Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a basket tucked under the opposite seat of the coach.
The duke’s gaze flicked from her to the basket and back. “Cook sent along some fruit, bread, cheese, and God knows what else for you to take your mother and sister. Cook is certain everyone is one scone away from starvation.”
Perhaps. But Cook couldn’t have prepared anything unless the duke had made it a point to inform her… or even ask her. The gesture touched Anabelle even more than the spectacles had. He seemed reluctant to take credit for the idea, but he didn’t fool her. He was more generous than he liked to let on.
He peered at her from beneath his dark lashes. “Why, in God’s name, do you insist on wearing that hat?”
She blinked, startled by the blunt question. The answer was complicated. The cap marked her as a servant and was a physical reminder that in spite of her silly dreams in the workroom of the dress shop, she’d probably never
be anything more. Oh, she might sleep on silk sheets and dine on roast beef for a few months. She might even be the current object of the duke’s desire. There was no harm in enjoying the fantasy while it lasted, but none of it was enduring or real. Her reality was the daily struggle to put food on her family’s table and keep her mother alive. Removing the cap couldn’t change that no matter how badly she wished it would. And if her dowdy cap helped remind the duke of her servant status, so much the better.
But it seemed pointless to share these thoughts with him. “How is your arm today?” Not a soul would know by looking at him that a wild dog had had his arm in a death grip several hours before. His jacket was impeccable, and he’d moved without a hint of pain, but she’d seen the gash in his flesh and his blood-soaked shirt last night. It had to hurt.
“It’s fine,” he said tightly.
“May I?” Without waiting for his response, she reached for his arm and, as gently as she could, pushed first his jacket, and then his sleeve up to his elbow. The duke rolled his eyes but did not pull away.
His wound had been bandaged with strips of clean linen, but a crimson stain had already begun to soak through the layers. His skin near the edges of the bandages looked swollen, pink, and hot to the touch. Guilt niggled at her conscience. If she hadn’t snuck out… “I thought you were going to have a doctor look at this.”
“Maybe I did.”
She shot him a skeptical glance and leaned closer to have a better look at his eye. The lid had swollen, but instead of detracting from his good looks, it merely lent him a dangerous and brooding air. She opened her mouth
to tease him about the lavender color when the coach lurched, throwing her off balance.
Anabelle clung to his broad shoulders; he grasped her by the waist and sat her firmly on one of his thighs. The sensation was odd, not unpleasant. However, sitting on a gentleman’s lap was beyond the pale, even for her. The situation probably demanded a new rule: “Never sit beside the duke in a jostling coach.” Pity she didn’t have her List and a pen handy.
She squirmed in an attempt to return to her seat, but he held her tightly. His leg felt hard and solid beneath her bottom, and his large hands almost spanned her waist.
The tenderness in his eyes melted her like so much wax. Her heartbeat sped up, and when his gaze drifted to her mouth, she didn’t wait for him to kiss her. Instead, she slid a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him softly.
They seemed to be making a habit of this—cap, or no cap.
He didn’t take over as she’d expected him to, but let her explore at will. She trailed her hand over the slight stubble on his jaw as she brushed her lips over his. When she teased his lips apart with her tongue, however, he groaned and pulled her closer, deepening the kiss.
Her body instantly responded to the now familiar taste of him. Moist heat gathered between her legs and, instinctively, she rocked against him. A pulsing started, and though it felt very good, it was not quite enough. She moaned and pressed herself closer to him, annoyed at the layers of her skirt and petticoats.
“Anabelle,” he gasped. “Christ.” He appeared breathless, dazed.
She leaned back, feeling slightly awkward and ashamed. She didn’t
think
she’d done anything wrong, but this business of kissing was all quite new to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said with exasperation. “I find it hard to control myself around you.”
Unsure whether she should be flattered or insulted, she scrambled off his lap and scooted to the far end of the bench seat. Meanwhile, he yanked down the sleeve of his jacket and dragged a hand through his hair.
Anabelle looked out of the window, surprised to find they were only a few streets away from her home. “We’re almost there.” The worry she felt for Mama, forgotten as long as she’d been kissing the duke, now weighed on her chest like a heap of bricks.
“I’ll wait in the coach,” he said, “and let you visit with your family in private.”
She considered this for a moment. “If you didn’t intend to come inside, why did you come with me? A footman could have brought me.” She’d been certain that his motivation for bringing her here was to find out if she was telling the truth about her family’s dire situation.
“To make sure you got here safely.”
“And to make sure I came back?”
He threw her a level stare. “Yes.” Honest, to a fault.
“I made a promise to you and your sisters,” Anabelle said. “I intend to keep it. But I also need to make sure my family is all right.”
“I know.” As he handed her the basket from under the seat, she realized that, of all people, he
would
understand. He loved his sisters the same way she loved Mama and Daph. It was a thread between them, and in that instant, he looked so sure of himself—and at the same time, so
vulnerable—that she wanted to launch herself at him and kiss him again.
The coach drew to a halt alongside Anabelle’s building and passersby who were running for cover from the rain stopped and stared. She would be the subject of much gossip in the local taverns that evening—although not as much as if she’d still been seated on the duke’s lap when the coach rolled up. The rain came down in sheets, so she pulled her shawl over her cap and prepared to make a run for the door.
“Wait.” He withdrew an umbrella from beneath the seat and disembarked first, opening the umbrella and holding it over her solicitously. Countless times, she’d trudged up this sidewalk, and never—ever—imagined a scenario such as this.
“Take your time,” he said, holding open the door of her building. She stepped inside and turned to thank him, but he’d already shut the door behind her.
Anabelle inhaled the smells of home—yeasty baked bread, the acrid odor of the ointment that Mrs. Bowman used for her aching joints, and the mildew that seemed to linger in the worn carpet runner on the stairs. It was all so familiar, as though she’d just walked home after a long day in the dress shop. She traipsed up the stairs, eager to see Mama and Daph, and yet worried—that Mama would be thinner than before, that Daph would be pale with exhaustion. Anabelle straightened her shoulders. Whatever the problem, she’d fix it. Same as she’d always done.
When she reached the landing, she placed her hand on the doorknob and hesitated. She had her key but didn’t want to startle Daph, so she gave a quick rap before letting herself in.
The parlor was immaculate. A vase on their tiny table held freshly cut flowers, and the room smelled lemony, as though every surface had been recently dusted and cleaned. The large tray they used to transport bowls and cups for washing was empty—hadn’t they been eating? She set the basket down beside it. “Daphne?” she called.
“Belle!” Daph rushed into the room and the two of them collided in a fierce, tearful hug. Until that very moment, Anabelle hadn’t realized how much she missed her sister. Without her, she’d been off-kilter—but now everything seemed right. Embracing Daph was like holding a ray of golden sunshine in her arms, warming and healing her soul.
They were both soggy by the time Daph finally let go and held her at arm’s length.
“Your spectacles!” she cried. “You’re even more beautiful than before.”
Anabelle had forgotten how different she looked. “I can see so much better with them.” And she was relieved to see that in spite of the shadows beneath her eyes, Daph appeared healthy—and as lovely as ever. Her blue eyes sparkled with emotion and her cheeks glowed with happiness. “You look wonderful. I fear you’ve been working too hard, though, without me here to relieve you.”
“Mrs. Bowman comes up to sit with Mama every other day so that I may go out and get the things we need. The money you sent has kept us well-fed and comfortable. I hope you’re not overtaxing yourself, Belle.”
She thought of the busy but happy hours she’d spent in the workroom at the duke’s townhouse. “I’m not—truly. How is Mama?”
Daph bit her bottom lip. “Come see for yourself.”
She took Anabelle’s hand and led her into the darkened bedroom where Mama lay sleeping, her skin almost as white as her nightrail. Her hair looked grayer than Anabelle remembered, which was ridiculous—people didn’t age in the course of a week, and yet, it seemed Mama had. Anabelle walked to the edge of the bed, let her hand trail across the back of her mother’s papery cheek, and kissed her cool forehead. Her lips were cracked and dry.
Anabelle recalled the empty tray in the parlor. “Has she been eating?”
“Not much. I’ve tried to tempt her with all her favorites, but she’s not interested in food.”
“What does Dr. Conwell say?”
Daphne shrugged sadly. “He seemed pleased that we could afford more medicine and prescribed her a larger dose. I think it makes her more comfortable, but she’s so listless. And sleeping almost around the clock.”
Anabelle pressed a fist to her mouth. Even when Mama’s cough had been at its worst, she’d longed for her daughters’ company. She’d delighted in the songs Daph would sing and Anabelle’s tales of insipid customers at the dress shop. She’d loved sharing memories of Papa and reading letters he’d sent to her years ago. She should
not
be lying in a bed, sleeping her life away.
And if Anabelle could help it, she would not.
“I think we should try to rouse her.” She took her mother’s hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “Mama, it’s Anabelle,” she said firmly.
Her head lolled from side to side, but her eyes remained closed.
“Mama.” Anabelle gently nudged her shoulder. “I’m home.”
She mumbled groggily without waking.
Anabelle looked helplessly to Daph, who reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. “Sometimes a cool drink will bring her to.”
As Anabelle helped her sister lift Mama’s shoulders and hold the glass to her lips, her admiration for Daphne grew. The task was difficult even with the two of them, but Daph must have done this many times on her own.
Mama choked down a little water, murmured something, and drifted to sleep once more.
Anabelle’s throat constricted. Selfishly, she’d wanted Mama to hug her and tell her how much she’d missed her. At the very least, she’d hoped her visit might lift Mama’s spirits. Instead, she was in an awful stupor.
Daphne tugged on her elbow. “Come. Let’s go sit in the parlor and have a chat. I want to know everything about the duke and his sisters.”
Anabelle had almost forgotten he was waiting for her downstairs. “I suppose we could talk for a few minutes, but then I need to return to work.” They sat on the worn settee in the parlor, and Anabelle felt an unusual awkwardness with her sister. She’d kept very few secrets from Daphne over the years. As much as she longed to confide in her, however, her relationship with the duke was complicated. She’d started out as his nemesis, turned into his employee, and then, finally, become something like… his romantic interest.
If she mentioned the kisses it might seem like the money he advanced her was payment not for her dressmaking skills, but for something else altogether—not the case at all. Now that she thought of it, however, the line was not drawn as clearly as she might have liked.
“So,” said Daphne, “tell me how you persuaded the Duke of Huntford to hire you as a seamstress. It was a brilliant idea.”
“I can’t take credit. It was his… suggestion.”
Suggestion
sounded better than
ultimatum
, and Anabelle thought it best not to mention that he’d threatened to turn her over to the authorities. “I’d met his sisters at the shop. They’re sweet as can be, and I’ve grown fond of them.”
“I’m sure they adore you as well. But I want to know about the duke.” Daph quirked a golden brow. “Is he as handsome as they say?”
Anabelle’s body thrummed at the mere mention of him. “Yes. And very arrogant.” Feeling a little guilty, she added, “But generous.”
“Indeed. He paid for Dr. Conwell’s next two visits and three months’ worth of Mama’s medicine from the apothecary.”
“He did?”
Daph bobbed her head. “In addition to the thirty pounds that came with your letter. Don’t worry, I’ve been frugal—I know it needs to last. But it’s such a comfort to know that for the next few months we don’t need to choose between buying food or medicine.”
Money helped, but Mama was barely clinging to life. Anabelle stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the grimy alley behind their building. She hadn’t realized the duke had sent such a large sum. It was too generous, and it would take her decades of working at the dress shop to repay him. “I wish I could stay and visit with you all day. But I really must go. The duke gave me a ride in his coach and is waiting on our street.”
Daphne’s eyes grew wide. “He escorted you here? May
I walk down with you and meet him? I’d like to express my thanks for all he’s done for us.”
“Of course.” Anabelle instantly regretted mentioning that he was here. It was awful of her—petty and childish. But once the duke saw Daphne, any attraction that he felt for Anabelle was sure to evaporate. It had always been that way. Her sister couldn’t help it. Her beauty and charm made men lose their minds. They wanted to be near her, protect her, provide for her. The duke would fall under Daphne’s spell the moment he met her, and Anabelle would be invisible once more. Perhaps that would be for the best.