Each time he recalled the previous night—how he’d claimed every inch of her with his mouth, her hands exploring every part of him, the soft moaning sounds she made as she came—his blood heated. Resisting temptation and refusing to make love to her had required willpower he hadn’t known he possessed.
Being honorable was damned difficult. qct
Over the last five hours he’d examined the problem from every angle. No matter how much he cared for Anabelle, there was no bridging the difference in their stations.
He needed a duchess. Though Belle was the granddaughter of viscount, she hadn’t been raised as one. She’d never been to Court, Almack’s, or the opera.
No woman had ever challenged him the way she did or made him feel as complete, but with his title came responsibility. His future wife needed the upbringing, social standing, and the experience necessary for the role of duchess.
Anabelle had never attended a ball—how could she be expected to host one?
From the time he was in leading strings, he’d been primed to be a duke. Before he’d even learned his sums, he understood the importance of the title he’d one day hold. And everyone in his family, his circle of acquaintances, and London society understood it, too. It was a foregone conclusion that he’d take his seat in the House of Lords and run the Huntford estates. Most importantly, however, he’d ensure the well-being of a multitude of people, including everyone from family members to tenants.
Honor and duty trumped everything.
Three years ago, marriage to Anabelle may not have been impossible. But then his mother had had an affair and deserted her family, giving the Huntford name a black eye. And his father had committed suicide—although no one outside of his household could confirm the fact, it was widely suspected by the
ton
—leaving the family name further bloodied and battered.
If he were to marry a seamstress, it would be the knock-out punch.
And he couldn’t do that to his sisters. Couldn’t do it to the title.
A lonely cloud drifted in front of the sun, casting long shadows beside him, and he clenched the reins in his fists. They’d enjoy a few weeks of stolen moments, clandestine meetings. After that, they’d say good-bye, and he’d pretend she wasn’t the best thing to ever happen to him. He’d make sure she and her family never wanted for anything, if her stubborn pride would let him. And in time, she’d meet a kind man, get married, have children, and forget him.
But never, ever, would Owen forget her.
For his sisters’ sakes, he’d marry someone with an impeccable lineage and the finest reputation—probably a pampered, delicate hothouse flower who knew nothing of life’s struggles and accepted every bit of drivel he spouted like it was divine truth. The prospect left him unenthused.
Harsby’s manor house came into view at last. The late afternoon sun glinted off the windows as though the stone structure were winking, aware of some private joke. A large fountain in the center of the circular drive shot foaming mist several feet into the air, creating a gauzy veil in front of the stately red brick home. Copses of birch trees dotted the gently rolling lawn surrounding the manor, which was shaped like a giant “T.”
Although impressive, it had but a fraction of the grandeur of Huntford Manor. What would Belle think of this house—or of his, if she ever saw it? He shrugged off the thought. Chances were, she’d never lay eyes on his beloved estate. The golden afternoon lost some of its shine.
The coach pulled up the gravel drive and his horse trotted alongside. Owen couldn’t wait to dismount, help the women out of the coach… and see Belle.
A stable boy raced across the lawn to meet him, and Owen hopped off his horse, grateful to hand over the reins. He strode to the coach, waved the footman away, and opened the door himself. Olivia bounded out almost before he could lower the stairs; being trapped in a coach for most of the day must have driven her mad.
“Thank goodness we’re here,” she cried. “I felt like I was in a crypt.”
Owen raised a brow. Coaches didn’t come any more luxurious or spacious than his. “You look none the worse for wear.”
She sucked in her cheeks. “You are ever charming, dear brother.”
Rose emerged next, her blue eyes twinkling and full of trepidation.
Owen helped her alight. “You needn’t worry about meeting everyone. Olivia, Miss Honeycote, or I will be with you at all times.”
She seemed to release a breath she’d been holding. Attending this house party was marked progress for Rose. She’d made her presentation to the Queen a few months ago, at his insistence. But she’d yet to obtain vouchers from the patronesses at Almack’s or attend a ball. She rarely left the house—when she did, it was to run quick errands or to pay calls with Olivia, only to close friends. However, Rose enjoyed visiting the tenants who lived near Huntford Manor, taking food to the sick and gifts to the children. While she normally avoided social functions, here, at the house party, there’d be no escaping them.
She glided to Olivia’s side and linked an arm through hers. Both girls looked expectantly at the coach. Like they knew a secret he didn’t. Minxes.
He peered inside. “Are you coming, Miss Honeycote?” The sun behind the coach momentarily blinded him, but at last Anabelle emerged.
At least he
thought
it was Anabelle.
She looked vastly different from the woman he’d seen when they stopped briefly for lunch. Gone was the gray, shapeless dress. In its place was a gown the color of daffodils and full of the same promise—warmer, brighter days ahead. It was the dress she’d been working on last night. His mother’s dress, only different. Green ribbon sewn around the sleeves and neck matched the green trim on
her new bonnet. She’d added lace above the neckline, covering much of the soft, sweet skin he’d kissed last night. Given that there’d be other men at this house party, he approved of the alteration.
Unfortunately, it would take more than a bit of lace to keep men from noticing Anabelle.
The dress showcased her high breasts and her long, kissable neck. What was more, she no longer looked like a lower servant. She could easily pass for a governess or a companion. Even a lady.
She licked her lips nervously, awaiting his reaction.
He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was and that he’d been wrong about the blasted dress, and that, of course she should take all the dresses and wear them, his issues with his mother be damned.
Moreover, he longed to haul her into his arms and kiss her senseless.
He almost did, before recalling that his sisters stood just behind him.
“You’re looking very well.” He hoped his eyes said everything he couldn’t.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
It occurred to him that she must have changed her clothes during the ride. The thought of her undressing in his coach made his whole body thrum.
“Doesn’t she look positively lovely?” Olivia cried.
“I believe I just said something to that effect,” he said dryly.
Olivia grunted. “Men can be so vexing, can they not, Anabelle?”
She smiled shyly. “On occasion.” Quickly, she added, “I don’t mean to imply that the duke is vexing.”
“I’m not implying,” said Olivia. “I’m stating. I do believe—”
He was spared from having to hear his sister’s beliefs when Lord Harsby opened the front door of the manor house. “Huntford! So glad your party has arrived. My wife is anxious to see these sisters of yours—grand plans and all that.” Harsby had the stocky build of an avid sportsman who’d enjoyed too many rich dinners. He eyed the stone steps leading to the gravel driveway with distaste, placed his fists on his hips, and remained by the front door.
Owen waved. Their trunks hadn’t even been unloaded, and already Harsby was hinting that his wife intended to play matchmaker for Olivia and Rose. Anabelle had better be up to the task of chaperone—he’d need all the help he could get. “I look forward to seeing Lady Harsby.” He guided all three women up the gleaming white steps leading to the house. “I believe you know my sisters, Lady Olivia and Lady Rose.” The girls curtseyed prettily. “And this is their companion, Miss Honeycote.”
Harsby bowed and searched Anabelle’s face. “Honeycote,” he mused. “The name’s quite familiar.”
“It’s a common family name,” she said smoothly. “Hundreds of us Honeycotes are scattered across England, but I’ve lived most of my life in London. It’s a treat to visit such a grand estate—your home is most impressive.”
Owen had to give Anabelle credit. She’d effectively but politely evaded Harsby’s unspoken question about her family background and, in the same breath, issued a compliment. She’d topped off the whole exchange with a demure smile, and Harsby was halfway to charmed.
“Do come in,” he said. “Lady Harsby will want to see the lot of you with her own eyes before we get you settled
in your rooms. Won’t take long, but she’d skewer me if I sent you up without letting her greet you.” He closed the front door behind them and bellowed, “Neville!” His voice echoed off the high ceilings and marble floors. Even the crystal chandelier above them trembled.
A butler emerged from a doorway below a sweeping staircase.
“Tell Lady Harsby more guests have arrived.”
“Here I am,” came a sing-song voice, and their hostess glided into the foyer, high-heeled slippers clicking. Lady Harsby was a sparkly, rotund woman. Jewels glittered on her fingers, neck, and ears. Her dress had gold ribbon all over it, and even her hair was silver. “At last, you are here! Neville, have the footmen bring in their things.”
Introductions were followed by a great deal of chatter, which caused the bump on Owen’s head to throb even more than it already did.
As if he sensed the effect of his wife’s voice, Lord Harsby said, “My dear, our guests will want to rest before dinner. Shall we show them to their rooms?”
“Yes, yes, of course. That’s where everyone is, you know—resting in their rooms. You’ll see them all at dinner.”
“Has Miss Starling arrived yet?” Olivia asked. Owen had forgotten that the debutante would be there. With any luck, he could convince Averill to occupy her for the duration of their visit.
“Oh, yes. She and her mother arrived this morning. The marchioness and her two handsome sons”—she gave a not-so-subtle wink to Olivia and Rose—“came shortly after. Mr. Averill arrived last night, as did the earl and his wife and daughter.”
“The earl?” asked Olivia.
“Winthrope,” Lord Harsby said. “If you don’t know him, you’ll meet him at dinner. Good chap. Knows his horses. And a few other things.” He jabbed Owen with a meaty elbow, in case there were any doubt as to what the other
things
were. Owen didn’t know Winthrope well, but the old earl had a reputation for womanizing and drinking.
Rose must have known something about him, too, because her face paled and she swayed on her feet. He immediately moved to her side to steady her; Anabelle shored up her other side. Owen didn’t give a damn what entertainments the earl enjoyed, as long as they didn’t involve his sisters. At least with his wife and daughter in tow, the old earl would have to behave himself.
Lord Harsby slapped Owen on the back. “Care to stop in my study for a glass of brandy?”
Tempting as a drink sounded, he didn’t want to leave Rose just yet. “Thank you, but I want to make sure my sisters are settled.”
“We’ll be fine,” said Olivia. “Won’t we, Rose?”
She nodded, encouraging him with her eyes.
“Yes,” Anabelle chimed in. “I’ll be with them.”
Feeling extraneous, Owen capitulated. “Very well. Brandy is an excellent idea.” Maybe it would help him relax. Ever since he’d stepped foot in the marquess’s house—and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain—he had the feeling that he was going to regret bringing his sisters and Anabelle to this house party.
Anabelle grappled with the news that the Earl of Winthrope was also a guest. Although her heart thundered in
her chest, she managed to keep her composure while Lady Harsby showed Olivia, Rose, and her to their rooms. They were in the west wing of the manor, as were Miss Starling and her mother, Lady Harsby informed them. She had prepared three separate bedchambers. Each appeared small, but lovely, and was accessed through a larger, common sitting room.
“When I heard you were bringing a companion, I knew this suite would be perfect,” Lady Harsby declared. “You have your own bedchambers but can chat to your heart’s content out here in the sitting area.”
“How thoughtful,” Olivia said sincerely, and Anabelle smiled to herself. Lady Harsby needn’t have bothered with separate rooms; Rose would probably curl up in bed next to Olivia, as she did most nights.
“Pshaw. It’s nothing.” Their hostess beamed. “I’ll have a maid bring up some light refreshments. Dinner shall be served at eight. You’ll want to rest your eyes so you look your best for the gentlemen.” With a girlish giggle and a waggle of her jeweled fingers, Lady Harsby left.
Anabelle guided a pale-faced Rose to the blue settee. She was clearly distressed at the news that Lord Winthrope was here, probably reliving the day she’d walked into her mother’s bedchamber to find her frolicking with the earl and his mistress. But Anabelle only knew about the incident because she’d extorted money from the earl—and Rose didn’t know she knew. And Olivia, who was normally completely in tune with her sister, was oblivious.
The situation was so confusing.
As were Anabelle’s emotions. The heat in Owen’s gaze as she’d exited the coach had made her stomach flip. The
gleam in his eyes said he approved of her new gown.
And
that he’d take immense pleasure in removing it from her person.
The moment she’d put on the altered dress—quite a feat in the rocking coach—she’d felt infused with confidence. Ridiculous, but it almost seemed as though the dress had absorbed the duchess’s poise and transferred it to Anabelle.
If no one at the house party had ever met her, she might have felt comfortable acting as the girls’ chaperone and even mingling with the other guests, when necessary. But Miss Starling and her mother
did
know Anabelle. And they knew she was no companion.