A
s Anabelle walked with Owen to the center of the ballroom, her first thought was that the orchestra really should be playing. They’d only played a set, for heaven’s sake, and already they were taking a break.
Her second thought was that while the only people actually
on
the dance floor were Owen and her, the whole population of England appeared to be circled around it.
Her third thought was that two of the women on the edge of the crowd looked remarkably like Mama and Daphne. They couldn’t actually
be
her mother and sister, as the gowns they wore were much finer than anything they owned. If fact, they were almost as fine as the gown
she
wore—
Good heavens.
“Your Grace,” she whispered through clenched teeth, “why wasn’t I informed that my mother and sister would be attending the ball?”
“It was meant to be a surprise.” His voice was so deep and smooth that she had to avoid the urge to melt into him. He cleared his throat. “Good evening, everyone, and thank you for coming to help us celebrate my lovely sister, Rose.”
Tasteful clapping and cheers ensued.
“For the past few years, our family has faced our share of tragedy. But tonight we celebrate my sister’s debut, and I couldn’t be prouder of the woman she’s become.” Polite applause pattered around them. “I’m hopeful,” he said, turning to Anabelle, “that we will have something else to celebrate tonight as well.”
She was fairly certain that she knew what he would offer. vzyl
It could only be the position of ducal seamstress. Ever since they’d arrived, the fourteen aunts had been hinting that their wardrobes were in need of updating. Owen probably wished to offer her a permanent position.
It would mean financial security for her family.
It would mean she’d get to live with Olivia and Rose.
But it would also mean that she’d have to be near Owen without actually having him, and that was more than she could bear.
“What do you say, Anabelle?” Gads. She’d missed a few sentences, but no matter.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I don’t wish to be your seamstress.”
He held both her hands between his and went down on one knee. “I don’t want a seamstress. I want
you
. Please say you’ll be my wife.”
“Your wife?”
“Yes. I love you, Anabelle.”
The crowd fell so silent that the crackling of candles as they burned could be heard overhead.
“I—”
“This woman”—Miss Starling burst through the crowd, and all heads swiveled toward her—“was hemming my gowns a few months ago, Huntford. She was
working
for a few shillings each week. How can you possibly expect her to be a proper duchess? It’s not even fair you should ask such a thing of her.”
Rose stepped forward. “I think she’ll make a fine duchess.”
“As do I,” Olivia announced, joining her.
Aunt Phyllis of the lemon-colored silk cap cleared her throat. “I happen to be acquainted with Miss Honeycote’s grandfather.”
Miss Starling made an unladylike sound which could best be described as a snort. With a toss of her head she said, “I presume he’s a former member of your staff. An ex-footman, perhaps?”
“I should say not.” Aunt Phyllis’s cheeks shook with indignation. “Miss Honeycote’s grandfather is the Viscount Longden. He’s a bit stodgy, but as blue-blooded as they come.”
Miss Starling staggered backward as though she’d taken a blow to her perfect chin.
“As Anabelle’s sister and mother,” Daphne said, her arm linked with Mama’s, “we are probably quite partial. However, we believe she is most
definitely
duchess material… if that is what she wishes to be.”
“What
do
you wish for, Anabelle?” Owen asked, imploring her with his eyes. “I want to make you happy.”
“I want to be with you.”
“So that’s a…?”
Her eyes burned and her throat constricted, but she managed to say, “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”
He let out a great shout, picked her up, and swung her around in a most garish display.
The band began a waltz, and he swept her around the floor, holding her closer than was proper and twirling her with gusto. Other couples began to crowd the dance floor, providing a cloak of silk gowns and tailored evening jackets. Owen pulled her closer, the spicy smell of him so tantalizing she just barely refrained from licking his neck.
“I knew you wouldn’t say no in front of all those people.”
Silly man. “It wasn’t the public declaration that won me over.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No.”
“I agreed to marry you because you love me,” she admitted.
He gazed at her, his green eyes full of warmth and passion. “I do, Anabelle. Madly. Not in spite of who you are and where you come from, but because of it. Not many women—or men—would have had the courage to do what you did for your family.”
“I love you, too,” she said. “In spite of your title and wealth.”
He chuckled deeply, sending shivers through her limbs. “If you don’t love me for being a duke, why
do
you?”
There were so many reasons. But she saw the vulnerability in his eyes and knew how much her answer mattered to him. “Because you showed compassion for a common criminal. Because you shamelessly dote on your
sisters and great-aunts. Because you saw me as more than a seamstress—as more than I saw myself.” He looked amused and mildly confused. She thought some more and shrugged. “You’re a pastry that’s hard and crusty on the outside but warm and soft on the inside. I love both parts equally.”
“God, I’ve missed you,” he purred into her ear, his hand at the small of her back guiding her away from the dancers and through the doors leading to the terrace. “Promise you’ll never leave me again.”
The sultry night air enveloped them, and she boldly led him across the patio where they took cover behind a thick evergreen. The moment they were out of view, they reached for each other. She reveled in the scratchy feel of his chin and the solidness of his chest. He growled as his hands roamed over her bare shoulders and arms, across her breasts, and behind her bottom, claiming every inch of her. “I’m here to stay,” she said. “Even if it means I must make plumed turbans for all fourteen of your greataunts.”
One week after the ball, Anabelle, Mama, and Daph moved into a charming furnished townhouse in Leicester Square that Owen had rented for them. Of course, Anabelle would only live there until the wedding, which was two months hence, but knowing that Daph and Mama would be so close and so comfortable… well, if there was a more perfect wedding gift, Anabelle couldn’t imagine it.
Mama cried when they pulled up in front of the cheerful red brick house. “It’s large enough for a family three times our size,” she exclaimed.
Daphne nearly swooned over the window boxes. “I can’t wait to plant crocuses and daffodils.”
“A lovely idea, but I think we should unpack first,” Anabelle teased.
They spent a happy afternoon settling in, adding personal touches to each room, and getting to know the staff Owen had generously hired. Mama and Daph each had their own bedchamber, of course, and after Anabelle was married, there would be two guest rooms. Cook prepared a savory roast for the first dinner in their new home, and afterward Daph announced that if she ate like that every night, she would no longer fit into her new gowns.
Their improved circumstances were a drastic change from the darkness, sickness, and hunger that had plagued them mere months ago, and yet, Anabelle couldn’t let go of one aspect of her former life.
She waited until Mama, Daph, and their newly hired servants were sleeping before quietly tossing back the covers, tiptoeing across her bedchamber, and rummaging through her old trunk. After shedding her nightgown, she donned the boy’s shirt, breeches, jackets, and shoes. Once she’d tucked her hair under a wool cap and pulled the brim low, she went to her desk, retrieved the note and package she’d prepared earlier that day, and shoved it deep into her pocket. The familiar frisson of excitement thrummed through her body.
Tonight’s mission was fraught with danger.
Being caught would bring ruin upon her—and the people she loved.
She swallowed, slipped on her spectacles, and checked the clock. The hour had arrived.
The layout of the townhouse was not yet familiar, so
she carefully navigated the stairs and made her way to the back door, adjacent to a cozy library. She opened the drawer of a hallway table, sifting through the contents till she grasped a key, cold and heavy, in her hand. Hopefully, the lock wouldn’t click and the door wouldn’t creak. Taking a deep breath, she inserted the key into the lock and—
“It’s awfully late to be venturing out.”
The deep, gravelly voice nearly made her heart jump out of her chest. She spun around. “Owen!” she chided. “What are you doing here?”
He stepped out of the shadows of the library and took her hands, lacing warm fingers through hers. “Did you think I’d let you do this alone?” With panther-like swiftness, he raised her hands above her head, backed her against the wall, and nuzzled her neck.
It was hard to think, much less speak coherently when one of his hands had skimmed her side and settled on her bottom. “I… I didn’t think you approved.”
“I don’t like you taking risks,” he murmured. “But I understand you need to do this. We’re in this together. We’re in everything together.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” His hand drifted lower, and his fingers caressed her wickedly through the nubby wool of her breeches. “Make me work for it.”
Anabelle writhed against his hand, her breeches damp and her loins pulsing with desire. Breathlessly, she said, “Would you like to continue this conversation in the library, Your Grace?”
“An excellent idea.” He tugged her toward him and slipped a hand under her shirt, cursing when he encountered the cloth she’d used to bind her breasts. “What’s this?”
“I’m making you work for it,” she teased.
He laughed as he pulled her into the library. “God, I love my work.”
The next morning, the Viscountess of Bonneville was taking breakfast in her bedchamber—as was her custom—when her very handsome butler entered and handed her a small package accompanied by a note. She read it with great interest.
Dear Lady Bonneville,
I am pleased to inform you that due to a change in personal circumstances I am able to make reparations for my prior bad behavior. Enclosed you will find your 30 pounds, returned with interest. Please accept my apologies for the distress my actions must have caused you.
I wish you and your beau every happiness. Rest assured, your secret shall always be safe with me.
Sincerely yours,
A Remorseful, Reformed Citizen
Casting an appreciative glance at her butler’s backside, the viscountess folded the note and tucked it deep into the valley between her bosoms.
She’d always been partial to happy endings.
Lovely and sweet, Daphne Honeycote is the picture of perfection. But beneath her innocent façade, Daphne guards a shocking secret—and it’s about to become the scandal of the season…
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London, 1816
U
pon meeting Miss Daphne Honeycote for the first time, Benjamin Elliot, Earl of Foxburn, had two distinct thoughts.
The first was that she
appeared
to be a suitable match for his upstanding young protégé, Hugh. Her golden hair was smoothed into a demure twist at her nape, and the collar of her gown was prim enough to pass muster in a convent. Her entire person radiated light, goodness, and purity.
The earl’s second thought regarding Miss Honeycote was that he should probably take down the nude portrait of her hanging in his study.
To be fair—and to his everlasting regret—Miss Honeycote wasn’t entirely nude in the painting. She reclined on a chaise of sapphire blue, her gown unlaced all the way to the small of her back, exposing slim shoulders and the
long indent of her spine. The look she cast over her shoulder was serene and wise.
And utterly captivating.
His butler had once nervously suggested that a less titillating painting—of the English countryside or a fox hunt, perhaps—might be more befitting an earl’s study. Ben had explained to the butler—with uncharacteristic patience—that since he had no intention of hosting the next meeting of the ladies’ scripture study, he’d hang any picture he damn well pleased.
But now, as he watched poor Hugh fumbling over himself to impress Miss Honeycote at the Duchess of Huntford’s dinner party, he realized he’d have to take down the painting. It would never do for Hugh to see the scandalous portrait and discover that the woman he was courting was not the paragon of virtue he imagined her to be.
Ben wasn’t one to cast stones, but at least he didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he was—a bitter, cynical bastard.
Everyone
knew what he was, and yet invitations were never in short supply. It was truly amazing what character defects people would tolerate if one had a title, a fortune, and a few interesting scars.
He preferred to eat alone but couldn’t refuse an invitation from Huntford. Especially when he suspected the duchess had arranged the dinner party in order to further Miss Honeycote’s acquaintance with Hugh. This dinner was the social equivalent of advancing a column of infantry and probably involved more strategy. It was the kind of maneuver that Robert—Hugh’s older brother and Ben’s best friend—would have skillfully countered. Ben tucked an index finger between his neck and cravat, which suddenly felt tight.
Robert was gone, killed in the line of duty, leaving
his younger brother with no one to look out for him but Ben—a poor substitute if ever there was one. The least he could do was protect Hugh from the mercenary and morally suspect Miss Honeycotes of the world.
Ben kept a wary eye on the stunning blonde throughout the evening. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she’d stepped out of the portrait in his study and raided the armoire of a prudish vicar’s wife before coming to dinner. The contradiction between the oil-painted and in-the-flesh versions of Miss Honeycote kept his mind pleasantly—if wickedly—occupied during the meal, which was otherwise predictably tedious. Huntford sat at one end of the table, looking more medieval king than sophisticated duke; his pretty wife sat at the other. The duke’s two sisters—Olivia and Rose—and Miss Honeycote were interspersed among the remaining men—Hugh, himself, and his solicitor and boxing partner, James Averill.