Ian felt a deep sense of anticipation as he drove his curricle toward Lady Beauford’s townhouse. Why had he waited to call until now? He had liked Annabelle from the moment Finchley introduced them. Her quick wit and strong intellect intrigued him. He should have called sooner. The lass clearly expected more courting before she would agree to marry him.
He could tell she was attracted to him. When they danced, her body reacted to his—
even when she was angry. She enjoyed their discussions as much as he did. So, why had she been so affronted at his proposal? Surely a woman of her intellectual leaning was not expecting moonlight and roses.
Love. She said she wanted love. He could more easily give her moonlight and roses.
He wondered if she liked the blooms he had sent over earlier that morning. He would give her the trappings of courtship, but he could not give her love.
Drawing up in front of Lady Beauford’s townhouse, he handed the reins to his tiger.
He waited in the doorway of the drawing room for the butler to announce him. Lady Beauford and Finchley conversed on a sofa that looked too delicate to hold them.
Annabelle stood near tall windows. The sun filtered through and outlined her body against the bright yellow muslin of her gown. Ian’s body tightened painfully at the sight.
The thin fabric clung to her small, high breasts and fell gracefully over her hips. He pictured those hips writhing below his and wondered at this unbridled passion. The more time he spent in her company, the stronger this inexplicable reaction to her became.
During their discussion the previous evening, it had taken all of his self-control not to pull her trim little body flush with his and kiss the glare right off her face.
She played with a single rose bud from the arrangement he had sent. She sniffed it as she read the card he had sent with his flowers. Her delicate brows drew together in a frown and he wondered what she had found to offend in his compliment.
The butler announced, “The Earl of Graenfrae.”
Annabelle whirled to face him. The bud she had been holding slipped from her hand.
He moved forward to pick it up from the brightly colored carpet. He handed it back to her. “Good morning, lass.”
She gave him a piercing frown. “Your presumption will not convince me of your suit.”
“’Tis no insolent to compliment a lady.”
She came toward him until her nose nearly met his cravat. Giving a significant look to the other occupants of the drawing room, she spoke in a low tone. “It’s not your empty words of praise that I find fault with. It’s the way in which you chose to sign the card. I am not your future wife.”
The intensity of her denial filled him with unanticipated anger. She belonged with him. Why could she not she see it? His course was mapped. She wanted to be courted. He would court her. More importantly, he would marry her. After which he would receive the money necessary to improve Graenfrae. The stubborn look of determination on Annabelle’s face gave him slight pause. She definitely needed more persuasion.
“My lord, how nice to see you again. Won’t you come and sit down?” Lady Beauford asked from across the room.
Ian turned toward her and bowed, but declined her invitation to sit. “Your servant, Lady Beauford.” He nodded to his friend. “Finchley.”
“I say,” Finchley quizzed him, “I did not know you intended to call. You could have ridden in my carriage.”
Riding with his friend would have included following the other man on his morning calls, something Ian had no desire to do. “I’m hoping to take Lady Annabelle on a wee drive.”
Finchley nodded in understanding.
Annabelle let out a small gasp. Turning back toward her, Ian saw that she had pricked her finger on a thorn. He withdrew his handkerchief and gently tugged at her arm. She resisted. He tugged harder until he could see the drop of blood on the end of her forefinger. He wrapped it in the square of white linen.
“Really this is not necessary.” Her chest rose and fell in agitation and her hand trembled in his. “It’s just a prick.”
He refused to release her hand, welcoming any excuse to touch her. “I dinna want you to spoil your lovely frock.”
She pulled her hand from his grasp. “Do not think to turn me up sweet with empty flattery, my lord.”
She looked like a daffodil, but she pricked him like the rose she held. “I’m sorry the flowers caused you injury. In future I will make sure they have no thorns.” She broke her gaze from his and looked at the pink rosebuds. “They are beautiful. A prick does not signify.”
Aye, not in a spirited lady either. “So you like them?” She turned and placed the bud back among the other blossoms. “The roses are more palatable than their sender.”
He nodded gravely. “I shall send them often then.”
“It will do you no good.”
He smiled at the challenge. “We’ll see.”
She walked past him, a swirl of yellow muslin. “Yes, we will.” He reached out and stayed her with a hand on her arm. “Will you go driving with me?”
She didn’t answer at first. She began to pace back and forth in front of him. Her brisk movements caused soft brown curls to escape their pins. Short breaths forced her bosom to strain against her bodice. The tightness in his lower body intensified. Soon, it would be obvious to those around him. He shifted to ease the tightness of his buff pantaloons.
“Enough of this farce, Laird MacKay.” She stopped moving and offered him a piece of paper with several names written on it. “I have taken the liberty of preparing a list of possible candidates for you.”
He ignored the paper. “Candidates?”
“Yes, ladies that would make you a respectable wife.” She looked at him quizzically, as if waiting for his response.
He made no move to take the paper from her. She sighed. “After speaking to my aunt last evening, I understand your need to marry quickly. I believe the ladies on this list would suit your needs better than I.”
He stalled for time to consider the best way to handle her tactics. “How did you determine their suitability?”
“They are all ladies of good family who have shown marked desire to marry and do not have a number of admirers with which you will have to compete. Some are even marginally pretty and a few have substantial dowries.” Finchley sat with his mouth agape. He turned to Lady Beauford. “I cannot credit this conversation.”
“Neither can I. The girl is daft. This is her fifth season and she’s turning down the only man to have offered for her in the last three,” replied the older woman.
Ian couldn’t help smiling at Lady Beauford’s words. Just as he thought, Annabelle should be ready to marry. He did not understand his own certainty that Annabelle must become his, but he knew he would not look elsewhere for a wife. He wanted the stubborn woman standing before him looking so bloody pleased with herself. “I have already fo
und a lady who meets my every requirement.” Annabelle did not appreciate the comment. Her hazel eyes narrowed. A rapid pulse beat in her neck. He fought the urge to pull her to him and place his lips over the fluttering pulse.
“Ian, I mean Lord Graenfrae, you are being absurd.” She waved the list before him.
“The other ladies on this list have the same combination of insulting attributes you require.”
He was tempted to smile, but it would only infuriate her.
“In addition, these ladies have something I do not. They have a desire to be married regardless of finer feelings.”
More wisps of her silky hair flew loose as she shook her head in agitation. Her militant stance and triumphant look convinced him that she believed her argument ironclad. He would not waste time debating it with her.
“Come for a drive.”
When she looked ready to argue further, he added, “You may go over your list.
Mayhap we will see some of the ladies on it. You can make them known to me.” Annabelle appeared undecided so he inclined his head to indicate Finchley’s gaping mouth. The look must have decided her. “With your permission, Aunt, I’ll accompany Laird MacKay on a drive through Hyde Park.”
The older woman gave an approving smile. “Yes, of course.” Annabelle had a distinctly hunted look when she left the room to don her pelisse and bonnet.
* * *
William watched his prey and smiled. She came out of the townhouse on the arm of a new arrival to Town. It was Finchley’s friend, Laird MacKay. Satisfied malice swept through William. A Scotsman would be no competition for the hand of a gently bred English lady.
Lady Annabelle might be as ordinary as London fog, but she was definitely gently bred. Who would have thought the plain spinster was an heiress? She wore the dowdiest of frocks and never any jewels. Amazing. Not that he minded. Once they were married, she could continue her dowdy ways and molder in the country studying Roman history for all he cared. His only interest was in her fortune. A fortune that she and her family had successfully kept secret from the ton.