“Surely if you called on Alex and explained the situation, he would change his mind.”
Sir Edward gave an inward smile of satisfaction. She had taken the bait; really a most gullible chit, perfect for his purposes. Standing, he shook his head sorrowfully. “No. Why should he bother to listen to the explanation of one disgraced man when so many others must be begging for permission to pay their addresses? Lord Kingsley will want only the best for you.” He stopped and gazed into her blue eyes. “What man would not?”
Annabelle looked back unhappily. It was unfair that a man of such noble character be so maligned! And now he was going to walk out of her life forever. It did not occur to her to discuss the matter directly with Alex; she had never openly questioned an order in her life. But years with her mother had schooled Annabelle in keeping her own counsel. She stood, her mind rapidly considering the possibilities.
Sir Edward regarded her face with satisfaction, then moved in for the coup de grâce. “Just this once, may I kiss your hand?” he said, his voice soft and thrilling. He chose the piece of anatomy carefully. An innocent miss might not enjoy a first kiss on the lips, and it was important that she be affected.
Without waiting for her reply, he reached out and took her hand. Holding it, Sir Edward murmured, “So graceful, like a bird.”
Originality in metaphor was not the baronet’s forte. But he knew how to get the most out of kissing a hand, starting with the back, then turning it over to press his lips into the palm. He could feel Annabelle’s hand trembling in response. Most satisfactory; it was probably the first time a man had ever touched her with carnal intent. After brushing her fingertips with his tongue, Sir Edward pressed her hand to his cheek, whispering brokenly, “Oh, Annabelle, that I should find you, only to lose you so soon!”
Annabelle was helpless in the face of his adroit manipulation. Unable to distinguish between the first stirrings of sexuality and Sir Edward as an individual, she saw him as the personification of romantic love. Surely it would be thwarting her destiny to let him leave her. . . .
With a catch in her voice, Annabelle said feebly, “Sir Edward, you mustn’t . . .” Her hand was still pressed against his cheek, the prickly masculinity of subliminal whiskers so different from feminine skin.
The baronet looked at her with dark, haunted eyes. “You are right, my angel. No shadow of scandal must ever dim the luster of your name. So now I will say farewell, forever.”
“No!” As Annabelle looked at him, the solution occurred to her. “I cannot disobey my brother and let you call. But if we should happen to meet in the park? I often walk there with my maid. Early in the afternoon, before the fashionable hour.”
“My angel, you are a woman in ten thousand! In a million!”
The happiness that suffused his face dimmed any stirrings of guilt. If this man was Annabelle’s destiny, surely when the time was right, Alex would give his blessing.
* * *
Alex was finding an unexpected satisfaction in his work at the Admiralty. Over the years he had had his share of contact with that august body, from dealing with the tyrannical porters to anxious intervals in the infamous waiting room, where even admirals came to petition for appointments and commands. The ten years of peace between 1783 and 1793 had put many navy officers on the shore at half pay, and Alex counted himself lucky to have been continuously employed through that period. The Kingsleys had money and influence, but so did many other officers.
The resumption of hostilities with France two years earlier had led to a massive expansion of the navy, with hundreds of officers being returned to active duty. Sometimes he thought that if the French hadn’t existed, it would have been necessary to invent them—otherwise England would not have an opponent worthy of her mettle. It was ironic that the French and Spanish built better ships, while the British were undeniably superior seamen. Alex had no doubt that once again his country’s naval supremacy would enable her to defeat her cross-Channel enemy.
Thoughts of the French inevitably led him to Christa. Alex had rigorously avoided seeing her, even at the cost of reducing his intimacy with his sister. The French girl was bewitchingly attractive and the feel of her soft body haunted him. She responded so sweetly, without apology or missishness. . . .
Alex gazed absently out the window of the small office he had been given. It was late September, and below, Whitehall was thronged with carriages, drays, and peddlers. At the moment, a detachment of soldiers was marching past toward the Horse Guards just up the street. He found himself rubbing at the chronic stab of pain in his left side and smiled without humor—like death and taxes, the pain was always with him, and he wished the devilish shell fragment would just decide where it wanted to go.
With a sigh, Alex returned to his desk. It wasn’t only Christa’s body; he’d never enjoyed another woman’s company as much, nor felt as relaxed in her presence. The fact that he found a servant so appealing proved his father’s complaint that Alex had inadequate respect for what was due his name.
To counteract Christa’s insidious influence, Alex had decided it was time to meet eligible females of his own station. There was no shortage of potential mates at the numerous entertainments he and Annabelle attended; with male naiveté, it didn’t occur to him that some of those invitations to his sister were inspired by the knowledge that he would be her escort. A handsome, wealthy viscount in need of a wife was a prize indeed.
In the meantime, Alex was writing about tactics at Admiral Hutchinson’s request. He and the bluff old sea dog had become good friends. Hutchinson was the third professional sea lord, and his duties involved the placement of commissioned and warrant officers; he often conferred with Alex about potential appointments. For all the role of influence and money, the Admiralty took its duties seriously, and it was rare for an incompetent to receive a command.
Alex was pleased at how his work on tactics was progressing; he knew more than he had realized and had developed some strong opinions. He also knew that the clerks who made fair copies from his drafts thought his spelling was a joke, but senior officers who read the work in progress were pleased at the results. And writing kept him from thinking about Christa. At least, very often.
* * *
In a lavish town house on Curzon Street, Sybil Debenham gazed at her reflection with profound satisfaction. Tonight was the Wincastles’ ball and she intended to make her move on Lord Kingsley. She had worked carefully toward this moment, surveying the eligible males, then evaluating them as to quality of title, wealth, and personal characteristics. Of the three, title was by far the most important; Sybil had quite an adequate share of the world’s goods herself, inherited from her vulgar mill-owner grandfather.
She turned her head slightly to one side, admiring the perfect line of profile that ran from brow to décolletage. Her brow puckered in a small frown. “Merrier, one of the back curls is askew. Fix it.”
“But Mademoiselle requested that I pin it that way, for a more frolicsome look.” The French maid’s voice was carefully neutral.
Sybil’s exquisite Cupid’s-bow mouth thinned. “I’m not interested in your excuses. Fix it!” While the maid’s deft hands repinned the coiffure, Sybil returned to rapt contemplation of her image. It was universally acknowledged that she was a diamond of the first water, with a perfect heart-shaped face, guinea-gold curls, and exquisitely sculptured features.
Critics might say that her aquamarine eyes were too small and close together for perfect beauty, but she dismissed such carping as sheer spite. Besides, that fool of a maid was very good with cosmetics and was able to transform the merely beautiful into the sublime. Sybil lowered her lashes, admiring how the shimmer of gold dust on her eyelids matched her gilded fingernails. This time she could not possibly fail.
The satisfied self-examination faltered a bit. For some reason Sybil had never fathomed, she always excited feverish admiration but had never received the superior offer she so clearly deserved. Her fortune was excellent, her beauty without peer, so she could only conclude it was her breeding that stood between her and the heights of the beau monde. That dratted mill-owner grandfather. Of course, the Gunning sisters’ births had been inferior to hers, and they had been fabulously successful on the Marriage Mart. She suppressed the thought quickly.
The fact that Sybil was twenty-two and in her fourth Season had caused her to lower her sights; if she didn’t accept an offer soon, she was in danger of becoming a laughingstock. Her first Season she had intended to accept only a duke but was reluctantly forced to admit that there were too few eligible dukes to choose from. Two of the Royal Dukes had made propositions, but of the wrong kind.
The second year, Miss Debenham had added marquesses to the list of availables; in the spring of 1794 she had expanded to earls. If only the Earl of Radcliffe had not gotten himself killed just before that Season began . . . Lord Radcliffe’s attentions had been most flattering the previous two Seasons. Why, if she had encouraged him in her second Season, Sybil might be a widowed countess now, with the wealth and title, and no nasty physical duties required.
