She was asleep. The lamp on the dressing table had gone out and the room was pitch dark, but though he could see nothing, he could discern that she slept by the deep, even cadence of her breathing.
She felt lusciously warm and soft lying naked in his arms like this, and he would have liked nothing better than to kiss her awake and repeat their experience of an hour ago, but they could not afford to take that risk. He had no idea of the time, but it had to be coming on for dawn, and he had to get her back to her room before anyone woke up.
Christian carefully eased out from under the covers. He dressed in the dark, deciding he could better trust the more honorable side of his nature if he were dressed. Then he found her nightgown and robe, and tried not to think about how he’d stripped her out of them.
Instead, he moved to stand by the side of the bed and leaned down to wake her. “Annabel,” he whispered in her ear, and he couldn’t resist kissing her there.
She stirred, making a sleepy, unbelievably erotic sound, and Christian took a deep breath, then slipped his hand beneath the covers to grasp her shoulder. Her silken skin was warm, but he valiantly resisted temptation. He shook her shoulder to rouse her. “Annabel, wake up.”
“Christian?”
The instant he heard her voice, he let go of her. Touching her was far too tempting. “You have to go back to your room before you’re found here.”
“Of course.” She sat up, pushing aside the covers, and he stepped back as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the dimness—or perhaps because he had such a fine memory—he fancied he could see the faint outline of her exquisite body, and he took another deep breath. “Here,” he said, thrusting her nightgown into her hands.
He heard the swish of fabric as she donned the garment, but he allowed himself the luxurious torture of assisting her with her robe. “Turn around,” he said, and when she did, he held the robe as she slid her arms into the sleeves. But before she could wrap it fully around her, he couldn’t deny himself the opportunity to slip his hands inside the still-unbuttoned placket and cup her full, luscious breasts in his hands. She made a faint sound of surprise, then leaned back against him with a little sigh, and he took the pleasure of toying with her for a bit longer, even as he told himself he was flirting with disaster.
He gave himself five—and only five—seconds of this agony, then, reluctantly, he withdrew his hands, pressed a kiss to her hair, and turned her around, drawing her robe around her and tying the sash firmly into place.
“C’mon.” He led her to the door, where he fumbled in the dark for the oil lamp she’d left on the dressing table, and handed it to her. “We can’t light it,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I’ve no idea of the time, and if any of the servants are already up, they might see the light moving about when you pass the stairs. Can you find your way back in the dark?”
“Of course. You seem to know quite a lot about this sort of thing,” she added, a wry note in her whispered words. “People sneaking in and out of other people’s rooms and all.”
“Of course,” he replied at once, striving for the flippancy that would mask what was nothing but the rather sordid truth. He didn’t want to think of all the women who’d padded down the Bachelor’s Corridor at country house parties to visit him over the past dozen years. Resting his forehead against hers, he went on, “Gorgeous young women come sneaking into my rooms, flinging themselves at me all the time, don’t you know? Happens every night of the week. I’ve simply got to start locking my door.”
She made a choked sound—a laugh, and though only he knew it wasn’t really something to laugh about, he didn’t say so. Pressing one last kiss to her mouth, he opened the door.
She slipped out into the corridor, and he closed the door behind her. He undressed again and got back into bed, and this time, he had no trouble falling asleep. In fact, he did it with a smile on his face.
“Christian, wake up.”
He was in such a heavy slumber that his sister’s insistent voice barely penetrated his consciousness—just enough to make him determined to stay asleep. But then, she started shaking his shoulder, and though it woke him, he tried to pretend otherwise, his usual practice in this particular situation.
“Christian, you must wake up. Right now.”
He didn’t want to. He felt as if he’d just fallen asleep. “Leave off, Sylvia, for God’s sake.”
“I can’t. I have to talk to you immediately.”
He rolled away, onto his stomach. “This is why I secure my own rooms when I’m in town,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Your habit of barging in on me at an ungodly hour of the morning to hold a conversation is so damned annoying.”
“It’s not an ungodly hour. It’s half past nine, and besides, this is important.” She shook his shoulder again, this time with considerable force. “Damn it all, brother, wake up!”
There was a sharp edge to her voice, an urgency well beyond her customary morning cheer. It sounded almost like . . . panic. It penetrated his sleep-dazed, very reluctant senses and told him something serious actually was afoot. Instantly awake, he rolled onto his back.
“What’s happened?” he asked, but his question was answered the moment he looked into his sister’s eyes. She knew. Dread settled into him at once, like a stone in his guts, and it must have shown in his face.
“Oh my God, it’s true.” She sank down on the side of the bed, staring at him as if she’d never seen him before. “I actually thought at first that it was just gossip. That even you . . . could not . . . would never . . . even after that ghastly debacle at the wedding . . .”
Futile to pretend, but he tried anyway. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, Christian.” It was a sigh of disappointment that cut him to the heart.
Reminding himself that lying to Sylvia was always a tricky business, he gave up any further attempts at deception. “How did you know? Did Annabel tell you?”
“Of course not! Annabel is still in her room, and I haven’t seen her.”
“But then, how—”
She arrested him in midsentence with a gesture to the dressing table and the china shepherdess lamp that stood there, a hurricane lamp that was similar to his, but not the same. His mistake hit him with the force of a lightning bolt. In the dark this morning, he’d handed Annabel the wrong lamp. Of all the stupid, careless, idiotic mistakes a man could make.
“You took up the wrong lamp in the dark when you left her room, I assume? What were you thinking to take a lamp at all? Didn’t you realize—never mind,” she added acidly. “Thinking obviously played no part in this.”
Sylvia had it the wrong way about, but he didn’t correct her. Better for Annabel that way, and more blame for him. He didn’t look at his sister. Instead, he stared at that lamp on his dressing table as the inevitable consequences of its presence there sank into his brain, and it occurred to him that he would probably remember every detail of that lamp, its exact proportions, its undulated glass shade, its delicately painted pastoral scene, for the rest of his life.
After a moment, he schooled his features into the most unreadable expression he could muster and forced himself to look at his sister again. “So now you know,” he said with a touch of defiance.
“I’m not the only one who knows, Christian. The servants knew before I was even out of bed.”
“What?” He sat up. “How?”
“Givens told me the gossip raging belowstairs when she came to help me dress.”
“But how the devil did the servants find out? They are trained never to come until we ring.”
“Yes, but that’s our wish, Christian. Our guests often have other preferences. Annabel’s preference is to be awakened with coffee at half past eight, so Mrs. Wells sent the coffee up with Hannah, as usual. Hannah saw the lamp—your lamp—on Annabel’s dressing table when she put the tray there. Being a sweet but not particularly bright child,” his sister went on, “she mentioned the lamp to Mrs. Wells, who knew exactly what it meant and discussed it with the head housemaid at length—and I’m sure with considerable relish. That conversation was overheard by the footman, and so . . .”
“And so, all the servants know,” he finished as her voice trailed off. He paused, trying to think, trying to hope that this didn’t mean what the knot in his guts was telling him it must mean. “What about her family? Do they know?”
“I don’t think so, but—”
“Will they be discreet, do you think?” he cut in, afraid they wouldn’t. “The servants, I mean?”
“I’ve gone down and made a little speech about the evils of gossip, and the harm it can do, but I can’t guarantee their silence. But that’s not really the point, is it?” The incisiveness of her voice as she asked that question cut through irrelevancies and excuses and ways to duck consequences. “You bedded an unmarried woman in my house, a woman under your trusteeship. The point is not whether her family knows, or the servants know, or even if I know. You know, Christian. That is the point.”
He drew in a sharp breath, the truth of her words and the condemnation in her eyes hitting him like a blow to the chest.
He tilted back his head, staring at the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling, a view very different from the hole in the roof of a dilapidated shack, but for Annabel, it would seem like exactly the same view if he didn’t do what was right. Slowly, he let out his breath. “You’re quite right, of course.”
“You know what you have to do.”
He looked at Sylvia. “Yes.”
His clipped reply didn’t seem enough for his sister. She waited, grim-faced, for him say the rest, and he forced himself to say it. “I’ll talk to Annabel straightaway. And her stepfather and uncle, too, of course. You’ll have to assist Annabel and her mother with making the arrangements, setting a date, sending out the invitations, that sort of thing. We’ll have to present the entire business to the scandal sheets in the best light possible. Loved her madly all along,” he added, grimacing at how much it sounded like a penny dreadful. “Got carried away at her wedding to Rumsford. Couldn’t bear to see her marrying another man. She refused me, quite rightly, but after a discreet waiting period, she finally consented to marry me. That sort of thing. You know what to say, of course.”
“I shall make it sound as if it’s the love match of the century.”
The dry note of her voice was not lost on him, but he chose to ignore it. “I’ll go to Scarborough,” he went on, “see the vicar, and make things ready. We’ll hold the wedding there. When you and Annabel have set the date, let me know. A fortnight from now, perhaps?”
She nodded, satisfied, and stood up. “It’ll have to be more than a fortnight. You need to be in residence at Scarborough for fifteen days, or you have to apply for a special license here before you go.”
“Which will increase the possibility of gossip. And we’d have to make up a reason. No, I’ll leave for Scarborough straightaway and we’ll post banns the old-fashioned way and everything proper. I’ll go today. If we wait too long . . .”
“Quite,” she said when he paused. “But there’s one other thing you must consider.” At his puzzled look, she sighed. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that there might . . .” She paused, biting her lip, hesitating a moment. “Christian, there might be a baby, you know.”
A baby. He hadn’t even thought of that. He leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands, his dread deepening into pain.
“Evie wasn’t your fault,” Sylvia said at once, seeming to read his mind with ease. “And Annabel isn’t Evie. Nothing like.”
He nodded without looking up. He knew that, but it didn’t ease the sick knot in his guts.
“You’ll have to find a way to forgive yourself for Evie, my dear. Or a happy marriage is doomed from the start.”
“I don’t . . .” He paused, Evie’s adoring face flashing before his eyes. “I don’t think I can.”
“You have to. For Annabel’s sake, for the sake of your marriage to her and the children you’ll have, and for your own sake, you must lay the past to rest.”
Sylvia gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze and departed, and he got out of bed. He tugged the bellpull to fetch McIntyre so that he could shave and dress and face the consequences of what he’d done. Facing his past, he feared, was going to be a lot harder.
Annabel sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the hurricane lamp on her dressing table, a lamp with a plain milk glass base and frosted shade, a lamp that, except for its shape, looked nothing like the one she’d carried into Christian’s room last night.
The servants knew. She’d seen the reflection of Hannah’s puzzled gaze in the cheval mirror as the kitchen maid had set the coffee tray on the dressing table. She’d looked at the lamp, looked over her shoulder at Annabel, who was sitting up in bed waiting for her coffee, and then back at the lamp again.
Annabel hadn’t attached any particular significance to the maid’s puzzlement. Only after Hannah had departed had she realized that the lamp on her dressing table was not the one she’d taken to Christian’s room last night. That was when the implications of the horrible mistake that had been made finally struck her, but it was too late by then. An hour later, when Liza had come to help her dress, she’d learned from her little Irish maid what was being said about her and His Grace downstairs.
They all thought Christian had come to her, that somehow they’d arranged it between them, and he’d taken the wrong lamp away with him, but the details didn’t matter. The servants knew she had lain with the master of the house. They knew she was unchaste.
She also appreciated another hard reality, one that she was chagrined to admit she hadn’t even thought about last night. There could be a baby. With Billy John, she hadn’t understood, not really, that lovemaking was how babies came. She’d seen farm animals all her life, and yet her understanding had been rather incomplete, until Billy John had shoved himself inside her, and total comprehension had come in a painful flash. Luckily, she hadn’t become pregnant that day, but this time, she might not be so lucky. And this time, she couldn’t claim any lack of understanding whatsoever.
Annabel stared at the lamp, and fear made her feel a bit light-headed, a little bit sick to her stomach. But she didn’t feel shame. She ought to, she supposed. For the second time in her life, she’d fornicated with a man who wasn’t married to her, and she ought to be all teary and full of shame about her wanton behavior as she’d been the first time around. She ought to regret going to Christian’s room and the hot, passionate things they had done, but she didn’t regret it. She wasn’t sorry she’d behaved like a strumpet. She was just sorry she’d been caught. Because if her family got wind of the gossip downstairs, or if she was with child, it would hurt and shame them. That was the part she regretted.
But the rest? No. How could she regret the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to her?
Annabel stared at the lamp, seeing past it to Christian’s room last night, remembering the hard thud of her own heartbeat as she’d tiptoed across the house, down the long corridor, hoping she remembered the correct door from the brief tour of the house Sylvia had given them the day after they’d arrived. She remembered how her hands had been shaking so badly that she’d barely been able to open his door, and how the sight of him standing there without his shirt on had set the butterflies to fluttering in her stomach so hard they might have been stampeding cattle. Even now, she got all fluttery again, just thinking about that man’s bare chest. Oh my Lord.
She closed her eyes, going all warm and achy as she remembered how his hands had caressed her, how he’d evoked such hot excitement in her. Even now, it made her catch her breath, how he’d kissed her and touched her and drawn those unbelievable sensations out of her, sensations she’d never known she was even capable of. Never in a million years would she have dreamed fornicating felt like that, like . . . bliss. It sure hadn’t been like that the first time around.
The episode at Goose Creek when she was seventeen had been short, painful, and heartbreaking. But last night, Christian had wiped that slate clean. He’d erased Billy John Harding from her soul in a way that getting rich and taking revenge and getting engaged to an earl hadn’t been able to do. Christian had made her feel beautiful and vibrant instead of used and thrown away. Christian had given her something beautiful to replace something sordid. How could she ever regret that?
Facing the servants today would be embarrassing, and she wondered if perhaps they ought to just avoid all that and move into town. Make some excuse to Lady Sylvia, and go stay in a London hotel. Or maybe they ought to go to the Continent, something she’d have to do anyway if she were pregnant.
It wasn’t as if there was any future with Christian. She knew there wasn’t. And he was such a long, tall, tempting drink of water that if she stayed here, what happened last night might happen again. In fact, when she thought of his bare chest, she realized wryly there was no might about it. And even if she wasn’t pregnant now, she couldn’t afford to keep tempting fate on that subject. Europe was probably best. France, maybe. From what Jennie had written, those people seemed to take fornicating right in stride.
The knock on her door made her jump.
“Annabel?” her mother’s voice came through the closed door. “Are you all right?”
“I’m . . .” She paused, striving for an excuse. “I’m fine, Mama. I . . . umm . . . I just . . . have a headache, is all.”
“A headache?” The door opened, and her mother came in. Annabel jumped up, turning toward the door and striving to look as if everything in her life hadn’t just gone all topsy-turvy again because of a bad boy with blue eyes.
Her efforts at nonchalance didn’t seem to work. “You look like you’ve got more troubles today than a headache.”
She felt a jolt of nervousness, the same apprehension she always felt when she lied to Mama—the fear that she was as transparent as a windowpane. “No, no. I’ll be all right. I just need some fresh air.” She strode past her mother and out into the hallway. “I think I’ll go for a walk in the garden.”
Henrietta followed her, and Annabel could feel her mother’s gaze boring into her back. “I think you should eat some breakfast. That’ll make you feel better.”
“No,” she called back, quickening her steps as she went down the hall, relieved that Mama hadn’t asked any probing questions, glad the fact that she’d been a strumpet didn’t seem to be discernible from the outside.
She wanted to be alone, to think, to make plans, to consider where to go and what to do. The best place to do any serious thinking like that was Lady Sylvia’s garden. It was quiet there, and pretty, and the fresh air would do her good.
But she wasn’t destined to get to the garden, at least not on her own. When she came out of the hallway, she stopped dead at the tall, dark figure standing by the stairs.
She smiled. She couldn’t help it. Despite the circumstances, the sight of him brought with it a feeling of happiness she couldn’t hide if she tried. “Good morning.”
He lifted one brow as if surprised by such enthusiasm, and he didn’t smile back. Annabel felt a sudden twinge of uneasiness.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, but even as she asked, she knew the answer. He must have heard the talk, too. Men back home didn’t hear anything servants said, but maybe England was different.
He gestured to the stairs. “May I speak with you in the drawing room for a moment? A private interview?”
With those words, her heart gave a sudden, illogical leap of hope and joy. “A private interview?” she echoed, scared to believe she’d heard him right. Men wanted a private interview to propose.
“Yes.” Christian glanced past her. “If that is acceptable to you, of course?”
Annabel glanced over her shoulder to find her mother only a few feet behind her, but Henrietta wasn’t looking at her. “Of course, Your Grace,” she answered, her eyes on Christian.
She looked at him, too, and saw him gesture to the stairs. “Madam?”
Henrietta preceded them down. Annabel and Christian followed, descending the stairs side by side. As they did, she tried to quell any of the hopes she felt bubbling up.
He wasn’t a marrying man. She believed men when they said that, at least nowadays. But maybe he’d fallen in love with her. The moment that thought came, she tried to squash it, not daring to even consider it. He must have heard about the servants, and he was trying to suggest that silly pretend engagement business to quiet things down. That was it. Had to be.
Henrietta was waiting by the doors when they reached the drawing room. She gave Annabel a reassuring smile as she and Christian went inside, but when Henrietta moved to close the doors, Annabel realized the drawing room probably wasn’t a good idea.
“You know what?” She turned to Christian. “Would you mind if we talked in the garden instead? I really need some fresh air this morning.”
“Of course.”
They retraced their steps out of the drawing room and past Henrietta. “No need for you to tag along after us, Mama,” Annabel said brightly. “The duke’s a gentleman. Besides, you can watch us in the garden from the drawing room window.”
“I reckon I can, darlin’,” Henrietta called to her in a wry voice. “And you better believe I will.”
“I hope the garden’s all right with you,” she said a few minutes later as they exited the house and started across the lawn to the rose garden. “You said you wanted a private interview, and with Mama that close by, nothin’ is private.”
“What?” he asked, opening the garden gate for her. “You think she would eavesdrop on our conversation?”
“Ear to the keyhole,” she countered as she walked through the gate. “I guarantee it.”
That made him chuckle, and she felt a bit relieved. As they started along the paved path amid the blooming roses, she decided to take the bull by the horns. “Look,” she said, stopping on the path, obligating him to stop as well. “I know what you’re going to do, and while I appreciate this attempt to be noble and all, I think I’ll save you the trouble. I won’t enter into a phony engagement to stop the talk in the servants’ hall. Yes,” she added, “I know about it. My maid told me they’re all talking about it.”
“Is that what you think I wanted to propose? A phony engagement?”
She wished he’d smile. She didn’t like the gravity of his face. It made him seem so distant, and she didn’t like it, not after the beautiful intimacy of the night before. “Well, you didn’t ask to talk in private to propose for real,” she said, trying to laugh as if that would be silly. “We both know you’re not a marrying man.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “We both know that, don’t we?”
There was an odd inflection in his voice, and though the day was warm, she suddenly shivered. “What’s wrong? You seem . . . I don’t know. I can’t explain it. So grave.”
“Should I not be?” He met her eyes. “All the servants know, Annabel. Sylvia knows as well. She would never tell, of course. My sister adores gossip, but she also knows how to keep a secret. It’s the servants that are of concern to us.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I think it’s best if I leave.”
“Leave?” He looked at her askance. “That’s not possible.”
“Why not? I’ll go abroad, or—”
“My God,” he interrupted with a laugh, though he didn’t seem amused. “Do you think so little of me as that? On the other hand,” he went on in a musing way before she could answer, “why shouldn’t you?”
“I don’t think little of you at all! I seduced you, remember? It’s not like any of this is your fault.”
“Isn’t it?” He faced her, and any glimmer of relief vanished at his uncompromising expression. “Annabel, I am not suggesting a phony engagement. I am suggesting a real one.”
“What?” She supposed if she were good at all this high society business, she’d have agreed on the spot and secured herself a duke, but she proved her lack of skill as a social climber by gaping at him in complete astonishment. “You think we should get married?”
“We have to marry. That is the reality of our situation.”
“Because of a little gossip among some servants?”
“Gossip can blacken a girl’s reputation in a heartbeat. Why do you think I try to avoid unmarried women? Present company excepted,” he added with a grimace. “I’ve done everything I could to put myself in your path from the beginning.”
“This is my fault, too. If I’d thought more about it last night, I’d have stayed away. No,” she added at once. “I can’t lie. I wouldn’t have stayed away, Christian. Last night was . . .” She paused, mortified that she was choking up and getting all sentimental. “Last night was the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me,” she whispered, even as her confession made her feel like a lovesick fool of a girl all over again.
He didn’t smile, but something flickered across his face, something that might have been a smile if his lips had moved. But then he looked abruptly away, staring out over the roses. He swallowed, and his lips parted, but for a long moment he didn’t speak. “And,” he finally said, “I don’t think I’ve . . .” He paused, then gave a cough, shaking his head, laughing a little as if at himself. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a more beautiful compliment. I’m unworthy of it, I assure you.”
“That’s not true. But let’s not argue about how wonderful you are, all right? I know you don’t want to marry me. And I—” She stopped, for Lord help her, she didn’t know what she wanted from him now. Did she want to marry him? She didn’t know the answer to that, but she did know she didn’t want it this way, because he felt an obligation. He didn’t give her the chance to decide.
“Yes, well,” he said, turning to her with startling abruptness, “we’re well past what either of us wants, I daresay. We’re down to what we must do. Even I, scoundrel that I am, cannot shirk a duty like this one. We exercised no precautions, and as a result, you might be carrying my child.”
My child. Annabel hadn’t thought of a baby in that way until this moment, as his baby, too. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider that her future might be aligned with his in such a way. Happiness flickered up again, but again, she squelched it. She didn’t want to be his duty. “There might not be a baby. Isn’t it better to wait and see before we worry about that?”
He was shaking his head before she’d even finished. “It isn’t possible. In circumstances such as these, time is of the essence, and I cannot compound my wrong by delay.”
“No,” she said again, while she still had the nerve. “I won’t force you to marry me because of a baby when I know you don’t want to marry at all. Besides, we both know that you don’t love me, and I—” She stopped, unable to say the rest, unable to force out the words that she didn’t love him.
“Listen to me, Annabel.” He grasped her shoulders, preventing her from turning away and ending the conversation. “We have no guarantee the servants won’t talk to others outside this house.”
Fear rose up inside her again, more powerful than before—stark, cold fear evoked by the harsh realities. She’d had servants long enough to know that what he said was quite possible. “You mean they might talk to their friends who are servants in other houses,” she said, her heart sinking.
“Word will quickly reach ranks far higher that Sylvia’s kitchen maid and housemaid. When that happens, rumors will spread like plague. Eventually, journalists from the scandal sheets will pick up the story. Once they do, they’ll print it, in all its lurid detail. They’ll lay out the story of your whole life for public consumption, including Billy John Harding, who I’d wager would be quite happy to tell them all about your promiscuous ways.”
“Promiscuous ways?” she echoed, suddenly struck by what he must think of her. “Christian, I never . . . only you and him, I swear to you—”
“I know that,” he cut in. “My brains may be on holiday most of the time these days, but I can discern when a woman is not practiced in the art of lovemaking. God knows,” he added, sounding suddenly tired, his hands falling to his sides, “I’ve practiced enough to know.”
His words hurt her, not because of the other women he’d had, which didn’t surprise her in the least, but because of the bitter tinge to his voice as he confessed the fact.
“Unfortunately,” he went on, interrupting this line of thought, “though I may be a rake of the first water, that isn’t the way it will be regarded by others. You are an unmarried woman, and the servants know that. It’s every bit as much my fault, and I won’t be anyone’s favorite dinner guest for a while, but the consequences for you are far more grave. You’ll be—”
He stopped, but she finished his sentence for him. “I’ll be ruined.”
He grasped her shoulders. “No, you won’t. If we’re engaged now, today, that cuts the juiciness of the gossip down considerably once it leaks out. Our engagement must be confirmed at once and banns posted. Our marriage must follow as quickly as possible, three weeks later at most. If we’re lucky, the story won’t spread far until after we’re wed, and after that, no one will give a damn.”
She felt dazed, bewildered, and panicky. This was all part of a world she’d thought she wanted, but she was realizing just how unprepared she was to move in it. “But what about the next three weeks?”
“Sylvia and I shall do all we can to ensure that the scandal sheets are too full of stories about our joyful wedding news to print more sordid rumors. Stories will appear every day rhapsodizing about the lovely young heiress and the handsome duke who captured her heart, a duke so carried away by passion that he protested her marriage to another man. They’ll talk about our obvious and undeniable love and our fairy-tale romance, a fiction we must do our best to make as convincing as possible.”
A fiction. Of course.
It would be silly of her to think for a moment that love had anything to do with this. Her heart clenched with unexpected pain, and she fought back, reminding herself that she didn’t want to fall in love anyway. She was fighting very hard not to. So why did it hurt so much to hear him speak of the possibility of love with such contempt?
“A story of scandal,” he went on, “isn’t nearly as interesting or believable if it’s told after the engagement is announced. It will be put down to rumors created by malicious men or envious women who resent the fact that you, a New Money nobody from Mississippi, who has barely entered good society, captured the heart of a duke and married him.”
A New Money nobody.
She knew that’s how most people thought of her, of course. She’d been called that many times in the New York press. But somehow, it hurt to hear it on Christian’s lips.
“Once we’re engaged, I doubt the papers would grant any stories of scandal enough credence to print them. Especially since everyone knows I usually stay well away from unmarried women. Anyone who doesn’t believe the story of true love will still applaud both of us for choosing each other. But I think most people will believe it’s a love match, after the way I stood up at your wedding to Rumsford.”
“Then we are the perfect transatlantic marriage,” she said flatly.
“So it would seem.”
She nodded, feeling the inevitability of her future sinking in, and even though it was exactly the sort of future she used to believe she wanted, she didn’t feel the least bit happy. Instead, she felt sick. “Christian, I’m sorry.”
A muscle worked in the corner of his jaw. “It takes two,” he said after a moment. “That’s why they call it coupling.”
Abruptly, he looked away. “We’ll be married at Scarborough, in the ducal chapel, three weeks from now. I hope that’s acceptable to you.” He gave her no chance to express an opinion.
“I have to find your stepfather and your uncle,” he said and started back toward the house. “Tell your mother, and see Sylvia about wedding plans.”
He left her without another word or even a backward glance. Annabel stared after him, but even after he’d disappeared into the house, she stood in the garden for a long time, trying to take it all in.
She certainly was moving up in the world, she thought with a hint of cynicism. She was engaged again, to a duke this time, a fact the Knickerbockers would probably discuss with grudging admiration and plenty of envy, saying that she’d played her cards boldly but well, throwing over the earl to secure the duke. As Christian had told her the first time he’d proposed, they would probably tip their hats to her and say well done. And she’d be a duchess, accepted everywhere, by everyone.
She now had everything. A handsome, charming, titled husband, estates on two continents, wealth, position, power, and fame. Everything a white trash girl born in a tin-roof shack on a Mississippi backwater could want. Everything but love.
Annabel sat down on a garden bench and burst into tears.