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Eloise stuck out her chin. “Same thing.”
“What are you going to do when–” Annabel broke off when a flash of movement caught her eye. A carriage, midnight black against the backdrop of crisp white snow, was approaching the house. “He’s here! He’s here!”
“Since when you care so much about a smelly boy?” Eloise asked before she followed Annabel out of the room and through the hallway to the master staircase, wrapped in garland and bouquets of holly berries.
Below, in the foyer, a dozen or so guests had already gathered and were enjoying the flutes of champagne and little plates of cheese and shrimp being circulated by the maids. In the dining room, the table was set for twenty-four, and the parlor had been cleared of all furniture save the pianoforte to make room for dancing. Mixed throughout were festive decorations of bows, candles, miniature replicas of the giant pine tree that stood guard in the drawing room, and sprigs of mistletoe. Fires crackled merrily in every hearth, and the air smelled of conifer, citrus, and clementine courtesy of the dried fruit that Annabel and Bridget had sliced and tied to each wreath by hand.
“Lord Whitmore is not a smelly boy,” Annabel returned over her shoulder. “And I’ve always cared about what gentlemen think of me. Unlike you, Idohave plans to be a wife and a mother someday soon.”
Eloise gave a flippant wave of her arm as they began to descend the stairs. “You want them all drooling over you, that’s true. But you haven’treallycared what they think of you. Not until this earl, that is.”
“I…that’s….that’s not true,” Annabel said, but even to her own ears her protest sounded weak. “I don’t care what Lord Whitmore thinks of me. I didn’t even care if he came tonight or not.”
“Sure,” Eloise snorted. “That’s why you paced a hole in the rug upstairs waiting for him. Lie to me all you want, Annabel. But you can’t lie to yourself. Oh! Look. There’s salmon baguettes. Ilovesalmon baguettes. Best get some before they’re all gone.” She darted off through the crowd, leaving Annabel alone…but not for long.
Like a golden-haired avenging angel dressed in the deepest blue, Ezra descended upon her with a crooked smile and a glass of champagne. “You’re gorgeous tonight,” he said, his husky timbre lifting the downy hairs on the nape of her neck. “Then, you always are no matter what you’re wearing.” He gently pressed the champagne into her hand and dipped his head close to her ear. “Or what you’re not.”
“Mylord,” she hissed as a pink blush brightened her cheeks. “We are very much in a public setting.”
“Are you implying I should alter my behavior?”
“I am implying that you shouldbehave.”
“Sounds terribly boring.”
Yes, she realized abruptly. It did.
All of these manners…the politeness, the perfection, the preening…what had it gotten her? Better yet,whohad it gotten her? Noblemen like Lord Wimplebottom. Cads like the Marquess of Treshlawn. Yet when she’d acted on impulse and instinct, she’d attracted the likes of Lord Ezra Washington. A scoundrel, to be sure. But a scoundrel that made her pulse race, and her blood heat, and her toes curl.
The things they’d done under the cover of darkness…it brought a renewed flush to her cheeks that she poorly disguised by taking a sip of champagne. A sips she choked on when Ezra trailed his fingertips down the length of her spine and rested his thumb on the small of her back. The same thumb she had sucked between her lips while he had–
“Lady Annabel, would you care to introduce me to your guest?” Elegantly imperious, the Dowager Duchess of Monmouth used her pearl-topped walking stick to clear a path to where Annabel and Ezra were conversing by the base of the steps. She was a handsome woman, her face lined but confident, her hair streaked with gray but impeccably styled, and she struck her cane twice on the floor–pop, pop–as a means of announcement.
“Your Grace,” said Annabel, dipping into a curtsy. “This is Lord Ezra Washington, Earl of Whitmore. Lord Whitmore, may I present to you Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Monmouth.”
“I believe you left future grandmother out of that introduction,” the dowager corrected with a haughty sniff before her stern frown changed to a warm smile as she reached out to pat Annabel’s hand. In addition to being Perth’s mother and Lenora’s mother-in-law, she’d also been a close friend of Lady Catherine Rosewoods’.
The two women had played dolls together, attended finishing school together, made their debut together, and even married at similar times. But while Catherine had married the love of her life in Annabel’s father, the dowager had chosen more poorly, and ended up wed to a selfish, adulterous duke who had treated her and her son terribly. To say that she was overcome with happiness at having Catherine’s daughter marry her only child would have been a grave understatement in deed. It could also be said that she’d had a little something to do with the union…although she’d never willingly admit as much out loud.
“Your Grace,” said Ezra, bending forward in a bow. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”
“I know your father, Lord Whitmore. A respectable gentleman. And your mother is an excellent whist player. How do you know our lovely Annabel?” the dowager queried.
Annabel tensed in anticipation of what Ezra would say, but she needn’t have worried.
“We met during a ball,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie. Theyhadmet while the ball was ongoing at Audley Assembly Room. They’d simply met elsewhere.
The dowager’s perceptive gaze flicked between the young couple. Her smile broadened. “I was going to ask if you’d be so kind as to take me for a turn around the room, Lord Whitmore, so that we might have the opportunity to chat. But I can see that won’t be necessary. Congratulations.”
Bewildered, Annabel glanced at Ezra, who appeared as equally bemused.
“Thank you?” she said, and wondered if the dowager wasn’t feeling her age a bit when the older woman patted her hand again, beamed at Ezra, and then saw herself off to another corner of the foyer.
“Is your sister around?” Ezra asked, and for the first time Annabel noticed that he was carrying a small box wrapped in colorful paper. “I’ve a peace offering for her. They’re decorative spoons.”
Annabel lifted a brow. “Decorative…spoons?”
“Blast it all, Belfort,” he muttered, shoving the box into his pocket. “I should have known this was a terrible gift.”
