Sir Edward got an inspiration. “If we left for Gretna in the next few days, we could be back in time for your ball, and use it to announce our marriage. Your come out, your birthday, and your wedding all together. And if we present him with the deed accomplished, I promise your brother will accept me.” Lord Kingsley would have to, or see his whole family disgraced.
“Do you really think so?” Annabelle asked doubtfully. “Wouldn’t it be better to be married here by special license? An elopement is just so . . . hole-and-corner.”
Special licenses were expensive. So were flights to Scotland, but if her brother caught up and offered to buy him off, the cost of the elopement would be minimal. “Think of the romance, my little love,” he crooned. “It would be something to remember all our lives.”
“That is what I am worried about,” she said with a touch of acerbity. “That peoplewillremember for the rest of our lives!”
“No one need know,” Sir Edward promised with a quick change of tack. “You will leave a message for your brother that you have gone off to be married and will be back the afternoon of the ball. Since you will be twenty-one that day, he can’t possibly object. What could be simpler?” This time his mouth muffled any further protests. Luckily, a small boy came bursting into their little glade.
“Have you seen my ball?” the child demanded pugnaciously as the couple sprang apart guiltily.
“We havenot, you little . . .” Sir Edward held on to his composure—barely—but not to his heiress. Annabelle slipped away from him and headed back to the main park.
“We must go back. Christa will be looking for me.” Annabelle was glad to see her abigail in the distance when she emerged from the shrubbery. Her lover said urgently from behind her, “You will consider it?”
“Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know!” Annabelle was feeling hunted. How could a love so perfect leave her feeling so anxious? She glanced back at Sir Edward, then found her irritation melting at the sight of his beautiful, concerned face.
“Will you meet me again tomorrow?” Such passion was in his eyes! Of course, he was impetuous; wasn’t that what a proper lover was supposed to be?
“Yes, I’ll meet you here,” she said hastily in the last moment before her maid came within earshot.
“Are you feeling well, Miss Annabelle?” Christa asked solicitously. “Your face is flushed.” She didn’t add that her mistress looked as if she had been dragged through a bush backward; it took no great intelligence to deduce what Annabelle and Sir Edward had been doing.
“A touch of sun, perhaps. I shall be glad to get home and rest a bit. We are going to three different entertainments this evening, and it will be a very late night.” Annabelle was babbling in relief. She had always been terrible at making decisions, and this one facing her promised to be the most difficult of her life.
Sir Edward escorted Annabelle to the edge of the park. Half a dozen steps behind, Christa heard him murmur, “Until tomorrow, my love,” before he squeezed Annabelle’s hand and departed. Not for the first time, Christa wondered why he didn’t take Annabelle for a drive or call on her at the house, as her other admirers did. Moreover, her mistress had been curiously silent about the baronet, not bubbling happily as she had after their first meeting last spring. Christa was getting the unhappy suspicion that something havey-cavey was afoot.
* * *
Annabelle made it to the first of the evening’s entertainments, but a blinding headache developed and soon she looked so white that Alex insisted on bringing her home. He turned his sister over to Christa, who promised that a cup of willow-bark tea was just the thing for a headache. Annabelle smiled weakly in reply and retired with hardly a good night to her brother. He wondered if she were overdoing her socializing; his sister had been so continually busy that he had scarcely seen her since their return to London.
Still wakeful, Alex went down to the library. He had turned one end into his personal study, preferring the spacious book-lined room to the poky hole his father had used as an office. Adding some coals to the fire, he poured himself a glass of smooth Irish whiskey and water, then settled into a wing chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him.
The viscount was feeling in charity with the world. His work at the Admiralty was progressing well, and more surprisingly, so was his social life. Alex found that he was much more comfortable consorting with the ton than he had expected. While he would never be a master of repartee, he could converse and dance with a fashionable woman without making a fool of himself, and even find some enjoyment.
Unfortunately, Alex’s search for a wife had borne no fruit. His passionate attraction to Christa over the summer had convinced him it was time he married, but none of the available ladies stirred his interest in the least. Some were very pretty, many were pleasant, a few were both, but there were none he could imagine living with for the rest of his life. Still less could he imagine facing any of them at breakfast.
Alex chuckled to himself, trying and failing to imagine the glorious Sybil Debenham at any hour before noon. It must take hours to produce that look of shimmering perfection. He looked on his mild flirtation with her as something of a challenge—she was exactly the sort of fan-fluttering female who had terrorized him in his younger days. Alex was pleased that she had not yet reduced him to tongue-tied paralysis. By letting Sybil prattle on about her favorite subject—herself—he found he could deal with her tolerably well.
The viscount seemed to enjoy her favor above her other swains and suspected she might be using him to make another suitor jealous. Miss Debenham certainly didn’t seem to feel any real warmth for him, which was why he considered their flirtation to be harmless. Impossible to imagine that the immaculate Sybil’s heart was engaged, or even that she had a heart.
Since it was flattering to be favored by such a beauty, Alex would ask her for a dance or two if they were at the same evening party, and occasionally he took her for a drive. A pity that her mind was not half so attractive as her face.
Alex sipped at the whiskey, enjoying the peacefulness of the hour. Even the usual ache in his side was quiet for the moment. It was past eleven and all of the servants would be abed except his own valet, Fiske, who had not yet been persuaded that a viscount could undress himself without assistance.
The door opened so noiselessly that Alex didn’t realize at first that he had a visitor. Turning his head at the sound of soft footsteps, he saw Christa enter. Concealed in the shadows by the fireplace, Alex was free to watch her browsing through the bookshelves. It was unabashed pleasure seeing her graceful movements, particularly when she reached high above her head for a volume. Her lightweight sprigged-muslin dress molded to her ripe curves and lifted to reveal trim ankles. Intently studying the shelves in the low light, she had moved within a dozen feet of Alex before making a choice and turning to leave the library.
Christa had enjoyed the peace and quiet, savoring the handsome leather bound volumes and reading random paragraphs to counteract the anxiety she had been feeling about Annabelle. It was a shock when the deep, amused voice sounded out of the shadows behind her.
“Looking for some bedtime reading?”
Though she immediately recognized the voice, Christa jumped in startled reflex and blurted out, “You wretch!” as she whirled.
Remembering her station, she said demurely, “I’m very sorry, my lord, I didn’t know you were here. You did say that I could use the library.”
“Of course. I’m glad someone does. What did you find?” The viscount rose and moved next to her, glancing at the volume. “Voltaire’sPhilosophical Letters on the English. A good choice. It would certainly put me to sleep quickly.”
Christa laughed, a clear, bell-like sound. “Au contraire, Monsieur Voltaire is always most amusing to read. Actually, his wit is more original than his thinking.”
