“Discussion isn’t what I want,” Hodgeham said.
Annabelle saw a quick succession of emotions cross her mother’s face: disgust, resentment, hatred, fear. And finally… resignation. “Come away from my daughter, then,” she said coldly.
“No,” Annabelle croaked in protest, realizing that Philippa intended to go somewhere alone with him. “Mama, stay with me.”
“Everything will be fine.” Philippa didn’t look at her, but kept her emotionless gaze on Hodgeham’s ruddy countenance. “I’ve brought you a lunch tray, dearest. Try to eat something—”
“No.” Disbelieving, despairing, Annabelle watched her mother calmly precede Hodgeham from the room. “Mama, don’t go with him!” But Philippa left as if she had not heard.
Annabelle was not aware of how many minutes passed as she stared blankly at the empty doorway. There was no thought in her mind of touching the lunch tray. The tang of vegetable broth that flavored the air made her feel nauseous. Bleakly, Annabelle wondered how this hellish affair had ever started, if Hodgeham had forced himself on her mother, or if it had initially been a matter of mutual consent. No matter how it had begun, it had now turned into a travesty. Hodgeham was a monster, and Philippa was trying to pacify him to keep him from ruining them.
Weary and miserable, trying not to think of what might be occurring between her mother and Hodgeham at that very moment, Annabelle levered herself off the settee. She winced at the protesting ache of her muscles. Her head hurt, and she was dizzy, and she wanted to go to her room. Walking like an old woman, she made her way to the bellpull and tugged. After what seemed an interminable length of time, there was still no response. With the guests gone, most the staff had been allowed their day off, and maids were in short supply.
Scrubbing her fingers distractedly through the limp locks of her hair, Annabelle assessed the situation. Although her legs were weak, they felt serviceable. That morning her mother had helped her to walk the length of two hallways from their room to the Marsdens’ upstairs parlor. Now, however, she was fairly certain that she could manage the short journey on her own.
Ignoring the brilliant sparks that danced across her vision like fireflies, Annabelle left the room with short, careful steps. She stayed close to the wall in case she needed to avail herself of its support. How odd it was, she thought grimly, that even this minor exertion should cause her to pant as if she had just run for miles. Infuriated with her own weakness, she wondered ruefully if she shouldn’t have drunk that last cup of clivers after all. Concentrating on setting one foot in front of the other, she made slow progress along the first hallway, until she was nearly at the corner that led to the east wing of the estate, where her room was located. She stopped as she heard quiet voices coming from another direction.
Hell’s bells. It would be mortifying to be seen by anyone while she was in this condition. Praying that the voices belonged to a pair of servants, Annabelle leaned her weight against the wall and stood without moving. A few strands of hair stuck to her clammy forehead and cheeks.
Two men crossed the passageway before her, so involved in their conversation that it seemed they wouldn’t notice her. Relieved, Annabelle thought that she managed to escape detection.
But she was not that fortunate. One of the men happened to glance in her direction, and his attention was immediately rivetted. As he approached her, Annabelle recognized the masculine grace of his long strides even before she saw his face clearly.
It seemed that she was destined to be forever making herself an exhibition in front of Simon Hunt. Sighing, Annabelle pushed away from the wall and tried to appear composed, even with her legs trembling beneath her. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hunt—”
“What are you doing?” Hunt interrupted as he reached her. He sounded annoyed, but as Annabelle looked up at his face, she saw the concern in his gaze. “Why are you standing alone in the hallway?”
“I’m going to my room.” Annabelle started a little as he slid his arms around her, one at her shoulders, the other at her waist. “Mr. Hunt, there’s no need—”
“You’re as weak as a kitten,” he said flatly. “You know better than to go anywhere by yourself in this condition.”
“There wasn’t anyone to help me,” Annabelle replied irritably. Her head swam, and she found herself against him, letting him support some of her weight. His chest was wonderfully solid and hard, the fabric of his coat silky-cool against her cheek.
“Where is your mother?” Hunt persisted, smoothing back a tangled lock of her hair. “Tell me, and I’ll—”
“No!” Annabelle glanced up at him with instant alarm, her slender fingers biting into his coat sleeves. Dear God, the last thing she needed was for Hunt to instigate a search for Philippa when she was probably in some damnably compromising situation with Hodgeham at that very moment. “Don’t look for her,” she said sharply. “I…I don’t need anyone. I can reach my room by myself, if you’ll just let go of me. I don’t want—”
“All right,” Hunt murmured, his arm remaining firmly around her. “Hush, I won’t look for her. Hush.” His hand continued to smooth her hair in gentle, repeated motions.
She wilted against him, trying to catch her breath. “Simon,” she whispered, vaguely surprised that she had just used his first name, for she had never used it even in the privacy of her thoughts. Moistening her dry lips, she tried once more, and to her astonishment, she did it again. “Simon…”
“Yes?” A new tension had entered his long, hard body, and at the same time, his hand moved over the shape of her skull in the softest caress possible.
“Please… take me to my room.”
Hunt tilted her head back gently and regarded her with a sudden faint smile playing on his lips. “Sweetheart, I would take you to Timbuktu if you asked.”
By that time, the other man in the hallway had reached them, and Annabelle was dismayed, though not surprised, to see that it was Lord Westcliff.
The earl glanced at her with cold disapproval, as if he suspected that she had somehow arranged this situation as an intentional inconvenience.
“Miss Peyton,” he said crisply, “I assure you, there was no need for you to make your way through the hall unescorted. If there was no one available to help you, you had only to ring for a servant.”
“I did, my lord,” Annabelle said defensively, trying to push away from Hunt, who wouldn’t let her. “I rang the bellpull and waited for at least a quarter hour, and no one came.”
Westcliff’s regarded her with obvious skepticism. “Impossible. My servants always come when they’re summoned.”
“Well, today seems to be an exception,” Annabelle snapped. “Perhaps the bellpull is broken. Or perhaps your servants—”
“Easy,” Hunt murmured, pressing her head back to his chest. Although Annabelle couldn’t see his face, she heard the note of quiet warning in his voice as he spoke to Westcliff. “We’ll continue our discussion later. Right now I intend to escort Miss Peyton to her room.”
“That is not a wise idea, in my opinion,” the earl said.
“I’m glad I didn’t ask for it, then,” Simon returned pleasantly.
There was the sound of the earl’s taut sigh, and Annabelle was vaguely aware of his carpet-muffled footsteps as he walked away from them.
Hunt bent his head, his breath warming the tip of her ear, as he inquired, “Now…would you care to explain what is going on?”
All her veins seemed to dilate, bringing a flush of pleasure to her cool skin. Hunt’s nearness filled her with equal amounts of delight and yearning. As he held her, she couldn’t help remembering her dream, the erotic illusion of his body pressing over hers. This was all so terribly wrong, that she should revel silently in being held by him …even knowing that she would get nothing from him but temporary pleasure followed by everlasting dishonor. She managed to shake her head in answer to his question, her cheek rubbing against the lapel of his coat.
“I didn’t think so,” Hunt said wryly. H
e released her experimentally, assessed her unsteady balance with a narrow-eyed glance, and bent to lift her in his arms. Annabelle surrendered with an inarticulate murmur and linked her arms around his neck. As Hunt carried her along the hallway, he spoke in a quiet voice. “I might be able to help, if you would tell me the problem.”
Annabelle considered that for a moment. The only thing that would come from confiding her woes to Simon Hunt was an almost certain offer to support her as his mistress. And she hated the part of herself that was tempted by the idea. “Why should you wish to involve yourself in my problems?” she asked.
“Do I have to have an ulterior motive for wanting to help you?”
“Yes,” she replied darkly, causing him to chuckle.
He set her carefully down at the threshold of her room. “Can you reach the bed by yourself, or shall I tuck you in?”
Though his voice was lightly teasing, Annabelle suspected that with very little encouragement, he would do just that. She shook her head hastily. “No. I’m fine, please don’t come in.” She put a palm to his chest to keep him from entering the room. Frail though her hand was, it was enough to stop him.
“All right.” Hunt looked down at her, his gaze searching. “I’ll see that a maid is sent up to attend you. Though I suspect that Westcliff is already making inquiries.”
“I did ring for a maid,” Annabelle insisted, embarrassed by the peevish note in her own voice. “Obviously, the earl doesn’t believe me, but—”
“I believe you.” With great care, Hunt removed her hand from his chest, briefly holding her slender fingers in his before letting go. “Westcliff isn’t quite the ogre he seems. You have to be acquainted with him for some time before you appreciate his finer qualities.”
“If you say so,” Annabelle said doubtfully, and heaved a sigh as she stepped back into the stale, darkened sickroom. “Thank you, Mr. Hunt.” Wondering anxiously when Philippa would return, she glanced at the empty room, then turned back to Hunt.
His penetrating gaze seemed to unearth every emotion beneath her strained facade, and she sensed the multitude of questions that hovered on his lips. However, all he said was, “You need to rest.”
“I’ve done nothing but rest. I’m going mad from boredom…but the thought of actually doing anything makes me exhausted.” Lowering her head, Annabelle stared at the few inches of floor between their feet with morose concentration, before asking cautiously, “I suppose you have no interest in continuing the chess game later this evening?”
A short silence, and then Hunt replied in a softly mocking drawl. “Why, Miss Peyton …I’m overwhelmed by the thought that you might have a desire for my company.”
Annabelle couldn’t bring herself to look at him, her face covered with an awkward blush, as she muttered, “I’d keep company with the devil himself, if only to have something to do besides stay in bed.”
Laughing quietly, he reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “We’ll see,” he murmured. “Perhaps I’ll come by your room later.”
And with that, he gave her a deft, shallow bow and left, walking down the hallway with his usual self-assured stride.
Too late, Annabelle recalled something about a musical evening that had been planned for the guests while they enjoyed a buffet supper. Certainly Simon Hunt would prefer to keep company with the guests downstairs rather than play a rudimentary game of chess with a sickly, unkempt, cross-tempered girl. She cringed, wishing that she could withdraw the spontaneous invitation… oh, how pitifully desperate she must have appeared! Clapping a hand to her forehead, Annabelle trudged into her room and let herself collapse stiffly onto the unmade bed like a tree that had just been chopped down.
Within five minutes, there was a knock at the door, and a pair of chastened-looking maids entered the room. “We came to tidy up, miss,” one of them ventured, “The master sent us—’e said we must ’elp you with anyfing you need.”
“Thank you,” Annabelle said, hoping that Lord Westcliff had not been too severe on the girls. Retreating to a chair, she watched the whirlwind of activity that ensued. With almost magical speed, the young housemaids changed the bed linens, opened the window to admit fresh air, cleaned and dusted the furniture, and brought in a portable bath that they proceeded to fill with hot water. One of the girls helped Annabelle to remove her clothes, while the other brought in a length of folded toweling and a bucket of warm rinse water for her hair. Shivering in comfort, Annabelle stepped into the mahogany-rimmed folding tub.
“Take my arm, please, miss,” the younger of the two said, extending her forearm for Annabelle to take hold of. “Yer not quite steady on yer feet, looks like.”
Annabelle obeyed and sank down into the water, and let go of the girl’s muscular arm. “What is your name?” she asked, lowering her shoulders until they were submerged beneath the steaming surface of the water.
“Meggie, miss.”
“Meggie, I believe I dropped a gold sovereign on the floor of the family’s private parlor—will you try to find it for me?”
The girl gave her a perplexed glance, clearly wondering why Annabelle had left a valuable coin on the floor and what would transpire if she couldn’t find it. “Yes, miss.” She bobbed an uneasy curtsey and rushed from the room. Dunking her head beneath the water, Annabelle sat up with a streaming face and hair and wiped her eyes as the other maid bent to rub a cake of soap over her head. “It feels nice to be clean,” Annabelle murmured, sitting still beneath the girl’s ministrations.
“Me ma allus says ’tisn’t good to bathe when yer ill,” the maid told her dubiously.
“I’ll take my chances,” Annabelle replied, gratefully tilting her head back as the maid poured the rinse water over her soapy hair. Wiping her eyes once more, Annabelle saw that Meggie had returned.
“I found it, miss,” Meggie exclaimed breathlessly, extending the coin in her hand. It was possible that she had never held a sovereign before, since the average housemaid earned approximately eight shillings a month. “Where shall I put it?”
“You may divide it between the two of you,” Annabelle said.
The housemaids stared at her, dumbfounded. “Oh, thank you, miss!” they both exclaimed, eyes wide and mouths open in amazement.
Grimly aware of the hypocrisy of giving away money from Lord Hodgeham, when the Peyton household had benefited from his questionable patronage for more than a year, Annabelle lowered her head, embarrassed by their gratitude. Seeing her discomfort, the two hastened to help her from the tub, drying her hair and shivering body, and helping her to don a fresh gown.
Refreshed but tired after the bath, Annabelle got into bed and lay between the soft, smooth bed linens. She dozed while the maids removed the bath, only hazily aware when they tiptoed from the room. It was early evening when she awoke, blinking as her mother lit a lamp on the table.
“Mama,” she said groggily, dazed with sleepiness. Remembering the earlier encounter with Hodgeham, she shook herself awake. “Are you all right? Did he—”
“I don’t wish to discuss it,” Philippa said softly, her delicate profile gilded by the lamplight. She wore a numb, blank look, her forehead lightly scored with tense furrows. “Yes, I am quite all right, dearest.”
Annabelle nodded briefly, abashed and despondent, and aware of a pervasive feeling of shame. She sat up, her back feeling as if her spine had been replaced by an iron poker. Aside from the stiffness of her unused muscles, however, she felt much stronger, and for the first time in two days her stomach was aching with real hunger. Slipping from the bed, she went to the vanity table and picked up a hairbrush, dragging it through her hair. “Mama,” she said hesitantly, “I need a change of scene. Perhaps I will go back to the Marsden parlor and ring for a supper tray, and dine in there.”
Philippa appeared to have only half heard the words. “Yes,” she said absently, “that seems a fine idea. Shall I go with you?”
“No, thank you…I’m feeling quite well, and it isn’t far. I’ll
go by myself. You probably want some privacy after…” Annabelle paused uncomfortably and set down the brush. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
With a low murmur, Philippa sat in the chair by the hearth, and Annabelle sensed that she was relieved by the prospect of being alone. After braiding her hair into a long rope that lay over her shoulder, Annabelle left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
As she went out into the hall, she heard the subtle rumble of the guests who were enjoying the supper buffet in the drawing room. Music overlaid the blend of conversation and laughter—a string quartet with an accompanying piano. Pausing to listen, Annabelle was astonished to realize that it was the same sad, beautiful melody that she had heard in her dream. She closed her eyes and listened intently, while her throat tightened with a wistful ache. The music filled her with the kind of longing that she should not have allowed herself to feel. Good God, she thought, I’m becoming maudlin in my illness—I have to get some control over myself. Opening her eyes, she started to walk again, only to narrowly miss plowing into someone who had approached from the opposite direction.
Her heart seemed to expand painfully as she looked up at Simon Hunt, who was dressed in a formal scheme of black and white, a lazy smile curving his wide mouth. His deep voice sent a shiver down her spine. “Where do you think you’re going?”
So he had come for her, in spite of the elegant crowd that he should have been mingling with downstairs. Aware that the sudden weakness in her knees had nothing to do with her illness, Annabelle toyed nervously with the end of her braid. “To have a supper tray in the parlor.”
Taking her elbow, Hunt turned and guided her along the hallway, keeping his steps slow to accommodate hers. “You don’t want a supper tray in the parlor,” he informed her.
“I don’t?”
He shook his head. “I have a surprise for you. Come, it’s not far.” As she went with him willingly, Hunt slid an assessing gaze over her. “Your balance has improved since this afternoon. How are you feeling?”