Dante was thankful estate business had pulled him away from the afternoon’s activities his grandmother had planned. He was still fuming about her underhanded tactics. After he finished with his steward, there was still plenty of time to join the others, but all he wanted was peace and quiet. The library afforded him the opportunity to regain his senses and think about the problem at hand.
He was certain that Miss Albryght was not the masked woman with whom he had danced last night, regardless of her having knowledge of their conversation. True, she looked similar to that woman, but when she placed her hand on his arm as they took a turn about the garden, the spark he had experienced last night was not there.
And then there were her questions. For reasons he could not explain, her questions had unsettled him. Images of Anna had flashed before him. Did he miss her that much that he could conjure her out of thin air? No. Something was not right. The woman he danced with last night was real. He had her mask to prove it.
Grandmother was another source of contention. She had been most eager to point out that the week was well underway and he had yet to pay attention to any one lady in particular. Her threat hung over him like a boulder about to crush him. He had been avoiding this decision. Eight years ago he was prepared for marriage, but when Anna died, part of him died too. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would remain a bachelor. He had been content with that decision, but now that he was the family’s titled earl, it was no longer his decision to make.
Miss Saunders was an agreeable young woman, he thought to himself as he closed the book and paced the length of the room, but her high-pitched voice made the hairs on his neck stand on ends. Then there was Lady Brenda, his grandmother’s first choice. She was accomplished in music and art, could speak French and Italian. Her manners were impeccable, her lineage impressive. There was only one problem. There was no connection. He felt nothing.
He strolled over to the window and looked out over the lush green landscape dotted with violet orchids. Violet. Much as he hated the old woman, and the situation in which he found himself, he couldn’t refuse his grandmother, not with his cousin’s fate hanging in the wind.
Dante was doing this for Violet and Aunt Ursula. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was such a disaster. How had his life become so complicated? He opened his eyes, his vision obstructed by the fingers still pressing firmly to his head.
Movement in the distance caught his attention. His hands dropped to his side. He squinted his eyes to get a clearer look.
Three women were walking in the direction of the folly, their backs toward the house. One looked to be Mrs. Weston, and the other to be Miss Albryght, but the third, dressed in sky blue, was unfamiliar to him. Dante clutched the window frame. With each breath he took he became more lightheaded. It couldn’t be her. He knew it couldn’t be her. She was dead.
He tried to focus on the direction the trio was headed, but his heart demanded his attention, pounding in his chest with remembrance. The woman clad in blue turned. Her face was in profile, but her smile touched his heart. Lightning coursed through his veins, bringing his body back to life.
He began to back away from the window, intent on following her. He turned to go after her when Gibbs entered the library.
“Excuse me, Lord Huntingdon, your grandmother wanted me to inform you that the ladies shall be returning shortly and your presence will be required in the music room.”
Dante struggled to find words. “Th-thank you,” was all he managed to choke out. Gibbs absented himself without another word, leaving Dante to relive one of the darkest moments in his life.
He slumped down in the leather chair, the coolness surrounding him. He rested his head back and closed his eyes. For many years now, he had not allowed himself to think of the day he learned that Anna had died.
That distant day had started with excitement and anticipation. He had finally worked up the courage to tell his grandparents about the woman he loved. His grandmother had accused Anna of being a fortune hunter, but Dante had assured her that it was not the case. He had never revealed who his family was. At that time it didn’t appear to be significant; he was third in line to inherit. His grandfather was still alive. His eldest uncle and his son were all hale. Little had Dante realized all the turmoil that lay on the horizon.
Grandfather had been more understanding of the situation. He wouldn’t give his blessing until he met Anna, but Dante knew that as soon as his grandfather met her, he would love her just as much as Dante did.
He remembered the long journey to Plymouth. Although it had only taken five days from London, it seemed to take months. He had thought about visiting his aunt beforehand, but he was too impatient. He needed to see his Anna. Dante remembered how nervous he was when he walked up the pathway that led to her father’s house. He had rehearsed his speech a dozen times.
The moment the door opened, he knew his world had changed forever, and not for the better.
“Who are you?” A young man clad in mourning clothes and no older than Dante demanded.
“I am Mr. St. Clair. I have come to see Miss Quintin.”
“She’s dead,” the man replied curtly as he tried to slam the door on Dante.
Dante must have misheard him. “What?”
“Who’s come to visit?” An older man said as he pulled the door open. “What do you want?” He had never met or even seen Anna’s father, but he assumed this to be him. They had the same green eyes and reddish-brown hair.
“Mr. Quintin? I’ve come to inquire after your youngest daughter.”
The man’s face was long with sorrow. “I regret to inform you that my daughter passed away two weeks ago.”
What happened after that, Dante was unsure. Somehow he managed to make his way to Aunt Ursula’s house, which was less than a ten-mile journey. For days afterward he could barely eat, too consumed in his own private hell to care about anything around him. His aunt and cousin had watched over him, cared for him.
“She’s dead,” he had repeated over and over. “I can’t believe she is gone.”
“I’m so sorry, Dante,” his aunt said.
“They didn’t even tell me what happened.”
“Violet learned that she died in an accident on the way to visit her aunt.” Aunt Ursula rubbed a gentle hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry…”
Laughter rang through the entry hall, bringing Dante back into the present. He shook his head, trying to erase those painful memories.
The sounds of merriment grew closer. He was in no condition to be host to a party of cheerful women. Instead of entertaining and socializing, he would retreat to the only place he could ever find any relief from the demands that now plagued him. He would lose himself in painting. It was the only balm that had soothed his soul.
Without further thought, Dante stood and made his way to his usual escape route.
* * *
“Where is my grandson?” Dante could hear his grandmother’s demanding voice echo through the family wing. He had hoped to avoid seeing her until after dinner, but it would seem that luck was not on his side.
“Good evening, Grandmother,” he said as he entered her private sitting room, forcing a polite tone.
Rather than return the greeting, his grandmother went straight into one of her lectures. “You are an earl now and duty requires you to be present and to entertain your guests.”
“They aren’t my guests—they are your guests.”
“Do I need to remind you of our bargain?”
You mean threat, don’t you?
“Lady Brenda was inquiring after you. I believe she would make an excellent countess.”
Dante would not have this conversation. “I still have time to decide.”
Grandmother approached him and sniffed the air in a most unladylike fashion that he was sure she never exhibited in front of anyone else. “Where exactly have you been all afternoon?”
He decided to answer her, but he would not discuss what she believed was best for his future. “I had business to tend to, and then I took a long walk.”
“You’ve been painting again.”
“Yes.” Dante was tired of hiding his passion for painting and sketching. Events may have forced him into this new role, but it didn’t mean that he had to give up part of himself.
“How many times have I told you that I disapprove of that so-called talent of yours? It is positively shameful.”
“Grandfather did not think so. In fact he had often encouraged me to…”
“Well, he is dead and I don’t want you wasting your time on such frivolities when there are far more important pursuits to be had.”
Feeling bolder than he had in years, he retorted, “Like courting a woman that I do not love.”
Her voice rose. “Like doing your duty!” Grandmother’s face had turned an unflattering shade of red. “Remember what we discussed. I would hate for your aunt or cousin to suffer because of your selfish nature.”
Dante was fuming. He could not believe his own grandmother would resort to such threats. She was the one who was selfish. Dante shook his head. This was not going to end well if he stayed much longer. Through gritted teeth, he muttered, “I must go and change before dinner.”
* * *
The next day had proved to be no better. There had been one emergency after another that needed his attention. Dante knew with time, he would become more fluid dealing with all the estate business, but at the moment he grappled with certain aspects of a large working manor.
After his business concluded, Dante should have been a proper host and gone hunting with the other men, but being proper was furthest from his thoughts at the moment. What he wanted to do was discover who the mysterious masked siren was and why she had toyed with his heartstrings.
He glanced up at the clock on the mantel. It was too early to imbibe. His head and heart demanded relief from the events of last night’s dinner. To prove her point, his grandmother had done everything in her power to keep him and Lady Brenda paired for the entire evening. Every time he had tried to speak with Mrs. Weston or Miss Albryght she would waylay him like a wolf pack leader. He had spent the better part of the evening with his jaw clenched tight, attempting to stamp down the angry words that burned his throat.
Even now, the frustration was steadily growing. Pain shot through his jaw as he clenched his teeth. He had to stop this. He pushed the ledger to one side, pulled out his drawing supplies from his desk drawer and then stared longingly at the blank page. With each breath he took, images of his Anna danced in his head.
Dante pushed away from the desk and strolled to the window. A warm breeze whipped around him, drawing his attention to the lush green lawn in the distance. A female figure was practically running away from the house. Although he could not see her face, he knew by the way she moved it was his masked lady.
What was she running from? What was she up to? All the ladies were supposed to be in the grand parlor taking tea, and yet she was running in the opposite direction.
Careful to not be seen, Dante left his study, pretending to have business on the estate. Once clear of the entry hall, he picked up his pace to a full run. If his grandmother had known that he was skirting his duties yet again, she would have a heart attack.
Dante ran in the direction of the copse. His masked lady’s flight was easily concealed amongst conifer woods. He followed the trail that ran along the perimeter of the meadow but could not find the mysterious woman. Perhaps she had taken one of the side pathways that led away from the meadow. Dante would not stop until he discovered where she had gone.
* * *
The moment Anastasia saw Mr. St. Clair running down the trail, her heart skipped a beat. Too many conflicting emotions were vying for her attention. Not wanting to be seen by him, she ran off the trail and quickly hid amongst the thick outcropping of trees. Once he passed, she made her way back toward the manor, steering clear of the trail.
This had not been a good idea, she scolded herself as she scurried toward the house. When Philippa told her that the ladies were gathering for tea then cards, Anastasia had thought it would be the perfect opportunity to enjoy the spectacular summer day that reminded her of those cherished times from her carefree youth. She was tired of being cooped up in her room.
By the time she reached the portico, Anastasia thought she had out maneuvered Mr. St. Clair. She had just entered the foyer, when the sound of her shoes clicking softly on the white marble floor was disrupted by the sound of her name echoing through the elegant space.
“Anna, wait.”
“Damn,” she muttered the unladylike word. Anastasia turned around, but refused to look at him, instead keeping her gaze settled on the pristine white marble floor. This was the moment she had been dreading. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing her.
With caution, he approached her. “It is you,” she heard him sigh with relief. “Anna, where…?”
Anastasia raised her eyes to his. She saw the pain and despair in his eyes. Good. She steeled her nerves. He would not crush her hopes and dreams beneath fairy tale promises. She had to stay strong. “I’m sorry to have to correct you Mr. St. Clair, but my name is not Anna.” She had not been called by that name in over eight years. That person no longer existed; like he had said, she was dead.
Confusion streaked across his face. He took a hesitant step toward her and began to extend his hand almost as if he intended to touch her. Did he think her a ghost?
She backed up several steps. Anastasia fumbled for words. “I best be returning to my friends.”
“Wait,” he pleaded. He continued to gaze at her, to look deep into her eyes, searching. Anastasia knew she should walk—no, run—away, but she couldn’t. The longer he stared, the faster her heat beat. “Please, Anna.”
“For the last time,” she said with all the frustration that was brewing inside, “I am not Anna. That woman is dead.” She blinked quickly trying to fight back the tears. She would not let him see her cry. Anastasia turned to run from the room and almost collided with Gibbs.
“Pardon me, Lord Huntingdon. Lady Huntingdon has requested Miss Quintin’s presence in the south parlor.”
Anastasia whipped around and stared at him. Lord Huntingdon? Dante St. Clair was the Earl of Huntingdon. Her world started to spin, humiliation the catalyst. Is that why he claimed he thought her dead, so that he would not be ashamed by her lowly station?
The moment Gibbs said her name she could feel Dante’s eyes bear down on her. There would be no denying who she was now. She swallowed hard, still refusing to make eye contact with Dante.
“Good day L–lord Huntingdon.” She spat the words from her mouth as if they were poison. Anastasia could not walk fast enough. She practically ran from the room with Gibbs following close behind her. There was no escape, or anywhere to run and hide. All she wanted to do was withdraw to her room, pack her things, and sneak away.
As she neared the parlor the high-pitched laughter of Miss Saunders rattled through the delicate space. Slowing her steps, she inhaled deeply, attempting to catch her breath. It wouldn’t do to arrive all out of sorts. Lady Huntingdon already did not care for her, and she had to think of Isabel’s future. She would not do anything to bring disapproval to Isabel and ruin her chances for a good season.
“This way, Miss Quintin.” Gibbs appeared to be a dutiful servant, but his air of superiority was quite unnerving. Even though she was a guest, his attitude toward her was barely civil. She had no idea what she had done to earn such scorn. She could not concern herself with that now, not when she was about to walk into the lion’s den.
By the time Anastasia entered the parlor her nerves were quite undone. She had to remind herself to breathe. Those pesky butterflies threatened to discompose her when all she wished was that they would simply carry her away to a distant place.
The ladies were gathered for a game of whist. Anastasia spotted Isabel at a far table, where thankfully there was an empty chair. Keeping her focus on the empty seat, she meandered through the grouping of elegant ladies who turned down their noses at her as she passed. Anastasia was within several feet of her destination when a firm voice dictated a change of course.
“We have an empty seat available, Miss Quintin. No sense in being shy, please come and sit with us.” Although her words appeared kind, the tone in Lady Huntingdon’s voice was full of contempt.
Anastasia took the seat beside Miss Saunders and watched the game of whist that was already in progress.
“Are you enjoying your stay?” Miss Saunders inquired in a voice that sounded more like that of a child than a full-grown woman.
Keeping her reply short and praying for no further questions, Anastasia said, “Yes, and you?”
“Very much so,” Miss Saunders said as she placed card down on the table.
Anastasia watched with feigned interest. She was no card player and really had no clue as to what this game was about.
“Do you reside with Miss Albryght, Miss Quintin?” Lady Huntingdon inquired. Anastasia suspected that an inquisition was forthcoming. She tried to continue to keep her answers brief and nonchalant. “Yes.”
“Miss Albryght is such a dear and so intelligent,” Miss Saunders chimed in, clearly oblivious to Lady Huntingdon’s motives, whatever they might be.
“And how long have you resided at Knights Hall, Miss Quintin?” Lady Huntingdon clearly had a goal in mind.
“Eight years.”
“And do you not have any plans to marry?” My, Lady Huntingdon was being direct. Anastasia could feel Philippa’s sympathetic gaze soothe her from across the room. If it weren’t improper and rude, she was certain that Philippa would have rushed to her side the moment Lady Huntingdon’s interrogation began.
“No.” Anastasia could see another question forming on Lady Huntingdon’s lips. She could only endure so much. “I have no intentions of marrying.” The other women present at her table leaned in close as if she were to reveal some dark and enticing secret. All that she hoped to accomplish was to satisfy Lady Huntingdon’s curiosity and to squelch any possible rumors. “Not now, not ever.”
Lady Huntingdon appeared quite pleased by that statement, but still eyed her with circumspection. Anastasia wasn’t attempting to be deceitful. What she said was true. She had had her heart broken once and was not prepared to risk it again.
By the time the games concluded, the last thing Anastasia wanted to do was dress for dinner. She did not want to see Lord Huntingdon or put on any pretense. All she wanted to do was cry, but even that would have to wait.
“You look quite lovely this evening, Isabel.” She was wearing a pistachio evening dress ornamented in the French style. The color embellished her green eyes.
Isabel looked up at Anastasia with puzzlement. “You are not dressed?”
“I am feeling rather tired this evening and…”
“What’s wrong?” Isabel knew her all too well for Anastasia to hide her true feelings for long.
Without guard, the words spewed from her mouth in a sarcastic tone that was barely civil. “Oh, besides being cornered by Lady Huntingdon all afternoon? I’m sorry,” she quickly relented as a frustrated breath filled the air about her. She wanted to scream or throw something or…punch Lord Huntingdon, née Mr. St. Clair.
“What happened?” Without reserve, Isabel came up to Anastasia and took her into a sisterly embrace.
Isabel and Philippa knew the truth—well, most of it—about her and Lord Huntingdon, so why should she try and conceal what eventually will be made known? These were her friends, her family, and she needed them more than she could have ever realized.
“He knows I’m here.” She stepped out of Isabel’s warm and safe embrace. Anastasia turned to Philippa, not even attempting to hide the hurt from her voice. “Why didn’t you tell me St. Clair was the new Earl of Huntingdon?”
Guilt and remorse streaked across Philippa’s face. She came up to Anastasia and took her hands in hers. “I promise you that I did not know before yesterday that the man who broke your heart was one and the same.”
The tears, just like those pesky butterflies, were going to be her undoing. “But why, why didn’t you say…?”
Philippa spoke up with haste, “I don’t believe he ever meant to cause you harm.”
“He looked at me as if I were a ghost.”
“Did you say anything to him?”
Anastasia nodded. “I denied who I was, and I wasn’t very kind to him.”
“What else happened?”
“Nothing. Gibbs interrupted and confirmed my identity. After that I left and joined the ladies.” Anastasia whipped around clutching the fabric of her dress. “And to make matters worse Lady Huntingdon would not stop questioning me about my intentions.”
“Your intentions?” The look on Philippa’s face was almost comical. “I had wondered what she was saying to you, but from where I sat, I could not hear a word. That was not what I was expecting to hear.”
“Yes, well, I suppose I am not worthy of her illustrious house party.” Anastasia did not care if the sarcasm offended her friends.
“Now that you know who Lord Huntingdon is, what are you going to do?”
The question hung in the air.
Never in Anastasia’s wildest nightmares would she had ever thought that she would come face to face with the man who had hurt her more than her father had when he sent her away. Her intentions used to be clear, but being here so close to him only served to destroy her assumptions and muddle her thoughts.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about this evening.” Isabel came up to her. “We will not leave your side.”