And then her father made matters worse. “Bella,” he belted from the stairs. “Mr. Finch is here to call on you. Annabelle!”
Her heart sank more. How was she to escape marriage to that awful man when she earned but pennies closing Mr. Harris’s books? She’d felt invincible last night as Bartholomew Brown, becausehewas capable of anything. Yet here at home, in her everyday drab dress, she felt utterly unable to affect her future.
She stared at the flamboyant gown Mr. Harris had made her wear home, no doubt borrowed from one of his ‘working’ladies. It lay draped over her chair in reproof, needing to be pressed. She ought to be grateful Arthur had dropped her off a few houses down so she could slip inside last night unseen. She should be grateful more had not gone awry, given what he’d demonstratedcould.
She hid the dress deep in her garderobe, then made her way downstairs where she coolly greeted Mr. Finch. Annabelle looked askance at the vase of inappropriate red roses the man had brought. He did not ‘love passionately’ nor ‘desire her romantically.’ She kept her hands in her lap, wishing to tear her skirt fabric into bits, while her father fawned, as usual, all over Mr. Finch.
“Is that not delightful, Bella?” Papa nudged her with his foot.
“Quite,” she answered without hearing a word.
“Then I looks forward t’ accompanyin’ yer t’night, Miss Winthrop.”
“Accompanying?” she blurted, realizing she ought to have been paying closer attention to their conversation.
“T’ the Denbigh ball, m’dear. You’ve not forgotten, ’ave you?”
The lecherous man’s eyes perused her so liberally he made her shudder.
“When last I were here, y’ could talk o’ nothin’ else, miss.”
“Oh yes, the ball, of course. Forgive me, Mr. Finch, I feel rather poorly today. Perhaps I am coming down with something.” She pretended to sniffle. She would not accompany this man anywhere tonight or any other day. How had he possibly wrangled an invitation?
“Milord.” Papa’s coarse footman tromped in. “Mr. Harris is ’ere fer Miss Winthrop. Says he’s to take ’er fer a drive.”
Papa paled a shade more white as his guest’s face glowered red. Annabelle took the opportunity to rise swiftly from her seat. “Goodness, I’d quite forgotten Mr. Harris invited me. I shouldn’t like to keep him waiting.” She scurried out without a glance back, forgoing spencer and parasol while her father’s voice boomed from the parlor. “Annabelle Winthrop! You have not taken leave of Mr.—!”
But already she was out the door, on the front step, and grabbing hold of Mr. Harris, who’d been waylaid over the hedgeby Lady Stanton. He tipped his hat to both lady and pug as Annabelle hurried him toward his curricle. As he helped her up she urged, “Drive quick, I beg, sir. Before Papa can snatch me back.”
Harris snapped the reins, his curricle tossing Annabelle directly into his lap. She righted herself by way of his thigh, which was embarrassing enough, until the weight of his palm steadied her own leg.
She stared at his hand in brief panic. “Must you … grip my skirts so?”
He squeezed her through her dress. “Oh I must. It is so very high up we sit, and the road so treacherously bumpy.” The devil curved his fingers slightly in,makingAnnabelle push him off.
His hand reappeared at her waist. “This better, miss?” He dug his thumb into the back of her stays, right where her laces ended.
“Mr. Harris,” she declared, “I did not leave the company of one man’s untoward advances only to be accosted by another’s!”
“Well, if we’re courtin’, ’tis me job to tease an’ flirt.” He threw her such a roguish grin she stuck out her tongue at him without thinking.
“Lord, but you are easily riled!” His laugh made him only more handsome.
“A gentleman flirts in a wholesome, not vulgar, manner, Mr. Harris.”
He removed his palm from her waist to take her hand in his lap instead. “This more proper? Whatever man marries you, miss, will have a devil of a time behavin’ himself.”
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, Bella dear, the man you marry’ll struggle not to ravish you silly whenever and wherever he can.”
She gaped at him in shock.
“An’ if y’ keep lookin’ at me like that I’m liable to kiss yer.”
She shut her mouth and trained her gaze forward, her hand in his palm suddenly sweating.
Two hours later Miss Winthrop had neatly reconciled Harris’s books; he had to admit, this arrangement was suiting him nicely.
