Secrets of a Summer Night
Page 58
“I was a stubborn hellion in my youth,” Hunt admitted with a grin. “Whenever my father told me to do something, I always tried to prove him wrong.”
“And what was his response?” Annabelle asked, her eyes twinkling.
“At first he tried to be patient with me. When that didn’t work, he took the opposite tack.” Hunt winced in reminiscence, smiling ruefully. “Trust me, you never want to be thrashed by a butcher—their arms are like tree trunks.”
“I can imagine,” Annabelle murmured, stealing a circumspect glance at the wide expanse of his shoulders and remembering the brawny hardness of his muscles. “Your family must be very proud of your success.”
“Perhaps.” Hunt gave a noncommittal shrug. “Unfortunately, it seems that my ambition has served to distance us. My parents won’t allow me to buy them a house in the West End; nor do they understand why I should choose to live there. Nor does my investing strike them as a suitable profession. They would be happier if I turned to something more…tangible.”
Annabelle regarded him intently, understanding what had remained unspoken in the spare explanation. She had always known that Simon Hunt didn’t belong in the upper-class circles in which he often moved. However, until this moment it had not occurred to her that he was similarly out of place in the world that he had left behind. She wondered if he was occasionally lonely, or if he kept himself far too busy to acknowledge it. “I can think of few things more tangible than a five-ton locomotive engine,” she remarked, in response to his last comment.
He laughed, and reached for the pawn in her hand. But somehow Annabelle couldn’t seem to let go of the ivory piece, and their fingers tangled and held, while their gazes locked intimately. She was shocked by the radiant warmth that flooded from her hand to her shoulder, then diffused through her entire body. It was like being drunk on sunlight, heat spilling in streams of sensation, and along with the pleasure came the sudden, alarming pressure behind her eyes that heralded tears.
Bewildered, Annabelle jerked her hand back from his, the pawn clattering to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said with an unsteady laugh, suddenly afraid of what might happen if she stayed alone with him any longer. She stood clumsily and moved away from the table. “I-I’ve just realized that I’m very tired…the wine seems to have affected me after all. I should go back to my room. I think there is still ample time for you to socialize with everyone downstairs, so your evening hasn’t been entirely wasted. Thank you for the dinner, and the music, and—”
“Annabelle.” Hunt moved with swift grace, coming to stand before her with his hands at her waist. He looked down at her, an inquiring frown tugging at his dark brows. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” he murmured.
She shook her head dumbly.
“Then why the sudden rush to leave?”
There were infinite ways she could have replied, but at the moment she could summon no subtlety, wit, or any manner of verbal agility. She could only answer with the bluntness of a mallet strike. “I…don’t want this.”
“This?”
“I’m not going to become your mistress.” She hesitated, and said in a whisper, “I can do better.”
Hunt considered the bald statement with great care, his steadying hands remaining at her waist. “Do you mean that you can find someone to marry,” he finally asked, “or is it that you intend to become the mistress of an aristocrat?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Annabelle muttered, pushing away from the support of his hands. “Neither scenario involves you.”
Although she refused to look at him, she felt his gaze on her, and she shivered as the glow of warmth faded completely from her body. “I’ll take you back to your room,” Hunt said, without emotion, and he accompanied her to the door.
CHAPTER 16
When Annabelle rejoined the guests the next morning, she was heartened to discover that her encounter with the adder had earned a great deal of sympathy from everyone, including Lord Kendall. Exhibiting a great degree of sensitivity and concern, Kendall sat with Annabelle at a late-morning breakfast held al fresco on the back terrace. He insisted on holding her plate at the buffet table while she selected various morsels, and he made certain that a servant refilled her water glass as soon as it was empty. He also insisted on doing the same for Lady Constance Darrowby, who had joined them at the table.
Recalling the wallflowers’ comments about Lady Constance, Annabelle assessed the competition. Kendall seemed more than a little interested in the girl, who was quiet and serenely aloof. She was also elegantly thin, in the style that had currently become quite fashionable. And Daisy had been right—Lady Constance did indeed have a mouth like a drawstring purse, constantly tightening into little cooing o’swhenever Kendall shared a piece of horticultural information with her.
“How dreadful it must have been,” Lady Constance remarked to Annabelle, upon hearing the story of the adder. “It’s a wonder that you didn’t die.” Despite the angelic cast of her expression, a cool glitter in her pale blue eyes made Annabelle aware that the girl wouldn’t have been all that displeased if she had.
“I’m quite well now,” Annabelle said, turning to smile at Kendall. “And more than ready for another outing in the woods.”
“I shouldn’t exert myself too soon, if I were you, Miss Peyton,” Lady Constance said with delicate concern. “You still don’t seem to have fully recovered. But I am certain that the pastiness of your complexion will probably improve in a few days.”
“And what was his response?” Annabelle asked, her eyes twinkling.
“At first he tried to be patient with me. When that didn’t work, he took the opposite tack.” Hunt winced in reminiscence, smiling ruefully. “Trust me, you never want to be thrashed by a butcher—their arms are like tree trunks.”
“I can imagine,” Annabelle murmured, stealing a circumspect glance at the wide expanse of his shoulders and remembering the brawny hardness of his muscles. “Your family must be very proud of your success.”
“Perhaps.” Hunt gave a noncommittal shrug. “Unfortunately, it seems that my ambition has served to distance us. My parents won’t allow me to buy them a house in the West End; nor do they understand why I should choose to live there. Nor does my investing strike them as a suitable profession. They would be happier if I turned to something more…tangible.”
Annabelle regarded him intently, understanding what had remained unspoken in the spare explanation. She had always known that Simon Hunt didn’t belong in the upper-class circles in which he often moved. However, until this moment it had not occurred to her that he was similarly out of place in the world that he had left behind. She wondered if he was occasionally lonely, or if he kept himself far too busy to acknowledge it. “I can think of few things more tangible than a five-ton locomotive engine,” she remarked, in response to his last comment.
He laughed, and reached for the pawn in her hand. But somehow Annabelle couldn’t seem to let go of the ivory piece, and their fingers tangled and held, while their gazes locked intimately. She was shocked by the radiant warmth that flooded from her hand to her shoulder, then diffused through her entire body. It was like being drunk on sunlight, heat spilling in streams of sensation, and along with the pleasure came the sudden, alarming pressure behind her eyes that heralded tears.
Bewildered, Annabelle jerked her hand back from his, the pawn clattering to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said with an unsteady laugh, suddenly afraid of what might happen if she stayed alone with him any longer. She stood clumsily and moved away from the table. “I-I’ve just realized that I’m very tired…the wine seems to have affected me after all. I should go back to my room. I think there is still ample time for you to socialize with everyone downstairs, so your evening hasn’t been entirely wasted. Thank you for the dinner, and the music, and—”
“Annabelle.” Hunt moved with swift grace, coming to stand before her with his hands at her waist. He looked down at her, an inquiring frown tugging at his dark brows. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” he murmured.
She shook her head dumbly.
“Then why the sudden rush to leave?”
There were infinite ways she could have replied, but at the moment she could summon no subtlety, wit, or any manner of verbal agility. She could only answer with the bluntness of a mallet strike. “I…don’t want this.”
“This?”
“I’m not going to become your mistress.” She hesitated, and said in a whisper, “I can do better.”
Hunt considered the bald statement with great care, his steadying hands remaining at her waist. “Do you mean that you can find someone to marry,” he finally asked, “or is it that you intend to become the mistress of an aristocrat?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Annabelle muttered, pushing away from the support of his hands. “Neither scenario involves you.”
Although she refused to look at him, she felt his gaze on her, and she shivered as the glow of warmth faded completely from her body. “I’ll take you back to your room,” Hunt said, without emotion, and he accompanied her to the door.
CHAPTER 16
When Annabelle rejoined the guests the next morning, she was heartened to discover that her encounter with the adder had earned a great deal of sympathy from everyone, including Lord Kendall. Exhibiting a great degree of sensitivity and concern, Kendall sat with Annabelle at a late-morning breakfast held al fresco on the back terrace. He insisted on holding her plate at the buffet table while she selected various morsels, and he made certain that a servant refilled her water glass as soon as it was empty. He also insisted on doing the same for Lady Constance Darrowby, who had joined them at the table.
Recalling the wallflowers’ comments about Lady Constance, Annabelle assessed the competition. Kendall seemed more than a little interested in the girl, who was quiet and serenely aloof. She was also elegantly thin, in the style that had currently become quite fashionable. And Daisy had been right—Lady Constance did indeed have a mouth like a drawstring purse, constantly tightening into little cooing o’swhenever Kendall shared a piece of horticultural information with her.
“How dreadful it must have been,” Lady Constance remarked to Annabelle, upon hearing the story of the adder. “It’s a wonder that you didn’t die.” Despite the angelic cast of her expression, a cool glitter in her pale blue eyes made Annabelle aware that the girl wouldn’t have been all that displeased if she had.
“I’m quite well now,” Annabelle said, turning to smile at Kendall. “And more than ready for another outing in the woods.”
“I shouldn’t exert myself too soon, if I were you, Miss Peyton,” Lady Constance said with delicate concern. “You still don’t seem to have fully recovered. But I am certain that the pastiness of your complexion will probably improve in a few days.”
