Once Upon a Wager (11 page)

“He abandoned me four years ago. I wrote to him, and he ignored me still. I can hardly make small talk and pretend he didn't hurt me terribly.”

“I can't claim to know what his motives were, Annabelle. There may be things about that time you do not know. But he carried you in here as if you were precious to him.”

“Oh, he can play the role of a gentleman to perfection. He's a great one for honor and nobility when it suits him.” Would her letters have been so terribly difficult to answer? Surely, he could have sent word to explain what had happened? Why he and Gareth had raced? Why she'd been in the carriage? Why, after kissing her, he'd gone away and never returned?

“He caught you when you fell, which is worth something. You must thank him for that, at the very least. And you never told me he was so handsome.”

There was no denying it. Her heart had lurched at the sight of him. Ridiculous girl! But then all of those painful months of rehabilitation, and all those years of being alone and unwanted had rushed back, choking the breath from her body. How she hated that she'd shown any weakness in front of him. She'd been impossibly naive where he was concerned, but no longer.

“Perhaps you are right,” Annabelle said with sudden determination. “Perhaps I can speak to him after all.” She would never let him know how much his blatant disregard had pained her. He'd made himself a stranger in these past four years, and strangers they would remain.

• • •

“Alec, you are pacing the floor like an awkward schoolboy,” his mother admonished. He felt like one, too, but that didn't mean he could stop himself. He'd known he would call on Annabelle when he returned to Nuneaton, but he hadn't yet planned the things he would say. There had been the very real possibility, after all, that she would be feeble and infirm—a devastating reminder of all he had cost her. How could he have begged forgiveness for that?

Shockingly, though, Annabelle had recovered. She walked without hesitation. Her beauty—if possible—was even more staggering. God had decided that she should not suffer for his sins, and Alec was profoundly grateful. Humbled, even.

As if summoned by his thoughts, she walked into the small room, trailing her aunt.

“Miss Layton.” His mother smiled, rising from a small settee in the room. “You are the picture of good health.”

“Thank you again for your assistance, Lady Dorset,” Annabelle replied with a pretty curtsey. There was only the slightest hesitation in her movements, and her cheeks were flushed with color. Was it possible that she, too, was nervous?

“Lady Marchmain,” his mother said, “perhaps you and I can step into the corridor for a few moments, and catch up on these many years we've missed?”

“That would be marvelous, Lady Dorset,” her aunt replied. “Leave the door open a crack for propriety's sake, won't you, my lord?” And with that, the two older ladies left the room.

Annabelle took a deep breath, turning to face him. “I apologize for my earlier weakness, Lord Dorset,” she said without preamble. “It was no doubt the heat.”

What an odd thing to say, after so many years apart. Was she embarrassed to have fainted? She shouldn't be. The shock of seeing her had nearly felled him. He took a step forward, hoping to put her at ease, but she moved behind the settee in an obvious effort to avoid him. The hands he'd reached out fell awkwardly back to his sides. Whatever he'd expected, it was not this. Annabelle was distant, almost haughty. A different person entirely from the woman who'd once kissed him so passionately.

“This is quite an unexpected surprise,” she continued. “It has been a very long time.”

“I'm happy to see you again, Annabelle. I am so relieved you are well.”

Her eyes glittered at that—in the same way they had when she was furious as a child—but when she spoke, her voice was impassive. “And are you well, my lord?” she asked, looking past him to the open window.

“I suppose I am. I have just returned from the war on the Peninsula.”

“Yes, I know. Please accept my condolences on the passing of your father.”

“May I offer the same for your mother? I only learned of it recently. I was going to stop at Astley Castle when we reached Nuneaton.”

“Really? How thoughtful.”

It was obvious she didn't believe him, but she was trying hard to remain calm. This new Annabelle, who measured her words and actions, was almost a stranger. He was suddenly desperate to ease the strain between them.

“I have missed you and our friendship. After the accident, I was so worried you wouldn't recover.”

“Were you indeed, Alec?” He could hear the disdain in her voice.

“Of course I was. You can't know how often you've been in my thoughts since that terrible day.”

She was truly angry now. He could see it in every line of her body. “Is that the excuse you've given yourself? That a thought now and then was good enough for the friends you'd left behind—one of them broken, one of them dead?”

He'd almost forgotten it in the shock of seeing her. She had every right to be angry.

“I have wanted to ask for your forgiveness. I know what my carelessness brought about. I know the horrible pain I've caused you. I am more sorry than I can say.”

“All I know is that I woke up one morning to find that my brother was dead and my leg half-ripped from my body,” she replied coldly. “My poor mother, she'd very nearly gone mad. Father was not far behind. And you were gone.”

He was stung by her bitterness. And it was unfair she blamed him for leaving. Blame him for the accident, yes. Blame him for wanting her, yes. But not for being forced to leave. That had been her mother's doing. “You know I had no choice, Annabelle, though I wish it had been otherwise.

“I'm not interested in your excuses,” she said. “Mother shared them with me long ago. You did what you thought you had to do, and it seems silly to dwell on a past that can't be righted, no matter how much one might wish it.”

“You don't seem to understand.” How could the vow he'd made be considered an excuse?

“There is nothing to understand. I was hurt, of course, when you left without a word,” she said offhandedly. “But after all, there were battles to fight a thousand miles from home.”

Something was not right. “Annabelle, despite what happened, I did leave word. I left a letter behind. I even bribed one of the footmen—he was new, I think—to deliver it. In it, I tried to explain—”

“There was never any letter,” she cut in dismissively.

How could she not believe him? And why was she quibbling over a letter, in the face of all they'd been through? “I swear to you as a gentleman that I left one for you. You know the position that I was in. I had no choice but to leave. I've always cared about your welfare. I have missed you very much.”

She took a long moment before replying. Her bright blue eyes flickered. “I don't believe you, Lord Dorset.”

Surely, he'd not heard her correctly. “I do not lie, Annabelle. You know what sort of man I am, the sort I was raised to be.”

“Ah yes, the honorable Alec Carstairs. Noble and pedigreed, a proud reflection of his father.” Her voice was deliberate and edged with ice. “But it is all a facade, because you are not the man I thought you were.”

Her words struck him like a blow to the gut. It was the gravest of insults. No one had ever doubted his honor. She had known him for a lifetime. When she was so gravely injured, he'd wiped her brow and sat beside her as she writhed in pain!

She must know how hard it had been for him to leave the Layton family behind. Gareth had been his oldest friend. She'd been his friend, as well. And something more, too, no matter how unwise. The day he left, he'd felt like he was severing a limb to leave her there, barely recovered, because her mother demanded it. Yet she had no faith in him.

Deep inside, he felt something shrivel, like parchment curling to black in a flame.

God, how stupid he now felt. All of those letters he'd written to her during the war, the ones he'd kept safely hidden in his satchel, as if they were a lifeline to sanity. He had damn well spent the past four years in exile, all to fulfill a promise he made to Lady Layton. He'd even defied his own father, and he could never take that back now. He could never make amends for it, or thank him for not sending Mother away. The earl had been right about Annabelle all along, about the dangers she presented. How dare she question his honor?

“It is unfortunate, then, that our paths crossed today.” His voice was cold and hard. “It's obvious that anything we shared in the past is best forgotten.”

“It appears so, Lord Dorset. How lucky that my aunt and I are traveling to Bath for an extended visit. It's unlikely we will have to suffer another chance encounter between us.”

“I will not bother you again,” he said. “Whatever you may think, I am a man of my word.” He turned sharply on his heel, and left the room.

Without explanation, he ushered his mother from the inn, tossing the innkeeper a sovereign for the expenses they'd incurred. With a quick snap of his fingers, their carriage pulled up to the doorway, and he helped his mother into it, climbing in after her and slamming the door behind him, to the surprise of the inn's stable boy. She tried to ask him what had happened with Annabelle, but he didn't trust himself to answer without speaking harshly.

On the long ride home to Arbury Hall, she regarded him with wary eyes, because he said nothing. Not a word.

• • •

For a few long moments after his departure, Annabelle could not move. It felt as if a cold wind—completely at odds with the warmth of the afternoon—had swept in to surround her, cloaking her in ice. She'd never purposefully hurt anyone until today. She shivered with the shame of it.

Wasn't that a small sin, though, when measured against the pain he'd caused her? He had left her behind to protect his precious reputation. He had not even bothered to offer her a better excuse, merely claiming that he'd had no choice. As if Napoleon himself had swept into Nuneaton, dragging him off to the war.

Anger was a good substitute for pain. She'd relied on it every time it had hurt too much to put one leg in front of the other. Every time she'd wanted to give up. And she would use it now to prove she hadn't been broken after all. She would go to Bath. She would dance and laugh and see what she'd missed of the world.

If only this lingering sadness would go away. If only it were easier to reconcile the man she'd once believed him to be with the incontrovertible truth of what he'd become. All those years, for God knows what reason, he had been humoring her, pretending some sort of deep and lasting bond. As if she didn't know the truth when he said things like, “I have always cared about your welfare. I have missed you very much.” He had never really cared for her, no matter what she'd thought had sparked between them, and the death of that illusion was something to be mourned.

Perhaps that was why, when Aunt Sophia hurried back into the room in a rush of silken skirts, Annabelle wrapped her in a desperate hug and burst into tears.

June 21, 1812

London

Decisions, decisions, decisions. Alec had a particularly important one to make and a rare hesitancy to do so. Since the death of his father several months ago, he'd increasingly felt the need to secure his family's line. In other words, he needed an heir. Which meant that he needed a wife.

Jane Fitzsimmons, whom Father had approved of, was a wise choice for the post. The earl had expected him to be responsible and productive, to bear his duties with alacrity, and she seemed to be much the same. She, too, was an only child, the daughter of Lord Reginald Fitzsimmons, who was a powerful figure in the House of Lords despite his reputed weakness for cards. Alec's new soldiers' bill would benefit immeasurably from his support.

Furthermore, Jane was more than passably attractive—beautiful, even—especially when she smiled. Not that he put much store in beauty. It was the measure of nothing. And what did it matter if the thought of bedding her brought on a faint feeling of unease? Surely she was capable of something resembling passion? Her smiles were rare, although he would hardly call her humorless. Merely serious. Perhaps excessively so. But she would be a dutiful and faithful wife.

A sudden burst of commotion sounded in the hall. Rousing himself from one of the club's capacious leather chairs, he went to see what was causing the stir, only to nearly collide with Marworth himself. “Dorset! God's blood, I've been looking for you everywhere. Come with me straight away.” Benjamin turned toward the entrance hall.

“Is anything the matter?” he called out. “Where are we going?” The racket—unheard of in the hallowed confines of White's—was rapidly escalating.

“We're off to Hatchard's,” Benjamin replied over his shoulder, naming the popular bookseller on Piccadilly. “You'll understand when we get there.” Crossing into the hall, Alec was surprised by the sight of more than a dozen members demanding their coats from harried staff.

“Get a move on, my good man!” exclaimed William, Lord Alvanley, one of Prinny's great cronies, as he waved his hands impatiently at a house steward. “She'll be there in mere moments.”

“Surely it was Gunter's first, and then Hatchard's?” Arthur Gormley, also known as Baron Asquith, asked. “We'll make it in time if she has stopped at Gunter's first.”

“Who is she?” someone else called out. “And why are we chasing after her?”

“Only the greatest beauty since the Gunning sisters,” gushed Percy Billingsly, the second son of the Marquis of Brimley.

“The Gunning sisters came out with my grandmother. I prefer living, breathing chits myself.” That had come from Charles, Viscount Petersham. This must be an event indeed if it had roused Petersham, who was rarely seen before the late afternoon.