“I hadn’t expected to see you here.” His gaze moved over her in a disconcertingly thorough sweep. “But of course, it’s the logical place for a woman in your situation.”
Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “In my situation?”
“Trying to catch a husband,” he clarified.
She responded with a haughty glance. “I am not trying to ‘catch’ anyone, Mr. Hunt.”
“Casting the lure,” he continued, “setting the hook, reeling in your unwary prey until he lies gasping on the deck.”
Her mouth clamped into a taut line. “You may set your mind at ease, Mr. Hunt, as I have no intention of separating you from your precious freedom. You’re the very last on the list.”
“What list?” Hunt contemplated her in the tense silence that followed, working it out for himself. “Ah. You’ve actually made a list of potential husbands?” Amusement danced in his eyes. “It’s a relief to hear that I’m not in the running, as I have resolved to avoid being padlocked into marriage at all cost. But I can’t seem to stop myself from asking…who is at the top of the list?”
Annabelle refused to answer. Even as she cursed her own tendency to fidget, she could not keep from reaching over to the lumpen stub of a candle and picking at it with the edges of her fingernails.
“Westcliff, probably,” Hunt guessed.
Annabelle made a scornful sound, half-sitting on the table. The aged stone surface was sun-warmed and glossy-smooth. “Certainly not. I wouldn’t marry the earl if he fell to his knees and begged me.”
Hunt laughed richly at the blatant lie. “A pedigreed lord, with his fortune? You’d stop at nothing to get him.” Casually, he sat on the opposite side of the table, and Annabelle steeled herself not to shrink from his proximity. Usually a conversation between a gentleman and a lady was underwritten by the understanding that there were certain things a gentleman would never do…he would not embarrass or insult her, or take advantage in any way. However, with Simon Hunt there were no such guarantees.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I’m a friend of Westcliff’s,” he said easily.
Annabelle was unable to imagine the earl claiming someone like Hunt as a friend. “Why would he associate with you? And don’t try to claim that you have anything in common with him—the two of you are as different as chalk from cheese.”
“As it happens, the earl and I do have some common interests. We both like to hunt, and we share a remarkable number of political beliefs. Unlike most peers, Westcliff does not allow himself to be chained by the restrictions of aristocratic life.”
“Good Lord,” Annabelle mocked, “you seem to view nobility as a condition of imprisonment.”
“I do, as a matter of fact.”
“Then I can hardly wait to incarcerate myself and dispose of the keys.”
That made Hunt laugh. “You would probably do quite well as a peer’s wife.”
Recognizing that his tone was far from complimentary, Annabelle frowned at him. “If you dislike the peerage so much, I wonder that you spend so much time among them.”
His eyes glinted wickedly. “They have their uses. And I don’t dislike them—it’s just that I have no desire to be one of them. In case you haven’t noticed, the peerage—or at least the way of life they’ve known ‘til now—is dying.”
Annabelle reacted with a wide-eyed glance, genuinely shocked by the statement. “What do you mean?”
“Most landholding peers are losing their fortunes, seeing them divided and shrunken by ever-increasing numbers of relatives who require support…and then there is the transformation of the economy to contend with. The rule of the great landowner is fast coming to a end. Only men like Westcliff—who is open to new ways of doing things—will weather the change.”
“With your invaluable assistance, of course,” Annabelle said.
“That’s right,” Hunt said with such self-satisfaction that she couldn’t help laughing.
“Have you ever considered making at least a pretense of humility, Mr. Hunt? Just for the sake of politeness?”
“I don’t believe in false modesty.”
“People might like you more if you did.”
“Would you?”
Her nails dug into the soft pastel-colored wax, and she flashed Hunt a quick glance to measure the depth of mockery in his eyes. To her bewilderment, there was none. He seemed seriously interested in her answer. As he watched her intently, she felt a dismaying tide of pink creep over her face. She was not at all comfortable in this situation, conversing alone with Simon Hunt while he lounged beside her like a lazy, inquisitive pirate. Her gaze fell to the large hand he had braced on the table, the fingers long and clean and sun-browned, with nails cut so short that the crescents of white were barely visible.
” ‘Like’ may be going a bit far,” Annabelle said, releasing her biting grip on the candle. The more she tried to control her flush, the worse it became, until it surged into her hairline. “I suppose I could tolerate your company more easily if you would try to behave like a gentleman.”
“For example?”
“To begin with, the…the way you like to correct people…”
“Isn’t honesty a virtue?”
“Yes…but it hardly makes for the best conversation!” Ignoring his low laugh, she continued. “And the way you talk so openly about money is vulgar, especially to those in higher circles. Nice people pretend that they don’t care about money, or how to earn it, or invest it, or any of the other things you like to discuss.”
“I’ve never understood why the enthusiastic pursuit of wealth should be held in such disdain.”
“Perhaps because such pursuit is accompanied by so many vices…greed, selfishness, duplicity—”
“Those aren’t my faults.”
Annabelle raised her brows. “Oh?”
Smiling, Hunt shook his head slowly, the sunlight glittering on his sable locks. “If I were greedy and selfish, I would keep most of the profits from my businesses. However, my partners will tell you that they have been handsomely rewarded for their investments. And my employees are well paid by anyone’s standards. As for being duplicitous—I think it’s fairly obvious that I have the opposite problem. I’m truthful—which is very nearly unpardonable in civilized society.”
For some reason, Annabelle could not help grinning back at the ill-bred scoundrel. She pushed away from the table and dusted her skirts. “I’m not going to waste any more of my time telling you how to be polite when it’s perfectly obvious that you don’t wish to be.”
“Your time wasn’t wasted,” he said, coming around to her. “I’m going to lend some deep consideration to changing my ways.”
“Don’t bother,” she said, the smile lingering on her lips. “You’re a hopeless cause, I’m afraid. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to continue my walk through the garden. Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Hunt.”
“Let me come with you,” he said softly. “You can lecture me some more. I’ll even listen.”
She wrinkled her nose at him impudently. “No, you won’t.” She started off on the gravel path, aware of his gaze on her back until she disappeared into the pear orchard.
CHAPTER 6
Just before supper on the first evening of the party, Annabelle, Lillian, and Daisy met in the downstairs receiving room, a spacious area set with clusters of chairs and tables where many of the guests had chosen to congregate.
“I should have known that dress would look a hundred times better on you than me,” Lillian Bowman said gleefully, hugging Annabelle and holding her at arm’s length to gaze at her. “Oh, it’s torture, being friends with someone so ravishing.”
Annabelle was wearing another of her new gowns, a yellow silk with fluttering tulle skirts caught up at narrow intervals with tiny bunches of silk violets. Her hair was pinned at the back of her head in an intricately braided plait. “I have many flaws,” Annabelle informed Lillian with a smile.
“Really? What are they?”
Annabelle grinned. “I’m hardly going to admit them if you haven’t already noticed.”
“Lillian tells everyone about her flaws,” Daisy said, her brown eyes twinkling. “She’s proud of them.”
“I do have a terrible temper,” Lillian acknowledged smugly. “And I can curse like a sailor.”
“Who taught you to do that?” Annabelle asked.
“My grandmother. She was a washerwoman. And my grandfather was the soap maker from whom she bought her supplies. Since she worked near the docks, most of her customers were sailors and dockers, who taught her words so vulgar that it would curl your hair ribbons to hear them.”
Laughter rustled in Annabelle’s chest. She was thoroughly charmed by the mischievous spirit of two girls who were unlike anyone she had ever known before. Unfortunately, it was difficult to imagine either Lillian or Daisy being happy as the wife of a peer. Most gentlemen of the aristocracy wanted to marry a girl who was serene, regal, self-effacing…the kind of wife whose sole purpose was to make her husband the focus of admiring attention. However, enjoying the Bowmans’ company as Annabelle did, she thought it would be a pity for either of them to have to repress the innocent audacity that made them so beguiling.
Suddenly, she caught sight of Evie, who had entered the room with the reluctance of a mouse who had been thrown into a sack of cats. Evie’s face relaxed as she saw Annabelle and the Bowmans. Murmuring something to her dour-looking aunt, she headed toward them with a smile.
“Evie,” Daisy squealed in delight, beginning to rush toward the girl. Annabelle caught her gloved arm and whispered to her.
“Wait! If you draw attention to Evie, she’ll probably faint from embarrassment.”
Daisy stopped obediently and flashed her an un-abashed grin. “You’re right. I’m an absolute savage.”
“I wouldn’t say that, dear—” Lillian soothed.
“Thank you,” Daisy said in pleased surprise.
“You’re merely a quasi-savage,” her older sister finished.
Biting back a laugh, Annabelle slipped her arm behind Evie’s slender waist. “How lovely you look tonight,” she said. Evie’s hair had been piled at the crown of her head in a mass of gleaming red curls and fastened with pearl-tipped pins. The scattering of amber freckles across her nose only increased her appeal, as if nature had given in to a moment of whimsy and sprinkled a few flecks of extra sunlight over her.
Evie leaned into her partial hug as if she was seeking comfort. “Aunt F-Florence says I look like a f-flaming torch with my hair pinned up like this,” she said.
Daisy scowled at the comment. “Your aunt Florence should hardly make such statements when she looks like a hobgoblin.”
“Daisy, hush,” Lillian said sternly.
Annabelle kept her gloved arm around Evie’s waist, reflecting that from what little the girl had related to her, Aunt Florence appeared to take heartless delight in shredding what little confidence Evie possessed. After Evie’s mother had died at a young age, the family had taken the unfortunate girl into its respectable bosom—and the ensuing years of criticism had left Evie’s self-confidence decidedly battered.
Evie’s smile contained a flash of amusement as she regarded the Bowman sisters. “She’s not a h-hobgoblin. I’ve always thought of her as m-more of a troll.”
Annabelle laughed in delight at the little jab. “Tell me,” she said, “have any of you seen Lord Kendall yet? I was told that he is one of the very few unmarried men here—and aside from Westcliff, the only bachelor with a title.”
“The competition for Kendall is going to be brutal,” Lillian remarked. “Fortunately, Daisy and I have come up with just the plan to entrap an unsuspecting gentleman into marriage.” She crooked her finger for them to come closer.
“I’m afraid to ask,” Annabelle said, “but how?”
“You will entice him into a compromising situation, at which time the three of us will conveniently happen along and ‘catch’ you together. And then the gentleman will be honor-bound to ask for your hand in marriage.”
“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Daisy asked.
Evie looked at Annabelle dubiously. “It’s rather underh-handed, isn’t it?”
“There’s no ‘rather’ about it,” Annabelle replied. “But I’m afraid that I can think of nothing better, can you?”
Evie shook her head. “No,” she admitted. “The question is, are we all s-so desperate to catch husbands that we’ll resort to any means, be they fair or foul?”
“I am,” Annabelle said without hesitation.
“So are we,” Daisy said cheerfully.
Evie regarded the three of them uncertainly. “I can’t toss aside all scruples. That is, I sh-shouldn’t care to deceive a man into doing something that he—”
“Evie,” Lillian interrupted impatiently, “men expect to be deceived in these matters. They’re happiest that way. If one were straightforward with them, the whole prospect of marriage would be too alarming, and none of them would ever do it.”
Annabelle regarded the American girl with mock alarm. “You’re ruthless,” she said.
Lillian smiled sweetly. “It’s my family heritage. Bowmans are ruthless by nature. We can even be fiendish if the occasion calls for it.”
Laughing, Annabelle returned her attention to Evie, who wore a nonplussed frown. “Evie,” she said gently, “until now, I’ve always tried to do things the right way. But it hasn’t gotten me very far—and at this point, I am willing to try something new…aren’t you?”
Still not seeming entirely convinced, Evie surrendered with a nod of resignation.
“That’s the spirit,” Annabelle said encouragingly.
As they conversed, there was a minor stir in the crowd as Lord Westcliff appeared. Seeming entirely comfortable in the position of managing things, he deftly paired gentlemen with ladies in preparation for the procession to the dining room. Although Westcliff was not the tallest man in the room, he had a magnetic presence that was impossible to ignore. Annabelle wondered why some people possessed such a quality—something unnameable that lent significance to every gesture they made and every word they spoke. Glancing at Lillian, she saw that the American girl had noticed it, too.