Page 46 of The Language of Love

Chapter 8

The morning after the Penistone ball, Annis found herself at liberty for the first time in weeks.

Her cousins and aunt had risen exceptionally late and then gone off to an alfresco party at Lady Sissington’s.

Although Annis’s name had been included on the invitation, her aunt said they would be too crushed in the carriage if she were to join them.

Aunt Agnes had been making similar excuses to exclude Annis from events ever since the Tinley ball. Her aunt and cousins had been relentless in their berating in the days that followed that event.

“How could you dance with that man? Throwing yourself at a mere clerk in that shameless way?” they’d demanded. “I heard the Company sacked him from his job in India. I heard his mother was a scullery maid and his father a costermonger. Have you no dignity? If not for yourself, at least consider our feelings on the matter,” they’d accused.

They’d raked her so incessantly that Annis had been grateful to be left behind today, even if it hadmeant that she’d become a drudge to the seamstress and had worked her fingers to the bone hemming gowns all morning.

But this afternoon she was free!

Annis seized the opportunity to take a walk before the seamstress found her again. Today her destination was Hookham’s, the one extravagance she could not do without.

She was past ready to return the Memoirs of Madame de Hausset, who’d been a lady’s maid to Madame de Pompadour. Annis had found the woman’s commentary on the antics of the French court far more tiresome than titillating.

While her uncle’s library was rich with a certain kind of book—improving tracts, for instance—biographies and novels were not abundant. After her evening at the Tinley ball—more specifically, after the lively time she’d had with Henry—she needed some fluffy reading to distract herself from thoughts of him.

Annis told herself that she should be gratefulthat she hadn’t been able to dance with him or talk to him again. After all, why torment herself by spending more time with him when a poor clerk was simply not in her future?

Not that their brief acquaintance in any way suggested that Henry had viewed Annis as a marriage prospect.

But her brain was a willful organ and she still couldn’t stop thinking about him. She’d even begun dreaming of him; dreams that made her blush and squirm just to remember them.

Annis’s first and only beau was Mr. Leech. Although Mr. Leech had treated her vilely—criminally, in fact—he had done one thing that she couldn’t make herself regret: he’d made love to her, not once, but several times.

Annis adored that phrase: making love.

It was unfortunate that the phrase was so much more impressive than the deed had been.

But if the experience hadn’t been all that she’d hoped for—indeed, their handful of interludes had been uncomfortable, quick, and awkward—Annis consoled herself that at least she wouldn’t go to her grave without ever knowing physical love.

As brief and unfulfilling as the episodes had been, they had released something inside her—some sort of… awareness of the pleasure her body was capable of, even if she’d not experienced it with Mr. Leech.

Of course, there was a considerable cost for that discovery; now she would need to confess her impure state to Mr. Norburg on her wedding night.

You’d do it beforehand if you weren’t so completely bereft of scruples.

Annis couldn’t argue with that accusation. But there was no point in worrying about her wedding night before Mr. Norburg made the offer. So her mind, like a willful horse, shied away from the unpleasant thought and wandered back to Henry.

In her wicked dreams it had been Henry, instead of Mr. Leech, doing those things to her. She imagined that making love with Henry would be a far different experience than it had with Mr. Leech.

You’d better enjoy your fantasies, my dear, because that is all you’ll ever get to enjoy of him.

Yes, that was true enough. Painfully true.

Annis had just turned onto Duke Street when a carriage rolled up beside her. She looked up to see Henry smiling down at her, as if she’d summoned him with her wicked thoughts.

“Mr. Parker,” she said rather stupidly.

He tipped his hat. “I thought we’d agreed you’d call me Henry.”

“You are out for a ride?” Yet another stupid question since he was looking down at her from a phaeton that appeared twice as high as usual.

Rather than point out the obviousness of her words, he smiled. “I hope you’ll forgive me for not getting down, but this frisky pair would be half-way to Newcastle if given a chance.”