Once Upon a Wager (3 page)

Passing clipped boxwoods and yews set in a pattern dating to Elizabethan times, she followed a gravel path into the heart of the gardens where a Roman folly stood, reflected in a semicircular ornamental pond, her fountain at its center. The pond was filled with gold and silver fish, and as a child, she'd loved watching sunlight shimmer on their scales through the water. Several bubbled to the surface at her approach, hopeful and expectant, but tonight, she had nothing to offer but a half smile.

There was a bench hidden behind the folly, and she took a seat there. Her collision had wreaked havoc with the elaborate coiffure her maid, Mary, had created. Annabelle fumbled with an errant clip, but that sent another wave of heavy hair tumbling over her shoulders. It wouldn't do to be seen in this state. She could only imagine what Alec would think. At least, the new Alec. The one who was so stuffy. Thankfully, though, she was alone.

Until quite suddenly, she was not.

“I was sure my eyes had deceived me, but they did not. You are exquisite.”

The voice belonged to a strange man, his approach almost silent in the soft grass. Annabelle merely edged further into the shadows. “Sir, I don't wish to be rude, but I would prefer to be alone.”

“But your beauty holds me spellbound,” he said easily, as if he'd practiced the line.

She looked up. It was the blunt-featured man. He had light brown hair and pale gray eyes, and while she could not guess at his age, he was far older than she. “This is hardly the time for false flattery. And the party is that way.” She pointed needlessly toward the house.

He moved slowly toward her. “What is your name?”

“As you well know, it would hardly be proper for me to say. We've not been introduced.” Nor should she be alone with him here in the dark.

“Such becoming modesty.” He smiled, flashing uneven teeth. “But I insist on knowing who you are.” He took another step closer as he slowly withdrew the glove covering his left hand. “Tell me, my dear, if I trailed my fingers down your cheek, would your skin be as soft as it appears?”

So he was that sort of man. “You should know that I always carry a small pistol on my person,” she said, her voice impressively calm. “Just in case an unfortunate situation like this one should arise.”

“Really?” His eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Why don't I feel my hands along your body, and see if I can discover the place where you've hidden it?”

“Touch her,” another voice ground out, “and I will break both of your arms.”

Alec. He'd followed her, after all. He was suddenly towering over the stranger.

“Carstairs, what an unpleasant surprise. The lady and I are having a private discussion.”

Ignoring him, Alec turned to face her. “Are you all right?” Taking in her disheveled appearance, he added tersely, “Has he hurt you in any way?”

“No, I am fine,” Annabelle replied, masking her relief. “I merely needed some fresh air.”

“I meant no harm,” the man said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I was merely engaging in an innocent flirtation with a desirable woman.”

“She's little more than a child,” Alec bit out. And as offended as she was by his comment, this didn't seem like a time to argue.

“She is hardly a child, Carstairs,” the man drawled. “If she were, I doubt you'd be treating me to such a manly display.”

She could sense the tension in Alec. He was keeping his temper in check, but just barely.

“Who are you?” Annabelle asked. “Why are you here in my home?”

“Your home?” His eyes widened with surprise. “You must be Miss Layton, Gareth's sister. He and I are very close friends.”

“Of late,” she said, “he has been less particular in his friendships.”

The stranger darkened at that. “As it turns out, we are business partners of a sort. I am Damien Digby, at your service.”

Gareth had been wrong. She could not like Mr. Digby.

“How utterly perfect you are, Miss Layton. When your brother spoke of your beauty, I thought he exaggerated. I can see now he was being coy. I will look forward to seeing you inside.”

With a cold look at Alec, he turned and strode purposefully toward the house.

• • •

“Don't you know enough not to run off without a proper escort, Annabelle?” Alec demanded, anger sharpening his voice.

At his tone, her own temper flared. “I was more than fine, Alec. I've grown … what was the word you used? Oh yes, big. I'm big now, like a sturdy tree out in the lawn. Perhaps if you think on it, you can come up with an even more unflattering term. In the meantime, I will take care of myself.”

“Don't be foolish. You don't know what a man like that is capable of.”

“You heard him say he meant no harm.” Even as she spoke the words, she knew they were false. She'd seen the look in Digby's eyes.

“He is a cad, the very worst sort.” Alec put a hand to the edge of his cravat, as if it were suddenly too tight. “And much as it pains me to say so, you are at an age when such men will seek you out.”

“I cannot help the fact that I've grown up, Alec. I'm sorry the end result of it has been so unfortunate.”

He met that statement with a long moment of silence, merely watching her in the moonlight, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I don't think that is the right word.”

She didn't want to find out which word he would choose instead. Her confidence had been battered enough for one evening. “I have to return to the party.” She started to move away, but he put his hands on her shoulders to still her.

“Have you really taken to carrying around pistols, Annabelle?”

“Of course not. I was bluffing. I would never ruin the line of this lovely dress.”

His eyes sparked briefly with amusement, and perhaps admiration. “Lovely as your dress is, you can't return to the party looking as you do. Let me help you.”

He reached down to loosen one of the diamond clips tangled in her hair, and slowly worked it free, standing so close she had to remind herself to breathe. He smelled of sandalwood and crisp, clean linen. “This one will also have to be reset,” he said, moving to the other clip, his amusement fading. In moments, the rest of her hair tumbled down to her waist, and he ran his fingers through its long length in an effort to smooth it. Then he cleared his throat, dropping his hands to his sides.

“I'm not much of a lady's maid.” He tucked the clips into her gloved hands and stepped back.

“People will wonder what we've been doing out here in the dark,” she said, daring him to think of her that way. But his face was inscrutable, and she fought back a stab of frustration. “Of course, no one would suspect you of misbehaving. You are far too honorable. You're practically my brother.”

“I am not your brother, Annabelle. And I'm not as honorable as you think.” Abruptly, he turned toward the castle. “Follow me to the servants' entrance, and go up to your room from there.” She hurried to keep up with his long strides. “Go straight to your maid,” he called over his shoulder. “Dinner will be served soon. Your absence will be noticed if you don't hurry.”

He was dismissing her, because she was a foolish girl he neither wanted nor needed. It was evident in every terse, clipped word.

When they reached the house, she passed quietly through the doorway leading into the kitchen. In the confusion, as the staff prepared trays of food to be brought up for dinner, she was able to slip by unnoticed. In moments, she was up the stairs.

• • •

Only when she'd vanished from sight did Alec allow his careful control to slip. The ghosts of his past were all around him. He and Gareth and Annabelle, rolling down the hillside over there on that warm spring day, laughing aloud as governesses and tutors ran after them, bemoaning grass stains and inappropriate behavior. That long ago summer night, sitting with Annabelle on the bench behind the folly, her hand in his, because while she loved to look up at the stars, she was frightened of the dark. That afternoon when he'd come down from Oxford for a visit, and she leapt into his arms. His only searing thought had been, “how beautiful you've become.” That morning two years ago, when everything changed.

He hadn't been able to sleep. It had been intensely hot, even at that early hour of the morning, so he'd gone for a walk, hoping for a breeze. Hearing her laughter, he'd been drawn to it, never expecting to find Annabelle dancing in the fountain, a pagan goddess of the dawn, water coursing over every nearly naked curve. The pink tips of her breasts had been visible through her wet shift, and he'd felt like the worst sort of lecher for wanting her. Even now, he hardened at the memory, his mouth dry as dust.

Annabelle was free in a way he'd never been, full of life and laughter. She was warm, vital, and sparkling, like flames in the night. But never had someone been more unsuited to the path that he must follow. His happiness was not his own. It did not matter that he wanted her, that he could no longer deny his desire. How shocked she'd be to know that while he had been untangling her hair, he'd been imagining it wound around him, her body naked beneath his own.

Annabelle returned to the party just as the first course was served, hopefully with no one the wiser. No one besides Alec, at least. She sensed him watching her at every opportunity, but whether to keep her safe or avoid her path, she didn't know. Course after course was served to the throng of seated guests. There were soups, sweetmeats, and baked fowl; meats, terrines, and savory tarts; sugar-glazed fruits and desserts—all presented by white-gloved servers moving with almost orchestral precision.

Even without the butterflies they'd planned on, it was perfect. If only Alec would ask her to dance, the evening's earlier trials could be overlooked, but he hadn't asked. She despaired that he ever would.

Gareth's friends from school, however, were gratifyingly kind, paying her ridiculous compliments. Handsome Benjamin Alden, the Viscount Marworth, recited such effusive poetry she'd laughed out loud in response. Gareth's new friends from London, however, were less appealing, their regard inappropriate. As she escaped two of them with the excuse she was needed elsewhere, a voice rang out. “Belle!”

She turned to see her brother weaving his way toward her, the lecherous Mr. Digby close behind. Surely there were more appealing friends to be had in London? Of late, though, Gareth was more impressed by flash than substance, and Digby was the perfect characterization of that.

Drawing up beside her, Gareth planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek, a sure sign of advancing inebriation. “Annabelle, you must meet Damien Digby, one of my very oldest and dearest friends.”

She knew full well he was neither.

Digby's eyes fixed on her décolletage as he made his bow. “Miss Layton, I've been anxious to make your acquaintance. Will you stand up with me for the next dance?”

She'd rather have all of her teeth pulled out. However, as one of the hostesses for this evening, it would be rude to decline. Not that Digby was willing to wait for an answer. He'd reached his arm out to clasp her elbow, his gloved hand clammy with sweat. She shuddered as he strengthened his hold, pulling her toward the dancers near the orchestra.

He was a scoundrel, and richly deserved a kick with some force behind it. Thankfully, though, her evening slippers were spared the bother when a voice behind them said, “I believe the dance is mine.”

So Alec would dance with her, but only when she needed rescuing. With a triumphant smile at Digby, who'd suddenly dropped his hand, she turned to face Alec. “Thank you, Lord Carstairs. You've saved me from making a scene.” She took his extended arm, and together they moved past the disgruntled Digby toward the center of the room.

A Scottish reel was starting up. As they bowed and withdrew, hands held high to spin in a circle around the dancers to their left and right, there was no place in the world she'd rather be. Long ago, Alec had taught her the steps to this very reel. He had a natural, effortless grace, and as they followed the intricate pattern of the dance, he smiled at her, the tension between them forgotten. When a lock of his hair fell forward over his brow—the merest hint of disorder and vulnerability—she felt her breath catch. The evening was suddenly sparkling and full of promise. But then the dance was over, as quickly and as unexpectedly as it had begun.

“Annabelle, will you walk with me?”

She'd walk with him all the way to France if he asked. “Of course, Alec.” She rested her hand in the crook of his arm as he led her toward the double doors open at the edge of the room, their curtains fluttering in the breezy evening air. With a quick movement, they were outside on the patio, and when the first strains of music for a quadrille began, the other couples out in the moonlight rushed in to take part, leaving them—at least for a few moments—alone. “I saw him approach you,” Alec said once they'd reached the edge of the patio, away from the noise and light of the doorways. “You must be careful around Digby.”

“He only asked for a dance. There can be little harm in that.” Why were they discussing the odious man when she was alone with Alec at last?

“Digby wants more than a dance. You must trust me on it.”

“At least he wants
something
to do with me,” she said, her voice sharp with frustration. “I've wanted to ask about your trip here, and what you thought of the dinner. How things are with your father. How long you will stay in Nuneaton. But you no longer tell me anything, not even in a letter, and tonight, you've avoided me at nearly every opportunity.”

Guilt flashed across his handsome face. “You've been hounded by men all evening, Annabelle. I didn't wish to expose you to further gossip.”

He was not telling the truth. “So I'm being gossiped about?” she said flippantly, to hide her hurt. “I rather like the idea of that.”