The reluctant cavalier (7 page)

The duke took her hand, laid it on his arm, and led her to the large windowed doors that opened to the balcony. A quick look at the rest of the company made her blush. She could see speculative looks cast her way, and she wished very much that she had found some way to avoid walking out to the balcony. It was not at all a scandalous thing to do, for it was in full view of the rest of the company. She could imagine the thoughts going through the guests' minds, and the feeling of oppression, the desire to turn and flee increased.

As she moved toward the balcony door, she caught another glance from Mr. Wentworth. Once again he looked away from her, in the way he did before, as if he did not want to be caught staring. She remembered how she'd gone to the edge of the Wentworth woods, and how she wished she were not Annabella Smith, but a wild Wentworth instead.

And before the thought was half finished in her mind, she made herself stumble and step heavily on the hem of her dress.

A loud rip echoed through Lady Bowerland's drawing room, and heads turned. Annabella felt her face flame hot, then she hastily seized the seam she'd ripped and drew it modestly toward her.

"Oh, heavens! How clumsy of me!" she exclaimed. She looked apologetically at the duke, who gazed at her with upraised brows. "I am terribly sorry, Your Grace, I simply do not know how I came to stumble so." She looked down at her dress and made a distressed sound. "Oh, dear! I must repair it. Please, if you will excuse me—I cannot go out with you in this condition."

"Of course," Stratton replied and released her hand.

Lady Bowerland was already at her side, clicking her tongue in dismay. "Oh, my! Of course you cannot be in company with your dress torn, Miss Smith. I will get my maid, and you may go to the Grey Room to repair it there."

Annabella smiled gratefully at her.
"Thank
you, my lady! You are so kind. I really do not know how I came to be so clumsy."

Lady Bowerland waved a dismissing hand. "We all have our accidents, my dear. In fact, I have had many such, though you would not credit it, I am sure! But it is true that I have torn any number of dresses, although, of course, perhaps fewer than most any other lady. Indeed, I have heard it from Lady Jersey herself that
she
has torn more dresses than I!
That
was in our childhood, when we were young girls, and it would not happen now—"

"No, my lady, of course I would never think it of you now," Annabella replied, edging away from her hostess toward the drawing room door and looking meaningfully at her torn dress.

"Now you mustn't dawdle about mending your dress, Miss Smith. There is nothing more unpleasant than a torn dress, I am sure! Why, I remember telling Mrs. Drummond-Burrell not long ago ..."

Annabella smiled, nodded, and hastily left the room as soon as politeness allowed. Once in the Grey Room, she removed her dress, took needle and thread provided her, and dismissed the maid. She could sew faster than any maid, she knew, for she prided herself on her needlework. Thank heavens she had selected a dress she could put on by herself! For she did not want to go back down to the drawing room immediately, back to the scrutiny of so many eyes.

She sighed as she worked. In truth, she did not want to face the duke immediately. Did he guess that she had stumbled so as not to go out with him? She hoped not. She had not noticed any large degree of perception in him; perhaps he had taken her stumble for the clumsiness she intended it. Not that she had truly
intended
to stumble, for she had not planned it at all. No, it was a mere thought, unintentional, and her body had somehow complied.

Annabella rolled her eyes. Oh, heavens! What excuses was she to make up next? The truth was that she was afraid and did not want to marry the duke.

Her needle pierced the cloth in her hand and whipped the thread back and forth across the seam. She stared absently at it as she worked, wishing she could sew up her life as easily and neatly. Her life had been just as neat, just as easily put together, for as long as she could remember. And now, now that the duke had proposed, it could be just as neat, and just as easily ... proscribed.

Her hands dropped to her lap, and she stared into the fire in the hearth in front of her. There was no reason why she should not continue as she had, once she was married. She could go to as many parties—more in fact—for she'd be a married woman, and not be chaperoned as much as she was now. She'd be free to do as she pleased. Why, one of her friends from school had done just that: after Chloe had her first child, a boy and an heir for her husband, she had burst upon London society like fireworks, and had gone to practically every function the
ton
presented. It was even rumored she had taken a lover.

Annabella grimaced. She did not think she would like that; indeed, she had noted a constant expression of discontent on Chloe's face, and she'd grown waspish, too. Annabella did not think marriage or taking a lover had made things much better for Chloe at all. And the notion of being intimate with one man—much less two—for Annabella's mother had told her vaguely of what could happen in the marriage bed—was certainly an embarrassing thing.

More than that, she wanted to feel the same degree of affection toward her husband that she'd seen between her parents. They—her mother, anyway—understood her wishes in this, But they had discovered their love after they had wed, and Annabella was not sure she would be as lucky. She only had to look at Chloe to see that.

Why could her parents not understand? She sighed and picked up her sewing again. Perhaps they had such joy in their own marriage that they thought their way of going about it would bring her just as much happiness. After all, what did she know of life? They had much more experience than she. And was she not comfortable in her life? Had they not made it so for her?

Until now.

Until now, Annabella thought, then shook her head and pushed the thought away. Briskly, she picked up her dress,shook it out, and eyed it critically. She gave a nod of approval, knotted the thread, and cut it. Her mother had picked out this dress for her, and she liked it very well. It would have been a pity had she ruined it.

Quickly, she put on the dress and adjusted it around her. The mirror's reflection told her she looked well, and that she had sewn it quite neatly. She turned, then frowned. The thread had not matched the dress's fabric exactly, and she had done her best to sew the tear so that it would not show. But there was a small bit that did show—she must have been a little distracted at that point.

The mismatch annoyed her sense of neatness, but a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece made her shrug. She'd been quick about her sewing, and so she would not be missed if she chose not to go back to the drawing room for a while. Surely, that was not a bad thing, for Lady Bowerland had said her guests could wander the main part of the house as they pleased.

She'd not seen all of the Bowerlands' gallery, which Annabella had most especially liked when she had last called upon them. Her own home did not have one such, as it was a relatively new house, and newly inherited.

But when she got to the gallery, it was already occupied. A man, hands clasped behind his back, was gazing intently at the paintings. Mr. Wentworth, it was—Annabella could tell by his hair tied back in a queue. He turned suddenly, his body quickly tense, and stared at her.

"I—I am sorry, I did not mean to disturb you." Annabella smiled apologetically and began to leave.

"No, don't—" Mr. Wentworth said. He looked away, then gazed at her, his expression stiff and cool, his chin raised just a little. "That is, you need not. I was not intending to stay long."

Annabella hesitated, then came forward. The room was brightly lit with candles, for the Bowerlands took pride in their collection of portraits and landscapes and liked to have them displayed well. But the light displayed Mr. Wentworth's countenance just as clearly, and his cheeks took on a momentary darker tinge. She realized, suddenly, that he had blushed—just as he had in the drawing room.

Annabella smiled a little. Could it be that one of the wild Wentworths was not so wild?

"Please do not leave on my account," she said, smiling at him. "I do not mind company."

He seemed to hesitate, then bowed, almost curtly. "Very well," he said and resumed his perusal of the paintings.

Annabella stood next to him, gazing at a particularly dull portrait of a sallow-looking man who looked as if he had just eaten a lemon. It was not well executed at all. She wondered why the Bowerlands had included it in their collection. Really, it was not worth staring at with such concentration as Mr. Wentworth was bending upon it. She glanced at him, and at the same moment, caught him looking at her.

"Why do you keep looking at me, Mr. Wentworth?" Annabella said abruptly, then blushed, for she had not meant to be so forward.

"Was I?" He gazed at her fully now. She could see the muscles in his jaw clench, and she thought she saw a brief flash of anger in his eyes. And then he turned and stared at the portrait again, and his cheeks darkened even more. Annabella pressed her lips together to keep a smile from coming to them.

"Yes, you were."

There was silence once more, and Mr. Wentworth flicked another glance at her. This time, she was sure a different emotion showed in his eyes: agonized embarrassment.

Poor man! No doubt he was very reserved and shy, not at all used to company, which was no doubt why he came here—to escape the guests in the drawing room. Perhaps, too, he was not very quick-witted, and so kept away from company so as not to expose his disability. A soft warmth crept into Annabella's heart, and she put her hand on his sleeve in a comforting manner.

"I do not mind it, really. It is just that I am not used to being stared at," she said.

"I—I am sorry. I did not mean to stare, I assure you." He grimaced. "I suppose it is best if I leave."

"No, no, don't leave! That is, I would much rather have company here than not."

"Then I am surprised you do not go down to the drawing room again."

It was Annabella's turn to grimace. "Not
that
much company."

"Do you not like the company that Lady Bowerland keeps, then?" Mr. Wentworth seemed to relax a little, and this time he gazed at her steadily.

"Oh, I find the guests quite amiable, but sometimes . . . sometimes company becomes oppressive, and one needs some relief from it. I suppose I will return after a while."

"Procrastinating, Miss Smith?" His voice had lost some of its stiffness and almost sounded congenial.

Annabella's lips turned up briefly, and she returned her gaze to the portrait. "Do you not find this painting quite dull, Mr. Wentworth? I wonder that we have looked at it so long."

A chuckle made her look at him again. "Definitely procrastinating!" he said.

It was Annabella's turn to stare. It was the first time she'd seen Mr. Wentworth smile—a wide grin, his teeth white against his browned skin, his hazel eyes twinkling. He was, she realized, handsome. No, not quite handsome, for his features were not at all classical. Or rather, handsome in spite of what fashion dictated. She could not decide. Charming, perhaps, for there was something in his smile that made her smile in return. It reminded her, somehow, of a sunny spring day, just after the rain—fresh and clean and bright.

She mentally shook herself.
What nonsense!
She was becoming quite fanciful—no doubt she had been reading too many novels, just as her father had said. How could such a reticent man be charming?

"No, sir, merely one who appreciates art too much to miss her host's collection." She made her lips prim and pointed to a still life of flowers next to the portrait. "Now, do you not think that is a far more pleasant thing to look at?"

He smiled. "Yes," he said, but he was not looking at the painting at all, but at her.

"Mr. Wentworth, you are looking at me again!"

"I am afraid I am not as great an appreciated of art as you, Miss Smith."

"Prevaricating, Mr. Wentworth?"

He turned his eyes to the still life she had pointed to. "I cannot like still life paintings, Miss Smith," he said. "I prefer flowers in their natural setting."

"Definitely prevaricating!" she said.

He laughed, and it made her smile widely. It was a pleasant sound, husky, soft, and natural. She felt, almost, as if she'd been rewarded, hearing it; one had to work a little to coax a smile from him. He had not lifted even a corner of his lips while with the company in the drawing room. But she had, at last, made him laugh.

A distant clock tolled the hour, and tolled the end of his laughter, too, for a startled look came over Mr. Wentworth's face. His expression grew stiff again. As he glanced away, Annabella felt as if a warm light had suddenly disappeared.

"I suppose it is time I should return," Annabella said.

There was a brief silence before he said, "I suppose I should, also."

Annabella merely nodded, went forward a step, then looked back at him.

"Well, Mr. Wentworth?"

This time a blush followed his startled look, and he belatedly held out his arm. She put her hand upon it, and they descended to the drawing room once again, saying nothing as they went. The descent seemed too quick to Annabella, and she wished she was back in the gallery again. Mr. Wentworth put out his hand to the door, but before he opened it, she stayed his hand.

"Thank you," she said.

He looked puzzled and cocked his head to one side, a skeptical gesture. "Pardon me?" he said.

"Thank you—for a most pleasant half hour, Mr. Wentworth."

"I... you are welcome, Miss Smith," Mr. Wentworth replied and bowed. She almost smiled, for an astonished expression had flitted briefly across his face. He opened the door then, and Annabella found she had been holding her breath. A few heads turned when she and Mr. Wentworth entered, but she did not mind them, for he pressed her hand briefly and it comforted her somehow.

She thought, for one moment, that a look of anger flashed in the Duke of Stratton's eyes. But no, his face was smoothly cordial, and when she nodded at him, nothing could be more admiring than his smile.