Once Upon a Wager (10 page)

• • •

Never, never, ever again. As he and his mother bounced across the rutted roads outside of London, their carriage heavily laden with trunks and other baggage, Alec renewed his vow to never again let Marworth take him out on the town. His head felt as if a blacksmith had set up a shop inside it. A blacksmith with a very heavy hammer. His tongue was dry and cracked, and his eyes seemed to have swollen inside of their sockets to twice their normal size. If there was any whiskey left in England following last night's extravagant immaturity, he'd be surprised.

“If you will forgive me, dear, you are hardly looking your best. I haven't seen you that particular shade of green since you were a child,” his mother observed anxiously. “Remember those egg creams at the county fair in Dorset? You'd had two before we realized they'd spoiled in the summer heat.”

“Mother, I love you dearly, but you mustn't mention the egg creams again.” His stomach was roiling at the memory. God, he'd never been so sick in his life. Then again, the day was still young.

“One can never be too safe when one eats out,” she continued. “Why, just last week, Lady Doncaster was quite alarmingly ill following a meal at Grillons Hotel. She insisted on several helpings of their mussels in garlic cream, which are deliciously addictive, but so rich, even in small doses. She cast up her accounts right at the table, sending her dinner companions scattering in alarm.”

The mention of creamed mussels did nothing to calm his nausea. Blessedly, however, Mother moved on to a protracted and one-sided conversation about the infamous Lady Doncaster. He closed his eyes to block out a vision of mussel shells swimming in whiskey.

He and Marworth had started out at Watier's club last night, where the cuisine was truly outstanding—a marked improvement over the food served up at White's. If only they'd limited themselves to dinner there, instead of making the fateful decision to sample their way through the club's excellent cellars.

The entire evening, in retrospect, had been rather juvenile. Nor had it made him any less apprehensive about what lay ahead in Nuneaton.

Had Annabelle forgiven him?

Whenever the horrors of war had threatened to overwhelm, he'd picked up a quill and written to her, secure in the knowledge that he could reveal his greatest fears and hopes without embarrassment. After all, he had packed the letters away in his soldier's trunk, knowing full well that they would never be sent.

But now there was the very real chance he would see her again. In fact, he would insist on it. He had kept his promise to her mother, and with it, an unspoken vow to his own father. He had kept his distance in spades. There was every chance that Annabelle needed someone to care for her.

“Alec?” His mother's voice interrupted his thoughts. “Have you heard a word I've said this past hour?”

“I apologize.” He had just enough energy to feel chastened. “My thoughts were elsewhere.”

“I can tell from your face that they were hardly pleasant thoughts, so here's something to cheer you. We have stopped for lunch. Remember The Bull's End, that marvelous little inn on the way to Nuneaton? It was one of your father's favorites. One of their steak-and-kidney pies will make you feel better.”

His stomach turned over in protest, but Alec forced a smile. As he led his mother from the carriage, a hot, sticky rush of early summer heat enveloped them both. He hoped that he would make it through lunch without causing a scene to rival Lady Doncaster's.

• • •

Annabelle and Aunt Sophia wouldn't be traveling abroad, after all. In her aunt's words, “that nasty little Corsican” had effectively put a halt to all pleasure travel on the Continent, and not even her tenacious will could change the fact that Valladolid had been a French stronghold in Spain since 1809.

That didn't mean, however, that they would stay in Nuneaton. Over the course of the past week, they'd settled upon a visit to Bath, which would be less crowded than Brighton this time of year.

After Bath, they would travel onto London to prepare for Annabelle's debut. Her aunt had even persuaded Dr. Chessher's wife, Henrietta, to watch over Father in their absence. When she'd made a fuss over a pair of Poplar Hawk-moths—two of his newest specimens—Annabelle knew he'd be well taken care of.

Their boxes and trunks were already loaded into her aunt's glossy black carriage, ready to leave Nuneaton with its memories and ghosts behind. Aunt Sophia was comfortably ensconced on the fluffy squabs within. The only thing left for Annabelle to do was climb into the carriage so that they could be under way.

And so she did, absolutely terrified.

As the horses started, pulling them forward, she knew that she was worst sort of coward. Her head was pounding and her palms were sweaty. Her serviceable dress became more unfashionable and uncomfortable with each passing mile. The neck in particular shrank by several sizes, constricting every breath. Soon now, her buttons would start flying off of her bodice, threatening her aunt with bodily injury, or she'd faint for lack of air, right here in the carriage.

“Annabelle, are you quite all right?” Aunt Sophia asked solicitously. “You're very quiet.”

“I've been worried that if I opened my mouth, I would start screaming.”

“Oh, dear. Surely it's not as bad as that?”

“I know I should not be so anxious,” she replied, picking at a sleeve with restless fingers. “After all, we'll have a wonderful time, and even if I say or do the wrong thing, no one will notice. Even if I trip over my feet, it's not as if people will be watching us.”

“Actually, everyone will be watching us. We're a very pretty pair.”

“Please, Aunt Sophia. What if we visit the Assembly Rooms, and a gentleman asks me to dance, and I don't remember how?”

“Then you will laugh about it, and he will be completely charmed. And then all of the other girls will forget how to dance, because you've made it the style to do so. And very soon afterward, orchestras across Bath will be silent, because no one will want to dance anymore.”

She smiled briefly at that absurdity, before settling back into her panic. “I think it far more likely the gentleman will simply ask someone else, and that I shall be an outcast.”

“You have lovely manners and an innate grace, Annabelle. Circumstances have kept you out of society, but you'll shine there. You will remember how to dance.”

“I hope you are right. I hope I don't make a fool of myself.” In the choking confines of the carriage, however, it seemed the only likely outcome. “Will we stop soon, do you think? A cold glass of water might settle my nerves.”

Aunt Sophia gave her an appraising look. “Wine is always the better choice, my dear, but we will stop at The Bull's End. It lies up ahead.”

• • •

So far, so good. Despite the strong aromas filling the small dining room, his stomach was behaving as it should. Always happy to accommodate the Carstairs family, the innkeeper had showed them to his best table, a linen-topped affair tucked into a corner between two windows. With the casements thrown open, a welcome breeze offered respite from the heat of the day. Alec sipped on a pint of the house ale—a suggestion from the innkeeper, who made much of its restorative powers—while Mother enjoyed a small glass of ratafia. As at any busy hostelry, there was a constant flurry of activity. He listened as a carriage rolled into the courtyard. He could hear the stable hands rush forward to water and feed its horses. Moments later, he watched the innkeeper move toward the main door, wiping his hands on his apron, eager to welcome his newest customers.

When the door opened, a striking, middle-aged woman walked in. She was clad in an elegant lavender traveling gown, and in the line of her cheek and the shape of her eyes, there were hints of someone he knew. As if sensing his regard, she turned, her head tilted faintly, and he caught his breath. “Surely that is not Lady Layton,” he said in an undertone, a chill coursing down his spine.

“Why, it must be Sophia, Lady Layton's sister,” his mother replied. “I haven't seen her since our coming out a lifetime ago.”

He was no longer listening. A willowy figure had followed the older woman into the inn. Dressed in a simple blue traveling gown, her face was obscured by the wide brim of an unfashionably weathered hat, but he could see her hair gathered in a soft knot at the side of her neck—honey shades, shot throughout with strands of blond corn silk. She moved hesitantly, as if she was self-conscious, and Alec felt a prickling awareness. She turned to survey the room, and as she angled toward him, he could see pale skin rising above a demure neckline. A long, graceful neck. Full lips and high cheekbones. Cornflower blue eyes.

All of the air in the room left in a vacuum. In his befuddled state, was he imagining this? The last time he'd seen Annabelle, she was in and out of consciousness, and in terrible pain. Yet here she was. In a fantastical confluence of chance and circumstance. Walking and whole.

He heard a clatter behind him, and was surprised to realize that he'd stood quite suddenly, sending his chair in a crash to the floor. Even in the busy dining room, the sound of it was jarring, and she looked directly at him. Her eyes went wide with shock, and he smiled slowly, unsure of what to do. But she didn't smile back. Her face went white, as pale as a moonstone. Her mouth dropped open. She seemed to be struggling for breath, and even though he rushed toward her at a sprint, he barely caught her before she fainted dead away.

In that instant, Annabelle was cradled in his arms, the room around them nebulous and indistinct. It was as if she were sleeping, her thick lashes casting soft shadows. He gently pulled one hand from beneath her, and used his teeth to tug at the fingers of his glove, wrenching it off. He touched his bare hand to her forehead. There were no signs of fever, and he felt a rush of relief.

How unlike Annabelle to faint. It was a hot day, though, and the room was too close, and she would be weaker now, because of all she'd suffered. He felt absurdly protective. He couldn't bring himself to lay her down on the floor of the common room. Nor could he stop staring. It seemed impossible that she was here.

“I appreciate your help, young man, but perhaps you could loosen your hold on my niece. One does need air to breathe, after all.” He looked up, surprised to see her aunt standing beside him. Noticing that a crowd had gathered, drawn by the commotion, he loosened his arms fractionally.

“That one's a beauty,” a young man whispered reverently.

“Wish I'd caught her myself,” another groused, prompting an angry shove from the woman beside him.

“'Twas the heat,” warned an elderly woman. “It were too much for the angel.”

“Alec, bring her here.” His mother was standing at the door of one of the inn's side rooms. He lifted Annabelle as gently as he could, careful to keep her head against his chest. She seemed to weigh nothing at all. He could carry her all day if she needed him to. Angling through the doorway, he moved beside a small feather bed and laid her down carefully on its white cotton coverlet. He smoothed her hair, untying the ribbons at the throat of her traveling gown.

“I'm sure I can handle that on my own.” Annabelle's aunt had swept into the room, closing the door behind her.

He flushed with embarrassment. “My apologies. I forgot myself in my concern for Miss Layton.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Do you know my niece?”

“I am Alec Carstairs, Earl of Dorset. I was a close friend of the Layton children when we were young, although it has been many years since I've seen Annabelle.”

“How interesting.” Her eyes seemed to miss nothing. “I am Sophia Middleton, Countess of Marchmain, and Annabelle's maternal aunt. Perhaps you could leave us for a few moments?”

“Of course.” Had he forgotten all of his manners? “I'll wait just outside the door.”

• • •

Annabelle felt a cool cloth on her forehead and opened her eyes to see Aunt Sophia and Lady Dorset standing above her. Oh God, Lady Dorset! And she had fainted. She never fainted! She sat up, self-conscious. Somehow during this debacle, she'd lost her hat. “Don't worry, my dear,” her aunt said. “We will hardly judge your appearance.”

Everything came flooding back. The stifling carriage ride. The stuffy dining room. Alec Carstairs. She felt a spurt of anger. How ironic that his return to Nuneaton, so long overdue, had coincided with her departure. Had he hoped to sneak back home unnoticed? Now that she'd found him out, did he think he could smile his way through her defenses?

“I am so glad to see you recovered, Miss Layton,” Lady Dorset said. “You gave us quite a scare.”

His mother had always been very kind to her, but Annabelle could see enough of Alec in her features that she struggled to keep her voice calm. “Thank you, my lady. I was very sorry to hear of Lord Dorset's passing.”

Lady Dorset lost her smile then, her eyes growing misty. “Yes, well … it was very sudden. But at least my son has returned safe from the war. Alec will be so glad to know you are better. I'll go and fetch him so he can offer his felicitations.”

“No!” Annabelle cried, surprising even herself. “Please don't.” She could not see him now. Not when she was still so unsettled and angry. There was every chance she'd rush at him, fists flying. She'd worshipped him as a child. Had foolishly thought she loved him. How embarrassing to remember it.

“Oh, my dear, of course, you'll need a few minutes. Let me leave you to the care of your aunt, whom I've not seen in such an age. I will secure a private room so we can all reacquaint ourselves.” With that, Lady Dorset walked out, closing the door securely behind her.

Annabelle lowered her head into her hands. “I cannot see him,” she said, her voice tense. “I simply cannot.”

“I know you are still angry with Lord Dorset,” Aunt Sophia said. “But you must learn to put the past behind you. Why, I'd have very few people to speak with if I avoided everyone who gave offense.”