Christa’s voice was stronger now, and she could meet his gaze. “I think I shall regret this all my life, but I cannot accept. I was not raised to be any man’s mistress.”
Alex was silent for long moments. “Will you let me give you the security and the freedom you said were your dream?”
Her half smile was sad as she answered, “I shall doubtless regret this also, but again, I cannot accept. Whatever security I have, I will earn with my own two hands.”
His gaze held hers. “I don’t want you to be angry with me.”
Christa shook her head. “I’m not angry.” She paused, then said steadily, “But it might be better if I left this house.”
“No!” Alex caught himself and continued in more moderate tones, “This is your home. Annabelle needs you. I promise I will never ask you again.” With a ghost of a smile, he added, “Unless you wish me to.”
She sighed. The part of her that still burned with the memory of Alex’s touch wished that he had not spoken with her, not treated her as a woman he respected. It would have been so much easier if he had devoured her with kisses, overpowering her logical mind with passion until it was too late to turn back.
“Good night, my lord Alex.” On impulse, Christa crossed the room and placed her hands on his shoulders, standing on tiptoe to press her lips to his in one short, fierce kiss filled with all her love and regrets. He made no move to take her in his arms or prevent her from leaving the room.
As the door closed behind Christa’s proudly erect figure, Alex retrieved his glass of whiskey and returned to the chair he had abandoned earlier. The pain in his side was back with a vengeance, and he winced as he lowered himself into the seat.
Staring into the dying flames, he felt a perverse pleasure in Christa’s integrity, in the honor that could not be bought. And when he closed his eyes, he could remember with painful accuracy the taste of her last kiss, feel the softness of her body under his hands.
With deep sadness, Alex knew she would not change her mind, and as a man of honor, he could not try to persuade her otherwise. With a wintry smile he finished his whiskey in one gulp. A pity he could not consign his honor to the devil.
Chapter 13
Annabelle woke late the next morning, feeling languid and drained. It took her several moments to remember why she felt so oppressed: Edward. She had promised to meet him today, and he would certainly renew his pleas for her to run away. If they were to go to Scotland and return in time for her ball, they would have to leave almost immediately. She propped herself up in the bed and brushed strands of blond hair out of her face. It felt as limp as she did.
An elopement was very romantic in a novel but not at all what Annabelle had envisioned for herself. She would really much rather get married at St. George’s, Hanover Square, with half the ton in attendance and Alex to give her away. She could feel traces of headache beginning to return.
But it was very bad of her to be so shallow and selfish. What did the ceremony matter if she was to be united with her darling Edward? Thinking of his Greek-god face, his adoring eyes, made her feel better immediately. Of course she wanted to marry him. And perhaps he was right in saying that it would be easier to present Alex with a fait accompli. Didn’t someone once say that it was easier to get forgiveness than permission?
Christa entered carrying a tray with hot chocolate, croissants, and a rose in a crystal bud vase. “You are feeling better, Miss Annabelle?”
Annabelle nodded as Christa arranged the tray. “Yes, your willow tea was a great help. I’ve often wondered, where did you learn so much about herbs and teas and medicines?”
Christa shook out the linen napkin and spread it for her. “From my grandmother. She worked in the stillroom of an estate and was very skilled in all manner of old country lore. She was also something of an amateur physician, and I often assisted her when people came to her with illness or accidents.” Her grandmother had also owned the estate, a fact Christa did not mention.
After observing Annabelle for a moment, Christa said hesitantly, “You have seemed blue-deviled lately, miss. Has it anything to do with Sir Edward Loaming?”
Annabelle concentrated on buttering her croissant, not meeting her maid’s eyes. “Why would you say that?” she parried.
“Well, you have”—Christa paused and said ironically—“‘happened’ to meet him often lately, and you always seem agitated afterward. Has he been behaving improperly?”
“What a foolish thing to ask!” Annabelle’s laugh was brittle. “Sir Edward is a perfect gentleman. What could he possibly do that is improper in a public park?”
Christa’s snort was answer enough, but it was obvious that Annabelle was not going to confide in her. After a pause she said, “I will get the morning’s invitations and messages for you to look at after you have finished eating.”
Annabelle’s gaze followed Christa from the room. She had been sorely tempted to tell her abigail about Sir Edward; the girl was much more worldly than her mistress, and her insight would be welcome. But the habits of a lifetime are not easily changed, and Annabelle had always been secretive, reluctant to tell her mother anything of importance for fear that Lady Serena would somehow spoil it for her. Besides, darling Edward had cautioned her about telling anyone of their love, in case they might be separated. Her temples were starting to throb again. Why did it have to be so difficult?
* * *
Sir Edward came to the park in his phaeton on this day. Setting his groom down beside Christa, the baronet took Annabelle up for a turn around the park. Christa stared after them as they rattled toward Rotten Row. The baronet’s carriage was a conspicuous vehicle in sky blue with silver trim, pulled by a team of flashy white horses. She sniffed in contempt—it was exactly the sort of rig she would have expected of Sir Edward. “All show and no go,” she said.
The groom next to her said, “Aye, they are, but Sir Edward took a fancy to ’em, and there was no stoppin’ ’im.” The two servants exchanged a look of mutual understanding about the foolishness of the Quality. Then the groom, a burly man of middle years, said, “I’m to the tavern for a pot of ale. Care to join me, missy?”
Christa shook her head. “No, I’ll wait here for my mistress.”
The groom guffawed. “Ye may have quite a wait. When the bart is courtin’, he takes ’is time about it.”
Christa frowned. “Does he court many ladies?”
