When Christian arrived at the men’s smoking room at half past nine Sunday morning, it was empty, but that didn’t really matter anyway. Women weren’t permitted in the smoking rooms, and even if they were, it wasn’t as if he and Annabel could expect to maintain privacy there. Nor could they linger out in the corridor. As he’d told Arthur, the risk of being seen or overheard by someone who might be in a position to spread gossip was too great for that. So he’d come to this rendezvous a little early to find a more private place for their conversation.
Having obtained a map from the purser, he spent the next thirty minutes inspecting various rooms and stairwells, and by the time he had succeeded in locating a suitable spot and returned to the smoking room, he found Annabel waiting for him.
From what he’d seen thus far, Arthur’s assessment of his niece had been an accurate one. Christian had already had occasion to witness her stubborn streak, and now as he came toward where she stood, he was also glad to note that Arthur had been right about her in other respects as well. She had abandoned her usual wardrobe of luxurious Worth gowns, and was plainly dressed in a white shirtwaist and navy-blue skirt, her dark red hair falling in a braid down her back, fitting in perfectly with other travelers in second and third class. The girl had plenty of common sense. She wasn’t exercising it in matters of romance, but that was why he was there.
“Good morning,” he greeted her, and even though his voice was a low murmur, she put a finger to her lips, stopping him from saying any more. “There’s a man in there,” she whispered, nodding to the room behind her.
He glanced past her to the mustachioed, military-looking gentleman puffing a cigar and reading the New York Times, and he was glad he’d done some preliminary reconnaissance. “People who don’t attend church are so disobliging,” he whispered back, and turned, taking her by the elbow. “Come on.”
He led her down the stairs to third-class steerage and into the storage room he’d selected, which was at the very end of a remote corridor. After taking a peek inside to verify that it was still unoccupied, he stepped back and nodded to her. “Watch your step,” he cautioned as she moved to precede him into the room, and she nodded, stepping with care over the coaming and into the room of white-painted steel and gray linoleum, a room littered with stacks of packing crates and cleaning supplies.
Once they were inside, he closed the door and slid a heavy crate in front of it. “I knew the smoking room wouldn’t do, so I found a more suitable location. Clever of me, don’t you think?”
She sniffed, not seeming impressed. “You’ve obviously had enough clandestine meetings with women to know how it’s done.”
“My fair share,” he admitted. “But not with young unmarried ladies. That’s one of the rules, one to which even blackguards like me adhere. At least,” he amended, looking at her, “most of the time.”
She looked back at him with a wry smile. “There’s a blackguard down in Gooseneck Bend who wouldn’t agree with you about that,” she murmured, making him think perhaps she spoke from personal experience. He wondered if Arthur knew about it. On the whole, he’d imagine not.
“What happened?” he asked, curious.
Her smile vanished, and an impassive mask took its place. “The usual thing that happens to foolish girls of seventeen,” she said with a shrug. “He broke my heart, that’s all.”
She was trying to pretend it didn’t matter, but he studied her expressionless face, and he knew it mattered. To her, it had mattered a great deal.
“Well,” she said, breaking the silence, “so far, London doesn’t sound much different from New York. Back home in Gooseneck Bend, we never thought anything about boys and girls being alone together. Even Jackson wasn’t like that. Then I came to New York, and it was like a whole different world. Stuffiest place you’ve ever seen. And cold, too. I don’t mean cold like a castle in December,” she added, smiling a little. “I mean cold like unfriendly to outsiders.”
“I comprehend your meaning.” He moved away from the door to lean his back against the wall. “Yet you want to be accepted into this circle?”
She stared at him. “Of course.”
“Why?”
The question caught her off guard. She opened her mouth as if to answer, then closed it again and looked away. He waited, and after a moment, she spoke again. “Everyone wants to be accepted,” she said without looking at him.
“Even by cold, stuffy people?”
“You don’t understand.”
“I’m trying to,” he confessed, and thought for a second of Evie, so different in temperament from this girl, but just the same in what she wanted. “I’ve lived in so-called good society all my life, Annabel, and I have absolutely no idea why anyone would want to be part of it.”
“But that’s because you already are part of it.”
“We all want what we can’t have? Is that it?”
“I suppose that’s true, but that’s not what I mean.” She looked at him again, her face shining with earnestness. “You were born accepted, so you don’t know what it’s like not to be. You walk through life always confident of your acceptance in any situation. You don’t know how it feels to be shunned. To be laughed at for the way you talk or the place you were born. To be looked down on, to have your whole family looked down on, as if you were dirt on the floor. Nobody,” she added, lifting her chin with dignity, “looks down on a countess.”
They would. Even if she became Rumsford’s wife, there would be many who would look down on her and laugh. If she behaved impeccably, they might not shun her, but it would be years before they would consider her one of their own. She would have to fight and kick and claw and play by every single rule to make a place for herself and her family in society, and along the way, her husband would be of little help to her.
Christian wondered how he could he make her see it wasn’t worth it.
“Well, as a countess, you’ll have to be willing to act as a chaperone,” he said, considering all the various means of changing her mind that were at his disposal. “It’s an enormous responsibility. If a scandal happens to a girl you’re chaperoning, you suffer censure as well.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem for me,” she said with a touch of humor. “I’m good at seeing when a wolf’s in the henhouse.”
He noted her pointed glance at him, and he grinned. “Good chaperones are the reason many unmarried men don’t bother going into society at all, until they’re ready to find a wife, of course.”
“Is that what you’re going to do?”
He blinked. “God, no. What put that idea into your head?”
“I—” She broke off, then shrugged. “I just assumed it. I mean, you’re a duke. Don’t you have to marry?”
“No, thank God. I have a male cousin. And even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. I have no intention of ever marrying again.”
“Some might call that famous last words.”
He groaned, his head falling back to hit the wall behind him with an exasperated thud. “Why do women always do this? If they’re not matchmaking for themselves, they’re matchmaking for everyone else. Listen,” he added, straightening again to level a frown at her, “I am not a marrying man.”
“But you’ve been married.”
“Yes, exactly.” He ignored her sound of impatience at that bit of wit and went on, “Can we return to the subject of your duties as a countess? You’ll be expected to entertain lavishly and often. Your level of success there plays a key part in your success in society, but it’s an occupation fraught with hazards. You’ll have to be sure you don’t invite Lord and Lady Ashburton to the same dinner party, for example, because they haven’t spoken a word to each other in twenty years. And don’t put Mrs. Bedford-Jones anywhere near Viscount Rathmore—they hate each other. But how can you avoid it, since precedent demands they walk in to dinner together? Best to invite Mr. Smythe instead . . . oh, but he’s in love with Miss Grey, and if Miss Graham finds out he was at dinner with Miss Grey, the fat would be in the fire . . .”
He paused, noting a dazed quality coming into her expression. “A ball is even worse,” he went on mercilessly. “You’ll have to give them. Rummy will expect it, but be warned. Ball giving is a very tricky business.”
She sat down on a packing crate with a sigh. “You don’t have to tell me that. When we first learned we were rich, we moved to Jackson, bought a big, fancy house, and had a coming-out ball for me.”
“It wasn’t a success?”
“You might say that.” She looked down at her hands. “Nobody came.”
He stared at her bent head, her hushed admission hanging in the air, and anger hit him with sudden force, like a kick in the stomach. If ever he needed justification of his contempt for society and its rigid class distinctions, this was it.
He crossed the room, moving to sit on the crate beside hers. “What do you mean nobody came? Nobody at all?”
“We were so ignorant,” she said, and lifted her head with a laugh. It was a forced laugh, he knew, for there was nothing amusing about what she’d just described. It was appalling.
“We thought giving a ball in Jackson was just like giving a dance back home,” she went on, staring at the blank white wall across the room. “We didn’t know you had to send written invitations, two weeks in advance. Heck, nobody in Gooseneck Bend gave a party with invitations, not even the Hardings. We’d never heard of such a thing. So, we just did what anybody we knew would do—we told people about it at church. Yes,” she added, shaking her head as if in disbelief, “we really were that dumb.”
He didn’t know what to say, but he knew a condemnation of society wouldn’t be very comforting. “If by that you mean you were stupid, no, you weren’t. You simply didn’t know.”
“Exactly.” She turned toward him, the bitter tinge in her voice changing to one of determination, pain hardening into resolve. “That’s why I’m here. I want to know all the rules, because I don’t ever want to stand in an empty ballroom in London the way I did in Jackson. I don’t ever want to feel again what I felt that night.”
He looked at her in dismay. This was going to be more difficult than he’d first thought. In agreeing to take this on, he hadn’t appreciated that there might be deeper reasons for her ambition than mere social climbing, reasons that stemmed from old wounds. To succeed with this, he’d have to open those wounds, use her own insecurities to plant doubts in her head. And he was tempted, suddenly, to walk away and let the chips fall.
But then he remembered Rumsford winking at him in the House with the Bronze Door, a memory that revolted even his calloused soul. She did not deserve to be chained to an ass like that for the rest of her life, and he decided he was justified in making her see it by whatever means necessary. Still, he had to be subtle about it. Otherwise, she’d just dig in her heels as she’d done with Arthur.
“All right,” he said, breaking the silence. “Very wise of you to want to know as much about the lion’s den as possible before you go inside. Knowledge is power, after all.”
“Not in New York. I had that place figured out in three months, but five years after moving there, it still hasn’t done me any good.”
“So that’s why you decided go after a British earl.”
“I did not go after him!” She straightened up on her seat, seeming quite put out by that accusation. “A woman never chases a man. Ever. Believe me, I learned that lesson a long time ago.”
“Ah. From the blackguard in Gooseneck Bend, no doubt.”
“My mama told me from the time I was a little girl not to go chasin’ after boys.” She paused and gave him a wry smile. “I just wasn’t very good at listenin’.”
“Really?” He glanced down at her mouth, considering. “Have a soft spot for blackguards, do you?”
She jerked to her feet, answering his question without saying a word. “Are you going to behave like a gentleman?” she demanded.
He ignored that. “I’m glad to know this particular weakness of yours,” he murmured, and stood up. “It gives me hope.”
She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “There is no hope for you. Not with me. Not even after the shine’s off my tiara.”
“Now who’s using famous last words?”
“I would appreciate it if you’d stick to the subject, please. We were discussing my future life as the Countess of Rumsford.”
“Yes, of course.” He paused, considering. “You might think,” he said after a moment, “that being married means more freedom, but it doesn’t.”
“It doesn’t?” She looked dismayed, and he was quick to pounce on that.
“No. Your every move will be subject to even more scrutiny once you’re a countess, especially because you’re a newcomer. And the British girls will be the ones who most want to stick the knife in your back. From their point of view, you stole one of their eligible men, and they’d take great delight in seeing you come to social disaster. ‘Those Americans,’ they’ll say. ‘So uncivilized.’ You’ll find it hard to make friends.”
“But I have friends of my own. Once I’m settled, I hope to bring some of them over, help to launch them in British society.”
“Certainly, but it takes years to have the sort of influence you’ll need to do that.”
“Years?” she cried. “How many years?”
He shrugged. “Some women spend a lifetime building a position of influence such as you describe. In the meantime, you might technically have more freedom as a married woman, but you don’t dare exercise it, even in the smallest ways. You’ll be allowed to drink more than a single glass of wine with dinner, for example, but if you show yourself to be the least bit tipsy, it will tell against you.”
“No need for me to worry about that anyway,” she said, looking a little relieved. “I don’t much like the taste of spirits.”
He grinned and moved a bit closer to her. “You say that now, but those cold nights in the castle might change your mind. Don’t be surprised if you’re dipping into the brandy by Christmas. Still, if you don’t like spirits . . .” He paused, looking down. “There are other ways to keep warm.”
His gaze skimmed over her and his mind began to imagine various methods of applying heat to those luscious curves of hers, a flight of fancy that had the warmth of arousal spreading through his own body quick as lighting a match. But there was no acting on that, unfortunately, not with half a million dollars at stake. With reluctance, he brought his baser nature under control and forced his gaze back up to her face.
She was frowning at him. “Listen, sugar, I don’t have much time here, and I don’t need you looking at me like you’re a cat and I’m the cream jug.”
“Sorry,” he said. He wasn’t sorry, not really, but she did have a point. This might be his only chance to talk her off the cliff she was about to jump from. He couldn’t allow her luscious body to distract him.
On the other hand, he reflected, perhaps his best way of changing her mind was by making her see there were more fish in the sea than ever came out of it. A bit of harmless dalliance to show her she was an attractive woman who didn’t have to marry Rumsford, who could take her time about marrying. He rather liked that notion. He studied the generous swell of her breasts beneath her pristine white shirtwaist and decided this was an idea worth exploring.
Still, when she folded her arms and he returned his gaze to her face, he knew it wasn’t one he could explore at the present moment. She was watching him through narrowed eyes, those full lips pressed in a disapproving line.
He improvised for something innocuous to say. “It’s just that I don’t know quite where to begin. There are so many ways you could ruin your chances.”
Her lips parted and her resentment vanished, replaced by a hint of alarm. “How many ways?”
“Hundreds. Thousands.”
“Heavens,” she said, her voice a bit faint, the first sign of apprehension he’d seen yet. “Maybe it’d be best if you put these rules in order by importance then. What is the most important rule?”
“Producing a son,” he said at once.
“That’s hardly something I have any control over!”
“Fair or not, it’s in your best interests to see that you have a son. That goes a long way toward social acceptance. And there’s also the fact that until you have a son, you are constrained by absolute fidelity. You must remain faithful to your husband.”
“Well, I should hope so. I don’t need you to tell me adultery is wrong and that a married woman should be faithful!”
“It doesn’t work both ways, I’m afraid. You must be chaste, but Rumsford is allowed as many mistresses as he can afford, so long as he is discreet and doesn’t flaunt them in front of you.”
She didn’t react to that quite the way he’d hoped she would. “Men have mistresses sometimes,” she said, not seeming the least bit shocked. “It happens.”
He lifted his fist to his mouth and gave a cough. “Yes, but Rumsford is allowed to use his income from you to pay for his mistresses. He can use your money to buy them houses, clothes, jewels.”
She set her jaw. “Over my dead body.”
“How shall you prevent it? Did you put a clause in your marriage settlement cutting off his income if he acquires a mistress?”
Clearly taken aback, Annabel opened her mouth, then closed it again, and it took her several moments to answer. “Of course I didn’t! That never even occurred to me. But surely—” She stopped. Her tongue touched her lips, a gesture of uncertainty and apprehension, the most hopeful sign he’d seen yet. “Surely, I don’t need to do that. Bernard wouldn’t . . . he wouldn’t use his income from me for . . . for other women.”
Pressing his advantage, Christian gave her a look of deliberate pity. “Believe that, do you?”
“Yes!” She scowled, on the defensive. “Yes, I do.”
Christian shrugged, playing this hand as if he had no stake in the game. “He’s your fiancé. You know him best, I suppose. Still, what income would he use, if not yours? He has no other. And besides, these arrangements are the norm in Britain, and no one thinks anything of it. In fact, you would be ridiculed if you complained about him spending your money on his mistresses. We British hate a fuss. So you have to bear up and smile and act the part of the contented wife no matter what.”
Her chin lifted, a gesture he suspected was quite familiar to her family. “I don’t believe you,” she accused. “Paying for mistresses with a wife’s money is acceptable? It’s abominable. It’s indecent. Why, it’s . . . it’s just plain unfair! You must be lying.”
Sadly, he wasn’t. He might be exaggerating things a bit, but that wasn’t the same. “Fair?” he said, forcing amusement into his voice. “Love, if you think there’s anything fair about English marriage, you’d best cry off now, while you still have the chance.”
“Why?” she countered, one auburn brow arching up in skepticism. “Because you’re the sort of man who’d never lie to a girl?”
Strangely, that hurt. It shouldn’t, for he’d proved himself quite skilled at lying years ago, but it did. Still, he wasn’t going to lose his advantage by showing it. “I’m not lying about this, Annabel. I know I make light of things, and most of what I say is utter rubbish, but not this. If you go into your marriage thinking it’ll be different for you—better, happier, more fair than the marriages of the American girls who came before you—you’ll only end up being more miserable, because the greatest unhappiness a person can feel in life is unmet expectations.”
She sucked in her breath. “Bernard wouldn’t spend my money for his mistresses,” she said, sounding as if she was trying to believe it. “He would never treat me that way.”
Behind the positive words, Christian heard her doubt, and he played it for all he was worth.
“If that’s true,” he murmured, “then he must love you a great deal.”
She winced. He was watching her closely, and he saw it. She turned away, hiding it almost at once, but not before he’d seen it. “He doesn’t, does he?”
She didn’t look at him. Instead, she started to leave, but she saw the heavy crate blocking the door, and she once again faced him, but she looked decidedly uneasy.
“He doesn’t love you,” Christian said, pushing his advantage. “And what’s more, you know it.”
“Bernard,” she said primly, “is very fond of me.”
“Fond?” He laughed low in his throat. “Well, that’s sure to make him treat you with respect.”
Pain shimmered across her face, and too late, he remembered the deep need she had for respect. She took a step back and hit the wall behind her, but even hurt, even cornered, she wasn’t the sort to admit defeat. “I don’t need any mockery from you.”
“I’ll accept for the sake of argument that he is fond of you,” Christian said, gentling his voice. “But it won’t stop him from spending your money any way he likes. He can pay for his mistresses and his bastards. He can drink, gamble, and travel the world without you. And he will.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Men are men,” he said with a shrug. “Call it another rule.”
She glared at him as if he was the one who’d invented all these rules in the first place. “Not all men would disrespect their wives the way you describe!”
“I hate to destroy any romantic illusions you may have about my sex, but for the most part, we do what we want as long as there are no unpleasant consequences to consider.”
“Did you?”
Startled by the question, he blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were married to an heiress. Did you spend her money on other women?”
He looked away, an image of Evie flashing across his mind—of an angelic, heart-shaped face and golden hair, and blue eyes that gazed at him with far more adoration than he could ever deserve.
He took a deep breath. “No,” he admitted, grateful for that one grain of truth in a marriage based on a slew of lies. “I spent it on a lot of other things, but never on other women. Hard to believe, I know,” he added with a laugh, looking at her again, driving the image of Evie back into the past. “I am such a scoundrel. But then, my wife died only three years after we were married, so I didn’t have much of a chance to be unfaithful. Eventually, I probably would have been,” he added, striving to make himself out as callous a brute as possible. “I did all the rest. Why shouldn’t I? I’m a gentleman of the aristocracy, with an enormous income at my disposal, access to a vast array of distractions, and a moral code that is, I regret to say, woefully inadequate to resisting temptation. What was there to stop me? Love? Hell, my wife and I weren’t in love. At least—” He stopped, and then for no reason at all, he blurted out the rest, a truth he’d had no intention to reveal. “I wasn’t.”
“I see.” Her animosity seemed to have gone, for she was studying him with a thoughtful, assessing gaze, and he had the sick feeling she did indeed see, that her gaze had penetrated the glib, devil-may-care show he put on and seen the real truth: how much he loathed himself.
“Good Lord,” he drawled, forcing out light, careless words to cover the sudden, terrible silence. “How do we keep veering off the subject? We were discussing your future matrimonial success, not my matrimonial failure. Now—”
“Was it a failure?”
There was something in that question—something doubtful. Something reluctant, as if she didn’t believe him.
This girl wasn’t like Evie. She was strong willed and hard-boiled, without any trace of Evie’s soft romanticism, and yet in both of them was the same fatal flaw. Vulnerability.
It was in every line of her upturned face. It was in those big, caramel-brown eyes and that vividly expressive mouth, in the little crinkle of doubt between her auburn brows and in the determination of her delicately molded jaw. Once a chap got past the heart-stopping beauty of it, Annabel Wheaton’s face was as easy to read as a book. She cared too much what people thought of her. She believed too strongly that she could make life into what she wanted it to be. She felt too sure that people were intrinsically good and would do what was right. But most important, she believed, in her heart of hearts, that a rake could change. Girls like her were a fortune hunter’s dream.
Christian took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said at last. “My marriage was a failure. I didn’t love my wife. I married her for her money.” He paused to let that ugly truth sink in, then he added with calculated brutality, “And that’s why Rumsford is marrying you.”
He expected her to hurl a spate of furious denial at his head, but she did not. “I know that’s partly true,” she admitted. “He wouldn’t have married me if I’d been poor, that’s for sure.”
It wasn’t just partly true. It was the whole truth. “That doesn’t bother you?”
He watched her jaw set. “Not particularly.”
That surprised him. Didn’t a girl always want true love and happy endings? It went with the castle and the earl like peas went with carrots. “Every marriage ought to be based on love, Annabel. At least at the start. Don’t you want love?”
She made a sound of impatience. “You seem to think I’m some naive little fool with stars in her eyes, but I’m not. As I said, I know Bernard doesn’t love me, but he’s fond of me—”
“What about you?” he interrupted. “Do you love him?”
She paused, a pause that was a fraction of a second too long. “Of course.”
“How much?”
She met his inquiring gaze head-on. “Enough to be faithful.”
“Which means not at all.” He leaned toward her, close enough that his breath stirred the delicate corkscrew curl that grazed her cheek, close enough to catch the elusive scent of her French perfume. Almost close enough for his lips to touch hers. Desire began thrumming through his body again, even as he sensed her hardening resolve and felt his chance to change her mind slipping away. Hanging on to his control, he tried one more time to make her see how wrong it would be to marry Rumsford. “You don’t really want to marry him, do you?”
“Of course I do,” she whispered, and her tongue touched her lips. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“You might be making a mistake.”
“Why?” She tilted her head back, her full pink lips curved in a knowing little smile. “Because I ought to marry you instead and give you all my money?”
“I told you, I’m not a marrying man.” He strove to think, but lust was quickly overtaking him, coursing through his body, almost impossible to resist, making it difficult to think. “But I’m one of the many men you could enslave if you chose to.”
“Really?” Her lips parted. Her lashes drifted down until those dark eyes were half closed. Her voice, when she spoke, was a soft, honeyed hush. “Somehow, I don’t get the feeling that’s a proposal.”
“There are different kinds of proposals.” He moved, not even realizing his own intent until she jerked as if coming out of a daze and he felt her palm flatten against his chest, stopping him before he could kiss her.
“What in Sam Hill am I doin’?” she muttered, staring at him in horror.
He smiled. “I think you were about to let me kiss you.”
She didn’t deny it. “I must be the biggest fool in the entire U.S. of A. Get back,” she added, her palm pushing against his chest.
He should. Safest thing all around, and yet, he didn’t. His gaze slid to her mouth, but before he could even move, her hand slid upward between them, her fingers pressing against his mouth.
“Listen here, sugar,” she said, and despite the fact that his body was on fire, he almost wanted to smile. She was striving to seem confident, as if she had the situation well in hand, but the breathless rush in which she said those words gave her away. “I appreciate the information you’ve given me, I really do. I’m sure I’ll find it very useful. But . . .” She paused, her warm fingertips sliding away from his mouth. “Information’s all you’ll be giving me, and I hope that’s understood.”
She ducked past him. “Now,” she said as he turned around to find her standing by the door, “kindly move this crate out of my way.”
Christian complied, and the moment he’d done so, she was out the door and racing down the corridor toward the stairs.
He didn’t follow. He couldn’t, not just yet. He was a bit dazed still from her abrupt withdrawal, and he was also fully aroused. A man couldn’t go walking around the corridors of a ship in that sort of condition.
He sat down on the crate and leaned his back against the wall, rubbing a hand over his face. How the devil had it happened? he wondered. One minute, he’d been telling her the rules, and the next minute, he was breaking one of his own.
He never made love to unmarried women. Never. The risk a man took for that particular privilege was enormous, the possible consequences far too costly.
He shifted on the crate with a grimace, painfully aware that despite his cardinal rule, if Annabel had stayed one moment longer, he would have willingly taken the risks, and any possible consequences be damned.
Annabel raced up three flights of stairs, her boots pounding on each steel step in time with the thudding beat of her heart. Scarborough’s voice, sleepy and aroused, echoed through her head as she ran down the long corridor of A-deck to her stateroom. Once inside, she shut the door behind her, but she couldn’t shut out his words.
Don’t you want love?
Breathing hard, Annabel leaned back against the door, wondering what on earth was happening to her brains. Wasn’t Billy John enough stupidity for one lifetime? Wasn’t one man who could undress a woman with his eyes enough to make her see the truth? Her family always said she was stubborn, and she had to agree, because she just couldn’t seem to get one particular lesson through her thick skull.
Men like Scarborough were heartbreak in the making.
Annabel tapped the back of her head against the door three times, wishing she could knock some sense into herself.
Don’t you want love?
Love? She made a sound of derision. That man didn’t know a thing about love. Lovemaking, for sure, but that wasn’t the same thing.
Too bad she seemed to have such a hard time remembering the difference.
But, oh Lordy, when he’d talked about what would keep her warm on cold nights, just his words had been enough to heat her up. Yessiree, she’d started melting into a puddle right then and there. By the time he’d got to the kissing part, she was all achy like she had a fever, and her knees were so weak she could barely stand up. How she’d managed to come to her senses long enough to get out of there without being kissed, she still didn’t know.
When it came to sweet-talking a girl, the Duke of Scarborough even put Billy John Harding to shame, and that was saying something, for Billy John was the sweetest-talking scoundrel in the entire state of Mississippi.
She ground her teeth and hit the door again with the back of her head. She knew, none better, what it was like to fall hook, line, and sinker for a pair of blue eyes, a charming smile, and a line of sweet words. She also knew what it was like to be literally on your knees, sobbing, when a man who’d just taken your body walked out on you, and you were left with your pride stripped, your virtue gone, and your heart in pieces. She knew how it felt to be used and thrown away.
Annabel caught back a sob of frustration, pressing her fingers to her still-tingling lips, knowing just how close she’d come to betraying Bernard and their future together.
Enough to be faithful.
Her own words came back as if to mock her, words that she’d made sound so confident, but what she’d felt when Scarborough had tried to kiss her showed her words to be nothing more than bravado.
She took deep breaths, working to slow her pounding heart and regain her wits. She hadn’t kissed him, she reminded herself. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Yet.
She was getting married in four days, and the last thing she needed in the meantime was to test her resolve by being anywhere near the Duke of Scarborough. Annabel wondered dismally if she could just lock herself in her room until the wedding.