The following morning, the men had already breakfasted and left the house by the time Annabel came downstairs. Christian, she was told, was going about estate business, while Arthur and George had, not surprisingly, gone fishing. Dinah, too, was gone. “Exploring,” Henrietta explained in answer to her question as she sat down at the table.
“Dinah seems a very adventurous sort of girl,” Sylvia commented.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Henrietta said in her wry way. “I worry sometimes that she’s too much of a tomboy.”
“She is a bit of a hoyden, certainly, but she is only eleven. And girls are much more independent and athletic nowadays. I’ve no doubt she’s destined for all sorts of adventures.”
Annabel looked down at her hand, watching the result of her own “adventure” winking at her in the light.
Remember, this is one of the happiest times of your life.
She jerked to her feet. “Excuse me,” she said as the two other women stopped talking and looked at her in surprise. “I think I’ll be adventurous and go exploring, too. I should like to look over the house.”
“Of course you want to see the house.” Sylvia started to rise. “I’ll take you.”
“No,” she said, grimacing at the curtness of her voice. “Please, finish your breakfast. I just want to wander a bit, on . . . on my own, if that’s all right.”
“Of course, my dear. This is your home, you know.”
Her home. As Annabel spent the day walking the long hallways, studying the watered-silk wall hangings, glittering crystal chandeliers, and gilt-framed portraits, she wanted to think of it that way, as her home, but she couldn’t quite make her mind form the picture.
It wasn’t the house. On the contrary, she loved the place, with its sprawling wings and endless corridors, its overcrowded gardens, enormous fireplaces, and creaky floors. It was a bit threadbare in places, showing wear and tear and a lack of upkeep from the previous duke, but she had more than enough money to change that.
The problem was that whenever she tried to see this as her home, she felt a strange heaviness descend on her, a sinking feeling of dismay that this would never be her home, not if Christian didn’t love her enough to stay in it with her. Wasn’t that what she was really afraid of? That he’d go off to Paris and she’d be like Evie, walking in the gardens and wandering the corridors alone?
She stared up at his portrait, one of many that hung along a long, wide corridor by the library. He looked so young—about twenty, perhaps, and the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth hadn’t yet made their appearance. Despite that, he seemed more handsome now than he had as a youth, but men always did seem to age well. Annabel, like most women, found that awfully unfair.
Flanking his portrait were portraits of two women. One was unmistakably Sylvia. The other was an angelic blond in pink silk so pale it seemed almost white. This, she knew at once, was Evie.
Footsteps echoed in the distance, a soft thudding on the carpets, and Annabel glanced up as a maid in striped gray dress, white apron, and cap passed the gallery. The girl happened to glance sideways, and backed up at the sight of her, stopping in the doorway. “May I help you, miss?” she asked.
“No, no.” Annabel smiled. “I’m just exploring.”
The girl glanced at the wall, then back at her. A fleeting expression of—uncertainty, perhaps?—crossed her face, but she gave a curtsy and went on, leaving Annabel to her contemplations of Christian’s first wife.
Evie Du Quesne had been pretty, rather like a porcelain doll was pretty. Her chin was down, her eyes almost peeking at the artist, not in a coquettish way, but tiredly, as if the diamond tiara and earrings she wore were too heavy for her slender neck. Against a backdrop of white draperies, with her almost colorless dress and fair hair, she seemed to fade into complete insignificance.
Annabel’s heart constricted with compassion and that hint of fear. She wasn’t timid or shy like this girl, but without Christian’s love, what would she be? Bitter, she thought at once. Angry. That seemed almost as bad.
This time, the sound of footsteps made her jump, and this time, it wasn’t a maid who paused in the doorway. It was Christian, looking grave. He glanced—a quick, furtive glance—at the wall, then back at her. “I heard you were in here,” he said slowly. “Anna—she’s the head housemaid—came and found me, asking me to come to you. She seemed concerned to see you wandering about alone.” He paused, looking at her. “Was she right to be concerned?”
She hesitated, then joined him by the door. Glancing around to be sure no one was within earshot, she asked, “Are we doing the right thing? What if . . .” She paused, but heartache, she feared, hovered over her whether she expressed her doubts aloud or kept them to herself. “What if we’re making a mistake?”
“It isn’t as if we have a choice, Annabel.”
That didn’t help reassure her. It only made her want to know even more how he really felt. He didn’t love her, but he did have some regard for her. She knew that. Not because he’d bedded her—she wasn’t naive enough to think that—but because of what he was doing now. But was it enough? Did he respect her? Could love come later? Did he think that was possible? She turned away, staring down the long portrait gallery, to the pale girl on the wall. He came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, and turned her around.
“Maybe we haven’t known each other long enough,” she said as he gently, slowly pulled her through the doorway and out of the room. Standing in the hallway outside the gallery, she searched his face, looking for anything that would give her a clue how he felt and what he thought. “Maybe you were right before to suggest a pretend engagement, then at least we might have gotten to know each other better before this happened.”
Unexpectedly, a smile curved his mouth. “I think we already got to know each other quite intimately, don’t you? That’s the reason for the rush, remember?”
She colored up at once. “I’m serious, Christian. What if we make each other unhappy? I don’t . . . I don’t want to ever make you unhappy.”
He studied her, still smiling a little. “Are you getting cold feet? And if so, do you do this with all your fiancés?”
“I’ve only had two. And my cold feet the first time around was your fault.”
“I’m starting to worry you’ll abandon me at the altar.”
“Oh, Christian, don’t tease. This isn’t funny. I’m—” She broke off, wanting to tell him she loved him, and too afraid of hearing that her feelings weren’t reciprocated. That galled her, that she was afraid, because though she had her faults, cowardice wasn’t usually one of them. She sighed, giving up. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
He studied her for a moment, head to one side, then he took her hand. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I want to show you something.”
He led her all the way to the other end of the house and up a dark, tucked-away staircase. At the top, he took her down a long, equally dark hallway, opening doors into small, plain, empty rooms as he went. Each had one window with a view of the stables, a carpet on the floor, and walnut paneling below faded floral wallpaper.
“Why did you bring me here? What is the purpose of these rooms?”
“This is the nursery.”
“What?” She stopped, looking around the dismal little room, a room that stood in absurdly stark contrast with the lavish guest chamber she’d been given. Her first impression was of lack. Windows not big enough or plentiful enough to let in light, carpets not thick enough for stumbling toddlers, not close enough proximity to the parents’ rooms for the soothing away of bad dreams. She looked back at him, appalled. “This gloomy place, tucked back in a remote corner of the house? You’re not serious?”
But he was. She could tell that by his face.
“You . . .” She paused and swallowed hard. “You were raised back here? You and your brother and sister?”
He nodded. “Once a day, if our parents were in residence, we’d be toddled down all the corridors and hallways to the drawing room, where we’d be dutifully kissed on the cheek by Papa, held and petted by Mama, and admired by any of their friends—until we cried or fussed or asked an awkward question, of course. Then Nanny would come to the rescue, and we’d all be whisked back here again. That was our lives until the age of ten. At that point, each of us was sent off to school. Sylvia to finishing school in France, Andrew and I to Eton, then Oxford.”
“For an education?” she asked, unable to keep the acid out of her voice. “Or to be got out of the way?”
He met her eyes. “Which do you think?”
“No.” She shook her head. “If you brought me here for my opinion, I shall give it gladly. I say no, to all of this. School, yes, I know that’s important, but they don’t go until they’re twelve. And in the meantime, they are not going to be stuck back here in this dark place, unimportant and forgotten. We’ll use these rooms for something else and find a new nursery closer to our rooms, one that has lots of windows to look out of, that has toys and games as well as books. And none of this being seen once a day and sent back to the nanny. No!”
“It’s called a daily viewing.”
“I don’t give a damn what it’s called! No, Christian! Not our children.”
He looked at her. Not a muscle of his face moved, but she saw a smile in his eyes, and she felt sweet, fierce tenderness welling up within her, a bubble of emotion that pressed against her heart until it ached.
Until it demanded her to say what she felt.
“I love you,” she blurted out before she could stop herself, reaching up to touch his face, brushing back a lock of his hair. “I love you.”
Her hand fell away. The silence in the room seemed deafening, and although Annabel didn’t feel that sickening knot of fear she’d felt the first time she’d told a man that, she still wondered if she’d made a mistake. Christian was marrying her because of obligation, he wasn’t marrying her for love. Given his choice, he’d never marry anyone ever again. So in blurting out what she felt, what in tarnation did she expect him to say?
The silence lengthened, and it seemed so long and felt so awful, she had to speak again, say something, anything to break it. “I just wanted you to know,” she mumbled. “In case you were troubling your mind about it.”
She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter, but it did, and the fact that she was the only one talking confirmed they both knew it. She turned as if to go, but suddenly, he caught her arms, pressing her back against the walnut paneling behind her.
He kissed her, a hard kiss that stole away her ability to think, or even breathe. His weight pressed her to the wall, and she could feel him, hard against her abdomen. His hands moved between them, working her shirtwaist open. He slid one hand inside to cup her breast through her corset as the other frantically pulled up skirts and petticoats, jamming fabric between their bodies, slipping inside her drawers.
She broke the kiss with a gasp, for she needed air, but she had time to suck in only one breath before he captured her mouth again, almost as if he were afraid she would say something to stop him.
His mouth kissing hers, and one hand at her breast, his other hand slid between her legs to caress her in that special place. Again, she broke the kiss, a moan escaping her. Her head tilted back against the wall and she closed her eyes, feeling hot, sweet pleasure rising within her as the tip of his finger spread her moisture, preparing her, she knew now, making her ready.
“I want you, Annabel,” he said against her ear. “Right here, right now.”
She nodded, making a wordless sound of accord, powerless to refuse him. He left off caressing her breast, using both hands to untie her drawers and push them down her legs. He pressed kisses to her throat as he unbuttoned his trousers, his breathing harsh, his moves rough and frantic. And then, his hands were cupping her buttocks, lifting her as she instinctively spread her knees apart. He entered her, pushing deep, taking her in hard, purposeful thrusts, and she hit that peak almost at once. She cried out, clenching around him as the waves broke over her. Over him, too, for his body shuddered with the pleasure as he thrust deep several more times, and then was still, breathing hard against her neck.
He kept her there, pinned to the wall, for several more moments, and then slowly pulled back, slipping free of her and easing her back down until her feet hit the floor. He lifted his hand to touch her face, smiling as his fingertips glided along her check, his expression so tender, she almost believed he had said he loved her. But he hadn’t said it, and the past few minutes, however passionate they were, didn’t change that. He might never say it.
He raked his fingers through her hair to cup her face, and he kissed her one more time, a soft, tender kiss, a kiss so loving, it made her declaration of a few minutes ago even harder to bear.
“You’d best go back first,” he said as he stepped back, releasing her. “If any of the servants see you, you’ve gotten lost.”
“A believable lie. In this house, anyways.”
She retraced her steps, finding her way back to the drawing room. Everyone was there, her whole family, having tea with Lady Sylvia, and she knew she couldn’t join them. Not now, not with her clothes all rumpled and her body in a state. She could feel the moisture still between her legs and the sweat on her skin. She probably smelled of sex, she thought with a grimace, and instead of joining the others for tea, she went to her room. She used the water in the pitcher on the washstand to take a spit bath, then she tipped the basin, drenching herself with the water just for an excuse to change her clothes. Servants, after all, noticed everything.
Dressed in fresh clothes, and feeling a bit fresher all around, she called for a maid to clean up the water she’d spilled, then pinned back the stray hairs that had come loose from her chignon and powdered her nose. In the mirror, she watched the maid mop the floor, remembering there’d been a time when she mopped floors herself. And scrubbed clothes on a washboard. Now, here she was, half a world away, about to be a duchess.
A duchess. In a marriage without love.
Annabel leaned forward in her chair, plunking one elbow on the table, resting her forehead on her hand. This was sort of becoming an obsession with her now, that word. Why?
She hadn’t cared about love before. She’d been ready to marry Bernard and join up with him for the rest of her life, but she hadn’t loved him. She winced, looking back on it, remembering the lack of love between them, and she couldn’t help wondering what on earth she’d been thinking to agree to marry him when she hadn’t loved him.
That was it, right there. She hadn’t loved Bernard, and in her crazy, mixed-up way of looking at everything, she’d wanted it that way. No love was easier. Safer. Less painful.
Nothing hurts more than unmet expectations.
Christian’s words that day on the ship came back to haunt her now. So true, those words. The best thing she could do was go back to being the girl she’d been two months ago, a girl who’d been happy to get married without love, and without any expectation of it. That girl couldn’t get hurt.
But she wasn’t that girl anymore. She loved Christian, and she was fooling herself to think that the fact that he didn’t love her was all right. It wasn’t all right. It would never be all right. It would hurt her all her days, bruise her heart every time she wanted him to say it and he didn’t. Cut her every time he left her and went off to amuse himself without her.
And he would. That’s how marriage was with a charmer. She knew that. Her daddy had been going off places all the time, and Mama used to cry for days. And then, one day, he’d gone off and never come back.
Bernard had told her, straight out, that they’d be expected to live rather separate lives, each having duties to perform that kept them apart for days or weeks at a time. Strange how that had been okay for her and Bernard, but it wasn’t okay now.
With Christian, she didn’t want separate beds, separate lives, and freedom. She wanted him, every day, every night. Right beside her, doing things together. His first wife had wanted that, too.
Annabel watched the maid in the mirror, and she thought back to a girl in Gooseneck Bend who’d scrubbed floors, who’d worn shoes too tight or no shoes at all because she couldn’t afford new ones, and whose heart had shattered into a million pieces because she wasn’t good enough for a Harding boy to marry. Through all the pain and hardship, the happiness and heartbreak of her life, never once had the thought of ending it even occurred to her. It probably never would. She wasn’t made that way.
But you couldn’t make a man love you. You could just accept the fact that he didn’t and try to be content. Annabel knew she’d never been very good at being content. She probably never would. And she had no reason to think Christian would be any different in his second marriage than he’d been in his first.
Her life loomed before her, wearing a duchess’s coronet and opening fetes and doing charity work and sleeping alone most of the time. Married women told you it was better that way. She used to agree with them. Now, she didn’t.
Without love, none of it means a thing.
Christian was right about that, too. He seemed to know a lot more about life than she did because he had no expectations. She was full of ’em.
With a sigh, she stood up and left her room. She went downstairs for tea, and dinner, and cordials afterward in the drawing room, listening as Christian and Sylvia told her family stories of life at Scarborough, and she tried to cushion herself against expecting anything more than what was right in front of her.
She went to bed early. She didn’t need to invent an excuse. After all, she was getting married tomorrow. Back in her room, she rang for Liza, and as the maid undressed her, she looked at the luxurious furnishings around her—furnishings another American heiress’s money had paid for—and she felt the duchess’s coronet getting heavy. Lord, the shine was off the tiara and she hadn’t even put it on yet.
She donned her nightgown and slid between the sheets of her bed, but she didn’t sleep. Instead, she lay in the dark and tried to console herself with the hope that he might not love her now, but maybe, someday, he would. That seemed a very small consolation and a very faint hope, but it was all she had.
Funny how she used to think love wasn’t what she wanted. Now, it was what she wanted most, and it was the one thing money couldn’t buy and position couldn’t guarantee. Tomorrow was her wedding day, but without Christian’s love, tomorrow was really just another day on the calendar.