How to Lose a Bride in One Night
Page 24
Her gaze drank him in, the hard planes and valleys of his face, the well-shaped lips, the eyes that looked at her with such intensity, as though he was memorizing everything about her.
She swallowed, wishing she could look away, but was hopelessly drawn to the sight of him. He was achingly beautiful. Like something out of a dream. She supposed that was how she would look back to this time with him. Something beautiful and blurred in her memories. “I don’t believe that.”
His smile deepened, yet it was mirthless and somewhat indulgent. “Of course you don’t. You’re the type of girl who only sees the best in everyone.”
She frowned, hoping that wasn’t true. She couldn’t be that trusting. Not again. That had been her mistake with Bloodsworth. She had never seen him for what he was until it was too late. Owen, however, was no Bloodsworth. She wasn’t wrong about him.
He let her hair slip free from his fingers. His hand moved to her cheek, tracing its curve down to her chin. Warmth spread through her at the contact.
Her breath hitched, the air seizing in her chest. This time she didn’t stop herself from leaning forward, angling her face up for him. Her entire being ached for him. He had to know. If he even felt a fraction of what she felt, he would touch her, take her, claim her.
His hand left her face then. She blinked as he stepped back. His fingers curled, clenching into tight fists at his sides. “Good night, Anna.”
She inhaled a shaky breath and ran a hand through her hair, still feeling him there, his fingers wrapping around the tendrils.
“Good night, Owen,” she murmured, trying not to appear as though she had desperately wanted him to kiss her again.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone with nothing but the pop of the fire to fill the silence.
The following morning, Annalise waited in the foyer for Owen. Her bags had already been stowed in the carriage. She had taken breakfast alone in the dining room. She knew Lord and Lady Winningham were keeping late hours, tending to the baby themselves. Most aristocrats would leave such matters to the staff, but she had spent enough time among members of the ton to know that Lady Winningham was not like other ladies.
Still, as she ate alone, she had thought that Owen might join her. Perhaps he was limiting his time with her. After he had left her last night, it seemed clear that there would be no more kisses. He would be a gentleman and make no such advances on her again. Or perhaps he simply did not desire her enough to breach impropriety. Lowering as the thought was, it resolved her to stifle this infatuation she felt for him. It would be best. For both of them.
She folded her hands in front of her and tried not to feel awkward standing alone in the vast foyer space, the groom in the corner watching her silently.
“Anna. Good morning.” Lady Winningham appeared. “Did you breakfast already?”
She sketched a quick curtsy. “Yes, my lady.”
The countess tsked. “I am sorry I wasn’t awake yet to join you. Brand kept us up quite late. He still doesn’t have his days and nights straight. He is sleeping like a log now. Naturally.”
Annalise smiled, suppressing a small stab of jealously that this woman possessed all she had ever dreamed for herself. A family. A loving husband. A healthy child. All things that could never be hers. Just as quickly as the thought entered her head, she banished it, hating that she should even entertain such graceless sentiments. She should simply be grateful to be alive after the tragedy of her wedding night, not envying this woman her happiness.
“Nothing to fret over,” Annalise assured her. “We’re leaving this morning.”
“Yes. Owen said as much. We’re very sad to see you go.” A mischievous light entered her eyes. “You’re waiting for Owen, then? I think I know where he is. Come this way.”
The countess strode ahead, not giving Annalise a chance to explain that she would gladly wait for him in the foyer. Clearly, she was expected to follow.
She fell into step behind the lady. They didn’t stop until they reached a partially open door. The countess peered within first, her movements careful, as though she wanted to remain unnoticed. A satisfied smile spread across her lips. Nodding, she looked back at Annalise and motioned for her to peer within.
Annalise stepped forward, and her heart constricted at the sight. Owen sat in a rocking chair, the tiny Brand in his arms. Morning sunlight spilled through the parted damask drapes. She had never seen him look so peaceful. The hard features of his face were relaxed as he gazed down at the sleeping babe. He rocked him back and forth, humming something faintly. Gone was the awkwardness of yesterday when the child had been forced into his arms. He looked natural cradling that sleeping baby, and sudden longing pinched her chest.
“He will make a wonderful father someday,” Lady Winningham whispered in her ear.
Annalise glanced back at the countess, taken aback at the directness in her dark eyes. She nodded mutely.
Of course he would make a good father. She knew that without even seeing him rocking the babe thusly. He had exhibited gentleness before. Beyond rescuing her, he’d cared for her, helped tend her injuries alongside Mirela. What nobleman would do that for a stranger? She knew firsthand there was tenderness in him even as he’d held himself apart from her so often.
Fast on the heels of this thought came another. You’re more than infatuated with this man. You’re falling in love with him.
She inhaled a ragged breath. Of all the foolish, stupid things to do. She couldn’t afford to love this man. She wasn’t free to love him. Even if he could care for her in turn, she would be leaving soon to make her own way in the world.
She shifted, desperate to flee from the sight of him holding the child, to erase the image from her mind. The floor creaked beneath her weight and Owen’s head snapped up at the sound. Instantly, the softness fled from his face, a curtain falling over his eyes, quickly masking anything he might have been thinking.
She backed away from the door, bumping into the countess. “Pardon me. I’ll wait for him in the foyer.”
Turning, she fled down the stairs.
Chapter Nineteen
Owen found her waiting for him in the foyer. He tried to suppress his annoyance, but it was too fresh, simmering beneath the surface.
He had felt exposed when he looked up to find her watching him holding Brand. Humming a Gaelic lullaby he recalled from his youth, rocking Jamie and Paget’s child—a child named after his eldest brother, no less—had been a vulnerable moment. And she had witnessed it.
His annoyance wasn’t alleviated by the fact that Paget stood just behind Anna, a satisfied sparkle in her eyes that told him she was responsible for bringing Anna to the nursery.
“Come,” he snapped. “I’ve said my farewells.”
He strode out the front door, tugging on his gloves and lifting the collar of his coat against the brisk morning.
“Are we leaving directly?” she asked behind him. “I thought you were teaching me to shoot this morning.”
“I am.” He opened the carriage door before the groom could reach it and assisted her inside. Once they were settled on the squabs and the carriage was moving, he elaborated. “There is a spot just up ahead. We’ll stop there.”
Those wide brown eyes stared at him so solemnly, as though he might jump across the seat and bite her. He turned his attention to the window, watching the familiar scenery roll past, hating that she would look at him with such apprehension and yet knowing it was for the best. There could be no comfort or familiarity between them. That could lead to only one thing.
They drove for several more moments before he heard himself saying, “Tell me, Anna. In your limited recollections, do you think it a habit of yours to spy on people?”
She cleared her throat. “Lady Winningham led me to the nursery. I did not mean—I did not know—” She sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry. I should not have pried.”
He had suspected Paget motivated the encounter, and to hear Anna say as much made him feel wretched for taking out his frustration on her. She was as much a victim of Paget’s machinations as he.
“I suppose we must count ourselves fortunate that I did not startle and drop Brand.” He smiled to show that he was teasing.
A grin of relief brightened her features, and he almost regretted his levity. She was far too lovely when she smiled like that. And he was far too weak to resist her. He turned his attention to the window and stared out.
When they stopped minutes later, he helped her down and led her from the road into the trees.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I didn’t want you to walk too far on your leg. There’s a spot ahead where I used to target practice with my brothers and father.”
Anna stared at her feet as she walked. “Thank you.”
She was always thanking him. Almost as though she didn’t know kindness or consideration. As though she didn’t know love. He drew a deep breath at the notion, marveling that someone like her shouldn’t have been loved before. It troubled him far more than he liked. She deserved love.
He slid his hand from her elbow and down her arm, catching her fingers in his. Her smaller hand felt good, and he longed to strip the glove from his hand so he could feel the sensation of skin on skin.
The grass was taller, whispering against her skirts and the fabric of his trousers as they walked.
“Jamie said there should be targets there.”
She glanced up at him. Sunlight ribboned through the tree branches overhead, dappling her features in shadow and light. “Do you have a pistol?”
He patted his jacket where the weight of it rested. “Always.”
“You always wear one?” She lifted her legs high as she walked, almost as though she sought to step over the grass that came to her knees.
“Mostly. Not at home. But always when traveling.”
“And why is that? Is England not civilized?”
“It’s shocking how quickly one can step outside civilization.” He thought of their picnic. That scenario could quickly have twisted into something lacking all civility. Something ugly. He’d seen the savagery in the eyes of those men.
“Do you think danger lurks at every turn?” There was no judgment in her voice, just a faint curiosity as she flicked her gaze at him before staring ahead again.
“It can.” He stopped as they reached the three trees tangled close together that he and his brothers had used to hold various pieces of glass for target practice over the years. He dropped her hand and moved to the trees to position five of the glasses Jamie had left on the ground.
Returning to her side, he said, “Perhaps more importantly for this discussion is what you think.”
She looked up at him, her smooth forehead furrowed. “I know it does. You can never be too prepared.”
Staring into those radiant eyes, he knew she was speaking from experience. A history she wasn’t ready to share with him. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps she would be gone from his life before he ever had a chance to know the mystery behind the shadows in her eyes.
He reached inside his jacket and removed his revolver. “Then let us better prepare you, shall we?”
He motioned her closer, and then tried to ignore the sweet scent of her as he pointed out the different parts of the weapon, including how to load the balls into the chamber and c**k the hammer when ready to fire.
Handing it to her, he instructed her on how to hold it and aim. “Understand?”
“Yes.”
Despite her response, she sounded nervous, and the revolver dipped as if too heavy for her hands.
“Why don’t we do the first one together?” He stepped behind her. With a tug, he pulled her flush against him, his chest aligned to her back. Even tense as a board, she fit him perfectly. He pressed his cheek alongside hers, sliding his hands over the length of her stretched arms until his hands reached her wrists. His fingers circled the delicate bones there. He felt her pulse through his gloves.
She swallowed, wishing she could look away, but was hopelessly drawn to the sight of him. He was achingly beautiful. Like something out of a dream. She supposed that was how she would look back to this time with him. Something beautiful and blurred in her memories. “I don’t believe that.”
His smile deepened, yet it was mirthless and somewhat indulgent. “Of course you don’t. You’re the type of girl who only sees the best in everyone.”
She frowned, hoping that wasn’t true. She couldn’t be that trusting. Not again. That had been her mistake with Bloodsworth. She had never seen him for what he was until it was too late. Owen, however, was no Bloodsworth. She wasn’t wrong about him.
He let her hair slip free from his fingers. His hand moved to her cheek, tracing its curve down to her chin. Warmth spread through her at the contact.
Her breath hitched, the air seizing in her chest. This time she didn’t stop herself from leaning forward, angling her face up for him. Her entire being ached for him. He had to know. If he even felt a fraction of what she felt, he would touch her, take her, claim her.
His hand left her face then. She blinked as he stepped back. His fingers curled, clenching into tight fists at his sides. “Good night, Anna.”
She inhaled a shaky breath and ran a hand through her hair, still feeling him there, his fingers wrapping around the tendrils.
“Good night, Owen,” she murmured, trying not to appear as though she had desperately wanted him to kiss her again.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone with nothing but the pop of the fire to fill the silence.
The following morning, Annalise waited in the foyer for Owen. Her bags had already been stowed in the carriage. She had taken breakfast alone in the dining room. She knew Lord and Lady Winningham were keeping late hours, tending to the baby themselves. Most aristocrats would leave such matters to the staff, but she had spent enough time among members of the ton to know that Lady Winningham was not like other ladies.
Still, as she ate alone, she had thought that Owen might join her. Perhaps he was limiting his time with her. After he had left her last night, it seemed clear that there would be no more kisses. He would be a gentleman and make no such advances on her again. Or perhaps he simply did not desire her enough to breach impropriety. Lowering as the thought was, it resolved her to stifle this infatuation she felt for him. It would be best. For both of them.
She folded her hands in front of her and tried not to feel awkward standing alone in the vast foyer space, the groom in the corner watching her silently.
“Anna. Good morning.” Lady Winningham appeared. “Did you breakfast already?”
She sketched a quick curtsy. “Yes, my lady.”
The countess tsked. “I am sorry I wasn’t awake yet to join you. Brand kept us up quite late. He still doesn’t have his days and nights straight. He is sleeping like a log now. Naturally.”
Annalise smiled, suppressing a small stab of jealously that this woman possessed all she had ever dreamed for herself. A family. A loving husband. A healthy child. All things that could never be hers. Just as quickly as the thought entered her head, she banished it, hating that she should even entertain such graceless sentiments. She should simply be grateful to be alive after the tragedy of her wedding night, not envying this woman her happiness.
“Nothing to fret over,” Annalise assured her. “We’re leaving this morning.”
“Yes. Owen said as much. We’re very sad to see you go.” A mischievous light entered her eyes. “You’re waiting for Owen, then? I think I know where he is. Come this way.”
The countess strode ahead, not giving Annalise a chance to explain that she would gladly wait for him in the foyer. Clearly, she was expected to follow.
She fell into step behind the lady. They didn’t stop until they reached a partially open door. The countess peered within first, her movements careful, as though she wanted to remain unnoticed. A satisfied smile spread across her lips. Nodding, she looked back at Annalise and motioned for her to peer within.
Annalise stepped forward, and her heart constricted at the sight. Owen sat in a rocking chair, the tiny Brand in his arms. Morning sunlight spilled through the parted damask drapes. She had never seen him look so peaceful. The hard features of his face were relaxed as he gazed down at the sleeping babe. He rocked him back and forth, humming something faintly. Gone was the awkwardness of yesterday when the child had been forced into his arms. He looked natural cradling that sleeping baby, and sudden longing pinched her chest.
“He will make a wonderful father someday,” Lady Winningham whispered in her ear.
Annalise glanced back at the countess, taken aback at the directness in her dark eyes. She nodded mutely.
Of course he would make a good father. She knew that without even seeing him rocking the babe thusly. He had exhibited gentleness before. Beyond rescuing her, he’d cared for her, helped tend her injuries alongside Mirela. What nobleman would do that for a stranger? She knew firsthand there was tenderness in him even as he’d held himself apart from her so often.
Fast on the heels of this thought came another. You’re more than infatuated with this man. You’re falling in love with him.
She inhaled a ragged breath. Of all the foolish, stupid things to do. She couldn’t afford to love this man. She wasn’t free to love him. Even if he could care for her in turn, she would be leaving soon to make her own way in the world.
She shifted, desperate to flee from the sight of him holding the child, to erase the image from her mind. The floor creaked beneath her weight and Owen’s head snapped up at the sound. Instantly, the softness fled from his face, a curtain falling over his eyes, quickly masking anything he might have been thinking.
She backed away from the door, bumping into the countess. “Pardon me. I’ll wait for him in the foyer.”
Turning, she fled down the stairs.
Chapter Nineteen
Owen found her waiting for him in the foyer. He tried to suppress his annoyance, but it was too fresh, simmering beneath the surface.
He had felt exposed when he looked up to find her watching him holding Brand. Humming a Gaelic lullaby he recalled from his youth, rocking Jamie and Paget’s child—a child named after his eldest brother, no less—had been a vulnerable moment. And she had witnessed it.
His annoyance wasn’t alleviated by the fact that Paget stood just behind Anna, a satisfied sparkle in her eyes that told him she was responsible for bringing Anna to the nursery.
“Come,” he snapped. “I’ve said my farewells.”
He strode out the front door, tugging on his gloves and lifting the collar of his coat against the brisk morning.
“Are we leaving directly?” she asked behind him. “I thought you were teaching me to shoot this morning.”
“I am.” He opened the carriage door before the groom could reach it and assisted her inside. Once they were settled on the squabs and the carriage was moving, he elaborated. “There is a spot just up ahead. We’ll stop there.”
Those wide brown eyes stared at him so solemnly, as though he might jump across the seat and bite her. He turned his attention to the window, watching the familiar scenery roll past, hating that she would look at him with such apprehension and yet knowing it was for the best. There could be no comfort or familiarity between them. That could lead to only one thing.
They drove for several more moments before he heard himself saying, “Tell me, Anna. In your limited recollections, do you think it a habit of yours to spy on people?”
She cleared her throat. “Lady Winningham led me to the nursery. I did not mean—I did not know—” She sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry. I should not have pried.”
He had suspected Paget motivated the encounter, and to hear Anna say as much made him feel wretched for taking out his frustration on her. She was as much a victim of Paget’s machinations as he.
“I suppose we must count ourselves fortunate that I did not startle and drop Brand.” He smiled to show that he was teasing.
A grin of relief brightened her features, and he almost regretted his levity. She was far too lovely when she smiled like that. And he was far too weak to resist her. He turned his attention to the window and stared out.
When they stopped minutes later, he helped her down and led her from the road into the trees.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I didn’t want you to walk too far on your leg. There’s a spot ahead where I used to target practice with my brothers and father.”
Anna stared at her feet as she walked. “Thank you.”
She was always thanking him. Almost as though she didn’t know kindness or consideration. As though she didn’t know love. He drew a deep breath at the notion, marveling that someone like her shouldn’t have been loved before. It troubled him far more than he liked. She deserved love.
He slid his hand from her elbow and down her arm, catching her fingers in his. Her smaller hand felt good, and he longed to strip the glove from his hand so he could feel the sensation of skin on skin.
The grass was taller, whispering against her skirts and the fabric of his trousers as they walked.
“Jamie said there should be targets there.”
She glanced up at him. Sunlight ribboned through the tree branches overhead, dappling her features in shadow and light. “Do you have a pistol?”
He patted his jacket where the weight of it rested. “Always.”
“You always wear one?” She lifted her legs high as she walked, almost as though she sought to step over the grass that came to her knees.
“Mostly. Not at home. But always when traveling.”
“And why is that? Is England not civilized?”
“It’s shocking how quickly one can step outside civilization.” He thought of their picnic. That scenario could quickly have twisted into something lacking all civility. Something ugly. He’d seen the savagery in the eyes of those men.
“Do you think danger lurks at every turn?” There was no judgment in her voice, just a faint curiosity as she flicked her gaze at him before staring ahead again.
“It can.” He stopped as they reached the three trees tangled close together that he and his brothers had used to hold various pieces of glass for target practice over the years. He dropped her hand and moved to the trees to position five of the glasses Jamie had left on the ground.
Returning to her side, he said, “Perhaps more importantly for this discussion is what you think.”
She looked up at him, her smooth forehead furrowed. “I know it does. You can never be too prepared.”
Staring into those radiant eyes, he knew she was speaking from experience. A history she wasn’t ready to share with him. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps she would be gone from his life before he ever had a chance to know the mystery behind the shadows in her eyes.
He reached inside his jacket and removed his revolver. “Then let us better prepare you, shall we?”
He motioned her closer, and then tried to ignore the sweet scent of her as he pointed out the different parts of the weapon, including how to load the balls into the chamber and c**k the hammer when ready to fire.
Handing it to her, he instructed her on how to hold it and aim. “Understand?”
“Yes.”
Despite her response, she sounded nervous, and the revolver dipped as if too heavy for her hands.
“Why don’t we do the first one together?” He stepped behind her. With a tug, he pulled her flush against him, his chest aligned to her back. Even tense as a board, she fit him perfectly. He pressed his cheek alongside hers, sliding his hands over the length of her stretched arms until his hands reached her wrists. His fingers circled the delicate bones there. He felt her pulse through his gloves.
