Secrets of a Summer Night (8 page)

Suddenly, she caught sight of Evie, who had entered the room with the reluctance of a mouse who had been thrown into a sack of cats. Evie’s face relaxed as she saw Annabelle and the Bowmans. Murmuring something to her dour-looking aunt, she headed toward them with a smile.

“
Evie
,” Daisy squealed in delight, beginning to rush toward the girl. Annabelle caught her gloved arm and whispered to her.

“Wait! If you draw attention to Evie, she’ll probably faint from embarrassment.”

Daisy stopped obediently and flashed her an un-abashed grin. “You’re right. I’m an absolute savage.”

“I wouldn’t say that, dear—” Lillian soothed.

“Thank you,” Daisy said in pleased surprise.

“You’re merely a quasi-savage,” her older sister finished.

Biting back a laugh, Annabelle slipped her arm behind Evie’s slender waist. “How lovely you look tonight,” she said. Evie’s hair had been piled at the crown of her head in a mass of gleaming red curls and fastened with pearl-tipped pins. The scattering of amber freckles across her nose only increased her appeal, as if nature had given in to a moment of whimsy and sprinkled a few flecks of extra sunlight over her.

Evie leaned into her partial hug as if she was seeking comfort. “Aunt F-Florence says I look like a f-flaming torch with my hair pinned up like this,” she said.

Daisy scowled at the comment. “Your aunt Florence should hardly make such statements when
she
looks like a hobgoblin.”

“Daisy, hush,” Lillian said sternly.

Annabelle kept her gloved arm around Evie’s waist, reflecting that from what little the girl had related to her, Aunt Florence appeared to take heartless delight in shredding what little confidence Evie possessed. After Evie’s mother had died at a young age, the family had taken the unfortunate girl into its respectable bosom — and the ensuing years of criticism had left Evie’s self-confidence decidedly battered.

Evie’s smile contained a flash of amusement as she regarded the Bowman sisters. “She’s not a h-hobgoblin. I’ve always thought of her as m-more of a troll.”

Annabelle laughed in delight at the little jab. “Tell me,” she said, “have any of you seen Lord Kendall yet? I was told that he is one of the very few unmarried men here — and aside from Westcliff, the only bachelor with a title.”

“The competition for Kendall is going to be brutal,” Lillian remarked. “Fortunately, Daisy and I have come up with just the plan to entrap an unsuspecting gentleman into marriage.” She crooked her finger for them to come closer.

“I’m afraid to ask,” Annabelle said, “but how?”

“You will entice him into a compromising situation, at which time the three of us will conveniently happen along and ‘catch’ you together. And then the gentleman will be honor-bound to ask for your hand in marriage.”

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Daisy asked.

Evie looked at Annabelle dubiously. “It’s rather under-handed, isn’t it?”

“There’s no ‘rather’ about it,” Annabelle replied. “But I’m afraid that I can think of nothing better, can you?”

Evie shook her head. “No,” she admitted. “The question is, are we all s-so desperate to catch husbands that we’ll resort to any means, be they fair or foul?”

“I am,” Annabelle said without hesitation.

“So are we,” Daisy said cheerfully.

Evie regarded the three of them uncertainly. “I can’t toss aside
all
scruples. That is, I sh-shouldn’t care to deceive a man into doing something that he—”

“Evie,” Lillian interrupted impatiently, “men
expect
to be deceived in these matters. They’re happiest that way. If one were straightforward with them, the whole prospect of marriage would be too alarming, and none of them would ever do it.”

Annabelle regarded the American girl with mock alarm. “You’re ruthless,” she said.

Lillian smiled sweetly. “It’s my family heritage. Bowmans are ruthless by nature. We can even be
fiendish
if the occasion calls for it.”

Laughing, Annabelle returned her attention to Evie, who wore a nonplussed frown. “Evie,” she said gently, “until now, I’ve always tried to do things the right way. But it hasn’t gotten me very far — and at this point, I am willing to try something new… aren’t you?”

Still not seeming entirely convinced, Evie surrendered with a nod of resignation.

“That’s the spirit,” Annabelle said encouragingly.

As they conversed, there was a minor stir in the crowd as Lord Westcliff appeared. Seeming entirely comfortable in the position of managing things, he deftly paired gentlemen with ladies in preparation for the procession to the dining room. Although Westcliff was not the tallest man in the room, he had a magnetic presence that was impossible to ignore. Annabelle wondered why some people possessed such a quality — something unnameable that lent significance to every gesture they made and every word they spoke. Glancing at Lillian, she saw that the American girl had noticed it, too.

“There’s a man who thinks well of himself,” Lillian said dryly. “I wonder what — if anything — could ever set him back on his heels.”

“I can’t imagine,” Annabelle replied. “But I would like to be there if it happens.”

Evie drew closer and nudged her arm lightly. “There is Lord K-Kendall, in the corner.”

“How do you know that he is Kendall?”

“Because he is surrounded by a dozen unmarried women who are circling him like sh-sharks.”

“Good point,” Annabelle said, staring at the young man and his milling entourage. William, Lord Kendall, seemed befuddled by the inordinate amount of female attention he was receiving. He was a fair-haired, slightly built young man, his lean face adorned by a pair of perfectly polished spectacles. The reflection of the glass lenses flashed as his perplexed gaze moved from face to face. The passionate interest being shown to a man of Kendall’s timid demeanor proved that there was no aphrodisiac more effective than
end-of-season bachelorhood. Whereas Kendall had been supremely uninteresting to these same girls last January, by June he had acquired an irresistible allure.

“He looks like a nice man,” Annabelle said thoughtfully.

“He looks like he will spook easily,” Lillian commented. “If I were you, I’d try to appear as bashful and helpless as possible when you meet him.”

Annabelle gave her an ironic glance. “ ‘Helpless’ has never been my forte. I’ll try for bashful, but I can’t promise anything.”

“I don’t foresee that you’ll have any problem in diverting Kendall’s interest from those girls to you,” Lillian replied confidently. “After supper, when the ladies and gentlemen return here for tea and conversation, we’ll find some way to introduce you.”

“How should I…” Annabelle began, and paused as she felt a soft prickle along the nape of her neck, as if someone had drawn the fronds of a fern across her skin. Wondering what had caused it, she reached up to touch the back of her neck, and suddenly found her gaze caught by Simon Hunt’s.

Hunt was standing across the room, leaning one shoulder negligently against the side of a flat pilaster, while a group of three men around him were engaged in conversation. He looked deceptively relaxed, his gaze intent, like that of a cat considering whether or not to pounce. It was clear that he had noticed her interest in Kendall.

Hell’s bells
, she thought in vexation, and deliberately turned her back to him. She wouldn’t put it past Hunt to cause trouble for her. “Have you noticed that Mr. Hunt is here?” Annabelle asked her friends in a low voice, and saw their eyes widen.

“
Your
Mr. Hunt?” Lillian sputtered, while Daisy whipped her head around to catch a glimpse of him.

“He’s not mine!” Annabelle protested, making a comical face. “But yes, he’s standing on the other side of the room. I saw him earlier today, actually. He claims to be a close friend of the earl’s.” She frowned and predicted darkly, “Mr. Hunt will do everything possible to wreck our plans.”

“Would he really be so s-selfish as to prevent you from marrying?” Evie asked in amazement. “With the intention of making you into his… his…”

“Kept woman,” Annabelle finished for her. “It’s hardly outside the realm of possibility. Mr. Hunt has a reputation for stopping at nothing to get what he wants.”

“That may be true,” Lillian commented, her mouth firming with determination. “But he’s not going to get
you
— I can promise you that.”

Supper was a magnificent presentation, with gigantic silver tureens and platters carried in a ceaseless procession around the three long tables in the dining room. Annabelle could scarcely credit that the guests would dine like this every night, but the gentleman on her left — the parish vicar — assured her that this was commonplace for Westcliff’s table. “The earl and his family are renowned for their balls and supper parties,” he said. “Lord Westcliff is the most accomplished host of the peerage.”

Annabelle was not inclined to argue. It had been a long time since she had been served such exquisite food. The lukewarm offerings at the London soirees and parties couldn’t begin to compare to this feast. In the past few months the Peyton household had not been able to afford much more than bread, bacon, and soup, with the occasional helping of fried sole or stewed mutton. For once she was glad not to have been seated next to a sparkling conversationalist, as it allowed her long periods of silence during which she could eat as much as she liked. And with the servants constantly offering new and dazzling dishes for the guests to sample, no one seemed to notice the unlady-like gusto of her appetite.

Hungrily she consumed a bowl of soup made with champagne and Camembert, followed by delicate veal strips coated in herb-dressed sauce, and tender vegetable marrow in cream… fish baked in clever little paper cases, which let out a burst of fragrant steam when opened… tiny buttered potatoes served on beds of watercress… and, most delightful of all, fruit relish served in hollowed-out orange rinds.

Annabelle was so engrossed in the meal that several minutes passed before she noticed that Simon Hunt had been seated near the head of Lord Westcliff’s table. Lifting a glass of diluted wine to her lips, she glanced discreetly at him. Hunt was exquisitely dressed as usual, in a formal black coat and a rich pewter-shaded waistcoat, its silk weave gleaming with a quiet luster. His
sun darkened skin contrasted sharply with the starched white linen at his throat, the knot of his cravat as precise as a knife blade. The heavy sable locks of his hair needed an application of pomade… already a thick forelock had fallen over his forehead. It bothered Annabelle for some reason, that unruly lock. She wanted to push it back from his face.

It was not lost on her that the women seated on either side of Simon Hunt were competing for his attention. Annabelle had noticed on other occasions that women seemed to find Hunt quite appealing. She knew exactly why — it was his combination of sinful charm, cool intelligence, and arrant worldliness. Hunt looked like a man who had visited many women’s beds and knew exactly what to do in them. Such a quality should make him less attractive, not more so. But Annabelle was discovering that there was sometimes a vast difference between what you knew was good for you, and what you actually wanted. And though she would have liked to deny it, Simon Hunt was the only man who had ever attracted her physically to this degree.

Although Annabelle had always been somewhat sheltered, she was acquainted with the basic facts of life. Her scant knowledge had been accumulated through hearing mention of things and putting two and two together. Annabelle had been kissed by a few different men who had shown fleeting interest in her during the past four years. But none of those kisses, no matter how romantic the setting, or how handsome the young man, had ever elicited the kind of response from her that Simon Hunt had.

Try as she might, Annabelle had never forgotten that long-ago moment in the panorama theater… the gentle, erotic pressure of his mouth on hers, the compelling pleasure of his kiss. She wished she knew why it had been so different with Hunt, but there was no one to ask. Talking to Philippa about it had been out of the question, as Annabelle had not wanted to confess that she had once accepted ticket money from a stranger. And she was hardly going to mention the incident to the other wallflowers, who clearly didn’t know anything more about kissing and men than she herself did.

As Hunt’s gaze suddenly locked with hers, Annabelle was perturbed by the realization that she had been staring at him. Staring, and fantasizing. Although they were sitting far apart from each other, she was aware of an immediate, electric connection between them… there was an arrested expression on his face, and she wondered what he saw that fascinated him so. Coloring violently, she tore her gaze away and dug her fork into a casserole of leeks and mushrooms blanketed with shavings of white truffle.

After supper, the ladies retired to the parlor for coffee and tea while the gentlemen remained at the tables for port. In the traditional style, the group would eventually reunite in the drawing room. As clusters of women laughed and chatted easily in the parlor, Annabelle sat with Evie, Lillian, and Daisy. “Have you found out anything about Lord Kendall?” she asked, hoping that one of them might have gleaned some gossip from the dinner conversation. “Is there anyone in particular whom he might have taken an interest in?”

“The field seems to be open so far,” Lillian replied.

“I asked Mother what she knew about Kendall,” Daisy supplied, “and she said that he has a sizable fortune and is unencumbered by debt.”

“How would she know?” Annabelle asked.

“At Mother’s request,” Daisy explained, “our father commissioned a written report on every eligible peer in England. And she’s memorized it. She says that the ideal suitor for either one of us would be a poverty-stricken duke whose title would guarantee the Bowmans’ social success, while our money would ensure his cooperation in the marriage.” Daisy’s smile turned sardonic, and she reached over to pat her older sister’s hand as she added. “They made up a rhyme about Lillian, back in New York… ‘Marry Lillian, you’ll get a million.’ The saying became so popular that it was one of the reasons we had to leave for London. Our family looked like a bunch of gauche, overly ambitious idiots.”