Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

A nnette wanted to curl up into a tiny ball and hide under the chair, like a puff of dust that could be swept away and disposed of. But she was not, and she could not. When the vicar had covered his face, she knew immediately he'd heard of The Incident. And believed it. His had not been a comical reaction, but one of fear. When she knew she couldn't hold back the humiliating tears, she'd begun laughing instead. Hysterically.

The look of horror on Miss Langston's face had been worth it. Annette had refused to let that woman see her cry. She instinctively knew it would have made the woman happy. Now sitting in an empty room, she let the tears flow, cleansing her soul of the pent-up frustration. Annette wanted to scream, yell at the world for the injustice done to her, get revenge on a petty duke's son who had ruined her chances at love.

A warmth seeped into her side, and she realized with a jolt that she wasn't alone. An arm went around her shoulders and pulled her close. His scent, spicy yet sweet, told her it wasn't her father, but she let him hold her anyway. He rocked gently, back and forth, back and forth, until her tears subsided, and she hiccupped.

A handkerchief appeared in front of her face as she sniffed. "Th-thank you. I realized I must either laugh or cry in front of our guests. Laughter, maniacal as it sounded, seemed the better option. You must think I'm?—"

"A beautiful and underappreciated woman."

His low timbre soothed her frazzled nerves. Peeking up at him, he gave her a sad smile and kept her close to his side. Without thought, she snuggled against his chest, soaking in his strength. Why couldn't Lord Weston be her suitor? Leaning into him, his arm around her, it felt so natural, so right.

"Don't let that spineless milksop prey upon your good cheer. He has no idea what an amazing woman he just lost." With a finger under her chin, he lifted her head to meet his gaze. "You realize any man would be lucky to have you as a wife?"

Annette shook her head, acutely aware of his touch searing her skin. Her heart began to pound. Would he kiss her? Please, kiss me. She knew without a doubt that it would be the most incredible experience of her life. A moment to remember when she was an old, gray spinster. Or she might burst into flames from the heat of it. The heat of him.

But he did not kiss her. Instead, he gathered her into a tight hug and gave the top of her head a chaste peck. Then he disentangled them and stood, holding out his hand to her. "May I escort you to your room?"

"Yes, please," she murmured. When he pulled her up, Annette found herself staring at his mouth, so close she could feel his warm breath against her forehead. A strange urge enveloped her, and she stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek, then tucked her arm through his.

* * *

22 December 1820

The next morning came much too quickly. It was as if Lord Weston's embrace—no, it had really been only a comforting hug—had eased her heart and mind, and she'd slept soundly. Jenny was already laying out her steel-gray riding habit.

"… and then she ordered the carriage," the maid finished, hands on her hips. "Your chocolate is getting cold, milady."

"Who ordered a carriage?" she asked, blinking the sleep from her eyes and stretching her arms over her head.

"You didn't hear a word I've said." Jenny tsked. "The vicar's sister had their trunk packed early this morning and asked the footman to order their coach. Told Lady Henney there was an appointment she'd forgotten about that the vicar cannot postpone."

"They're gone?" Annette fell back against the pillow, uncertain if this was good or bad news.

"They will be if you tarry over your chocolate." Jenny grinned. "Good riddance, I say. Mr. Langston is nothing like your brother."

True. Ambrose was a wonderful vicar with a lovely wife. His congregation adored him, and the feeling was mutual. Jenny and Lord Weston were right. She should not feel guilty or ashamed about last night. Neither the man nor his sister were worth another thought.

Annette was surprised to see another horse saddled along with her Welsh cob, Domino, whose dapple-gray color had reminded her of spots on a domino piece. A huge black gelding stood patiently next to her mare, waiting for?—

"It's a fine morning for a ride. Thank you for inviting me." Lord Weston emerged from the stable. He looked dizzyingly handsome in his snug riding coat and breeches. His Hessians shone from a recent polish. "The sun is out, there is little wind, and I have a lovely companion by my side. What more could a man ask for?"

Annette had completely forgotten she'd invited him to ride with her before breakfast. Her stomach did a tumble as he smiled down at her, her breath catching when his knuckle tapped her chin.

"You had a better night's sleep? Your eyes are brighter this morning." His gaze seemed to take in every detail of her face.

"Riches, and yes, thank you," she said to both questions, then grinned at his confusion.

"Ah, what more could a man ask for? But there are all kinds of riches. I have wealth, so more blunt does not tempt me. A friendship—with a kind and beautiful woman—would be worth so much more. Do you think that's possible?"

"It depends," she countered with a grin, "on whether the woman was the daughter of a close friend."

"I believe she is," he teased back.

"Then yes, I do think it's possible. In fact, I believe it's already in progress."

They stood facing each other, both with stupid grins on their faces, until the stable boy cleared his throat. "Do ye want me to come along?" he asked. The lad usually rode with Annette because her father refused to let her go alone.

She wanted to say no. She wanted to ride at a gallop, the wind in her face, with only this delicious man at her side. Her heart screamed, Go away. Her brain reminded her of her father and propriety. "Yes, please, follow behind us."

The viscount looked pointedly at her saddle, then cocked his head with a smirk. "Do you often reject the side saddle or only when you're in the country?"

"Does it matter?" she tossed back.

"Not in the least. Just getting to know you." His gaze traveled the length of her riding habit, coming back to the high, fitted waist, then lingering on her lips before their eyes locked.

It was thrilling to be near this man. Her thoughts were always whirling when he was about, her stomach flipping like it had when she was a girl and had gone too high on the swing. Frightening but ever so exciting. She felt daring around Lord Weston and sensed he encouraged her.

"I'm a proper lady when riding with those outside my family," she told him as he helped her mount her horse.

They did gallop side by side, laughing and racing and putting a good distance between them and the poor stable boy. Still, her small dapple-gray mare had no chance against the huge obsidian beast. There was a hedge near the end of the run. Annette had grinned at the viscount and cued Domino with a kick, taking the hedge in one smooth leap. They met on the other side, dragging in great breaths of cold air, little clouds of their breath floating between them. Lord Weston had won the race, of course, but she'd held her own.

"You have an excellent seat," the viscount complimented. "I was a bit worried about that jump, but you handled your horse with skill."

"Thank you, my lord. My brothers taught me to ride as a child. I believe I was all of three when they first tied me to a saddle." She laughed at his horrified look. "My feet couldn't reach the stirrups, so they had to devise a way to keep me secure."

"They could have put you in front of them," said Lord Weston.

"Oh, they'd been doing that since I was a babe. By three, I was demanding to ride alone."

"Of course you were," he teased. "Shall we head back?"

When she nodded, he motioned to the stable boy to return. "I take it your father doesn't like you riding alone?"

Annette shook her head. "Papa believes I'm safe enough on foot. But he worries I could have an accident and be left injured, without any way to send for help. He's right, of course."

"He loves you very much."

"He loves all his children. I'm glad he has found happiness with Lady Henney." She glanced sideways at him. "Papa has been lonely for a long time. But of course, I'm sure you understand how he feels."

There was a long pause before he answered, "When we lost Aggie, I vowed to raise Phoebe with as much love as two parents. I did consider a wife at first, someone with the maternal instincts I lacked. But Agnes's sister swooped in like an angel sent from heaven. She had lost her husband a few years earlier and had no intention of marrying again." He chuckled. "There are sisters—or sisters-in-law—that are not spiteful, bitter old hens. She was a godsend and helped fill the void for Phoebe that her mother had left."

"They are close, then?" Annette asked.

"Very. She sponsored Phoebe for her first Season. Phoebe is with her in London now, acting as chaperone while she spends Christmastide with her fiancé." His deep-brown eyes studied her. "Did you have a female in your life to help with the loss of your mother?"

Annette shook her head, remembering the struggle to find one. "Mama died when I was ten. My father hired governess after governess, and my brothers sent each one running for the portico. I studied with their tutor instead. When did your wife die?"

"Over ten years ago, giving birth to our son. Phoebe was onlyeight." He rubbed his chin, as if deciding his next words. "How long has your father been wooing Lady Henney?"

"Since my first Season. Papa had been confident that I would be betrothed by spring, and he began pursuing the viscountess." She chuckled, but the memory was bittersweet, considering how long the two had been courting. "Poor lady had no idea how long the courtship would last. Five years later, she's still waiting."

"Why? What is the obstacle?"

"Me. Lady Henney thought it best to wait until I was married. But by the end of my second Season, it was obvious…"

"That the men in Town were fools?" he asked with a grin.

"Yes," she agreed, grinning back. How did he manage to make an unpleasant memory seem not so devastating? Or make her feel as if none of it had been her fault? "I fled to our Suffolk estate, vowing never to return. Lady Henney lives on a neighboring estate—it's how they knew each other—and followed Papa to the country. They worry if I don't marry before they are settled, I never will."

"Are they right?"

She nodded. "Probably. You saw what happened last night."

"That man's spine was made of pudding. He wasn't good enough for you."

Her pulse raced. Was he jealous? Don't be a goose! "Thank you for saying that. I only hope the next few days will not be a repeat of the last."

"I understand the men arriving tomorrow are acquaintances of your brother. I doubt they would do anything to cause you distress, or your brother would pulverize them."

"Yes, I believe he would." Annette laughed, wondering if Lord Weston would have liked to do the same to the vicar.

"Well, let's have a hearty breakfast to prepare for round two, shall we?" He winked at her, kicked his horse lightly, and sent him into a canter. Annette did the same, lingering behind to watch his muscular form. She'd prefer a hearty helping of a certain viscount.