of leather-aproned pressmen and printers who serviced the tools of their trade like any well-trained corps of artillery gunners on the field of battle. As it always did when she entered this hive of activity, Annabelle
'
s heart beat just a little faster. Only the
Times
in Fleet Street could boast a more modern facility. The cost to replace the old temperamental wooden presses with the Earl of Stanhope
'
s more expensive cast-iron models had seemed, at the time, exorbitant, though to be sure, when his lordship had first broached the subject at one of Lady Bessborough
'
s soirees, Annabelle had thought the old boy merely an endearing eccentric known for a quaint predilection to inventing things. Her foreman had soon disabused her of that notion.
Though Douglas had talked in technicalities which Annabelle could not fathom, she had understood enough to grasp that the Earl
'
s latest invention, an improvement on the first Stanhope Press, promised a clearer impression and a relatively trouble-free operation. In the two years since the presses had been installed, Bailey
'
s titles had increased from a modest thirty per annum to almost double that number. Not that the Earl
'
s presses could be given sole credit for that achievement. By Annabelle
'
s design, Bailey
'
s books had become considerably thinner over the years. Thinner, cheaper, and highly competitive.
With the scent of the printers
'
ink in her nostrils, a pleasant odor which invariably lifted her spirits, Annabelle made for the
stairs which led to the offices above and the rooms reserved for the bookbinding part of her enterprise. Her secretary and clerk, a fresh-complexioned young man in his late twenties, was there before her, filling two china cups from an earthen teapot on her desk.
Albert Sommerville had joined Bailey
'
s at fourteen years as a printer
'
s devil, and long before Annabelle had taken over at the helm. There wasn
'
t a facet of the business the young man did not know. There wasn
'
t a job he could not do.
He
was self-
educated, articulate, and ambitious. But there was one talent he possessed which Annabelle admired above all others. He wasn
'
t afraid to try something new. And when the going got rough, he wasn
'
t afraid to roll up his sleeves and pitch in to see a job through. Annabelle intended to reward Sommerville
'
s industry by giving him his own domain to preside over. Very soon Bailey
'
s would need its own representative in the highly populated Midlands to find and open up new arteries of distribution for their books. At present, Bailey
'
s normally printed ten thousand copies of every title. Annabelle wanted to double that number. Sommerville was the man to help her achieve her ambition.
There was a twinkle in his eye as he waited patiently for Annabelle to remove her high poke bonnet and green velvet pelisse. Annabelle dismissed her footman, having first accepted a decrepit-looking handgrip which he had dutifully transported all the way from Greek Street.
"
The memoirs,
"
she
said
to her secretary, sinking gracefully into the chair he held for her. "Good morning, Albert. I see from your smirk that you
'
re about to tell me 'I told you so,
'
or congratulate
me
on my astute business acumen.
Give
me a minute, will you, till I have my first infusion of the day.
"
Wordlessly and with great deliberation Sommerville laid a calf-bound volume on the cluttered desk top in front of Annabelle. She studied it silently for some few minutes, and, her curiosity notwithstanding, continued to sip the strong brew of hot tea until her cup was drained. Only then did she set cup and saucer aside and open the book to the frontispiece.
She read the title page and let out an unholy squeal of
delight.
More Tales of the Settlers,
she breathed, and reverently fingered the pages of the volume.
"These arrived Friday, not long after you left,
"
said Albert, smiling broadly.
"How many did they send us?
"
"Five thousand, most of which have already been dispatched to our various outlets.
"
"How many did you set aside for Bailey
'
s?
"
"Forty copies, as per instructed. Of course, there
'
s only thirty-nine, now that I snitched one for you.
"
Referring to the manager of the bookshop, he went on, "Armstrong told me to tell you that you owe him ten shillings.
"
"It
'
s worth it,
"
said Annabelle, skimming through the pages as if she would devour the book whole. "This stuff is absolutely authentic.
"
"How do you know?
"
He was quizzing her.
"I can feel it in my bones when I read it.
"
"What? Do you believe all that nonsense about shooting the rapids, building log cabins, and fighting off Indian attacks? It
'
s my surmise the author, what
'
s-his-name, has a nice safe desk job in the heart of the city. He
'
s probably never seen a blade of grass, let alone an Indian.
"
"I don
'
t care if it is all imagination,
"
said Annabelle, her defenses aroused. "It
'
s like stepping into another world. Besides, they
'
re published in New York and widely read there. If it weren
'
t authentic, the Americans would know. Trust me, Albert. In another year or two, this author is going to have an enormous following on both sides of the Atlantic. And I,
"
she said, preening a little, "have the patents to publish his next work in the British Isles.
"
"What if nobody cares for that sort of thing?
"
he goaded.
"They will, they will,
"
she said, and sliced him a faintly annoyed look. "At least, anyone with an ounce of imagination will. Don
'
t disparage what you don
'
t know Albert. The least you can do is read the darned thing before passing judgment.
"
"D
'
you know what I think?
"
"What?
"
"That only highborn gentlemen and ladies who never get
their hands soiled are going to go into transports over the hardships these first settlers in the New World endured.
"
Sommerville
'
s approach to his employer might have been thought in the eyes of some to come just short of impertinence. Annabelle did not see it in that light. He was too intelligent and resourceful to offer a blind obedience. From the very first, he had questioned every innovation she had tried to introduce. Some she had discarded at his persuasion. Those that were adopted, he threw himself behind unstintingly. In short, he was one of the few employees who was not intimidated by her, and no one lost favor in Annabelle
'
s eyes by standing up to her.
"Don
'
t think! Work!
"
she said. She reached into the grip at her feet, removed a sheaf of closely written papers, and slapped them down on her desk.
"The latest chapter?
"
"Yes. We
'
re in Brussels now. Frankly, this is the first episode I
'
ve found to be really diverting. And the first time to date that I have not been able to penetrate the identity of one of Monique Dupres
'
s characters. She calls him 'Sir Spider,
'
but why this should be so, I haven
'
t an inkling.
"
"What happens?
"
"Read it and you
'
ll find out. Did you get those chapbooks for me?
"
"They
'
re over there,
"
he said, indicating a table along one wall.
"And what about the samples of paper and cloth covers?
"
"I talked to Delancey. He
'
s made up your samples for you, but he
'
s not sold on the idea.
"
"That doesn
'
t surprise me. He
'
s a bookbinder who takes pride in his work. The trouble is, he wants his work
to last till doomsday. Some boo
ks just aren
'
t written for posterity. Their appeal is for t
h
e here and now. Paper-and-cloth bindings, if viable, are all that they deserve.
"
"Yes, and some books deserve to be stillborn,
"
he said meaningfully, retrieving the pages of Monique Dupres
'
s diaries which Annabelle had slapped on her desk.
He made a quick exit before Annabelle could deliver her predictable lecture on the policy prevailing at Bailey
'
s with
respect to the publication of works of dubious content. Frowning ,she gazed at the closed door between their offices. After a moment, she bent over her desk and began her day as she usually did, with correspondence.
The morning was half over before she had her first visitor. In that time, she had already made her rounds, conferring with the foreman in each department. She was back in her office, at her desk, reviewing the more polished and literary prose with which Albert had imbued her rather stark translation of the latest chapter of Monique Dupres
'
s memoirs when Lord Temple was shown in.
"Gerry,
"
she said, rising and offering him her hand.
Tea was sent for. They spent a good ten minutes talking in circles. Annabelle became restive. Though she had no real wish to hear any scandal relating to Dalmar
'
s past or present, she was anxious for the interview to be over so that she could get back to her work. When Annabelle became involved in a task, she could scarcely tolerate interruptions, as her staff well knew. On one level, her mind framed appropriate replies to Temple
'
s spate of chit-chat, on another level, her thoughts were occupied with the mysterious "Sir Spider
"
whom Albert
'
s prose had imbued with a certain devil-may-care charm. She thought of the scapegrace knight and his barefaced effrontery, and a laugh was startled out of her.