“Where did those clothes come from?” Philippa asked, pale but earnest as she stared directly into Annabelle’s eyes.
Annabelle frowned. “I’ve already told you, Mama—they came from Lillian Bowman. Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Did these clothes come from a man? Perhaps from Mr. Hunt?”
Annabelle’s mouth fell open. “You’re actually asking if I…with him? Good Lord, Mama! Even if I had the inclination, I haven’t had the slightest opportunity. How in heaven’s name did you come up with such an idea?”
Her mother met her gaze without blinking. “You’ve mentioned Mr. Hunt quite often this season. Far more than any other gentlemen. And these gowns are obviously quite costly…”
“They are not from him,” Annabelle said firmly.
Philippa seemed to relax, but a question remained in her eyes. Unaccustomed to having anyone look at her with suspicion, Annabelle picked up a hat and set it at a smart angle over her forehead. “They’re not,” she repeated.
Simon Hunt’s mistress…Turning toward the looking glass, Annabelle saw an oddly frozen expression on her face. She supposed that her mother was right—she had mentioned Hunt quite often of late. There was something about him that made thoughts of him linger in Annabelle’s mind long after they had seen each other. No other man of her acquaintance possessed Hunt’s charismatic, wicked appeal, nor had any man ever been so openly interested in her. And now, in the last few weeks of a failed season, she found herself contemplating things that no decent young woman should ever think about. She knew that without much effort, she could become Hunt’s mistress, and all her troubles would be over. He was a wealthy man—he would give her whatever she wanted, pay her family’s debts, and provide her with beautiful clothes, jewels, her own carriage, her own house…all that in return for sleeping with him.
The thought sent a sharp quiver through her abdomen. She tried to imagine being in bed with Simon Hunt, what things he might demand of her, his hands on her body, his mouth—
Flushing deeply, she forced the image aside and toyed with the silk rose adornments on the corded band of her hat. If she became Simon Hunt’s mistress, he would own her completely, in bed and out of it, and the thought of being so completely at his mercy was appalling. A mocking voice in her head asked, “Is your honor so important to you? More important than your family’s welfare? Or even your own survival?”
“Yes,” Annabelle said under her breath, staring at her own pale, purposeful reflection. “Right now it is.” She couldn’t answer for later. But until every last hope was exhausted, she still had her self-respect…and she would fight to keep it.
CHAPTER 5
It was easy to see why the name of Hampshire was derived from the Old English word “hamm,” referring to a water meadow. The county was rich with such meadows, not to mention heath and lush woodland that had once been earmarked as royal hunting grounds. With its contrast of dramatic scarps and deep green vales, and rivers flush with trout, Hampshire offered activities for every sportsman. The earl of Westcliff’s estate, Stony Cross Park, was set like a jewel in a fertile river valley that scored gently through acres of forest. It seemed that there were always guests at Stony Cross Park, for Westcliff was an accomplished host as well as an avid hunter.
From all appearances, Lord Westcliff deserved his reputation of immaculate honor and high principles. He was not the sort to be involved in scandal, as he seemed to have little tolerance for the intrigues and slippery morality of London society. Instead, he spent much of his time in the country, shouldering his responsibilities and caring for his tenants. On occasion he traveled to London to further his business interests or involve himself in a political matter that demanded his attention.
It was on one of these trips that Annabelle had met the earl, when they had been introduced at a soiree. Although he was not classically handsome, Westcliff was not without attractions. He was only of medium height, but he possessed the powerful form of a seasoned sportsman and an air of unmistakable virility. All that, combined with an immense personal fortune and one of the oldest earldoms in the peerage, made him the most desirable matrimonial catch in England. Naturally, Annabelle had wasted no time in beginning a determined flirtation with him when they had first met. However, Westcliff was inured to such attentions from eager young women and had immediately labeled her as a husband hunter—which had stung, even though it had been the truth.
Ever since Annabelle had been rebuffed by Westcliff, she had made an effort to avoid him. She did happen to like his younger sister, Lady Olivia, a softhearted girl who was of an age with Annabelle and had been tainted by scandal in her past. And it was thanks to Lady Olivia’s kindness that Annabelle and Evie had been invited to this party. For the next three weeks, both the four-legged and the two-legged varieties of prey would be under siege at Stony Cross Park.
“My lady,” Annabelle exclaimed, as Lady Olivia came to welcome them. “How kind of you to invite us! London was positively stifling—the refreshing climate of Hampshire is precisely what we needed.”
Lady Olivia smiled. Although she was a small and rather unassuming girl with average features, she seemed extraordinarily pretty on this occasion, her face glowing with happiness. According to Lillian and Daisy, Lady Olivia was betrothed to an American millionaire. “Is it a love match?” Annabelle had asked in her last letter to them, and Lillian had written back that it reportedly was. “However,” Lillian had added wryly, “my father says that the alliance between the two families will certainly be to Lord Westcliff’s financial advantage, which is why he gave his approval.” To the earl, romance was not nearly as important as practical considerations.
Bringing her mind back to the present, Annabelle smiled as Lady Olivia took her hands in a welcoming clasp. “And you are precisely what we needed,” Lady Olivia exclaimed with a laugh. “The place is overrun with males in search of sport—I informed the earl that we simply had to invite some women to keep the atmosphere reasonably civilized. Come, let me accompany you to your rooms.”
Picking up the skirts of the new salmon pink muslin from Lillian, Annabelle followed Lady Olivia up the front steps into the entrance hall. “How is Lord Westcliff?” Annabelle asked as they ascended one side of the grand double staircase. “In good health, I hope?”
“My brother is quite well, thank you. Although I fear he is driving himself to distraction with plans for my wedding. He insists on overseeing every detail.”
“A reflection of his great affection for you, I’m certain,” Philippa said.
Lady Olivia laughed wryly. “It is more a reflection of his great need to control everything within his reach. I’m afraid that it won’t be easy to find a bride who will be strong-willed enough to manage him.”
Catching her mother’s meaningful sideways glance, Annabelle shook her head slightly. It would do no good to encourage Philippa’s hopes in that direction. However…“I happen to know of a strong-willed and quite charming young woman who is yet unmarried,” she commented. “An American, as a matter of fact.”
“Are you referring to one of the Bowman sisters?” Lady Olivia asked. “I have not yet made their acquaintance, though their father has stayed at Stony Cross before.”
“Both sisters are delightful in every regard,” Annabelle said.
“Excellent,” Lady Olivia exclaimed. “We may yet find a match for my brother.”
Reaching the second floor, they paused to glance at the people milling about the entrance hall below. “I’m afraid there are not as many unmarried men here as one could wish for,” Lady Olivia commented. “But there are a few…Lord Kendall comes to mind. If you like, I will introduce you to him when the opportunity presents itself.”
“Thank you, I would enjoy that very much.”
“I’m afraid he is somewhat reticent, though,” Lady Olivia added “He may not appeal to someone as high-spirited as you, Annabelle.”
“On the contrary,” Annabelle said quickly, “I find reticence to be a most attractive quality in a man. Gentlemen with dignified reserve are so much more pleasant than those who are forever swaggering and boasting about themselves.” Like Simon Hunt, she thought darkly, whose high self-opinion couldn’t be more obvious.
Before Lady Olivia could reply, her gaze was caught from afar by that of a tall golden-haired gentleman who had come to stand in the entrance hall below. He stood in a cultivated slouch, resting his shoulder against a column, his hands thrust into his coat pockets. Annabelle knew instantly that he was an American. His irreverent grin and blue eyes, and the relaxed way he wore his elegant clothes, gave him away. Moreover, Lady Olivia blushed and seemed to require an extra breath or two, from the way he was looking at her. “Do pardon me,” she said absently. “I…my fiance…he seems to require me for something…” And she drifted away with a dreamy over-the-shoulder comment about their room being the fifth on the right. Instantly, a housemaid appeared to show them the rest of the way, and Annabelle heaved a sigh.
“There will be vicious competition for Lord Kendall,” she fretted aloud. “I hope he hasn’t already been taken.”
“He can’t be the only unmarried gentlemen here,” Philippa remarked hopefully. “One must not forget Lord Westcliff himself.”
“Don’t entertain any hope in that direction,” Annabelle told her wryly. “The earl was distinctly underwhelmed by me when we met.”
“That was a great lapse in judgment on his part,” came her mother’s indignant reply.
Smiling, Annabelle reached down and squeezed Philippa’s gloved hand. “Thank you, Mama. But I had better set my sights on a far more attainable target.”
As guests continued to arrive, some went immediately to their rooms to refresh themselves with a midday nap, in anticipation of the supper and welcome dance that would be held later. Gossip-minded ladies congregated in the parlor and cardroom, while the gentlemen played billiards or smoked in the library. After their maid finished unpacking their clothes, Philippa decided to doze in their room. It was a small but lovely bedchamber, with flowered French paper on the walls and windows swathed in pale blue silk.
Too impatient and excited to sleep, Annabelle reflected that Evie and the Bowman sisters had probably arrived. Even so, they would want some time to restore themselves after traveling. Rather than endure hours of enforced inactivity, Annabelle decided to explore the grounds outside the manor. It was a warm, sunlit day, and she craved exercise after the long carriage ride. Changing into a blue muslin day dress shaped with rows of tiny box pleats, she left her room.
She slipped out a side entrance, passing a few servants on the way, and walked into a gentle flood of sunlight. There was something wonderful about the atmosphere at Stony Cross Park. One could easily imagine it as some magical place set in some far-off land. The surrounding forest was so deep and thick as to be primeval in appearance, while the twelve-acre garden behind the manor seemed too perfect to be real. There were groves, glades, ponds, and fountains. It was a garden of many moods, alternating tranquillity with colorful tumult. A disciplined garden, every blade of grass precisely clipped, the corners of the box hedges trimmed to knife blade crispness.
Hatless, gloveless, and infused with a sudden sense of optimism, Annabelle breathed deeply of the country air. She skirted the edge of the terraced gardens at the back of the manor and followed a graveled path set between raised beds of poppies and geraniums. The atmosphere soon became thick with the perfume of flowers, as the path paralleled a drystone wall covered with tumbles of pink and cream roses.
Wandering more slowly, Annabelle crossed through an orchard of ancient pear trees, sculpted by decades into fantastic shapes. Farther off, a canopy of silver birch led to woodland beds that appeared to melt seamlessly into the forest beyond. The graveled path ended in a small circle, where a stone table had been centered. Drawing closer, Annabelle saw the thick stubs of two melted candles that had been burned directly on the stone surface. She smiled a bit wistfully, realizing that the privacy of the clearing must have been the perfect setting for some romantic interlude.
Inured to the dreamy atmosphere around them, a line of five fat white ducks waddled across the graveled circle, heading to a raised pool on the other side of the garden. It appeared that the ducks had been long accustomed to the multitude of visitors at Stony Cross Park, for they ignored Annabelle completely as they passed by. They quacked loudly in anticipation of reaching the artificial pond, their progress so comically animated that Annabelle couldn’t help laughing.
Before her amusement had faded, she heard the crunch of a heavy footstep on the gravel. It was a man, who was evidently returning from a walk in the forest. He had lifted his head to stare at her with an arrested expression, his dark gaze meeting hers.
Annabelle froze.
Simon Hunt, she thought, shocked beyond the power of speech to see him there at Stony Cross. She had always associated him with town life—she usually saw him indoors, at night, confined by walls and windows and starched neckties. However, in these day-lit natural surroundings, he seemed a different creature altogether. His broad-shouldered build, so irreconcilable with the narrow cut of evening clothes, seemed utterly right for the rough weave of a hunting coat and the shirt that had been left open at the throat, no cravat anywhere in sight. He was darker than ususal, his skin burnished amber from a great deal of time spent out of doors. The sun glanced off his close-cropped hair, striking a rich shimmer from thick locks that were not quite black, but an intense shade of brown. His features, finely delineated by sunlight, were hard and prominent and striking. The few touches of softness in his face…the thick crescents of his dark lashes, the lush curve of his lower lip, were all the more intriguing for their uncompromising setting.
Hunt and Annabelle stared at each other in silent bemusement, as if someone had posed a question that neither of them knew how to answer.
The moment lengthened uncomfortably, until Simon Hunt finally spoke. “A pretty sound, that,” he said softly.
Annabelle struggled to find her voice. “What is?” she asked.
“Your laughter.”
Annabelle experienced a sharp little ache in her midriff that was neither pain nor pleasure. The disarming stab of sensation was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Unconsciously she put her fingers over the spot just beneath her ribs. Hunt’s gaze shot to her hand before easing slowly back up to her face. He moved nearer to the stone table, closing some of the distance between them.