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As she gazed into the soft glow of the hearth, Annabel allowed herself a small, daring hope.
Might she and her duke grow to love one another?
* * *
It was midmorning when Philip rode up to the front of Baydon Hall, just four days after meeting with Filminster to ask for Annabel’s hand. He had a special license burning a hole in his breast pocket and anticipation beating in his chest. His travels over the past few days had culminated in spending the night at the local inn. As he had not taken the time to return to Avonmead, he hoped Annabel would not mind his informal riding attire. He wore a wool coat over his buckskins with his favorite Hessian boots—the same clothing he had worn the day they met. His private carriage would not arrive until this morning, directly at Baydon Hall. Theirs was to be a small ceremony with the local vicar, the baron, and upper servants serving as witnesses, so he trusted his attire would not be viewed as disrespectful.
His carriage should have arrived by now, but as he approached the front entrance, he noticed that the carriage currently stopped in front of the Hall did not bear his coat of arms. Instead, it displayed the Saunton coat of arms gilded on the door—a fact confirmed as his cousin stepped down from the shadowed interior.
Philip brought his chestnut gelding to a stop and dismounted. A stable hand rushed forward as if expecting him, doffing his cap as he took the reins to lead Gentleman’s Boon down the drive toward the rear.
Richard Balfour, his cousin and former best friend, turned at the noise. His face registered surprise. “Halmesbury? What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same. I thought you were in London.”
Richard’s emerald green eyes swept over Philip’s riding apparel as he responded. “I had personal business to take care of. My betrothed”—Richard gestured at the manor’s front door—“Miss Ridley, deserves some extra attention as I… I may have upset her a little recently.”
Philip lifted a brow at this euphemistic understatement. “Hmm… I don’t know how to tell you this, old chap, but Annabel is no longer your betrothed.”
Richard frowned before his face cleared, and he recovered his aplomb. His characteristic devil-may-care grin spread across his too-handsome countenance. Richard had always reminded him of Lord Byron with his sable hair, poetic looks, and soulful eyes. He had to concede the appeal; Jane had certainly preferred the earl’s appearance over Philip’s own hard edges and more earnest charms. “That old codger would never agree to relinquish a connection to an earl. What would you know about it, anyway?”
“The old codger decided a duke was a far more enticing prospect.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed as he faced his cousin down. “What are you saying, Halmesbury?”
“I am saying that Filminster knows I would make a better son-in-law than you.”
The earl’s face reflected confusion before settling into an angry mask. “You scheming—What have you done?” Richard exclaimed, turning to stride up the stairs, where he pounded on the heavy door.
When the elderly butler opened it, his faded blue eyes rounded, flabbergasted at finding both the earl and the duke framed in the aperture. He swiftly adopted a stiff expression as Lord Saunton demanded to see Annabel.
“Allow me to show you to the drawing room, my lord. Your Grace.” He bowed politely to each of them and turned to lead them down the corridor in a brisker manner than Philip had noticed on his prior visit. It would appear the servant was eager to show them in so he might speed up his departure from their menacing presence.
Philip fumed as he walked alongside Saunton, following the butler past the wood-paneled walls carved with arcane symbolism and the tall balustrades of the climbing staircase. Neither man paid any attention to the ornate designs as they marched down the hall, bristling with hostility. Philip was gripped by a surge of territorial energy, suppressing his instinct to fight. Saunton’s presence was causing his blood to boil. This was his day with Annabel, and he would not allow his cousin’s unexpected presence to ruin the wedding or Annabel’s humor. He needed to address this debacle swiftly before it interrupted his plans. He was taking his bride home with him this day, no matter what Richard Balfour had to say about it.
When they reached the drawing room, the butler held the door open for them. As soon as they entered, the servant made a hasty departure. The door thumped closed in his enthusiasm to leave them behind.
Philip prowled over to the large, intricate stone fireplace. Leaning an elbow on the mantelpiece, he turned to contain his fuming by glaring out the mullioned windows to the westerly gardens beyond. It would not do to engage with Richard at this moment because their unanticipated encounter could turn into a brawl with very little provocation. He had not been in the mountebank’s presence since the night his late wife had passed on and he did not trust himself to speak yet. Not delaying the wedding needed to remain foremost in his mind, irrespective of his grievances from the past.
* * *
Annabel paced back and forth in the library, her heart lifting as Stedman knocked and entered—then sinking as she took in the butler's uncharacteristically flustered demeanor. Stedman, always so composed, hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed before speaking.
“The Duke of Halmesbury is in the drawing room.” He paused, looking momentarily unsure of himself. “... with Lord Saunton.”
Annabel froze, the air suddenly heavy with tension. Behind her, the baron let out a startled grunt, his face twisting in alarm. “This will not do. This will not do at all. Halmesbury promised I would not have to speak with the earl!”
Annabel pressed her lips together, holding back the sharp retort that danced on the edge of her tongue. This was hardly the moment to remind her father of his tendency to hide from difficult situations. She turned to face him, taking in his agitated state—his rounded belly jiggling as he shifted from one scrawny leg to the other, his thin shoulders hunched in nervous energy.
“Why don’t I go speak with the gentlemen to sort this out, Father?” she offered, keeping her tone calm and conciliatory.
The baron stopped his bouncing, planting his hands on his hips as he considered her suggestion.
Out of the corner of her eye, Annabel caught a glimpse of the vicar, who had taken refuge on the overstuffed sofa. He seemed to have suddenly developed a keen interest in the gardens beyond the diamond-paned windows, his gaze fixed firmly outside. She did not recall him being so devoted to horticulture in their previous meetings.
After a long pause, the baron nodded with an air of affected grandeur. “Yes, that seems wise. They will both wish to speak to you, and I see no need to involve myself prematurely. I shall remain here and entertain the vicar while you address the situation.”
The words were delivered as if he were doing her a great favor. Annabel suppressed a sigh, schooling her features into a composed smile. “Of course, Father. I shall take care of it.”
