So . . .
Rosamund removed her dressing gown, kicked off her slippers, and blew out the candle. She climbed beneath the blankets and drew them up about her ears.
What a long day it had been. It had been a million years long. She cuddled her head against Justin’s shoulder again, as she had done that afternoon, and felt the warmth of him and smelled his cologne. And when his hand moved over the silk of her blouse and his thumb found her nipple, she reached up and unbuttoned the blouse herself.
She wanted to feel his hand on her naked breast.
Chapter 14
The Earl of Wetherby spent the following morning with the marquess, Viscount March, and some of the other gentlemen riding about the estate farms, in particular viewing the progress of the lambing season.
Lady March had mentioned at the breakfast table that Annabelle was still in bed with a headache. The earl hoped she would recover and be up by luncheon time. He had determined during a night of much thought and soul-searching to find some time alone with her that day and to spend that time talking to her about herself, about them. He intended to find out if there were any truth in the suspicions he had felt during their ride home from Winwood Abbey. He wanted to try to establish some closeness between them.
His plan succeeded more easily than he had expected. Annabelle was indeed up when the gentlemen returned to the house. She seated herself beside him quite voluntarily at luncheon and immediately launched into praises of the weather and expressed her longing to be outside and walking.
“It’s chilly,” he said to her with a smile, “but perfect for a walk. Shall we take a look at the lake?”
“Yes,” she said, “that would be very pleasant.”
He waited for her to announce their intentions and invite everyone else to join them, but she stayed quiet when Christobel and Eva declared that they would drive into the village for the afternoon if there were just someone willing to chaperon them. Rosamund set them to squealing by offering to accompany them. And the Reverend Strangelove sobered them again when he decided to do himself the honor of escorting three such lovely and vivacious young ladies.
Some of the younger people had spoken so enthusiastically about Winwood Abbey that the marquess and marchioness were to take Lady Wetherby, Lord and Lady Sitwell, and some of the older members of their family driving there.
At last, it seemed to Lord Wetherby, he would have Annabelle to himself for a couple of hours. And she seemed to be in an unusually cheerful mood.
“I hope your headache has quite disappeared,” he said to her as they began their walk over rolling lawns and beneath widespread trees toward the lake.
“Oh, yes, thank you,” she said. “I think it was just tiredness. These days have been unusually busy and exciting ones.”
“Have they?” he asked, smiling. “You are used to a quiet life, then?”
“I like being at home in the country,” she said, “with my horses and my dogs and my books and paints. I like being with people who are familiar to me. You live in town most of the time, my lord? Justin?”
“Yes,” he said, “but it is the habit of a young man looking for some excitement to fill his life. I have always kept a close eye on the running of my estates. I believe that I would prefer to live mainly in the country when I am married and have a family.”
Perhaps he was speaking too plainly, he thought. He expected to see the color rush to her cheeks and the stone wall to go up behind her eyes.
“Do you hope for that to be soon?” she asked. “I look forward to the time when I will marry and have my own home to run and my own children.” She was staring brightly ahead, he saw in a downward glance. Her cheeks had more color than usual. “Look at the crocuses,” she said. “There are so many of them.”
“You were nine years old, I believe,” he said, “when my mother and your grandmother conceived their now-famous idea. Were you brought up in the belief that some definite arrangement had been made at that time?”
“Yes.” She glanced up at him.
“And last year,” he said, “when you were taken to London to be presented and to enjoy the Season, was it in the knowledge that you would eventually marry me?”
Her cheeks were very pink. “But was I not right to think so?” he said. “You did ask Papa for me before we went home.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, covering her hand reassuringly with one of his. “And I did so quite freely. But you were very young, Annabelle—only seventeen at the time, only eighteen now. Have you missed not being able to encourage other suitors?”
“The gentlemen in London were kind,” she said. “But there was no one I would have wished to encourage.”
“And no one at home?” he said. “No one you grew up with that you have regretted not being able to grow more fond of?”
“No,” she said.
“And no one here?” he asked. “None of the cousins or second cousins with whom you have grown up?”
“No, of course not.”
