Trouble at the Wedding (24 page)

He whispered how beautiful she was, and when he pulled the covers over her and cradled her in his arms, she suddenly, stupidly wanted to cry, because she'd never thought a man could be tender. Maybe a little, before the act, but certainly not afterward. Not like this.

And as she lay there in Christian's arms, she knew she was starting to fall in love with him. This was what she'd feared all along, and she worked to stop it, to harden her heart and protect herself before it was too late. Christian had shown her what tenderness was, and if she fell in love with him and he didn't love her back, she didn't think she'd be able to bear the heartbreak.

Chapter Sixteen

S
he was asleep. The lamp on the dressing table had gone out and the room was pitch dark, but though he could see nothing, he could discern that she slept by the deep, even cadence of her breathing.

She felt lusciously warm and soft lying naked in his arms like this, and he would have liked nothing better than to kiss her awake and repeat their experience of an hour ago, but they could not afford to take that risk. He had no idea of the time, but it had to be coming on for dawn, and he had to get her back to her room before anyone woke up.

Christian carefully eased out from under the covers. He dressed in the dark, deciding he could better trust the more honorable side of his nature if he were dressed. Then he found her nightgown and robe, and tried not to think about how he'd stripped her out of them.

Instead, he moved to stand by the side of the bed and leaned down to wake her. “Annabel,” he whispered in her ear, and he couldn't resist kissing her there.

She stirred, making a sleepy, unbelievably erotic sound, and Christian took a deep breath, then slipped his hand beneath the covers to grasp her shoulder. Her silken skin was warm, but he valiantly resisted temptation. He shook her shoulder to rouse her. “Annabel, wake up.”

“Christian?”

The instant he heard her voice, he let go of her. Touching her was far too tempting. “You have to go back to your room before you're found here.”

“Of course.” She sat up, pushing aside the covers, and he stepped back as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the dimness—or perhaps because he had such a fine memory—he fancied he could see the faint outline of her exquisite body, and he took another deep breath. “Here,” he said, thrusting her nightgown into her hands.

He heard the swish of fabric as she donned the garment, but he allowed himself the luxurious torture of assisting her with her robe. “Turn around,” he said, and when she did, he held the robe as she slid her arms into the sleeves. But before she could wrap it fully around her, he couldn't deny himself the opportunity to slip his hands inside the still-unbuttoned placket and cup her full, luscious breasts in his hands. She made a faint sound of surprise, then leaned back against him with a little sigh, and he took the pleasure of toying with her for a bit longer, even as he told himself he was flirting with disaster.

He gave himself five—and only five—seconds of this agony, then, reluctantly, he withdrew his hands, pressed a kiss to her hair, and turned her around, drawing her robe around her and tying the sash firmly into place.

“C'mon.” He led her to the door, where he fumbled in the dark for the oil lamp she'd left on the dressing table, and handed it to her. “We can't light it,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I've no idea of the time, and if any of the servants are already up, they might see the light moving about when you pass the stairs. Can you find your way back in the dark?”

“Of course. You seem to know quite a lot about this sort of thing,” she added, a wry note in her whispered words. “People sneaking in and out of other people's rooms and all.”

“Of course,” he replied at once, striving for the flippancy that would mask what was nothing but the rather sordid truth. He didn't want to think of all the women who'd padded down the Bachelor's Corridor at country house parties to visit him over the past dozen years. Resting his forehead against hers, he went on, “Gorgeous young women come sneaking into my rooms, flinging themselves at me all the time, don't you know? Happens every night of the week. I've simply got to start locking my door.”

She made a choked sound—a laugh, and though only he knew it wasn't really something to laugh about, he didn't say so. Pressing one last kiss to her mouth, he opened the door.

She slipped out into the corridor, and he closed the door behind her. He undressed again and got back into bed, and this time, he had no trouble falling asleep. In fact, he did it with a smile on his face.

“C
hristian, wake up.”

He was in such a heavy slumber that his sister's insistent voice barely penetrated his consciousness—just enough to make him determined to stay asleep. But then, she started shaking his shoulder, and though it woke him, he tried to pretend otherwise, his usual practice in this particular situation.

“Christian, you must wake up. Right now.”

He didn't want to. He felt as if he'd just fallen asleep. “Leave off, Sylvia, for God's sake.”

“I can't. I have to talk to you immediately.”

He rolled away, onto his stomach. “This is why I secure my own rooms when I'm in town,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Your habit of barging in on me at an ungodly hour of the morning to hold a conversation is so damned annoying.”

“It's not an ungodly hour. It's half past nine, and besides, this is important.” She shook his shoulder again, this time with considerable force. “Damn it all, brother, wake up!”

There was a sharp edge to her voice, an urgency well beyond her customary morning cheer. It sounded almost like . . . panic. It penetrated his sleep-dazed, very reluctant senses and told him something serious actually was afoot. Instantly awake, he rolled onto his back.

“What's happened?” he asked, but his question was answered the moment he looked into his sister's eyes. She knew. Dread settled into him at once, like a stone in his guts, and it must have shown in his face.

“Oh my God, it's true.” She sank down on the side of the bed, staring at him as if she'd never seen him before. “I actually thought at first that it was just gossip. That even you . . . could not . . . would never . . . even after that ghastly debacle at the wedding . . .”

Futile to pretend, but he tried anyway. “I can't imagine what you're talking about.”

“Oh, Christian.” It was a sigh of disappointment that cut him to the heart.

Reminding himself that lying to Sylvia was always a tricky business, he gave up any further attempts at deception. “How did you know? Did Annabel tell you?”

“Of course not! Annabel is still in her room, and I haven't seen her.”

“But then, how—”

She arrested him in midsentence with a gesture to the dressing table and the china shepherdess lamp that stood there, a hurricane lamp that was similar to his, but not the same. His mistake hit him with the force of a lightning bolt. In the dark this morning, he'd handed Annabel the wrong lamp. Of all the stupid, careless, idiotic mistakes a man could make.

“You took up the wrong lamp in the dark when you left her room, I assume? What were you thinking to take a lamp at all? Didn't you realize—never mind,” she added acidly. “Thinking obviously played no part in this.”

Sylvia had it the wrong way about, but he didn't correct her. Better for Annabel that way, and more blame for him. He didn't look at his sister. Instead, he stared at that lamp on his dressing table as the inevitable consequences of its presence there sank into his brain, and it occurred to him that he would probably remember every detail of that lamp, its exact proportions, its undulated glass shade, its delicately painted pastoral scene, for the rest of his life.

After a moment, he schooled his features into the most unreadable expression he could muster and forced himself to look at his sister again. “So now you know,” he said with a touch of defiance.

“I'm not the only one who knows, Christian. The servants knew before I was even out of bed.”

“What?” He sat up. “How?”

“Givens told me the gossip raging belowstairs when she came to help me dress.”

“But how the devil did the servants find out? They are trained never to come until we ring.”

“Yes, but that's our wish, Christian. Our guests often have other preferences. Annabel's preference is to be awakened with coffee at half past eight, so Mrs. Wells sent the coffee up with Hannah, as usual. Hannah saw the lamp—your lamp—on Annabel's dressing table when she put the tray there. Being a sweet but not particularly bright child,” his sister went on, “she mentioned the lamp to Mrs. Wells, who knew exactly what it meant and discussed it with the head housemaid at length—and I'm sure with considerable relish. That conversation was overheard by the footman, and so . . .”

“And so, all the servants know,” he finished as her voice trailed off. He paused, trying to think, trying to hope that this didn't mean what the knot in his guts was telling him it must mean. “What about her family? Do they know?”

“I don't think so, but—”

“Will they be discreet, do you think?” he cut in, afraid they wouldn't. “The servants, I mean?”

“I've gone down and made a little speech about the evils of gossip, and the harm it can do, but I can't guarantee their silence. But that's not really the point, is it?” The incisiveness of her voice as she asked that question cut through irrelevancies and excuses and ways to duck consequences. “You bedded an unmarried woman in my house, a woman under your trusteeship. The point is not whether her family knows, or the servants know, or even if I know.
You
know, Christian. That is the point.”

He drew in a sharp breath, the truth of her words and the condemnation in her eyes hitting him like a blow to the chest.

He tilted back his head, staring at the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling, a view very different from the hole in the roof of a dilapidated shack, but for Annabel, it would seem like exactly the same view if he didn't do what was right. Slowly, he let out his breath. “You're quite right, of course.”

“You know what you have to do.”

He looked at Sylvia. “Yes.”

His clipped reply didn't seem enough for his sister. She waited, grim-faced, for him say the rest, and he forced himself to say it. “I'll talk to Annabel straightaway. And her stepfather and uncle, too, of course. You'll have to assist Annabel and her mother with making the arrangements, setting a date, sending out the invitations, that sort of thing. We'll have to present the entire business to the scandal sheets in the best light possible. Loved her madly all along,” he added, grimacing at how much it sounded like a penny dreadful. “Got carried away at her wedding to Rumsford. Couldn't bear to see her marrying another man. She refused me, quite rightly, but after a discreet waiting period, she finally consented to marry me. That sort of thing. You know what to say, of course.”

“I shall make it sound as if it's the love match of the century.”

The dry note of her voice was not lost on him, but he chose to ignore it. “I'll go to Scarborough,” he went on, “see the vicar, and make things ready. We'll hold the wedding there. When you and Annabel have set the date, let me know. A fortnight from now, perhaps?”

She nodded, satisfied, and stood up. “It'll have to be more than a fortnight. You need to be in residence at Scarborough for fifteen days, or you have to apply for a special license here before you go.”

“Which will increase the possibility of gossip. And we'd have to make up a reason. No, I'll leave for Scarborough straightaway and we'll post banns the old-fashioned way and everything proper. I'll go today. If we wait too long . . .”

“Quite,” she said when he paused. “But there's one other thing you must consider.” At his puzzled look, she sighed. “Hasn't it occurred to you that there might . . .” She paused, biting her lip, hesitating a moment. “Christian, there might be a baby, you know.”

A baby. He hadn't even thought of that. He leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands, his dread deepening into pain.

“Evie wasn't your fault,” Sylvia said at once, seeming to read his mind with ease. “And Annabel isn't Evie. Nothing like.”

He nodded without looking up. He knew that, but it didn't ease the sick knot in his guts.

“You'll have to find a way to forgive yourself for Evie, my dear. Or a happy marriage is doomed from the start.”

“I don't . . .” He paused, Evie's adoring face flashing before his eyes. “I don't think I can.”

“You have to. For Annabel's sake, for the sake of your marriage to her and the children you'll have, and for your own sake, you must lay the past to rest.”

Sylvia gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze and departed, and he got out of bed. He tugged the bellpull to fetch McIntyre so that he could shave and dress and face the consequences of what he'd done. Facing his past, he feared, was going to be a lot harder.

A
nnabel sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the hurricane lamp on her dressing table, a lamp with a plain milk glass base and frosted shade, a lamp that, except for its shape, looked nothing like the one she'd carried into Christian's room last night.

The servants knew. She'd seen the reflection of Hannah's puzzled gaze in the cheval mirror as the kitchen maid had set the coffee tray on the dressing table. She'd looked at the lamp, looked over her shoulder at Annabel, who was sitting up in bed waiting for her coffee, and then back at the lamp again.

Annabel hadn't attached any particular significance to the maid's puzzlement. Only after Hannah had departed had she realized that the lamp on her dressing table was not the one she'd taken to Christian's room last night. That was when the implications of the horrible mistake that had been made finally struck her, but it was too late by then. An hour later, when Liza had come to help her dress, she'd learned from her little Irish maid what was being said about her and His Grace downstairs.

They all thought Christian had come to her, that somehow they'd arranged it between them, and he'd taken the wrong lamp away with him, but the details didn't matter. The servants knew she had lain with the master of the house. They knew she was unchaste.

She also appreciated another hard reality, one that she was chagrined to admit she hadn't even thought about last night. There could be a baby. With Billy John, she hadn't understood, not really, that lovemaking was how babies came. She'd seen farm animals all her life, and yet her understanding had been rather incomplete, until Billy John had shoved himself inside her, and total comprehension had come in a painful flash. Luckily, she hadn't become pregnant that day, but this time, she might not be so lucky. And this time, she couldn't claim any lack of understanding whatsoever.