How to Lose a Bride in One Night

Page 26

She grasped a handful of burgundy skirts. The gown was too large, like all her rest. She couldn’t ever recall finding a dress too large before. The fabric sagged around her waist and torso and the skirts were much too voluminous. Mrs. Kirkpatrick had fetched a maid to hem the bottom, to save herself from tripping, but Annalise knew she could have done better work herself. The hem was uneven and sloppy. All in all, she looked a bit of a mess. A fact Owen had clearly noticed.
He gestured her inside. The proprietress moved forward expectantly, eager to serve.
Annalise hesitated in the threshold. “You needn’t put yourself to such trouble.”
He looked down at her, his expression once again stoic. He failed in any way to resemble the man who had kissed her so passionately in the carriage yesterday. In those moments, his eyes had been full of brightness, of life. Hunger for her.
When he looked at her now, there was nothing there. He scanned her perfunctorily. “I’d say perhaps any trouble would be worth it. Necessary, even.”
Cheeks burning, she managed a nod. “Very well.” It would be nice to make a fresh start with clothes tailored for her.
With a hand at the small of her back, he guided her inside.
The proprietress took one look at Annalise and clapped her hands together sharply before rushing her. Apparently no explanation was necessary.
“Welcome, welcome.” She motioned to several dresses on display. “We have several gowns already made for your lady. We are happy to make any necessary alterations.”
Annalise’s cheeks burned hotter at the implication that she was somehow Owen’s lady. Nothing could be further from the truth. Even if she wanted to be. Even if he wanted her to be. She was married to a wretch of a man.
“Very good.” Owen nodded as though he were half listening. “I have an errand at the cobbler’s down the street. I’ll return shortly.” He handed the dressmaker his card. “See she has anything she needs.”
The dressmaker’s eyes widened. She bobbed her head happily, her fingers stroking over the card.
His attention returned to Annalise. His gaze skimmed her quickly, and, as if recalling how utterly lacking her wardrobe was, he added, “Which should be about everything.”
That said, he left her alone with the eager dressmaker.
She stood awkwardly for a moment until the dressmaker ushered her forward. Soon she was lost in a sea of dresses, undergarments, stockings, slippers, shoes. A girl emerged from the back to assist, and Annalise couldn’t help seeing herself in the downcast eyes and hurried movements, each movement deliberate, eager to please.
“Really,” she spit out as a muslin gown was pulled over her head—a gown she had no notion where she would wear. Once she left here she would have no fine parties and teas to attend. She would be returning to a simple life.
“I honestly don’t need—” The words were muffled in a sea of tulle and lace, before she received—was that an elbow?—a sturdy poke to the side.
The air escaped her in a huff of pain.
“If a man as handsome as that one offered to buy me a new wardrobe, I wouldn’t be refusing.”
She settled a cold glare on the dressmaker once the sea of petticoats swept free of her head. She wanted to bite out that nothing came free in this life. Because it certainly never had for her.
She held her tongue and suffered the last of the dressmaker’s prodding, refusing an enormous ball gown of red silk. Where on earth would she wear that monstrosity? Clearly the woman was ready to take full advantage of Owen’s generosity.
Ready to be rid of the dressmaker, she put on a new walking dress of satin brocade—the dressmaker refused to let her again don her ill-fitting gown—and moved toward the front door. “I’ll find Lord McDowell myself.”
“Very well. Shall we send everything to the earl’s residence? Or perhaps another?” She glanced at the small card that appeared as if by magic in her hand. Speculation brimmed in her eyes. Annalise had never explained their relationship, and she knew the woman was beyond curious. Clearly she was not Owen’s wife or he would have introduced her as such.
She met the woman’s inquisitive stare and suppressed a smile at the dressmaker’s blatant attempt to learn who she was. “Yes. The earl’s address, please.”
Even having lived with Jack, she was not quite accustomed to giving directives. Especially not to people who would not have spoken two sentences to her unless it was to unceremoniously order her about.
She stepped outside and took a gulp of air, glad to be free of the shop that reminded her too much of the place she had spent years loathing in Yorkshire.
Glancing left and right along the sidewalk, she tried to determine the direction to the cobbler. She identified the wooden sign hanging perpendicular to the building several stores down and started toward it with decisive steps, her slippered feet falling silently.
A body emerged from the door of a tobacconist’s. The gentleman stopped himself short of colliding into her, bracing a hand on her arm to halt his momentum.
The moment she felt the hand on her skin, she knew.
A tremor rippled out from that point of contact and coursed through her. Cold fear washed over her. Everything slowed, pulling to a near stop. She slid her arm free and lifted her gaze to the well-dressed man, confirming what she had already sensed.
“My apologies.” His gaze flicked over her, barely looking at her as he moved to step around her, but then jerked to a hard halt.
She froze, almost as though she could make herself invisible if she simply held herself still.
He turned slowly to fully face her.
She watched, her eyes wide and unblinking, aching in her face. In one glance she took in his well-appointed attire. Groomed impeccably, as always. No black for mourning. In fact, he was dressed quite cheerfully in his green velvet jacket and striped cravat the color of apricots. His hair was styled and crisp, swept back from his forehead.
This was the man she had thought to spend the rest of her life with. Now she could only stare at him with dread and terror rising swiftly inside her, threatening to consume her, while marveling that she had ever thought his smile charming.
He stared at her as though he were seeing a ghost.
Her husband seemed somehow less. Less handsome. Less tall. For the first time, she noticed the weakness of his jaw. The flatness of his gaze.
“Annalise?” His voice sounded faraway, like a distant echo.
She shook her head, everything firing to life inside her.
She lurched back several steps. Bloodsworth grabbed her arm, his fingers hard and digging.
She swallowed her cry and forced a tremulous smile. “You mistake me for someone else,” she lied, desperation making her say anything in that moment.
He gazed at her, studying her face as if he wished to see something there that proved her ridiculous claim that he was not staring at his wife.
“Annalise,” he repeated after a stretched silence. “It is you.” Those dark, cruel eyes swept over her again. “Much improved, I see. And did my eyes deceive or are you minus a limp now? How did that little miracle come about?”
Fed by indignation, she spit out, “I broke my leg when I nearly drowned in the river. It was properly set this time.”
He shrugged. “Oh, then I did you a favor, it would seem.”
“You tried to murder me,” she hissed.
His eyes roamed her face and body appreciatively. “You’re full of fire now, aren’t you? I might have had a taste of you before tossing you overboard had you looked this appealing before.”
Her stomach heaved at his words, at the notion of him touching her. Her free hand lashed out and slapped him across the face.
Instantly, his jovial air vanished. The imprint of her hand stood out starkly against his cheek. His eyes looked murderous . . . an all too familiar expression. One that had haunted her those first few nights when she woke in the wagon. The nightmares had only faded over the last few weeks. She was certain Owen had something to do with that. But now . . . face-to-face with Bloodsworth again, she recalled the terror she had fought so hard to forget.
He glanced around them, and the reminder crashed down on her acutely that they were not alone. Not like last time. He couldn’t attack her. There were witnesses. A couple across the street paused and stared at them before hurrying along.
He yanked her to his side and began walking. “That was very brave of you . . . and stupid.”
She dug in her heels. “Let me go or I shall scream.”
“Go ahead. And then I will tell them you are quite mad. I’m a duke. A member of the House of Lords. Respected by all. I have the ear of the Queen. Who do you think they will believe?”
He paused with her in front of one of the many shops lining the street. She stared at him in horror, her breath coming in sharp pants.
He was right, of course. It was her worst fear. She looked around desperately. They had moved farther from the cobbler’s shop, but she knew Owen would appear any moment, and that filled her with equal parts dread and relief.
“Let me go,” she whispered, her gaze darting back to his face.
He laughed harshly. “Too late for that. You should have disappeared while you had the chance. I wish you had.” He nodded. “I’ve plans now. Things in the works with Lady Joanna. Remember her? She was quite disappointed when I married you . . . and quite delighted over your demise. I’ll not have you ruin things.”
Yes. She should have vanished. She knew that now. She was a fool to have remained in Town. She should have taken her leave after they returned yesterday, only she couldn’t. She let herself get caught up in Owen. She could admit that now. He had come to mean something to her. He had trapped her in his web. Oh, she knew he had not intended for it to happen. On the contrary, he would be horrified to know she felt any manner of attachment for him.
“I can disappear now,” she volunteered, knowing she had to persuade him to believe that. She had to get away from him . . . because she saw the truth in his eyes. If he took her from this street, it was over. She was truly dead.
He would finish what he started on their honeymoon barge. She’d never make it to his home in Mayfair. He would never tell the world that he’d found his wife.
She would never see Owen again. That realization was perhaps the most bitter to accept. Owen would not know what happened to her. He’d simply think she’d run away.
She studied Bloodsworth’s perfectly neutral expression, knowing what it masked. If he dragged her inside his carriage, that would be the end of her. If anyone could get away with it, he could.
She could hear Owen’s voice in her ear. Trust your instincts.
Letting that fortify her, she pressed, “You don’t have to dirty your hands with killing me.” Her gaze skimmed past him, around him, stalling.
“So you are suggesting that I just let you go . . .”
The idea clearly did not sit well with him.
His look turned speculative, assessing. He eyed her again, his gaze skimming her new dress. “Where have you been all this time, Annalise? Someone is clearly keeping and caring for you. A man?”
He must have seen something in her face. He smiled slowly, although there was no mirth in the curve of his lips. If anything, possession burned there. And something else. Something that made her feel even more threatened.
“Yes. Of course, it’s a man.” His free hand reached out. He ran one finger along the frilled edge of her heart-shaped bodice, dipping beneath the fabric. She jerked at the scrape of his nail against the top of her breast.
“Is he teaching you things?” His hand on her arm softened, his fingers stirring against her flesh in small circles that made her skin crawl.
She shook her head and looked away, revolted by the suggestive gleam in his eyes.
With the gentlest touch, he pulled her closer to his side and murmured in her ear, “You are mine . . . I can do with you anything I see fit.”