Secrets of a Summer Night (16 page)

Hunt smiled mockingly. “What a negotiator you are, Miss Peyton. God help us all if you have any future ambitions to take part in the business world.”

“No, my sole ambition is to become Lady Kendall,” Annabelle returned with poisonous sweetness. She had the satisfaction of seeing his smile fade.

“That would be a pity,” he said. “For you as well as Kendall.”

“Go to the devil, Mr. Hunt,” she said beneath her breath, and walked away from him, ignoring the violent throb of her sprained ankle.

As she made her way to the back terrace, she became aware that the injury to her ankle had worsened, until shooting pains had traveled up to her knee. “Hell’s bells,” she muttered. In this condition, she was hardly going to make progress with Lord Kendall. It was not easy to be seductive when one was on the verge of shrieking in torment. Suddenly feeling exhausted and defeated, Annabelle decided that she would return to her room. Now that her business with Simon Hunt was finished, the best thing to do would be to rest her ankle and hope it would improve by morning.

With each step she took, the pain intensified until she could feel trickles of cold sweat beneath the rigid stays of her corset. She had never had an injury like this before. Not only did her leg hurt, but her head was suddenly swimming, and she ached everywhere. Abruptly, the contents of her stomach began an alarming roil. She needed air… she had to go outside in the cool darkness, and sit somewhere until the nausea subsided. The door to the back terrace looked dreadfully far away, and she wondered dazedly how she was going to reach it.

Fortunately, the Bowman sisters had hurried toward her as soon as they saw that her conversation with Simon Hunt had concluded. The expectant smile on Lillian’s face died away as she met Annabelle’s pain-darkened gaze. “You look terrible,” Lillian exclaimed. “My God, what did Mr. Hunt say to you?”

“He agreed to the kiss,” Annabelle replied shortly, continuing to hobble toward the terrace. She could scarcely hear the orchestra music over the ringing in her ears.

“If the prospect of it terrifies you that much—” Lillian began.

“It’s not that,” Annabelle said in pained exasperation. “It’s my ankle. I sprained it earlier in the day, and now I can hardly walk.”

“Why didn’t you mention something earlier?” Lillian demanded in instant concern. Her slender arm was unexpectedly strong as she curved it around Annabelle’s back. “Daisy, go to the nearest door and hold it open while we slip outside.”

The sisters helped her outside, and Annabelle wiped her gloved hand over her sweating forehead. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she moaned, while her mouth watered disagreeably, and stinging gall rose in her throat. Her leg ached as if it had been crushed by a carriage wheel. “Oh, Lord, I
can’t.
I can’t be sick now.”

“It’s all right,” Lillian said, guiding her inexorably toward a flower bed that lined the side of the terrace steps. “No one can see you, dear. Be as sick as you want. Daisy and I are here to take care of you.”

“That’s right,” Daisy chimed in from behind her. “True friends never mind holding your hair back while you cast up your crumpets.”

Annabelle would have laughed, had she not been overcome with a spasm of mortifying nausea. Fortunately, she had not eaten much during supper, so the process was mercifully quick. Her stomach erupted, and she had no choice but to surrender. Gasping and spitting into the flower bed, she moaned weakly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Lillian—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” came the American girl’s calm reply. “You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?”

“’Course I would… but you would never be so silly…”

“You’re not being silly,” Lillian said gently. “You’re sick. Now take my handkerchief.”

Still leaning over, Annabelle received the lace-trimmed square of linen gratefully, but recoiled at the scent of perfume. “
Ugh,
I can’t,” she whispered. “The smell. Do you have one that isn’t scented?”

“Drat,” Lillian said apologetically. “Daisy, where is your handkerchief?”

“Forgot it,” came the succinct reply.

“You’ll have to use this one,” Lillian told Annabelle. “It’s all we’ve got.”

A masculine voice entered the conversation. “Take this one.”

T
oo dizzy to notice what was happening around her, Annabelle received the clean handkerchief that was thrust in her hand. It was mercifully free of any smell except for the crisp hint of starch. After wiping her perspiring face, then her mouth, Annabelle managed to straighten and face the newcomer. Her sore stomach did a slow, agonizing revolution at the sight of Simon Hunt. It seemed that he had followed her out to the terrace just in time to witness her humiliating nausea. She wanted to die. If only she could conveniently expire right then, and forever obliterate the knowledge that Simon Hunt had seen her cast up her crumpets in the flower bed.

Hunt’s face was impassive, save for the frown indentations between his brows. Quickly he reached out to steady her as she swayed before him. “In light of our recent agreement,” he murmured, “this is most unflattering, Miss Peyton.”

“Oh, go away,” Annabelle moaned, but she found herself leaning hard against the strong support of his body as another wave of illness washed over her. She clamped the handkerchief to her mouth and breathed through her nose, and mercifully the feeling passed. But the most debilitating weakness she had ever felt swept over her, and she knew that if he had not been there, she would have crumpled to the ground. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?

Hunt immediately adjusted his hold, bracing her easily. “I thought you looked pale,” he remarked, gently stroking back a lock of hair that had fallen over her damp face. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Is it just your stomach, or do you hurt somewhere else?”

Somewhere beneath the layers of misery Annabelle was startled by the endearment, not to mention the fact that a gentleman should never, ever have referred to one of a lady’s internal parts. However, at the moment she was too ill to do anything but cling to his coat lapels. Concentrating on his question, she pondered the chaos inside her inhospitable body. “I hurt everywhere,” she whispered. “My head, my stomach, my back… but most of all my ankle.”

As she spoke, she noticed that her lips felt numb. She licked at them experimentally, alarmed by the lack of sensation. Had she been just a bit less disoriented, she would have noticed that Hunt was staring at her in a way that he never had before. Later, Daisy would describe in detail how protective Simon Hunt had seemed as he had stood with his arms around her. For now, however, Annabelle was too wretched to perceive anything outside her own swamping illness.

Lillian spoke briskly, moving forward to extricate Annabelle from Hunt’s grasp. “Thank you for the use of your handkerchief, sir. You may leave now, as my sister and I are fully capable of taking care of Miss Peyton.”

Ignoring the American girl, Hunt kept his arm around Annabelle as he stared into her blanched face. “How did you hurt your ankle?” he asked.

“The Rounders game, I think…”

“I didn’t see you drink anything at dinner.” Hunt laid his hand across her forehead, searching for signs of fever. The gesture was astonishingly intimate and familiar. “Did you have something earlier?”

“If you mean spirits or wine, no.” Annabelle’s body seemed to be collapsing slowly, as if her mind had released all control over the movement of her limbs. “I drank some willowbark tea in my room.”

Hunt’s warm hand moved to the side of her face, conforming gently to the curve of her cheek. She was so cold, shivering inside her sweat-dampened gown, her skin covered with gooseflesh. Perceiving the inviting heat that radiated from his body, she was nearly overcome with the urge to delve into his coat like a small burrowing animal. “I’m f-freezing,” she whispered, and his arm tightened reflexively around her.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, adroitly managing to shed his coat while supporting her trembling form at the same time. He wrapped her in the garment, which retained the warmth of his skin, and she responded with an inarticulate sound of gratitude.

Nettled by the sight of her friend being held by a detested adversary, Lillian spoke impatiently. “See here, Mr. Hunt, my sister and I—”

“Go find Mrs. Peyton,” Hunt interrupted, in a tone that was no less authoritative for its softness. “And tell Lord Westcliff that Miss Peyton needs a doctor. He’ll know whom to send for.”

“What are
you
going to do?” Lillian demanded, clearly unaccustomed to being given orders in such a fashion.

Hunt’s eyes narrowed as he replied. “I’m going to carry Miss Peyton through the servants’ entrance at the side of the house. Your sister will go with us to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”

“That shows how little you know about propriety!” Lillian snapped.

“I’m not going to debate the matter. Try to be of some use, will you?
Go.
”

After a furious, tension-fraught pause, Lillian turned and strode toward the ballroom doors.

Daisy was clearly awestruck. “I don’t think anyone has ever dared to speak to my sister that way. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met, Mr. Hunt.”

Hunt bent carefully to hook his arm beneath Annabelle’s knees. He lifted her with ease, clasping a mass of shivering limbs and rustling silk skirts in his arms. Annabelle had never been carried anywhere by a man — she could not conceive that it was really happening. “I think… I could walk part of the way,” she managed to say.

“You wouldn’t make it down the terrace steps,” Hunt said flatly. “Indulge me while I demonstrate the chivalrous side of my nature. Can you put your arms around my neck?”

Annabelle obeyed, grateful to have the weight taken off her burning ankle. Surrendering to the temptation to put her head on his shoulder, she curled her left arm around his neck. As he carried her down the flagstone steps of the back terrace, she could feel the facile play of muscle beneath the layers of his shirt.

“I didn’t think you had a chivalrous side,” she said, her teeth clicking as another chill shook her. “I th-thought you were a complete scoundrel.”

“I don’t know how people get such ideas about me,” he replied, glancing down at her with a teasing gleam in his eyes. “I’ve always been tragically misunderstood.”

“I still think you’re a scoundrel.”

Hunt grinned and shifted her more comfortably in his arms. “Obviously illness hasn’t impaired your judgment.”

“Why are you helping me after I just told you to go to the devil?” she whispered.

“I have a vested interest in preserving your health. I want you to be in top form when I collect on my debt.”

As Hunt descended the steps with surefooted swiftness, she felt the smooth grace with which he moved — not like a dancer, but like a cat on the prowl. With their faces so close, Annabelle saw that a ruthlessly close shave had not been able to disguise the dark grain of whiskers beneath his skin. Seeking a more secure hold on him, Annabelle reached farther around his neck, until her fingertips brushed the ends of hair that curled slightly against his nape.
What a pity I’m so sick,
she thought.
If I wasn’t so cold and dizzy and weak, I might actually enjoy being carried like this.

Reaching the path that extended along the side of the manor, Hunt paused to allow Daisy to skirt around them and lead the way. “The servants’ door,” he reminded her, and the girl nodded.

“Yes, I know which one it is.” Daisy glanced over her shoulder as she preceded them on the path. Her small face was tense with worry. “I’ve never heard of a sprained ankle making anyone sick to her stomach,” she commented.

“I suspect this is more than a sprained ankle,” Hunt replied.

“Do you think it was the willowbark tea?” Daisy asked.

“No, willowbark wouldn’t cause such a reaction. I have an idea about what the problem might be, but I won’t be able to confirm it until we reach Miss Peyton’s room.”

“How do you intend to ‘confirm’ your idea?” Annabelle asked warily.

“All I want to do is look at your ankle.” Hunt smiled down at her. “Surely I deserve that much, after I take you up three flights of stairs.”

As it turned out, the stairs were no effort for him at all. When they reached the top of the third flight, his breathing hadn’t even altered. Annabelle suspected that he could have carried her ten times as far without breaking a sweat. When she said as much to him, he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “I spent most of my youth hauling sides of beef and pork to my father’s shop. Carrying you is far more enjoyable.”

“How sweet,” Annabelle mumbled sickly, her eyes closed. “Every woman dreams of being told that she’s preferable to a dead cow.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest, and he turned to avoid bumping her foot against the doorframe. Daisy opened the door for them, and stood watching anxiously as Hunt brought Annabelle to the brocade-covered bed.

“Here we are,” he said, laying her down and reaching for an extra pillow to prop her to a half-sitting position.

“Thank you,” she whispered, staring into the thick-lashed sable eyes above her own.

“I want to see your leg.”

Her heart seemed to stop at the outrageous statement. When her pulse resumed, it was weak and far too brisk. “I would rather wait until the doctor arrives.”

“I’m not asking for permission.” Ignoring her protests, Hunt reached for the hem of her skirts.

“Mr. Hunt,” Daisy exclaimed in outrage, hurrying over to him. “Don’t you dare! Miss Peyton is ill, and if you don’t remove your hands at once—”

“Settle your feathers,” Hunt replied sardonically. “I’m not going to abuse Miss Peyton’s maidenly virtue. Not yet, at any rate.” His gaze switched to Annabelle’s pale face. “Don’t move. Charming as your legs undoubtedly are, they’re not going to incite me to a frenzy of—” He broke off with a sharp intake of breath as he lifted her skirts and saw her swollen ankle. “Damn. Until now I’ve always thought of you as a reasonably intelligent woman. Why the hell did you go downstairs in this condition?”

“Oh, Annabelle,” Daisy murmured, “Your ankle looks terrible!”