“Yes, but a man of your position must have enough servants to demonstrate his success to others—”
“Forgive me,” Hunt had said, “but I always thought one hired servants if they were actually needed to work. The benefit of displaying employees as stylish accessories has always escaped me until now.”
“They’re hardly slave labor, Simon!”
“At the rate most servants are paid, that’s an arguable point.”
“We will need to hire a great deal of help if we’re ever to live in a proper house,” Annabelle had said pertly. “Unless you plan to have me on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floors and cleaning the grates?”
The suggestion had caused Hunt’s coffee black eyes to glint with a wicked humor that escaped her. “I plan to have you on your hands and knees, my sweet, but I can guarantee that you won’t be scrubbing.” He had laughed softly as he saw her bewilderment. Gathering her close, he had crushed a brief kiss to her lips.
She had strained a little in his embrace. “Simon…do let go…my mother won’t approve if she sees us like this—”
“Oh? I could do whatever I want with you now, and she wouldn’t offer a single objection.”
Frowning, Annabelle had wedged her arms between them. “Oh, you arrogant—no, I mean it, Simon! I want this settled…must we live in a hotel forever, or will you buy a house for us?”
Stealing another quick kiss, he had laughed at her expression. “I’ll buy any house you like, sweet. Better yet, I’ll build you a new one, as I’ve gotten rather accustomed to the comforts of good lighting and modern plumbing.”
Annabelle had stopped squirming. “Really? Where?”
“I suspect we could get a fair amount of acreage near Bloomsbury, or Knightsbridge—”
“What about Mayfair?”
Simon had smiled as if he had been expecting such a suggestion. “Don’t tell me you want to live in some overbuilt square like Grosvenor or St. James, staring out the window at pompous aristocrats waddling through their little iron-fenced yards—”
“Oh, yes, that would be perfect,” she had enthused, making him laugh.
“All right, we’ll get something in Mayfair, God help me. And you can hire as many servants as you want. Notice that I didn’t say ‘need,’ as that seems to be completely beside the point. In the meantime, do you think you could tolerate a few months at the Rutledge?”
Recalling the conversation, Annabelle investigated their large suite of rooms, all luxuriously appointed in velvet and leather and gleaming mahogany. She had to admit, the Rutledge certainly changed one’s perceptions about what a hotel could be. It was said that the mysterious owner, Mr. Harry Rutledge, aspired to create the most elegant and modern hotel in Europe, combining Continental style with American innovations. The Rutledge was a massive building located in the theater district, occupying five blocks between the Capitol Theater and the Embankment. Features such as fire-proof construction, food service lifts, and a private bathroom for every suite, not to mention a renowned restaurant, had made the Rutledge a favorite haunt of wealthy Americans and Europeans. To Annabelle’s delight, the Bowmans occupied five of the hotel’s one hundred luxury suites, which meant that she, Lillian, and Daisy would have frequent opportunities to see each other after she returned from the honeymoon.
Having never traveled outside of England in her life, Annabelle had been excited to discover that Simon intended to take her to Paris for a fortnight. Supplied with a list of dressmakers, milliners, and perfumers from the Bowmans, who had once visited Paris with their mother, Annabelle eagerly anticipated her first glimpse of the City of Light. However, before their departure on the morrow, there was still the wedding night to get through.
Dressed in a nightgown trimmed with lavish falls of white lace from the bodice and sleeves, Annabelle paced restlessly around the suite. She sat beside the bed and picked up a hairbrush from the night table. Methodically, she began to brush her hair as she wondered if all brides felt this apprehensive, uncertain as to whether the next few hours were something to dread or enjoy. At that moment, the key turned in the door, and Simon’s dark, lean form entered the private suite.
A nervous thrill went down Annabelle’s spine, and she forced herself to continue brushing her hair with calm strokes, though her grip was too tight on the handle, and her fingers were shaking. Simon’s gaze wandered over the drifts of lace and muslin that covered her body. Still dressed in his formal black wedding suit, he approached her slowly and came to stand before her as she remained sitting in the chair. To her surprise, he lowered to his knees to bring their faces level, his thighs bracketing her slender calves. A large hand lifted to the shimmering fall of her hair, and he combed his fingers through it, watching with fascination as the golden brown strands slipped across his knuckles.
Although Simon was immaculately dressed, there were signs of dishevelment that lured her attention…the short forelocks of his hair falling over his forehead, the loosened knot of his ice gray silk cravat. Dropping the brush to the floor, Annabelle used her fingers to smooth his hair in a tentative stroke. The sable filaments were thick and gleaming, springing willfully against her fingertips. Simon held still for her as she untied the cravat, the heavy silk saturated with the warmth of his skin. His eyes contained an expression that caused a ticklish sensation in the pit of her stomach.
“Every time I see you,” he murmured, “I think you couldn’t possibly become any more beautiful—and you always prove me wrong.”
Letting the cravat hang on either side of his neck, Annabelle smiled at the compliment. She jumped a little in her seat as she felt his hand close around hers. His mouth curved slightly as he gave her a quizzical glance. “You’re nervous?”
Annabelle nodded, her fingers unresisting in his as he held and chafed them gently. Simon spoke quietly, seeming to choose his words with unusual care. “Sweetheart…I assume that your experiences with Lord Hodgeham were not pleasant. But I hope you’ll trust me when I say that it doesn’t have to be like that. Whatever your fears are—”
“Simon,” she interrupted with an apprehensive croak, and cleared her throat. “That is very kind of you. A-And the fact that you are prepared to be so understanding about it…well…I appreciate that. But…I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely forthcoming about my relationship with Hodgeham.” Seeing his sudden curious stillness, and the way his expression had been wiped clean of emotion, Annabelle took a deep, steadying breath. “The truth is, Hodgeham did indeed come to our house some evenings, and he did pay some of our bills in return for…for…” Pausing, she felt her throat contract until it was hard to force the words through. “But…I wasn’t actually the one that he was visiting.”
Simon’s dark eyes widened slightly. “What?”
“I never slept with him,” she admitted. “His arrangement was with my mother.”
He stared at her, dumbfounded. “Holy hell,” he breathed.
“It started a year ago,” she said, her voice edged with defensiveness. “Our circumstances were desperate. We had endless bills and no means to pay them. The income from my mother’s jointure had dwindled because it had been invested badly. Lord Hodgeham had been sniffing at my mother’s heels for some time…I don’t know precisely when his evening visits began…butI saw his hat and cane in the entrance hall at odd hours, and the debts eased a little. I realized what was happening, but I never said anything about it. And I should have.” She sighed and rubbed her temples. “At the party, Hodgeham made it clear that he had tired of my mother and wanted me to take her place. He threatened to expose the whole secret…‘with embellishments,’ he said…and we would be ruined. I refused him, but somehow my mother managed to keep him quiet.”
“Why did you let me think that you were sleeping with him?”
Annabelle shrugged uncomfortably. “You just assumed so…and there didn’t seem to be any reason to correct you, as I certainly never thought that we would end up like this. And then you proposed to me anyway, which led me to conclude that it wasn’t especially important to you whether or not I was a virgin.”
“It wasn’t,” Simon murmured, his voice sounding strange. “I wanted you regardless. But now that I…” He broke off and shook his head in amazement. “Annabelle—just to be clear—are you saying that you’ve never been to bed with a man before?”
She tugged at her hands, for his grip had become crushingly tight. “Well…yes.”
“Yes, you have, or no, you haven’t?”
“I have never slept with anyone,” Annabelle said precisely, and gave him a questioning glance. “Are you annoyed because I didn’t tell you earlier? I’m sorry. But it’s not the sort of thing one can just blurt out over tea, or in the entrance hall…‘Here’s your hat, and by the way, I’m a virgin’—”
“I’m not annoyed.” Simon’s gaze traveled over her pensively. “I’m just wondering what the hell to do with you now.”
“The same thing you were going to do before I told you?” she asked hopefully.
Simon stood and pulled her to her feet and embraced her rather gingerly, as if he feared she might shatter with too much pressure. He pressed his face into the shining fall of her hair and breathed deeply. “Believe me, I’ll get around to it,” he said, sounding bemused. “But first it seems there are a few things I need to ask you.”
Annabelle pushed her arms inside the front of his coat and slid them around his hard, sleek torso. The heat of his body had permeated the thin fabric of his shirt, and she shivered pleasantly as she delved into the male-scented warmth of his embrace. “Yes?” she prompted.
Until that moment she had never witnessed Simon being less than fully articulate…but he spoke with exceptional hesitancy, as if this was a kind of discussion he’d never been obliged to have before. “Do you know what to expect? Do you have all the…er, necessary information?”
“I think so,” Annabelle replied, smiling at the interesting discovery that his heart was beating very fast against her cheek. “My mother and I had a talk just a little while ago—after which I was strongly tempted to ask for an annulment.”
Suddenly, he gave a muffled laugh. “I’d better claim my husbandly rights without delay, then.” Taking her fingers in his hot, light grip, he lifted them to his mouth. The touch of his breath was like steam. “What did she tell you?” he murmured against her fingertips.
“After imparting the basic facts, she said that I should let you do as you wished and try not to complain if I didn’t like something. And she suggested that if it becomes too unpleasant, I should turn my mind to thoughts of that enormous bank account that you opened for me.”
Annabelle regretted the words as soon as they left her lips, expecting that Simon might be offended by such candor. But he had begun to laugh huskily.
“That’s a refreshing change from thinking of England.” He drew his head back to look at her. “Shall I woo you with whispers of balance transfers and rates of interest, then?”
Turning her hand in his, Annabelle let her fingertips graze the surface of his lips, lingering at the velvety edge, then drifting down to the masculine scrape of his chin. “That won’t be necessary. Just say the usual things.”
“No…the usual things won’t do for you.” Simon tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear and cupped her cheek in his palm as he leaned forward. His mouth teased hers into yielding openness, while his hands found the outline of her body within the ample billows of lace. With no corset to constrict her ribs, she could feel his touch through the thin veil of her gown. The stroke of his hands along her unbound sides caused her to quiver, the tips of her br**sts turning exquisitely sensitive. His palm traveled slowly over her front, finding the pliant weight of one breast, and he made a gentle cup of his fingers, lifting the vulnerable flesh. Her breath halted momentarily as his thumb nudged her nipple into delicately aching distension.
“It’s usually painful for a woman, the first time,” he murmured.
“Yes, I know.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
The admission touched and surprised her. “My mother says it doesn’t last for long,” she said.
“The pain?”
“No, the rest of it,” she said, and for some reason that made him laugh again.
“Annabelle…” His mouth drifted along her throat. “I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you standing outside that panorama, digging for coins in your purse. I couldn’t take my eyes from you. I could hardly believe you were real.”
“You stared at me for the entire show,” she said, gasping a little as he nibbled at the silken lobe of her ear. “I doubt you learned a single thing about the fall of the Roman Empire.”
“I learned that you have the softest lips I’ve ever kissed.”
“You have a novel way of introducing yourself.”
“I couldn’t help it.” His hand skimmed gently up and down her side. “Standing next to you in the darkness was the most unholy temptation I’d ever experienced. All I could think about was how adorable you were and how much I wanted you. When the lights went out completely, I couldn’t stand it any longer.” A note of masculine smugness entered his voice as he added, “And you didn’t push me away.”
“I was too surprised!”
“That was the reason you didn’t object?”
“No,” Annabelle admitted, tilting her face so that her cheek brushed against his. “I liked your kiss. You know that I did.”
He smiled at that. “I had hoped it wasn’t all one-sided.” He looked into her eyes, their faces so close that their noses were nearly touching. “Come to bed with me,” he whispered, a nearly imperceptible question in his voice.
She nodded with a shaky sigh and let him lead her to the large four-poster bed, covered with a counterpane made of heavy quilted burgundy silk. Drawing back the covers, Simon lifted Annabelle onto the slick-pressed linens, and she slid over to make room for him. He stood by the bed, watching her face as he removed the rest of his formal clothes. The contrast between the neatly tailored garments, so eminently civilized, and the raw masculine power of the body beneath, was disconcerting. As Annabelle had expected, he possessed an unusually muscular torso, his back and shoulders rippling, his stomach tightly corrugated. His swarthy skin was tinted amber-gold in the lamplight, the surface of his shoulders gleaming as rich and taut as freshly cast metal. Even the dark fleece that covered his chest could not soften the powerful vaulting of flesh and bone. Annabelle doubted that a healthier, more vigorous-looking man could be found anywhere. Perhaps he didn’t match the fashionable ideal of a pale, slender-framed aristocrat…but Annabelle thought he was altogether splendid.