Secrets of a Summer Night (28 page)

“In a word, yes.” Calmly, Hunt began to drag her along the path. “Now, where should we go? The entrance hall, I think. Plenty of people to witness you being ravished there. Or maybe the card room—”

“Simon,” Annabelle protested, as she was hauled unceremoniously in his wake.
“Simon—”

Her use of his name caused Hunt to stop suddenly, turning to look down at her with a curious half smile. “Yes, sweet?”

“For God’s sake,” Westcliff muttered, “let’s save this for amateur theatrical night, shall we? If you’re so bloody bent on having her, Hunt, then you may as well spare us all any further exhibitions. I’ll gladly bear witness from here to London about your fiancée’s besmirched honor, if only to have some peace around here. Just don’t ask me to stand up with you at the wedding, as I have no desire to be a hypocrite.”

“No, just an ass,” came Lillian’s murmur.

Low-spoken as the words were, it appeared that Westcliff had heard. His dark head whipped around, and he met Lillian’s deliberately innocent expression with a threatening scowl. “As for you—”

“We’re all agreed, then,” Simon interrupted, preventing what surely would have evolved into a prolonged argument. He glanced at Annabelle with purely male satisfaction. “You’ve been compromised. Now let’s go find your mother.”

The earl shook his head, exhibiting a degree of frosty offense that could only be achieved by an aristocrat whose wishes had just been gainsaid. “I’ve never heard of a man being so eager to confess to the parent of a girl he’s just ruined,” he said sourly.

P
hilippa’s reaction to the news was one of astonishing calmness. As the three of them sat in the Marsdens’ private parlor, and Simon relayed the news of their betrothal, and the reason for it, Philippa’s face turned white, but she made no sound. In the brief silence that followed Simon’s spare recitation, Philippa regarded Simon with an unblinking stare, and spoke carefully. “As Annabelle has no father to protect her, Mr. Hunt, it falls to me to ask for certain reassurances from you. Every mother wishes for her daughter to be treated with respect and kindness… and you must agree that the circumstances…”

“I understand,” Simon said. Struck by his soberness, Annabelle watched him intently, while he focused his attention completely on Philippa. “I give you my word that your daughter will have no cause for complaint.”

A flicker of wariness crossed Philippa’s face, and Annabelle chewed her inner lip, knowing what was coming next. “I suspect you are already aware, Mr. Hunt,” her mother murmured, “that Annabelle has no dowry.”

“Yes,” Simon replied matter-of-factly.

“And it makes no difference to you,” Philippa said with a questioning lilt in her voice.

“None whatsoever. I am fortunate in being able to set aside financial considerations in the matter of choosing a wife. I don’t give a damn if Annabelle comes to me without a shilling to her name. Moreover, I intend to make things easier for your family — assuming debts, taking care of bills and creditors, school tuition and the like — whatever is required to see that you’re comfortably settled.”

Annabelle saw Philippa’s hands tighten in her lap until her fingers were white, and an unfathomable tremor of what could have been excitement, relief, embarrassment, or some combination of the three, shook her voice. “Thank you, Mr. Hunt. You understand, if Mr. Peyton was still with us, things would be much different—”

“Yes, of course.”

There was a contemplative silence before Philippa murmured, “Of course, without a dowry, Annabelle will have no source of pin money…”

“I’ll open an account for her at Barings,” Hunt said equably. “We’ll start it at, say, five thousand pounds?… and I’ll refresh the balance from time to time as necessary. Of course, I’ll be responsible for the maintenance of a carriage and horses… clothes… jewelry… and Annabelle may have credit at every shop in London.”

Philippa’s reaction to the news was lost on Annabelle, whose mind spun like a top. The thought of having five thousand pounds at her disposal… a fortune… it scarcely seemed real. Her amazement was tinged with a tingle of anticipation. After years of deprivation, she would be able to go to the best modistes, and buy a horse for Jeremy, and refurbish her family’s home with the most luxurious furniture and fittings. However, this blunt discussion of money coming on the heels of a marriage proposal gave Annabelle the disquieting feeling of having sold herself for profit. Glancing cautiously at Simon, she saw that a familiar taunting gleam had entered his eyes. He understood her far too well, she thought, while unwanted heat climbed up her cheeks.

Annabelle kept silent as the conversation touched upon lawyers, contracts, and stipulations, discovering that her mother had the persistence of a bull terrier when it came to marriage negotiations. The businesslike discussion was hardly the stuff of high romance. Furthermore, it did not escape Annabelle that Philippa had not asked Hunt if he loved Annabelle, nor had he claimed to.

After Simon Hunt had left, Annabelle followed her mother to their room, where they would undoubtedly talk some more. Worried by Philippa’s unnatural quietness, Annabelle closed the door and considered what to say to her, wondering if she had reservations about the prospect of Simon Hunt as a son-in-law.

As soon as they were alone, Philippa went to the window and looked outside at the evening sky, then covered her eyes with one hand. Alarmed, Annabelle heard the sound of a muffled sob. “Mama…” she said hesitantly as she stared at her mother’s rigid back, “I’m sorry, I—”

“Thank God,” Philippa murmured unsteadily, not seeming to hear her. “Thank God.”

Despite Lord Westcliff’s vow that he would not stand up with Simon at the wedding, he came to London in a fortnight to attend the ceremony. Grim-faced but polite, he even offered to give Annabelle away, assuming the place of her deceased father. She was strongly tempted to turn him down, but the offer had made Philippa so happy that Annabelle was forced to accept. And she even took a certain spiteful pleasure in obliging the earl to take a significant part in a ceremony that he so obviously opposed. Only Westcliff’s loyalty to Hunt had brought him to London, revealing a bond of friendship between the two men that was far stronger than Annabelle would have guessed.

Lillian, Daisy, and their mother were also present at the private church ceremony, their presence made possible only by Lord Westcliff’s presence. Mrs. Bowman would never have allowed her daughters to attend the wedding of a girl who was marrying outside the peerage and was a bad influence to boot. However, any opportunity to be in the proximity of the most eligible bachelor in England was to be seized on. The fact that Westcliff was completely indifferent to her younger daughter, and actively disdainful of the elder, was a minor hindrance that Mrs. Bowman was certain could be overcome.

Evie, unfortunately, had been forbidden to attend by her aunt Florence and the rest of her mother’s family. Instead, she had sent Annabelle a long, affectionate letter, and a Sèvres china tea service painted with pink-and-gold flowers as a wedding gift. The rest of the small congregation consisted of Hunt’s parents and siblings, who were more or less what Annabelle had expected. His mother was coarse-faced and stout of build, a genial woman who seemed inclined to think well of Annabelle until something happened to persuade her otherwise. His father was a big, angular man who did not smile once through the ceremony, though the deep laugh lines at the corners of his eyes indicated that he was a man of pleasant disposition. Neither of the parents was particularly handsome, but they had produced five striking children, all tall and black-haired.

If only Jeremy could have attended the wedding… but he was still at school, and she and Philippa had decided that it would be best for him to finish the term and come to London when Hunt and Annabelle had returned from their honeymoon. Annabelle wasn’t quite certain what Jeremy’s reaction would be to the prospect of having Simon Hunt as a brother-in-law. Although Jeremy had seemed to like him, Jeremy had long been accustomed to being the only male in the family. There was every chance that he would chafe at any restrictions that Hunt might impose on him. For that matter, Annabelle herself wasn’t terribly fond of the prospect of kowtowing to the wishes of a man whom, in all honesty, she didn’t know that well.

That fact was forcibly brought home to Annabelle on her wedding night, as she waited for her new husband in a room at the Rutledge Hotel. Having assumed that Hunt resided at a private terrace house like many bachelors, Annabelle had been more than a little surprised to discover that he lived in a suite of hotel rooms.

“Why not?” Hunt had asked a few days earlier, amused by her open perplexity.

“Well… living in a hotel affords one so little privacy…”

“I beg to differ. I’m able to come and go as I please, without a horde of servants to gossip over my every habit and gesture. From what I’ve seen, life in a well-run hotel is far preferable to taking up residence in a drafty town mansion.”

“Yes, but a man of your position must have enough servants to demonstrate his success to others—”

“Forgive me,” Hunt had said, “but I always thought one hired servants if they were actually needed to work. The benefit of displaying employees as stylish accessories has always escaped me until now.”

“They’re hardly slave labor, Simon!”

“At the rate most servants are paid, that’s an arguable point.”

“We will need to hire a great deal of help if we’re ever to live in a proper house,” Annabelle had said pertly. “Unless you plan to have me on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floors and cleaning the grates?”

The suggestion had caused Hunt’s coffee black eyes to glint with a wicked humor that escaped her. “I plan to have you on your hands and knees, my sweet, but I can guarantee that you won’t be scrubbing.” He had laughed softly as he saw her bewilderment. Gathering her close, he had crushed a brief kiss to her lips.

She had strained a little in his embrace. “Simon… do let go… my mother won’t approve if she sees us like this—”

“Oh? I could do whatever I want with you now, and she wouldn’t offer a single objection.”

Frowning, Annabelle had wedged her arms between them. “Oh, you arrogant — no, I mean it, Simon! I want this settled… must we live in a hotel forever, or will you buy a house for us?”

Stealing another quick kiss, he had laughed at her expression. “I’ll buy any house you like, sweet. Better yet, I’ll build you a new one, as I’ve gotten rather accustomed to the comforts of good lighting and modern plumbing.”

Annabelle had stopped squirming. “Really? Where?”

“I suspect we could get a fair amount of acreage near Bloomsbury, or Knightsbridge—”

“What about Mayfair?”

Simon had smiled as if he had been expecting such a suggestion. “Don’t tell me you want to live in some overbuilt square like Grosvenor or St. James, staring out the window at pompous aristocrats waddling through their little iron-fenced yards—”

“Oh, yes, that would be
perfect
,” she had enthused, making him laugh.

“All right, we’ll get something in Mayfair, God help me. And you can hire as many servants as you want. Notice that I didn’t say ‘need,’ as that seems to be completely beside the point. In the meantime, do you think you could tolerate a few months at the Rutledge?”

Recalling the conversation, Annabelle investigated their large suite of rooms, all luxuriously appointed in velvet and leather and gleaming mahogany. She had to admit, the Rutledge certainly changed one’s perceptions about what a hotel could be. It was said that the mysterious owner, Mr. Harry Rutledge, aspired to create the most elegant and modern hotel in Europe, combining Continental style with American innovations. The Rutledge was a massive building located in the theater district, occupying five blocks between the Capitol Theater and the Embankment. Features such as fire-proof construction, food service lifts, and a private bathroom for every suite, not to mention a renowned restaurant, had made the Rutledge a favorite haunt of wealthy Americans and Europeans. To Annabelle’s delight, the Bowmans occupied five of the hotel’s one hundred luxury suites, which meant that she, Lillian, and Daisy would have frequent opportunities to see each other after she returned from the honeymoon.

Having never traveled outside of England in her life, Annabelle had been excited to discover that Simon intended to take her to Paris for a fortnight. Supplied with a list of dressmakers, milliners, and perfumers from the Bowmans, who had once visited Paris with their mother, Annabelle eagerly anticipated her first glimpse of the City of Light. However, before their departure on the morrow, there was still the wedding night to get through.

Dressed in a nightgown trimmed with lavish falls of white lace from the bodice and sleeves, Annabelle paced restlessly around the suite. She sat beside the bed and picked up a hairbrush from the night table. Methodically, she began to brush her hair as she wondered if all brides felt this apprehensive, uncertain as to whether the next few hours were something to dread or enjoy. At that moment, the key turned in the door, and Simon’s dark, lean form entered the private suite.

A nervous thrill went down Annabelle’s spine, and she forced herself to continue brushing her hair with calm strokes, though her grip was too tight on the handle, and her fingers were shaking. Simon’s gaze wandered over the drifts of lace and muslin that covered her body. Still dressed in his formal black wedding suit, he approached her slowly and came to stand before her as she remained sitting in the chair. To her surprise, he lowered to his knees to bring their faces level, his thighs bracketing her slender calves. A large hand lifted to the shimmering fall of her hair, and he combed his fingers through it, watching with fascination as the golden brown strands slipped across his knuckles.

Although Simon was immaculately dressed, there were signs of dishevelment that lured her attention… the short forelocks of his hair falling over his forehead, the loosened knot of his ice gray silk cravat. Dropping the brush to the floor, Annabelle used her fingers to smooth his hair in a tentative stroke. The sable filaments were thick and gleaming, springing willfully against her fingertips. Simon held still for her as she untied the cravat, the heavy silk saturated with the warmth of his skin. His eyes contained an expression that caused a ticklish sensation in the pit of her stomach.