“Well, they aren’t village wenches, are they? They’re young ladies—or at least they’re supposed to be. Why in God’s name are a bunch of wallflowers behaving in such a way?”
Simon grinned at his friend’s aggrieved tone. “My impression is that they have become allies in their un-wedded state. For most of the past season they sat without speaking to each other, but it seems they’ve recently struck up a friendship.”
“For what purpose?” the earl asked with deep suspicion.
“Perhaps they’re merely trying to enjoy themselves?” Simon suggested, interested by the degree to which Westcliff had taken exception to the girls’ behavior. Lillian Bowman, in particular, seemed to have bothered him profoundly. And that was unusual for the earl, who always treated women with casual ease. To Simon’s knowledge, despite the numbers of women who pursued him in and out of bed, Westcliff had never lost his detachment. Until then.
“Then they should take up needlework, or do whatever it is that proper women do to enjoy themselves,” the earl growled. “At least they should find a hobby that doesn’t involve running na*ed through the countryside.”
“They weren’t naked,” Simon pointed out. “Much to my regret.”
“That comment impels me to say something,” Westcliff said. “As you know, I’m not usually one to give advice when it isn’t asked for—”
Simon interrupted with a bark of laughter. “Westcliff, I doubt that a day in your life has passed without you giving advice to someone about something.”
“I offer advice only when it is obviously needed,” the earl said with a scowl.
Simon gave him a sardonic glance. “Dispense your words of wisdom, then, as it appears that I’m going to hear them whether I wish to or not.”
“It pertains to Miss Peyton. If you’re wise, you’ll divest yourself of all notions concerning her. She’s a shallow bit of goods, and as self-absorbed as any creature I’ve ever met. The facade is beautiful, I’ll grant you…but in my judgment there’s nothing beneath to recommend it. No doubt you’re thinking of taking her as your mistress if she fails in her bid to win Kendall. My advice is, don’t. There are women who have infinitely more to offer you.”
Simon didn’t reply for a moment. His sentiments regarding Annabelle Peyton were uncomfortably complex. He admired Annabelle, he liked her, and God knew he had no right to judge her harshly for becoming another man’s mistress. But all the same, the very real possibility that she had taken Hodgeham into her bed engendered a mixture of jealousy and anger that surprised him.
After hearing the rumor that Lord Burdick had been spreading, that Annabelle had become Lord Hodgeham’s secret mistress, Simon hadn’t been able to resist investigating the claim. He had asked his father, who kept meticulous account books, if anyone had ever given him money for the Peytons’ butcher bills. Sure enough, his father had confirmed that Lord Hodgeham had occasionally settled the Peytons’ account. Although that hardly was conclusive proof of anything, it provided yet more weight to the possibility that Annabelle had become Hodgeham’s mistress. And Annabelle’s evasiveness during their conversation the previous morning had certainly done little to contradict the rumor.
Clearly the Peyton family’s situation was desperate…but why Annabelle should have turned to a fat old windbag like Hodgeham for help was a mystery. On the other hand, so many of life’s decisions, good and bad, were made as a simple result of timing. Perhaps Hodgeham had managed to intervene at a moment when Annabelle’s defenses were at their weakest, and she had allowed herself to be persuaded to give the old bastard what he wanted in return for the money she needed so badly.
She had no walking boots. Christ. Hodgeham’s generosity must be paltry indeed, to allow for a few new gowns but no decent shoes, and undergarments that were nearly in rags. If Annabelle was to be some man’s mistress, she could damn well be Simon’s, and at least receive proper recompense for her favors. Obviously it was far too soon to broach the question to her. Simon would have to wait patiently while Annabelle tried to wrest a proposal from Lord Kendall. And he intended to do nothing to harm her chances. But if she failed with Kendall, Simon intended to approach her with a much better offer than her current hole-and-corner arrangement with Hodgeham.
Envisioning Annabelle stretched na*ed in his bed, Simon felt his lust rekindle, and he struggled to retrieve the thread of conversation. “What gave you the impression that I had any interest in Miss Peyton?” he asked in a noncommittal tone.
“The fact that you nearly fell off your horse when you saw her in her drawers.”
That elicited a reluctant smile from Simon. “With a facade like that, I may not give a damn about what’s beneath.”
“You should,” the earl said emphatically. “Miss Peyton is a selfish jade if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Westcliff,” Simon asked conversationally, “does it ever occur to you that you might occasionally be wrong? About anything?”
The earl looked perplexed by the question. “Actually, no.”
Shaking his head with a rueful grin, Simon spurred his horse to a faster gait.
CHAPTER 11
As the girls walked back to Stony Cross Manor, Annabelle became uncomfortably aware of a twinge in her ankle. She must have turned it during the Rounders game, though she could not recall the precise moment when it had happened. Sighing heavily, she hefted the basket in her hand and lengthened her stride to keep pace with Lillian, who looked pensive. Daisy and Evie walked a few yards behind them, both of them involved in an earnest conversation.
“What are you worrying about?” Annabelle asked Lillian in a low voice.
“The earl and Mr. Hunt…do you think they will tell anyone about having seen us this afternoon? It would put a nasty dent in our reputations.”
“I don’t think Westcliff would,” Annabelle said after a moment’s thought. “I was inclined to believe him when he made that remark about amnesia. And he doesn’t seem to be a man who is given to gossip.”
“What about Mr. Hunt?”
Annabelle frowned. “I don’t know. It didn’t escape me that he made no promise to remain silent. I suppose he’ll keep his mouth closed if he thinks he has something to gain from it.”
“You should be the one to ask him, then. As soon as you see Mr. Hunt at the ball tonight, you must go to him and make him promise not to tell anyone about our Rounders game.”
Recalling the dance that would take place at the manor that evening, Annabelle groaned. She was relatively—no, positively—certain that she could not bear to face Hunt after what had happened that afternoon. On the other hand, Lillian was right—one couldn’t assume that Hunt would be silent. Annabelle would have to deal with him, much as she dreaded the prospect. “Why me?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.
“Because Hunt likes you. Everyone knows that. He’ll be much more inclined to do something you ask.”
“He won’t give something for nothing,” Annabelle muttered, while the throbbing in her ankle worsened. “What if he makes some vulgar proposition to me?”
A long, apologetic pause ensued, until Lillian offered, “You may have to throw him a bone of some sort.”
“What kind of a bone?” Annabelle asked suspiciously.
“Oh, just let him kiss you, if that’s what it takes to keep him quiet.”
Astonished that Lillian could make such a statement in so nonchalant a manner, Annabelle inhaled sharply. “Good God, Lillian! I can’t do that!”
“Why not? You’ve kissed men before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“One pair of lips is like any other. Just make certain no one sees you and get it over with quickly. Then Mr. Hunt will be placated, and our secret will be safe.”
Annabelle shook her head with a strangled laugh, while her heart began to pound painfully hard at the idea. She couldn’t help but remember that long-ago secret kiss in the panorama theater, the seconds of devastating sensual upheaval that had left her shaken and speechless.
“You’ll just have to make it clear that one kiss is all he may expect from you,” Lillian continued, “and that it will certainly never happen again.”
“Pardon me for casting aspersions on your plan…but it stinks like six o’clock fish. One pair of lips is not like any other, if they happen to be attached to Simon Hunt! And he’ll never be satisfied with something as trivial as a kiss, and I couldn’t offer him anything more than that.”
“Do you really find Mr. Hunt so repulsive?” Lillian asked idly. “He’s not bad, actually. I’d even go so far as to call him handsome.”
“He’s so insufferable that I’ve never really taken notice of his looks. But I will admit that he’s…” Annabelle fell into a confused silence, considering the question with a new and unsettling thoroughness.
Objectively speaking—in the unlikely circumstance that one could ever be objective about Simon Hunt—he was indeed a good-looking man. The word “handsome” was usually applied to people with highly chiseled features and slender, elegant proportions. But Simon Hunt redefined the word with his bold, cleanedged countenance, his audacious black eyes, with the strong blade of a nose that could only belong to a man, and the wide mouth that was forever edged with irreverent humor. Even his unusual height and brawn seemed to suit him perfectly, as if nature had recognized that he was not a creature to be formed by half measures.
Simon Hunt had made her uneasy from the first moment they met. Although Annabelle had never seen him any way other than perfectly dressed and thoroughly self-controlled, she had always sensed that Hunt was, at best, half-tamed. Her deepest instincts had warned her that beneath his mocking facade, there was a man who was capable of an alarming depth of passion, perhaps even brutality. He was not a man who could ever be mastered.
She tried to imagine Simon Hunt’s dark face over hers, the hot brand of his mouth, his arms closing around her…just like before, except that she would be a willing participant. He was only a man, she reminded herself nervously. And a kiss was indeed a fleeting thing. But for the moment that it lasted, she would be bound in intimacy with him. And from then on, whenever they met, Simon Hunt would gloat silently. That would be difficult to endure.
She rubbed her forehead, which was suddenly as sore as if it had been whacked with a Rounders bat. “Can’t we just ignore the whole thing and just hope that he’ll have the good taste to keep his mouth shut?”
“Oh, yes,” Lillian said sarcastically, “Mr. Hunt has so often been linked to the phrase ‘good taste.’ By all means, let’s just cross our fingers and wait…if your nerves can bear the suspense.”
Massaging her temples, Annabelle made a sound of distress. “All right. I’ll approach him tonight. I’ll…” She hesitated for a long moment. “I’ll even kiss him, if necessary. But I will consider this more than adequate payment for all the gowns you gave me!”
A satisfied grin curved Lillian’s mouth. “I’m certain that you can come to some agreement with Mr. Hunt.”
After they parted company at the manor, Annabelle went to her room for an afternoon nap, which she hoped would restore her to rights before the supper ball. Her mother was nowhere to be seen, most likely having elected to take tea with some of the other ladies in the downstairs parlor. Annabelle was thankful for her mother’s absence, which allowed her to change her clothes and wash without having to answer any unwanted questions. Although Philippa was a fond and generally permissive parent, she would not have reacted well to the news that her daughter had been involved in some scrape with the Bowman sisters.
After changing into fresh undergarments, Annabelle slipped beneath the slickly ironed bed linens. To her frustration, the nagging pain of her ankle made it impossible to sleep. Feeling weary and irritable, she rang for a maid to bring a cold footbath, and she sat with her foot soaking for a good half hour. Her ankle was most definitely swollen, leading her to conclude grumpily that it had been a singularly unlucky day. Cursing as she eased a fresh stocking over the pale, puffy flesh, Annabelle dressed herself slowly. She rang for the maid once more when she needed help to tighten her corset and fasten the back of her yellow silk gown.
“Miss?” the maid murmured, her eyes squinting with concern as she glanced into Annabelle’s set face. “You look a bit peaked…Is there aught I can bring for you? The housekeeper keeps a tonic in her closet for female ailments—”
“No, it’s not that,” Annabelle said with a wan smile. “It’s just a twinge in my ankle.”
“Some willowbark tea, then?” the girl suggested, moving behind Annabelle to button the back of the ball gown. “I’ll run down and fetch it straightaways, and you can drink it while I do your hair.”
“Yes, thank you.” Annabelle stood still as the maid’s nimble fingers fastened the gown, then she sank gratefully into the chair before the dressing table. She stared at her own strained reflection in the Queen Anne looking glass. “I can’t think how I injured it. I’m never clumsy.”
The maid fluffed the pale golden tulle that trimmed the sleeves of Annabelle’s gown. “I’ll hurry with the tea, miss. That will set you to rights.”
Just as the maid left, Philippa entered the room. Smiling at the sight of her daughter dressed in the yellow ball gown, she stood behind her, and met her gaze in the looking glass. “You look lovely, darling.”
“I feel wretched,” Annabelle said wryly. “I turned my ankle during my walk with the wallflowers this afternoon.”
“Must you refer to yourselves that way?” Philippa asked, looking perturbed. “Surely you could think of some more flattering name for your little group—”
“But it suits us,” Annabelle said with a grin. “If it makes you feel better, I do say the word with a suitable touch of irony.”
Philippa sighed. “I’m afraid my own store of irony is quite depleted at the moment. It isn’t easy for me to watch you struggle and scheme, while other girls of your station have so much easier a time of it. Seeing you in borrowed gowns, and knowing the burdens you carry…I’ve thought a thousand times that if only your father hadn’t died, and if only we had just a little money…”