She sat on a bench beside the table and watched as Olivia and Rose scoured the pantry and raided the shelves. They returned with appetizing bits of cheese, grapes and berries, and an assortment of dainty cakes left over from tea that afternoon, all arranged haphazardly on a large plate. Olivia set the food in the center of the table and poured generous amounts of wine into three glasses. “This should help us sleep,” she said, topping off the last glass.
The girls’ enthusiasm was infectious. The only thing that could have made the escapade more perfect was if Daphne had been there, too. She would love Olivia and Rose, and of course, the girls would love her—everyone did. Owen had found her delightful without falling the least bit under her spell. Anabelle sighed contentedly.
The sisters sat on the bench opposite her, but as she and Olivia reached for a morsel from the plate, Rose swatted their hands away and raised her wineglass.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Olivia said. “We need to make a toast. Anabelle, would you do the honors?”
She thought of the girls’ kind, sweet nature and all they’d had to endure. They’d been abandoned by their mother, left heartbroken by their father’s suicide, and unappreciated by the
ton
.
“Yes, I would.” Anabelle raised her glass. “To the ones who pulled our hair and braided it at night, the ones who borrowed our dresses and lent us theirs, the ones who read our diaries and kept our secrets. To sisters.”
“To sisters!” said Olivia, clinking her glass to Anabelle’s.
Rose tapped Olivia on the shoulder, pressed a hand to her chest, and pointed to Anabelle.
“Right,” said Olivia. “To sisters
and
sisters of the heart.”
Anabelle’s eyes stung, and, fearing she’d be reduced to a puddle of tears, she took a gulp of her wine and smiled brightly. “I’m famished. Shall we?”
“It’s every woman for herself,” announced Olivia. She popped an impressive wedge of cheese in her mouth.
Rose was slightly more timid but did not hesitate to go directly for the sweets. Anabelle followed suit, sampling tarts and little pies. Before long, they’d devoured everything on the platter. Only crumbs remained. Anabelle’s eyelids grew heavy, but she so enjoyed the girls’ company that she continued sipping her wine and chatting. When the conversation eventually turned to Owen, as she’d hoped it would, she endeavored not to appear overly interested.
But she hung on every word.
“He’s at the Milford ball this evening,” said Olivia. “Miss Starling mentioned it when I saw her at the musicale yesterday. She was kind enough to sit next to Rose and me. She must have had a dozen admirers trying to curry her favor. But she discouraged them all—politely of course. I wish I had a smidgen of her beauty and grace.”
Anabelle wanted to tell Olivia that Miss Starling was
not really a friend and that she was using her and Rose to snare Owen, but she feared Olivia would be devastated to hear it. Instead, Anabelle latched on to Olivia’s other comment. “You are every bit as beautiful as Miss Starling. More so, if you ask me.”
Olivia erupted into peals of laughter, surely loud enough to awaken the servants. Rose put a finger to her lips to shush her sister.
Anabelle was insulted by Olivia’s skepticism. She’d always had an eye for beautiful things; it was part of what made her a talented designer of gowns. She could see the potential in fabrics, frippery, and people. “You don’t believe me?”
“Miss Starling is a diamond of the first water,” Olivia said. “I’m paste jewelry.”
Rose frowned and shook her head. At least she was on Anabelle’s side.
Her lips loosened by the wine, Anabelle said, “Miss Starling is the cumbersome train and feathers one must wear before the Queen at Court. You are the stunning silk gown made for whirling around the dance floor in a candlelit ballroom.”
Olivia actually blushed. “I liked the whirling part. I shall try to remember your kind description next time I’m tripping over my own feet. Now, what kind of dress is Rose?”
Anabelle thought for a moment. “Rose is a light, shimmery summer frock made for chasing butterflies in the meadow.”
Rose smiled and Olivia sighed happily. “Well, it seems Miss Starling is destined to become our sister-in-law,” Olivia said. “I, for one, couldn’t be more pleased.”
Anabelle’s heart thudded in her chest. “Why do you say that? I mean, the part about her being destined?”
Olivia leaned forward as though about to impart something salacious. “Just yesterday, Owen told me it was high time he did his duty and married. When I asked him if anyone had captured his fancy he gave me a dark, disgusted look and said he’d probably do as our father would have wanted and shackle himself to Miss Starling. Papa and Mr. Starling were quite chummy before… In any case, Owen said he supposed marrying Miss Starling would be the most expedient course.”
“How utterly romantic.” Anabelle tipped her wineglass back and swallowed the last drop.
Olivia giggled and then went silent. She and Rose were both focused on something behind Anabelle.
And then she
knew
.
“What’s romantic?” Owen’s deep, rich voice sent shivers down her spine.
She turned and saw him leaning casually against the doorjamb. His hair was mussed and his shirttail was showing on one side. Anabelle couldn’t recall him ever looking as handsome.
“Well?” he asked, scowling at her. Or perhaps he was scowling at her cap. Either way, Anabelle had no intention of answering his question.
Olivia, however, managed to find her tongue. “Ah, we were just having a girls’ chat. How was the ball?”
“Splendid.” He plopped himself down on the bench next to Anabelle and eyed her empty wineglass. “Why are you three sitting in the kitchen at this hour of the morning?” She detected the hint of a slur to his words.
“Probably the same thing you are,” Olivia said. “Shall I round you up a snack?”
He raised his brows and looked pointedly at the empty plate in the center of the table. “Is there anything left?”
“Oh, I’m sure I can find a stale crust of bread.” Olivia began to rise from the bench but Rose motioned for her to stay and headed to the pantry herself.
“So, tell me,” Olivia said gleefully, “which ladies did you dance with tonight?”
“If you’re so bloody curious, you should have come.”
“Owen!” Olivia shot a pointed look in Anabelle’s direction.
“Sorry,” he said. “If you’re so
damned
curious.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Forgive my brother,” she said to Anabelle, “I fear he’s foxed.”
He grunted but did not deny it. Perhaps that was why he seemed even more attractive than usual. Although he could not be called charming by any stretch, he was not as firmly in control as he normally was.
His sister prodded him some more. “If you tell me your dance partners I shall fetch you a glass of brandy.”
Anabelle did not think it wise to bribe him with more drink, but she had to admit she was oddly curious about his dance partners. She supposed it wasn’t unlike a starving person asking for a description of each course of a feast. It would be torture, but at least she’d know what she’d missed.
“Lady Portman, Miss Morley, and Miss Starling. There’s a decanter on the sideboard in my study.”
“How many times with each?” Olivia pressed.
“Once, once, and twice. Don’t be stingy with the stuff.”
Olivia flipped her thick brown braid over her shoulder
and sighed as she rose from the table. “Behave yourself while I am gone.”
The moment she left, Owen reached under the table and squeezed Anabelle’s hand. In a gruff whisper he said, “I missed you.”
Her face grew hot. Although she longed to believe him, she sincerely doubted that he had spared her a thought while drinking champagne and spinning beautiful women around the ballroom dance floor. “You didn’t miss anything. It was not an especially exciting evening in the workroom.”
“No?” He leaned closer, warm breath tickling her ear. “It
could
have been exciting.”
She bit her bottom lip and tried to scoot farther away from him on the bench. His teasing was exquisite torture. “Not now.”
He would not let go of her hand. Instead, he traced little circles on her wrist. “When?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought about you all night. Give me a time.”
Anabelle craned her neck to see where Rose was. The pantry door was still ajar. “Later.”
“Fine. I’ll come to the workroom in an hour.”
She opened her mouth to tell him that under no circumstances should he venture anywhere near her end of the corridor, but at that very moment, Rose returned carrying Owen’s snack. Anabelle kicked Owen’s shin—hard—but not before Rose’s keen gaze flicked to their joined hands beneath the table. She gracefully set the plate on the table, sat, and smiled like a cat presented with a saucer of warm milk.
Anabelle sprang off of the bench. “This was delightful,”
she said to Rose. “But I’m afraid I must turn in.” She swallowed and turned to Owen. How her fingers itched to slap the smirk off his face. “Good night…”—she couldn’t imagine how she’d choke out the words—“… Your Grace.”
A
nabelle fled the kitchen, and in the hallway almost bumped into Olivia, returning with Owen’s brandy.
“Where are you going?” Olivia called.
“To bed. Thanks for a wonderful evening.” Anabelle was already halfway up the stairs. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” When she reached her room, she locked her door, splashed her face with cool water, and took several deep breaths.
Owen wouldn’t risk coming to the workroom in the wee hours of the morning.
Would he?
Beyond tired, but doubtful she’d be able to sleep, she forced herself to change into her nightgown, brush out and braid her hair, and climb into bed. If he came to her door, she’d simply pretend to be asleep.
Half an hour later, she heard the girls shuffle upstairs and settle into their rooms. Another half hour passed. Perhaps he wasn’t coming after all.
He probably viewed their earlier conversation as playful
flirtation and would have no recollection of it tomorrow. Ignoring the stab of disappointment in her belly, she fluffed her pillow, flipped to her side, and squeezed her eyes shut. Thank heaven he had the common sense to go to his bed and stay away from hers. No good could come from his silver-tongued compliments and knee-buckling kisses. Dwelling on the duke’s broad shoulders and smoldering eyes only distracted her from her objective: fulfilling her end of the deal so she could return home.
To make herself drowsy, she counted stitches in her head—the simple, boring kind that wound round and round. Her breathing slowed, the wine relaxed her muscles, and sleep beckoned.
The soft knock on her door nearly made her jump out of her skin.
“Belle.”
Foolishly, her heart leapt at the sound of his voice. He was in the workroom, thankfully, and not in the hallway where his sisters might hear him. Covering her head with a pillow, she reminded herself of the plan. Ignore the knocking. Feign sleep.
But the next sound was more of a thumping. “Anabelle, I know you’re not asleep.”
He could not possibly know that. She buried her head deeper and hummed softly to drown out his voice.
When the thumping turned to pounding, she bolted out of bed, dashed to the door, and hauled it open. “Are you trying to wake the entire household?”
“Just you.” His boyish grin melted the edges of her resolve. “It would take a thunderbolt from Zeus himself to wake my sisters, and the staff has retired for the night. I would never take foolish risks with your reputation.”
The soft sincerity of his tone warmed her.
“Now,” he said wickedly, “come out and play.”
She shook her head firmly. “I can’t.”
“Want me to come in?”
“No!” She closed the door all but a crack and spoke through it. “I have to work tomorrow, and seeing as how you’re a duke, you must have responsibilities as well. Go to bed.”
“Do you know what your problem is?”
How dare he imply she was the one with problems? “Enlighten me.”
“You work too hard.” He reached through the crack and tugged playfully on her sleeve. “Come with me. I want to show you something.” Mischief gleamed in his eyes, and candlelight glowed in the workroom behind him.
“What have you done? Please tell me you haven’t moved the panels that were laid out on the long table or touched the fabric on the shelf because I had it arranged just so, and—”
“Trust me.” He gently but firmly pushed the door open and pulled her into the workroom.
Only, it didn’t feel like the workroom.
The soft quilt that he’d wrapped around her shoulders the morning before had been spread in the center of the floor. A large candelabrum rested on a stack of atlases to one side, and pillows from the window seat were strewn around the blanket. Without her spectacles, the whole room was blurry and pleasantly dreamlike. The window sash was raised, the night breeze sweetening the air with grass and honeysuckle. Outside, leaves rustled, insects chirped, and the occasional bird trilled in a natural, soothing cadence.
Anabelle’s breath hitched in her throat. He’d done this for her.
“See? I didn’t disturb anything,” he said proudly.
“What is all this for?”
He led her to the blanket. “Sit and I’ll show you.”
Although she was suspicious, she did as he asked, drawing her bare feet beneath the hem of her nightgown. Owen shed his jacket; his dark green waistcoat was unbuttoned, revealing a fine white shirt, untucked from his breeches. He sat behind her, so close that his warm breath fanned her neck.
“I have noticed,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders, “that you are constantly holed up in this room, working. You spend too much time hunched over ball gowns. Too little time wearing them.”
She stifled a laugh. He should know that seamstresses didn’t own ball gowns.
“At the ball earlier, I kept wishing you were there. I imagined you in blue silk, chestnut tresses cascading over your shoulders, gray eyes sparkling. Every man would want you for his dance partner, Belle, but
I’d
be the one holding you, twirling you around the floor.”