Trouble at the Wedding (19 page)

“The May Day Ball!” Sylvia cried, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I completely forgot I'm on the committee this year. And they're to be here at six? Oh heavens.”

“Lady Helspeth,” Traverton went on, “shall be bringing her daughter, Lady Edith, with her.”

A groan issued from Christian at that announcement. Muttering something about urgent business to see to, he excused himself and started for the wide, curving staircase.

“I shall invite them to stay for dinner,” Lady Sylvia called after him, laughing.

Christian did not reply to that. Instead, he continued up the stairs, and within seconds, he had vanished from view.

“You must forgive my brother,” Sylvia said to Annabel and her family with a charming smile. “Ladies' charity meetings are not his cup of tea.” She returned her attention to the butler. “Now, Traverton, I hope Mrs. Carson has prepared rooms for our guests?”

“Of course, my lady. We followed the instructions in your telegram most carefully.”

“I'm pleased to hear it.” She turned to Henrietta. “I must speak with the housekeeper about this charity meeting I've got, Mrs. Chumley, but I shall leave your family in Traverton's capable hands. If you will forgive me?”

With that, Lady Sylvia departed, and Traverton took charge. “Mrs. Carson, the housekeeper, will take your ladies' maids to their quarters, and then send them up to you,” he told Henrietta. “The footmen will bring in your luggage. Have you a valet with you, Mr. Chumley? Mr. Ransom?”

Both gentlemen shook his heads, and Traverton said, “Should you need anything in the way of valeting, Davis, first footman, and Hughes, second footman, would be happy to assist you. Dinner is at eight o'clock, and guests are always welcome to gather for sherry in the drawing room one hour beforehand. In the meantime, would you care for tea, or would you prefer to be first shown your rooms?”

Dinah, of course, wanted tea. George and Arthur also preferred to have tea, but Annabel and her mother chose to be shown their rooms to change for dinner.

Annabel's room was done up in pale green, with simply carved furniture of cherrywood and vases of early yellow tulips. She liked the room, preferring its elegant simplicity to the oppressive, gilded gaudiness so prevalent in New York.

The footman brought the luggage, and Liza came a short while later with a pitcher of hot water and a basin so that Annabel could freshen up. She exchanged her traveling suit for an evening gown of teal-blue velvet, and with still an hour to go before she needed to go down for sherry, she sat at the writing desk in her room and began the awful task of writing letters.

It had to be done. Thankfully, her mother was arranging for all the gifts to be returned, but it was her duty to write a personal letter to each friend and family member conveying the news that her wedding had been called off, and it was a task that could not be postponed. She kept her letters brief, providing no details, but she still found that it was painful and mortifying news to convey, especially when she thought of how she'd hit Christian in front of all those people. The story would be all over New York in a week, and what people would say about that, she didn't know, but she suspected that striking a duke hadn't done anything to help her gain society's good opinion.

No doubt many would say Rumsford had had a lucky escape, but despite her mortification, Annabel knew she'd been the lucky one. Maybe, she thought with chagrin, that was why she didn't hate Christian. Because she suspected that he had, in a twisted, very wrong kind of way, done her a favor. She had no doubt that she'd have made Bernard a good wife, but would Bernard have made her a good husband?

He acts as if you're lucky to have him when he ought to be down on his knees thanking God he's lucky enough to have you.

Annabel paused, her pen poised over the letter she was writing, Christian's voice echoing in her head, and she knew the answer to her own question about Bernard. The answer was no.

“Face it, Annabel,” she muttered to herself, staring out the window at the beautiful beds of boxwood and daffodils. “When it comes to picking men, you are just plain hopeless.”

With those words, the gardens of Cinders faded away, and the image of one man in particular came into her mind, a man with vivid blue eyes and dark hair. She could see him clear as day, steam swirling all around him, his damp white shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders, the linen almost transparent against his skin.

During the past two days, she hadn't thought much about what had happened the night before her wedding. Once relief had settled in that nothing more than a kiss had happened between them, she'd pushed it out of her mind. And then, after what he'd done at the wedding, she'd been too damned angry to give that kiss much thought.

But in the two days since then, her temper had cooled, and now, those hot moments in the Turkish bath came roaring back—his arms pulling her close and his mouth coming down on hers in a hard, lush kiss. Her arms wrapping around his neck, and her lips parting beneath his, kissing him back. He'd been right about that, too.

Annabel tossed down her pen in exasperation.

Even now, two days later, she could still feel the thrill of the kiss they'd shared as if it had just happened an hour ago. She knew the best thing she could do was forget it, put it behind her, but as Annabel pressed her fingers to her tingling lips, she had the sinking feeling it wasn't going to be easy.

F
ortunately for Annabel, Christian made forgetting about him a little bit easier, at least for the evening. He wasn't downstairs when she came into the drawing room for sherry at seven. Her mother was there, however, along with three other ladies. One, a rather timid-looking blond of about seventeen, she took to be Lady Edith, and the forbidding, gray-haired matron to be her mother, Lady Helspeth, for there was a distinct similarity to their features. The third, a slender, elegantly dressed lady with touches of silver in her blond hair, had to be Lady Kayne.

“Ah, Annabel!” Sylvia exclaimed when she entered the room. “There you are. Come and meet the other members of the May Day Ball Committee.” Sylvia performed the introductions, confirming Annabel's guess as to identities, then she gestured to the place beside her on the settee. “Sit down with us, my dear. We've finished our meeting and it's been the most successful afternoon, hasn't it, Maria?”

Lady Kayne, to whom this question was addressed, nodded in a satisfied fashion. “I do believe we'll raise even more money for the Orphanage Fund this year than last, no doubt because I'm no longer doing it all myself. You ladies have my gratitude.”

“Don't thank me,” Sylvia protested. “It's all due to Agatha that you've got so many vouchers for the ball. Lady Helspeth,” she added to Annabel, “has an amazing talent for raising funds.”

“I'm shameless,” Lady Helspeth confessed in a booming voice. “Shameless. I shall be having a contribution from you, Miss Wheaton, before the evening is over. Lady Sylvia tells me that you are American and that her brother is one of your estate trustees?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Annabel turned as a footman presented her with a tray of tiny wineglasses filled with sherry, but after what had happened the other night, she decided it would probably be safer if she kept away from alcohol. She shook her head, and the footman moved on.

“Then I hope we can count on you,” Lady Helspeth went on heartily. “You'll purchase vouchers for the ball for yourself and your family, won't you?”

“I am always happy to attend a ball,” Annabel answered. “And to contribute to worthy charities.”

“I am delighted to hear it! Then, in addition to vouchers, can we expect a sizable donation to the fund? It's for the children, you know.”

“There, Agatha,” Sylvia remonstrated, “don't work on the poor girl in this way. She'll buy vouchers for the ball, but as for additional funds, it's Christian you shall have to work on. As I told you, he's one of the guardians at the gate, and he's being terribly protective about Miss Wheaton's trust fund. The responsibility is enormous, you know. And, of course, becoming the Duke of Scarborough has forced him to become very conscientious about his duties all the way around. I believe . . .” She paused and leaned forward, adopting a confidential air. “Ladies, I believe my brother might actually be turning over a new leaf.”

“Is he?” Lady Edith asked, and Annabel caught the hope that brightened the younger girl's expression. “Will he be joining us for dinner tonight?”

“Christian? Heavens, no. He might be turning over a new leaf, my dear Edith, but he's not a whole new tree! It's only your first season, so you're probably unaware of the fact, but even when we're in London, Christian doesn't often go into society. He's at his club this evening.”

The girl's shoulders sagged a little, and Annabel looked at her with empathy. It was awful to be seventeen and in love with a rakehell. It was a heartbreak just waiting to happen. Poor Edith.

Chapter Twelve

A
nnabel had even more cause to feel sorry for Edith a few hours later, after the girl and her mother had departed for home and the rest of the household was going upstairs to bed. Because she wasn't sleepy, she inquired of the footman the location of the library and went in search of a book to read, but when she arrived there, she found someone already there, someone she hadn't expected to see.

“Well, hello,” she said in surprise, coming to a halt in the doorway at the sight of Christian, who was sitting at a card table on the other side of the room. “I thought you were at your club.”

He gave her a rueful look. “I am playing patience,” he answered with a sigh. “In more ways than one.”

“What do you mean?” She came in, and as she approached where he sat, she noticed the cards spread out before him. “Ah,” she said with understanding. “Is that what you call it? Patience?”

He moved a red queen onto a black king. “I believe you Americans call it solitaire.”

“Yes, we do.” She slid onto the chair opposite, feeling it necessary to point out the obvious. “We call it solitaire because it's solitary, as in alone, by one's self. It's something a person usually does when he's procrastinating about doing something else, like the job he's being paid for.”

He looked up. “Annabel, show a little compassion. When faced with Lady Helspeth's booming voice and her daughter's melting glances, a man has to go into hiding. Please tell me they've gone at last? Is it safe for me to come out?”

She pressed her lips together, trying to look disapproving. “That's not very nice,” she said after a moment. “Lady Edith has quite a crush on you.”

He grimaced. “If by that you mean a romantic attachment, then yes, I am fully aware of the fact. And as for your accusation that I'm not being nice, I must take issue. By staying up here, I am giving her no encouragement, and I can only hope her crush, as you call it, will pass more quickly if I'm not in her vicinity.”

“And how is that plan working?” she asked.

“Not very well, obviously,” he was forced to concede.

Annabel chuckled at the glumness in his voice. “Has she always been infatuated with you?”

“Since she was about twelve. Her father's lands are in North Yorkshire near my family's estate, Scarborough Park, so she's known me all her life. About six years ago, she got this idea in her head that her love could impel me to mend my ways, that I was really only this wild, irresponsible fellow because my wife had died. And that with a new wife, I would be a better man. I'd hoped she'd grow out of this fantasy when her skirts hit the floor, but unfortunately, it seems as bad as ever.”

Annabel pushed idly at the corner of a stack of his cards, her heart constricting a little. “Well, it's sort of understandable, isn't it?” she asked in a low voice. “I mean, she is just a girl.”

He stopped playing solitaire. She watched his hands still, and then he set the cards down and was reaching across the table. His fingertips lifted her chin. “Annabel, I have never given Lady Edith the slightest reason to hope for my affections.”

His hand slid away, but his eyes continued to look into hers, and she could have told him that he didn't have to actually do anything to fire up a girl's hopes and melt her good sense into a puddle on the floor—nothing, that is, except stand there and look at her and smile. But she decided it might be best not to say so.

“So,” he said, and picked up the cards, “whenever Lady Edith comes to dinner, I compassionately develop a cold, duck down the back stairs and go to my club, or hide here in the library.”

She forced herself to say something. “It's her first season out, and she ought to be having fun, not mooning over you. If you did pay her a little attention, just a little, then other men would notice, and think more highly of her, because you're a duke. And if that happened, she might realize you're not the only fish in the sea. Besides,” she added, “according to what your sister was telling them earlier this evening, you've become a paragon of respectability and responsibility now that you're a duke. Pretty soon, you just might find you've lost your fatal fascination and Lady Edith has left you in the dust.”

He chuckled. “That's the best argument for respectability I've heard yet. Unfortunately, I can't stop being a duke.” His smile faded. “I wish I could.”

“Why don't you want to be the duke? Did you love your brother that much?”

“Andrew?” He made a sound of derision. “My brother was a prize bastard.”

“You're very judgmental about people, you know that? You don't like Bernard. You didn't like your brother. You don't like Edith. Is there anybody you do like?”

He slid her that look from under sooty lashes. “I like you.”

She folded her arms, trying to show she wasn't impressed, trying to hide how that look of his could turn her all soft and warm like butter in the sun.

“And I don't dislike Edith,” he went on, thankfully returning his attention to the cards. “She's a very sweet girl, but as you pointed out, she is only a girl, and far too young for me. And yes, it's true that I didn't have much respect for my brother, nor Rumsford, either, but I disliked them both for the same reason.”

“Which is?”

Giving up on the game, he tossed down the cards and leaned back in his chair. “They're both snobs who genuinely think they're better than everyone else—”

“But they are better than everyone else—”

“They're not! You're worth a dozen of 'em, Annabel, and I don't give a damn that you were born in a shack! Believe me, Bernard's sisters could take lessons from you on character and kindness!”

She stared at him, a bit shocked by the vehemence of this little speech, and didn't know what to say. “Thank you,” she finally managed. “I appreciate that very much, but you didn't let me finish. Bernard, and your brother—and you, for that matter—are better than everyone else in the eyes of society. That's what counts in this world. The day the announcement of my engagement hit the newspapers, I had seven Knickerbocker ladies call on me to offer their congratulations, when none of them had ever spoken a word to me before. By the end of the week, I had invitations to parties I'd never dreamed of being invited to. It sounds frivolous, I know, but . . .” She paused and bit her lip. “It's hell being shut out. It hurts. You can say it doesn't matter what people think, and you don't care, but that's always a lie. It does hurt, no matter how you try not to let it. And more than that, if you can't win the approval of society, it hurts your family, your children.”

“But if you hadn't become rich, you wouldn't have cared what the Knickerbockers thought. It wouldn't have mattered to you.”

“But even back in Gooseneck Bend, there was a hierarchy. The Hardings were at the top, my family was at the bottom, and it hurt back then, too. You can say it shouldn't hurt, Christian, but you don't know how it feels. You never will.”

“So despite having money, nothing about your life has changed but the setting?”

“Well, I wouldn't say nothing,” she said with a smile, leaning back in her chair. “It's nice to have money, believe me. But it sure isn't the road to happiness. When we first got word that Daddy had died up in the Klondike, it didn't seem to matter much. We hadn't heard from him for years, and Mama had already divorced him ages ago and remarried. But when we got the telegram about his death from some lawyer in Seattle, we also found out he had some gold mines and that he'd made a will, leaving them in trust to me. Uncle Arthur went up there to sort it all out, and that's when we found out how prosperous the mines were and that what he'd left me was worth a fortune.”

She gave a wry little laugh. “We figured then that all our troubles were over. I mean, we'd have anything you could want, right? Plenty of food, nice clothes, beautiful houses, security. Within a year, we were living in Jackson. Within two years, we were living in New York, but for all the mind anybody paid, we might as well have stayed in Gooseneck Bend. George and Arthur, they were doing business on Wall Street and drinking at the Oak Room and earning everybody's respect—New Money and Old. The men treated them like equals. But the women doing the same for me, Dinah, and Mama? Not a chance.”

“No, I should imagine not. It's always the women who decide the social pecking order, and how they decide is often inexplicable. Even here, a title doesn't necessarily gain social position, not by itself.”

“But it sure helps.” She paused and gave a little laugh. “It didn't take long for us to figure that out. No matter what we did, we didn't fit in.”

“Why didn't you go abroad? To France or Italy? The social rules are much more relaxed there.”

“We were going to. I told you about my debutante ball in Jackson, remember?”

“Yes.”

“I didn't want what happened to me to ever happen to Dinah. And if I ever had daughters, I didn't want it to happen to them. I knew the only way to prevent it was for me to marry a man with a title. I'd gotten a letter from my friend Jennie Carter. She and her family had gone to Paris last spring, and she wrote to tell me she'd become engaged to a French marquess, and she said it was like the whole world just opened up. She invited us to come over once she was married, so I started taking French lessons and making plans for Mama, Dinah, and me to go in the autumn. But then I met Bernard, and before I knew it, we were engaged. If I hadn't met Bernard, I was ready to go to Paris and find myself a French marquess, too.”

“Being a marquess is even more meaningless in France than it is in England. There's one on every corner.”

“Why do you hate it all so much?”

His reply was immediate. “Why do you love it all so much?”

She shrugged, idly shoving the pile of cards into a stack with her fingertips. “I told you why.”

“Yes, and I daresay it's understandable, given your situation, but Annabel, don't you see that none of it really means a damned thing? It doesn't signify anything.”

“Most people would disagree with you,” she whispered.

“And they'd be wrong. Once upon a time, lands and title were given for deeds bravely done, or some other service to the king, but those days are long over. Now, the aristocracy exists merely to keep existing. I'm not a duke because I accomplished something worthwhile. My brother died. That's all. And God knows Andrew didn't do anything to be worthy of the title, either. He inherited it. As did his father, and his father before him. None of us ever earned a bit of it for ourselves.”

“Maybe it's time you changed that family tradition.”

“I have to. I don't have a choice. Andrew spent everything we had and left everything in a shambles. The estates don't pay for themselves anymore.” He looked at her. “The aristocracy is dying, Annabel. It has to change because it's outlived its usefulness.”

“That's easy for you to say,” she pointed out, “since your birthright is something no one can take away from you.”

He tilted his head, giving her a thoughtful look. “My wife was like you. Oh, not in temperament. Evie was very shy, painfully so. And quiet. But like you, she had money and no pedigree. She was desperate to be accepted, just like you and your family.”

“Is that why she married you?”

“Yes, to some extent.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair to stare at the ceiling. “She fell violently in love with me. Not the sort of love that would have lasted, mind you. No, it was an infatuation. She fell in love with the man she thought I was.” He paused, straightening in his chair and meeting her eyes across the table. “The man I let her think I was.”

Annabel understood, and her heart hurt for that girl because she knew a girl could let herself believe anything if it was what she wanted to believe. Her throat constricted, and she forced herself to say out loud what she already knew. “You charmed her, got her to fall for you.”

He was silent for several seconds before he answered, “Yes.”

“Did you lie? Did you tell her you loved her even though you didn't?”

“No. She didn't ask, believe it or not. I think . . .” He paused. “I think she was afraid of the answer.”

“Were you fond of her?”

“I liked her. I—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “God, this sounds odious, but I felt sorry for her. She wasn't like you, Annabel. She wasn't a fighter.”

She smiled a little at that. “Mama says the whole time she was carryin' me, I was kicking, trying to get out. I was fighting even back then.”

“I wish Evie had been more like you. Things might have been . . . different.” He looked up, and she was startled by the bleakness of his expression. “My wife died by drowning.”

She swallowed hard. “I know.”

“What you may not know is that she walked into a pond at Scarborough even though she couldn't swim. She was wearing all her clothes and she walked right into the water until it was over her head. A farmer saw her do it, but he couldn't reach her in time to save her.”

Annabel gasped. “You mean, she killed herself?”

“Yes. I was away at the time, in France.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, staring at him. He looked back at her, watching as if waiting for her inevitable next question. She had to ask it. “Why?”

“I don't know.” His gaze slid away, a shimmer of guilt. He knew, he just didn't want to say. She waited, looking at him, and finally he said, “She had been with child, but she'd miscarried. Sylvia cabled me, and I came back at once, but by the time I reached home, she was dead.”

“You blame yourself.” It was a statement, not a question, but she held her breath, waiting for what he would say.

“I wasn't there. I wasn't with her because I was off playing. Playing with her money.”