Once Upon a Wager (22 page)

But what if she didn't believe him? Why should she, after all, when his actions over the past several days had done little to inspire trust? He'd shattered the tenuous bond between them. As he walked from the library into the hall toward the front door, he vowed he would see it rebuilt, as thunder rolled again in the distance. This time, he would fight for her.

• • •

She made it to her room before dissolving into tears. How could he say such things? Mother had been ill in her last years, but she'd not been cruel. Still, Annabelle couldn't silence a small voice in her head that said he was telling the truth. His eyes had been so somber and serious. He had tried to be gentle, even though she'd been horribly insulting. It was all too easy to hide her feelings behind anger and blame.

“Miss Annabelle,” Mary said, rushing toward her from the doorway of her adjoining chamber. “Why are you crying?” She was in her dressing gown for the evening.

“I'm sorry to wake you, Mary. I will get a hold of myself in short order.”

“Wake me? I wasn't sleeping. This storm has me nervous.”

She sat down upon the settee and tried to calm herself. “Lord Dorset was waiting for us when we returned from Almack's.”

“You've not been right since that trip to the opera. Did he come about that?”

“I suppose so.” She sniffed. “He apologized for being busy with a proposal he's preparing for debate, but that's not why I'm so upset. He spoke about the accident, and about what happened afterward.”

“Those were terrible times.”

“Yes, and he said things that I'm hesitant to believe.”

Mary knelt beside her. “I've tried not to bring up those days since my return, because they were so awful. But Lord Dorset is an honest man. He wouldn't lie.”

“Surely you remember what he did? The letters you sent for me? He never responded to a one of them. How could he have been so heartless?”

Mary flushed. “I can't speak to the letters, Miss Annabelle. He was traveling, after all. Perhaps they were lost.”

“I can believe some may have gone astray, but hardly a dozen.”

“Think back on how he cared for you,” Mary said. “I thank the Heavens above that he called for Dr. Chessher that day, and he watched over you so well. He saved your leg.”

Annabelle straightened, even as tears continued to roll down her cheeks. “But he didn't care enough to stay. He was gone by morning.”

“Oh, miss! I've wondered, given the things you have let slip, if you'd forgotten. Lord Dorset stayed with you after the accident and during those few first days. He hardly left your side. Your mother wouldn't let us speak of it later, but I felt sure you knew.”

“He stayed with me? But Mother said he went back to London, back to his father.”

Mary was twisting her wrapper in her hands. “I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but Lady Layton was not right after that day. I was too afraid of her to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Mary took a deep, unsteady breath. “This will be upsetting.”

“Don't worry,” Annabelle said with a weak laugh. “I'm already upset.”

“She banished Lord Dorset. He did not even get to see Master Gareth buried.”

For several moments, there was silence. “But why?” She could hear the horror in her voice, making her sound faintly hysterical. “Why would she do that?”

“Lady Layton, she was like a wild woman, screaming and ranting. None of the staff was to say his name. When one of the footmen tried to sneak in a letter Lord Dorset wrote to you, your mother found it, and poor Franklin was fired on the spot.”

“He left a letter?” she whispered. Her head was throbbing.

Mary nodded, her cheeks wet now with tears. “Your mother burned it in front of us all. I had to hide your letters and pass them to your father to send. I am so sorry.” Mary wiped her face with the sleeve of her wrapper. “Lord Dorset wouldn't have left your side if he'd not been forced. She made him promise to leave. Not just then, but forever.”

Annabelle felt as if she'd been plunged into a cold lake and held down. She struggled to breathe, the room unbearably close and small. Just like her chamber at Astley Castle, where she'd been trapped for so many months, confined to her bed. Lonely, desperately sad, and in pain.

Annabelle slept fitfully, tossing and turning so often that her legs and arms twisted in the linen sheets, making her feel like a moth caught in a spider's web, fighting the inevitable. An hour before dawn, she gave into it and got out of bed. It was still dark outside, but the storm that had raged all night had spent its fury, washing the world outside her window so it glittered in the moonlight.

She stumbled toward her armoire, her leg still stiff from last night's exertions, and dug into its recesses for the ivory silk wrap that matched her nightgown. The set had been a gift from Aunt Sophia, who thought high-necked and matronly sleepwear was an abomination.

There was probably nothing so ill advised as a snifter of brandy at this hour of the morning, but that was precisely what Annabelle intended. She would creep down to the library, and with any luck, her aunt's Gran Riserva would still be there, bottle and glass waiting politely on a tray. She would pour herself a small measure, sit on the Grecian sofa, and try not to shy away from last night's revelations. Hopefully, it could be accomplished without tears. There was none left in her to shed. Ironically, there was no doubt that her mother had loved her. She'd practically smothered her with love until Annabelle had no longer been sure where her mother ended and she began. After Gareth's death, she'd perhaps been the only reason why Charlotte Layton hadn't died from her grief outright. Her daughter's terrible injuries had motivated her to rise from her bed and return to some semblance of living.

In turn, Annabelle had tried to protect her parents from the instability that grief revealed in each of them, and in the end it meant she allowed not only her injuries but also other people to define her. She'd hidden within the confines of Astley Castle, only to learn tonight that her mother had schemed to keep her from ever really living at all.

She was the only person who could live her own life, and she could not excuse her culpability in all that had happened. She'd been young at that defining moment, but as she'd grown and matured, what had she done to change the course of things? Little. Perhaps nothing. Instead, she'd stopped pushing beyond the castle to seek a wider world, blaming her scars for setting her apart. She'd spent years hurt by Alec's departure, never truly questioning the story she'd been told.

All this while, he'd been honoring a vow made to a delusional woman, because he was not a man to go back on his word. He had not forgotten her.

Annabelle crept into the library, which was dark with shadow, lit only by the moonlight through its windows and the feeble glow of the candle she carried. The fire in the grate had long since burned itself out, and the room had a coolness that was startling. She pulled the door shut behind her, moving slowly, and almost screamed aloud when she realized that she was not alone. She could hear someone's breathing, slow and steady.

Eyes darting around the library in panic, she saw a man's jacket draped carefully over one of the armchairs that bracketed the fireplace. Was he behind the sofa? Could she make it to the fireplace in time and grab the poker to protect herself? Her heart was racing.

But then her eyes returned to the jacket. It was strangely familiar, and she was suddenly struck by an impossible notion. Unable to stop herself, she crept to the sofa and peered over its edge.

Alec Carstairs. Fast asleep.

His handsome face was angled toward the fireplace. He'd unbuttoned his shirt, and her eyes traveled the length of his neck, down over his collarbone, and lower still, past smooth skin gleaming in the candlelight, to where the ends of his shirt tucked into his pants. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

He looked younger in his sleep, more carefree, and heartbreakingly similar to the young man she'd once adored. She wanted to feather her fingers over the long sweep of his lashes, reveling in their softness. She wanted to run her hands all over him, actually, but so much had happened between them. She knew Alec desired her, but could she have a place in his life, in his heart? Was it was too late to find out?

As if reading her thoughts, Alec opened his eyes and looked straight into her own. “Have you decided?” he asked warily. Startled, she almost dropped her candle on his shirt.

“Decided what?”

“How you're going to kill me? Will it be a fireplace poker through the heart, or will you burn me to death with your candle?”

How mortifying. A hot puddle of wax had fallen between the flaps of his shirt and on to his bare chest. She straightened and moved around the sofa. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since the moment you walked into the room. I became a very light sleeper when I went away to the war.”

She settled into one of the chairs beside him, knowing she would never recover from the embarrassment of this. Had he seen her eyeing him up and down, like one of Cook's petit fours? “How did you know it was me?” she asked with a calmness she did not feel.

“The smell of lilacs. Even without it, though, I'd still have known it was you.” He sat up, making a brief attempt to straighten his hair. He seemed to have forgotten that his shirt was half off. She watched in fascination as the muscles of his chest flexed with each movement of his hands.

“Why is that?”

“I am strangely attuned to you, Annabelle. I can sense when you are about.”

Oh my. That was rather flattering. “I didn't know you were here. I came to borrow a book.” That was plausible. “Actually … that's a lie. I wanted a snifter of brandy. I couldn't sleep.”

He tilted his head, a smile playing on his lips. “A midnight drinker. I would never have guessed.”

“It is well past midnight,” she replied needlessly, as she watched him walk over to the side table where Canby had left the libations. He poured a generous glass for her, placing it into her hands before returning to the couch.

“I'm sorry I startled you,” he said. “I thought you would scream and bring the house down upon our heads, but you kept yourself together. You always were a brave girl.”

She smiled at the compliment, and took a small sip of the Gran Riserva. It was very smooth and faintly sweet, filling her mouth with a pleasant, tingling warmth.

No wonder Aunt Sophia liked it so much.

“I am sorry to still be here,” he continued. “I arrived on a mews horse, and it didn't seem fair to wake a stable boy in the middle of the storm. I'm embarrassed to say I drifted off while waiting for it to ease.”

“I am sorry not to have known you were here. I could have readied one of the guest bedrooms for you. Mary would have helped me.”

His eyes widened at that. “Mary Stevens, your maid from Astley Castle?”

“Aunt Sophia tracked her through an agency and asked her to come work with me.”

“I'm happy, then. She was always a good friend to you.”

Annabelle set aside her brandy, leaning forward to clasp one of his hands in her own. She did not let it go. “So were you, Alec. I am sorry I didn't believe it for so long.”

The room became quiet then, as he watched her steadily, unblinking. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice seemed deeper. “I am sorry I didn't know you had written. In the letter I left behind, I promised I would come back if you needed me.”

“According to Mary, my mother found your letter and destroyed it. No doubt the same thing happened to those I wrote.” She was still shocked by that revelation.

“I should have realized your mother was not herself. I should have come back the following morning.”

“You would have gotten that poker in your chest if you attempted it. She hated you until the day she died.” Annabelle slowly disengaged their hands. “Alec, if I promise not to blame you for things you didn't do, and if I ask very nicely, will you tell me something?”

He smiled, but there was a tension to him. “I suppose it depends on the question.”

“Why did the three of you race that day?”

His turned away from her, as if collecting his thoughts. It was obvious he didn't want to answer. “Nobody considered what might happen,” he said at last.

“I remember coming downstairs and finding you and Gareth and Mr. Digby in Father's study. You were very angry. I'd never seen you so look so fearsome.”

He was watching her carefully now, his expression guarded.

“You said something about the stakes of the race being obscene. What had he risked, to be so desperate?”

“Annabelle, please understand,” he replied hesitantly. “I would tell you if I was free to do so, but it would dishonor your brother's memory.”

“He is no longer alive to be embarrassed by it. It can't have been so very bad.”

“Please. Ask me anything else, and I'll answer. I will be as truthful as I can be.”

She felt a surge of disappointment and then anger. What harm could it do to tell her? Why did people always think she must to be protected from the truth? Still, she must learn to trust Alec again. He believed he was honor-bound to keep her brother's secrets. She'd just have to think of a clever way to find them out. And he'd said he would tell her anything else.

Anything.

She took another sip of brandy to calm her nerves. “I have a question, then. And you must be truthful. You've promised it.”

“God help me,” he replied, though he seemed relieved she would not press him further about the race, at least for now. “Do your worst, then.”

“In the carriage the other night,” she began, only to realize this was harder to ask a second time, when so many emotions were invested in his answer. “Why did you kiss me?”