Something Like a Lady Read online

  Seabrook raised one dark eyebrow. “Yes.”

  Shudders rolled along Annabella’s spine. “I detest cats. Detest them! Hateful, arrogant little creatures, most ready to leap out and cause harm at the smallest opportunity.” She whirled around and pinned him with a hard stare. “Not unlike you, actually.”

  If her words about his character troubled him, he gave no indication, yet he stared into the garden without saying a word, and he appeared to have gone a bit pale.

  She took pity on his obvious trepidation. “Oh, don’t worry, Seabrook. I’m not going to force you to take down the statue. Just as long as no living and breathing cats are underfoot, the bronze one can stay.”

  He jerked his head around to meet her eyes again. “Right. Of course.” Then he offered his arm. “Shall we go inside?”

  ****

  Icy shivers worked their way over Jon’s skin as he stepped across the threshold with Annabella on his arm. One never knew exactly what to expect on arrival at Blackmoor Hall. He nodded at Samuel, standing rigid as a stick just inside the entrance, gray hair perfectly combed, chin tucked, shoulders back. Was the black coat hanging a bit looser than the last time Jon had been at Blackmoor?

  “Welcome home, my lord,” said the butler.

  “Thank you.” He drifted to a stop and glanced at Annabella. “This is Samuel. He’s been the butler for as long as I remember. Samuel, Lady Seabrook, my new wife.”

  Samuel’s quick blink was the only hint of surprise he was likely to show — at least within Jon’s presence. “At your service, Lady Seabrook,” Samuel said with a polite inclination of his head.

  “How does her grace fare today?” asked Jon, steeling himself for the answer.

  Samuel sent a brief worried glance toward the salon. “She’s resting in her suite after a particularly… active morning, my lord.”

  Jon released his pent-up breath. “Very well.” He nodded at the bags near the archway into the salon. “We shall need my suite opened and our luggage delivered there.” He stepped forward with the intent of placing Annabella’s small valise with the other bags.

  “Thank you, but I shall carry that one.” Glaring her defiance, Annabella nearly took his fingers when she snatched it from him.

  As she hugged the bag close against her body, Jon held up his hands and stepped back. He nodded to the waiting footman, who gathered the luggage and hastened toward the servants’ stairs.

  “Your rooms have already been opened, my lord,” informed Samuel.

  Jon raised an eyebrow in question. “They have?”

  “Yes, my lord. Her grace made the request two days ago, after she, ah…” He cleared his throat. “…became aware of your impending arrival.”

  Annabella stiffened and edged away, and Jon tempered his irritation, knowing how the exchange must have sounded to her. He hated what Gran referred to as “the sight.” Couldn’t bring himself to fully believe in it. Yet he couldn’t deny she often had an uncanny awareness of things she couldn’t possibly know, particularly as related to the comings and goings of family members.

  “Lady Seabrook requires a morning meal. Chocolate and pastries sent to my suite,” he instructed Samuel. Then he turned to Annabella. “This way, Lady Seabrook.” He didn’t bother offering his elbow. Likely she wouldn’t take it anyway, given her reaction to the butler’s inadvertent disclosure.

  Upon entering the salon, her steps slowed as she craned her neck and looked around. Then she stopped altogether and twirled slowly, lifting her gaze toward the ornate sculptured woodwork, the cutouts above the intricate railing in the galley that rimmed the upper level, and the mural on the ceiling. Her wide eyes and slightly parted lips reminded him of exactly how much he’d taken the splendor of his home for granted throughout most of his life.

  “It’s astounding.” Her gaze darted here and there as though unable to light on any one thing, and she absently slipped a hand through his arm.

  Though her touch was light, Jon found himself acutely aware of the pressure as they crossed the salon and began to ascend the wide marble staircase. When they were midway up, he caught a movement near the first landing and faltered. A flash of green reflected in the light from the sconces. Blast! He knew those eyes. The cat hated him, hated everyone but his grandmother, in fact, and went out of its way to make its opinions known.

  Jon laid one hand on the balustrade and turned, angling his body so as to block Annabella’s progress up the steps. He swept a hand outward over the salon. “I used to stand here as a boy and look out on the room when Mother and Father were hosting dinner parties. Nicholas always watched from the galley, but I wanted to be as close to the action as possible without being discovered and sent off to bed.”

  Annabella tilted her head and blinked up at him, her lips hovering just at the edge of a shy smile, her green eyes — so similar to those of the feline he was trying to avoid her seeing — dancing with mirth. “So your tendency towards interloping began at an early age.”

  Jon chuckled and risked a glance over Annabella’s shoulder. The wretched cat performed an acrobatic leap to the top of the railing and crouched there. Keeping a wary eye on him, she licked her paw several times and then brushed it over one ear. He tried glaring at her, but she simply stood and presented her back to him then hunkered down again and continued cleaning herself.

  Unable to put it off any longer, he moved to Annabella’s other side, hoping to block her view of the galley to their right. “My suite is just along this way,” he said, pointing to the left.

  From the corner of his vision, he caught the movement as the feline jumped from the railing and scampered in the opposite direction with a swish of her thick furry tail. Jon eased out a breath and picked up the pace, praying they’d reach his suite without any incidents. Thankfully, Gran’s pets didn’t tend to stray far from her wing of Blackmoor Hall unless they were following her.

  He stole a glance at Annabella as they entered the suite, surprised to find her customary mutinous expression replaced with weariness etched in fine lines around her eyes. Perhaps he should have asked her whether she wanted nourishment or rest. He wasn’t used to taking the needs of another into consideration.

  Sage green draperies had been left open, allowing diffuse morning light to spill across the plush blue carpet. Jon glanced around the room, appreciating the sharp differences from Wyndham Green, particularly when he recalled the state of the cottage Annabella had hidden in for days before his arrival.

  “Beg pardon, m’lord,” murmured a soft voice from behind him.

  He glanced back and gestured for the young maid to enter.

  “I was instructed to bring chocolate and pastries for you and Lady Seabrook.” She crossed the room and placed the heavily laden tray on the side table. With deft movements, she set about arranging plates and cups. Her hand hovered over the pot. “Shall I pour the chocolate, m’lord?”

  “Please,” he responded absently. “And then you may take your leave.”

  Moments later, they were alone. At the soft click of the door closing behind the maid, Annabella gave a frightful start.

  “You should eat something,” Jon motioned toward the table where their meal had been laid out on a cloth of pale cream linen.

  But she seemed to be disposed to continue standing in the center of the room. Where was his spirited wife with her sharp tongue?

  “Blackberry tarts here.” His lips tugged into a smile, as he pictured once more how that bit of blackberry jam had clung to her bottom lip back at the cottage.

  She didn’t move.

  “Or scones and Devonshire cream?”

  Just as he considered he might have to physically carry her to the table, she whirled about. Her eyes flashed with fury worthy of a vengeful angel. “When did you decide to bring me here?”

  Jon stared at the white silk wall covering, fighting the urge to massage his temples. Showing any weakness wouldn’t do. “Yesterday,” he replied, keeping his voice even. “About five minutes after we
were wed.”

  She narrowed her eyes until they were mere slits of dark, seething rage. “How sporting of you to have informed your wife of your decision,” she spat. “How was it your grandmother knew we would arrive? Did you come to Wyndham Green with the intent of carrying me off?”

  Laughter burst from his lips at the ridiculous thought. “Madam, I can assure you, that thought was the very furthest from my mind.” He had no intention of explaining his grandmother’s uncanny abilities. “And I don’t believe anyone mentioned that you were expected at all.”

  She blinked and seemed to consider his words. “Then why bring me here? I told you I wanted to go to London.”

  Jon sighed and took his seat as Annabella stomped across the room. Likely the chandelier in the drawing room below was rocking back and forth. She unclasped her cloak and let it slide from her shoulders. The whisper of the fabric as it fell and her lithe movements as she caught the garment and tossed it across the gold brocade chair near the window evoked sensual thoughts that almost made Jon wish something had occurred between them.

  Tell her the truth, whispered his conscience.

  “I had business to tend to here, so I came here. You are my wife, so I brought you with me.” He snagged a blackberry pastry between thumb and forefinger and laid it on his plate. “And we didn’t immediately rush off to London because I need time to consider how to break the news to Grey that I’ve, er…” He lifted a shoulder. “…married you.”

  Annabella stalked across the Turkish carpet and settled in the seat opposite him, placing that ever-present valise on the floor next to her feet. Leaning forward, she curled her lip in scorn. “No one forced you to marry me.”

  “Now, there you are quite wrong, Lady Seabrook.” Jon leaned over the table so their faces were inches apart. “My sense of decency would have been offended had I not done so.” Particularly when he’d considered her alternative might be Vicar Hamilton.

  She seemed frozen in place. Her warm breath fanned across his cheek. She was so close, so delectably within range to brush her mouth with his… The tip of her tongue peeked out briefly before she rolled her bottom lip inward.

  Jon suppressed a groan and sat back down. “And now, you can either make the best of it or… not.” He bit his pastry and took his time savoring the sticky tart-sweetness of the berries.

  Scowling, Annabella flopped into her seat and plucked a scone from the platter.

  Jon pushed the pots of cream and blackberry jam toward her. “Here you go. I remember how much you… enjoy your fruit and cream.”

  “At least one of us remembers something,” she muttered, dipping her knife into the pot of cream.

  His conscience stung him again, but this time he brushed it off as he would a honeybee. “Pity you don’t recall our night together.” He made a show of examining his tart. “It was quite the memorable experience for me.”

  ****

  Annabella’s face flamed. The bite of scone in her mouth might have been coated with mud for all she could taste the thing. How dare that intolerable ruffian mention their wicked night together as casually as an observation regarding the weather?

  Smiling, he allowed his gaze to roam freely over her body. Everywhere his eyes lingered heated as though he’d reached out and stroked her. “I was rather looking forward to repeating the experience.”

  “Repeating the experience?” she burst out, struggling to push away from the table. Her chair caught on the thick rug. “Have you gone completely mad?”

  He popped the last bite of his tart into his mouth and chewed. “No-o-o… I don’t believe I’m the one who’s gone mad.”

  Annabella shoved her plate aside, her scone only half eaten. “You have if you think I’ll ever let you touch me that way again.”

  A predatory smile crept over his face. “Which way would you be referring to, my darling wife?”

  “I’m your wife because you forced me to be.”

  “I beg your pardon. No one forced you into the marriage, either. Had you protested with any conviction, the matter would have been settled.” He sipped his chocolate. “Now, what ways will you not let me touch you?”

  Rage bubbled along her veins. He was right, of course. She’d been so afraid of involving her mother that she’d gone along with the scheme. “You know very well to which way I am referring, sir.”

  “So I shouldn’t take you in my arms?”

  “No!” she snapped. “You should not.”

  “I shouldn’t hold you close and lay my lips against yours?”

  Annabella’s lips tingled. Was that what he’d done? “No.”

  He took another sip and set the cup back on the saucer. “I shouldn’t nuzzle your neck and tickle your ears with my warm breath?”

  Annabella pushed a strand of hair from her face, grazing her ear as she did. Fiery wisps danced along the outer shell, and she quickly lowered her hand. “No.”

  A satisfied heat ignited in Seabrook’s eyes as he bent forward over the table again. “And I suppose I shouldn’t unfasten your gown and move it aside so I can taste your delectable neck and draw my fingers along the curve of your… shoulder.”

  She squirmed in her seat as her blood simmered.

  He lowered his voice. “And I shouldn’t let your gown fall to the floor and encircle your waist with my hands. Shouldn’t caress you in all your most delicate places…”

  Annabella shook her head. Her blood pulsed in her ears. Her skin quivered and warmed in all those delicate places. It was positively wanton the way her breath came in short gasps. What was wrong with her? She simply couldn’t fill her lungs.

  Then he leaned even closer. “And if I shouldn’t do those things, then I suppose I shouldn’t lay you across my bed… shouldn’t join you there and…” He dropped his voice and murmured a shocking, unspeakable suggestion.

  Flames burst free in her middle, swelled, and then surged through her body like an outgoing tide of molten lava. “Please…” she whispered, unsure what she was pleading for, certain the thrumming in her veins meant her ultimate destiny would be met in the devil’s lair.

  Seabrook stood, his movements measured, purposeful. He was going to walk over to her and take her in his arms. He’d carry her to his bed and do everything he’d just mentioned and more. And — heaven’s angels help her — she’d enjoy it.

  Annabella tensed as he drew near. His eyes glittered like black diamonds as they drifted from her face, wandered lower, then lower still. Never had she experienced such willful disregard for decency. She’d become a harlot… after one night she scarcely remembered. And now, she wanted him to—

  “I have some estate business to conduct,” he said, his voice suddenly chilled. “I thought you might do well to have a bit of a rest.” He nodded toward the bedchamber. Without waiting for her reply, he turned on his heel and strode across the room. He didn’t so much as spare her a glance before he opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

  The muted thud of the heavy door latching echoed in the thumping of Annabella’s heart. Trembling, she lifted her cup and took a sip of chocolate. It had grown as cold as her husband’s voice. She dropped the cup back on the saucer with a clatter.

  Why would he express such intent and then leave her? She fanned her face with one hand, trying to put out the flames as she stared at the door. Had she affected a misstep? Had she not done something she ought? Her heart raced, striking like a blacksmith’s hammer in her chest. Was something wrong with him? With her?

  Annabella shook hear head and allowed rage to blossom. “That twisted, immoral, depraved, black-hearted, rutting beast!” She had allowed him to speak to her, to look at her… to make her feel things only a strumpet would feel.

  “Oh!” she shrieked, picking up her cup and hurling it at the door through which he’d just vacated. “There’s what you can do with your refreshment, my lord!” The cup splintered, its pieces raining to the floor. The last of her chocolate rolled downward, staining the dark wood, reminding her of bl
ond tears. The half-eaten scone on her plate came to hand next. “Bring me here to your blooming castle and fill my head with your filthy words, your implications, your promises of… of…” She flung the flattened cake after the chocolate.

  The door pushed inward. “My lady? Lord Seabrook sent me to— Oh!”

  The scone smashed into the crisp black uniform worn by the soft-spoken maid. With deft motions, she captured it before it dropped to the floor and wiped at the smear of cream from the front of her dress.

  Remorse filled Annabella, but it wasn’t enough to temper her fury. “What is it?” she snapped.

  “B-beggin’ your pardon, m’lady. Lord Seabrook instructed me to help you lie down so you can… rest.”

  Annabella narrowed her eyes. “Oh, did he?” She swept her hand around, indicating the suite. “If he thinks he can bring me here and lock me in a tower—”

  The maid paled. “Oh, t’isn’t a tower you’re in, m’lady. The towers are closed off except for—”

  Her words abruptly ceased under Annabella’s quelling stare.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint his lordship, but I shan’t be lying down.” Annabella shot a glance at the luggage sitting discreetly just inside the door to the bedchamber. “In fact, I think I shall change into fresh clothing and then set about exploring my new home.” She marched across the cornflower blue carpet and picked up her small valise.

  “But, my lady…” protested the maid amid a flutter of hands. “Lord Seabrook instructed—”

  Annabella released an inpatient sigh. “My husband labors under the misapprehension that I require rest after traveling.” She paused in the doorway to the bedchamber. “So if you will please help me change gowns, I shall find my way around and save him the trouble of showing me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Stones scattered under Jon’s feet as he half walked, half slid down the hill. When he reached the bottom of the little vale, he widened his stride to make it over the stream that trickled through the woods. More stones crunched as he scrambled up the slope on the other side. When he reached the top, he followed the track to the right and stomped up the next hill.