Secrets of a Summer Night (13 page)

As the Bowman sisters unfastened their gowns with the casual manner of girls not unaccustomed to disrobing out in the open, Annabelle and Evie regarded each other in a moment of uncertainty.

“I dare you,” Evie murmured.

“Oh, God,” Annabelle said in an aggrieved tone, and began to unbutton her own dress. She had discovered an unexpected streak of modesty that brought a rush of color to her face. However, she was not going to turn coward when even timid Evie Jenner was willing to join in the rebellion against propriety. Pulling her arms from the sleeves of her dress, she stood and let the heavy overlay fall in a crumpled mound at her feet. Left in her chemise, drawers, and corset, her feet covered only by stockings and thin slippers, she felt a breeze waft over the perspiration-dampened places beneath her arms, and she shivered pleasantly.

The other girls stood and shed their own gowns, which lay heaped on the ground like gigantic exotic flowers.

“Catch!” Daisy said, and tossed the ball to Annabelle, who caught it reflexively. They all walked to the center of the meadow, pitching the ball back and forth. Evie was the worst at throwing and catching, though it was clear that her ineptitude was caused by inexperience rather than clumsiness. Annabelle, on the other hand, had a younger brother who had frequently turned to her as a playmate, and so the mechanics of lobbing a ball were familiar to her.

It was the oddest, lightest feeling, walking outside with her legs unimpeded by the weight of skirts. “I suppose this is what men feel like,” Annabelle mused aloud, “being able to stroll here and there in trousers. One could almost envy them such freedom.”

“Almost?” Lillian questioned with a grin. “Without question, I
do
envy them. Wouldn’t it be lovely if women could wear trousers?”

“I w-wouldn’t like it at all,” Evie said. “I would die of embarrassment if a man were able to see the shape of my legs and my…” She hesitated, clearly searching for a word to describe unmentionable parts of the female anatomy. “… other things,” she finished lamely.

“Your chemise is in a sad state, Annabelle,” came Lillian’s sudden blunt observation. “I hadn’t thought to give you new underwear, though I should have realized…”

Annabelle shrugged offhandedly. “It doesn’t matter, since this is the only occasion on which anyone will see it.”

Daisy glanced at her older sister. “Lillian, we’re abominably short-sighted. I think poor Annabelle drew the short straw when it came to fairy godmothers.”

“I haven’t complained,” Annabelle said, laughing. “And as far as I can tell, the four of us are all riding in the same pumpkin.”

After a few more minutes of practice, and a brief discussion of the rules of Rounders, they set out empty picnic baskets in lieu of sanctuary posts, and the game began. Annabelle planted her feet squarely on a spot that had been designated as “Castle Rock.”

“I’ll feed the ball to her,” Daisy said to her older sister, “and you catch.”

“But I have a better arm than you,” Lillian grumbled, taking a position behind Annabelle nevertheless.

Holding the bat over her shoulder, Annabelle swung at the ball that Daisy threw. The bat failed to connect, and whistled through the air in a neat arc. Behind her, Lillian expertly caught the ball. “That was a good swing,” Daisy encouraged. “Keep watching the ball as it comes toward you.”

“I’m not accustomed to standing still while objects are being hurled at me,” Annabelle said, brandishing the bat once again. “How many tries do I get?”

“In Rounders, the striker has an infinite number of swings,” came Lillian’s voice behind her. “Have another go, Annabelle… and this time, try to imagine that the ball is Mr. Hunt’s nose.”

Annabelle received the suggestion with relish. “I’d prefer to aim for a protuberance somewhat lower than that,” she said, and swung as Daisy fed her the ball again. This time, the flat side of the bat met the ball with a solid
thwack.
Letting out a whoop of delight, Daisy went scampering after the ball, while Lillian, who had been screeching with laughter, cried out, “Run, Annabelle!”

She did so with a triumphant chortle, skirting the baskets as she rounded toward Castle Rock.

Daisy scooped up the ball and threw it to Lillian, who snatched it from the air.

“Stay at the third post, Annabelle,” Lillian called. “We’ll see if Evie can bring you back to Castle Rock.”

Looking nervous but determined, Evie took the bat and assumed a stance at the striker’s place.

“Pretend the ball is your aunt Florence,” Annabelle advised, and a grin erupted on Evie’s face.

Daisy pitched a slow, easy ball, while Evie flailed with the bat. She missed, and the ball landed with a neat smack in Lillian’s palms. Throwing the ball back to Daisy, Lillian repositioned Evie. “Widen your stance and bend your knees a bit,” she murmured. “That’s a girl. Now watch the ball as it comes, and you won’t miss.”

Unfortunately Evie did miss, time and again, until her face was pink with frustration. “It’s t-too hard,” she said, her forehead puckered with worry. “Perhaps I should stop now and give someone else a turn.”

“Just a few more tries,” Annabelle said anxiously, determined that Evie should hit the ball at least once. “We’re in no hurry.”

“Don’t give up!” Daisy chimed in. “It’s just that you’re trying too hard, Evie. Relax — and stop closing your eyes when you swing.”

“You can do it,” Lillian said, pushing a lock of silky dark hair away from her forehead and flexing her slim, well-toned arms. “You almost connected with the last one. Just
keep… watching… the ball
.”

Sighing in resignation, Evie dragged the bat back to Castle Rock and lifted it once more. Her blue eyes narrowed as she stared at Daisy, and she tensed in preparation for the next feed. “I’m ready.”

Daisy tossed the ball gamely, and Evie swung with grim determination. A thrill of satisfaction shot through Annabelle as she saw the bat strike the ball solidly. It soared into the air, far into the oak grove. They all whooped in jubilation at the splendid strike. Shocked at what she had done, Evie began to jump in the air, squealing, “I did it! I did it!”

“Run around the baskets!” Annabelle cried, and scampered back to Castle Rock. Gleefully Evie circled the makeshift Rounders field, her garments a blur of white. When she reached Castle Rock, the girls continued to jump and scream for no reason at all, other than the fact that they were young and healthy and quite pleased with themselves.

Suddenly, Annabelle became aware of a dark figure rapidly ascending the hill. She fell abruptly silent as she ascertained that there was one — no, two — riders advancing to the dry meadow. “Someone’s coming!” she said. “A pair of riders. Hurry, fetch your clothes!” Her low-voiced alarm cut through the girls’ jubilation. They stared at each other with wide eyes and burst into panicked action. Shrieking, Daisy and Evie broke into a dead run toward the remains of the picnic, where they had left their dresses.

Annabelle began to follow, then stopped and turned abruptly as the riders thundered to a halt just behind her. She faced them warily, trying to assess what danger they might present. Looking up at their faces, she felt a bolt of chilling dismay as she recognized them.

Lord Westcliff… and even worse… Simon Hunt.

O
nce Annabelle met Hunt’s stunned gaze, she could not seem to look away. It was like one of those nightmares that one always awoke from with a sense of relief, knowing that something so dreadful could never really happen. Were the situation not so completely to her disadvantage, she might have enjoyed the prospect of Simon Hunt rendered absolutely speechless. At first his face was blank, as if he was having tremendous difficulty absorbing the fact that she was standing before him dressed only in a chemise, corset, and drawers. His gaze slid over her, slowly coming to rest on her flushed face.

Another moment or two of suffocated silence, and Hunt swallowed hard before speaking in a rusty-sounding voice. “I probably shouldn’t ask. But what the hell are you doing?”

The words unlocked Annabelle from her paralysis. She certainly could not stand there and converse with him while she was clad in her undergarments. But her dignity — or the threads that remained of it — demanded that she not screech idiotically and dash for her clothes the way Evie and Daisy were doing. Settling for a compromise, she strode briskly to her discarded gown and clasped it to her front as she turned to face Simon Hunt once more. “We’re playing Rounders,” she said, her voice far higher-pitched than usual.

Hunt glanced around the scene before settling on her again. “Why did you—”

“One can’t run properly in skirts,” Annabelle interrupted. “I should think that would be obvious.”

Absorbing that, Hunt averted his face swiftly, but not before she saw the sudden flash of his grin. “Never having tried it, I’ll have to take your word on that.”

Behind her, Annabelle heard Daisy say to Lillian accusingly, “I thought you said that no one ever comes to this meadow!”

“That’s what I was told,” Lillian replied, her voice muffled as she stepped into the circle of her gown and bent to jerk it upward.

The earl, who had been mute until that point, spoke with his gaze trained studiously on the distant scenery. “Your information was correct, Miss Bowman,” he said in a controlled manner. “This field is usually unfrequented.”

“Well, then, why are you here?” Lillian demanded accusingly, as if she, and not Westcliff, was the owner of the estate.

The question caused the earl’s head to whip around. He gave the American girl an incredulous glance before he dragged his gaze away once more. “Our presence here is purely coincidental,” he said coldly. “I wished to have a look at the northwest section of my estate today.” He gave the word
my
a subtle but distinct emphasis. “While Mr. Hunt and I were traveling along the lane, we heard your screaming. We thought it best to investigate, and came with the intention of rendering aid, if necessary. Little did I realize that you would be using this field for… for…”

“Rounders-in-knickers,” Lillian supplied helpfully, sliding her arms into her sleeves.

The earl seemed incapable of repeating the ridiculous phrase. He turned his horse away and spoke curtly over his shoulder. “I plan to develop a case of amnesia within the next five minutes. Before I do so, I would suggest that you refrain from any future activities involving nudity outdoors, as the next passersby who discover you may not prove to be as indifferent as Mr. Hunt and I.”

Despite Annabelle’s mortification, she had to repress a skeptical snort at the earl’s claim of indifference on Hunt’s behalf, not to mention his own. Hunt had certainly managed to get quite an eyeful of her. And though Westcliff’s scrutiny had been far more subtle, it had not escaped her that he had stolen a quick but thorough glance at Lillian before he had veered his horse away. However, in light of her current state of undress, it was hardly the time to deflate Westcliff’s holier-than-thou demeanor.

“Thank you, my lord,” Annabelle said with a calmness that pleased her immensely. “And now, having dispensed such excellent advice, I would ask that you allow us some privacy to restore ourselves.”

“With pleasure,” Westcliff growled.

Before Simon Hunt departed, he could not seem to keep from looking back at Annabelle as she stood clutching her gown across her chest. Despite his apparent composure, it seemed to her that his color had heightened… and there was no mistaking the smoldering of his jet-black eyes. Annabelle longed for the self-possession to stare at him with cool disregard, but instead she felt flushed and disheveled and thoroughly off-balance. He seemed on the verge of saying something to her, then checked himself and muttered beneath his breath with a self-derisive smile. His horse stomped and snorted impatiently, pivoting eagerly as Hunt guided him to gallop after Westcliff, who was already halfway across the field.

Mortified, Annabelle turned to Lillian, who was blushing but admirably self-possessed. “Of all men to discover us like this,” Annabelle said in disgust, “it
would
have to be those two.”

“You have to admire such arrogance,” Lillian commented dryly. “It must have taken years to cultivate.”

“Which man are you referring to?… Mr. Hunt or Lord Westcliff?”

“Both. Although the earl’s arrogance just may edge out Mr. Hunt’s — which I call a truly impressive feat.”

They stared at each other in shared disdain for their departed visitors, and suddenly Annabelle laughed irrepressibly. “They were surprised, weren’t they?”

“Not nearly as surprised as we were,” Lillian rejoined. “The question is, how are we to face them again?”

“How are they to face us?” Annabelle countered. “We were minding our own business —
they
were the intruders!”

“How right you…” Lillian began, and stopped as she became aware of a violent choking noise coming from their picnic spot. Evie was writhing on the blanket, while Daisy stood over her with arms akimbo.

Hurrying to the pair, Annabelle asked Daisy in consternation, “What is it?”

“The embarrassment was too much for her to endure,” Daisy said. “It sent her into fits.”

Evie rolled on the blanket, a napkin concealing her face, while one exposed ear had turned the color of pickled beets. The more she tried to control her giggles, the worse they became, until she gasped frantically for air in between yelps. Somehow she managed to squeak out a few words. “What a s-s-smashing introduction to lawn sports!” And then she was snorting with more spasms of helpless laughter, while the other three stood over her.

Daisy threw Annabelle a significant glance.
“Those,”
she informed her, “are conniptions.”

Simon and Westcliff rode away from the meadow at a fast gallop, slowing to a walk when they entered the forest and followed a trail that wound through the wooded terrain. It was a good two minutes before either of them was inclined, or indeed able, to speak. Simon’s head was whirling with images of Annabelle Peyton’s firm, flourishing curves clad in ancient under-garments that had shrunk from a thousand washings. It was a good thing that he and she had not found themselves alone in such a circumstance, for Simon was certain that he wouldn’t have been able to leave her without doing something completely barbaric.