Secrets of a Summer Night
Page 54
“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. He 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.
“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. He 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.
