Chapter One
Eight
years later
"You’re leaving me?" Anna asked again, breathlessly. She found herself unable to accept that the last of her eight very suitable suitors had just ended their secret courtship.
The earl and she were well ensconced behind
a little grove of trees in Hyde Park, the most obscure place they could find.
This was usual with all her secret suitors—as Millie had dubbed them—for their
meetings had to be restricted to the less trafficked areas when she was to be
alone with any one of them. Early as the day was, there would likely be no one
of social standing to witness this rather humiliating encounter.
When this Season had come into full swing,
she’d taken on the notion that this would be the year she broke the confining
chains of her engagement to a man who had disappeared—and probably led a very
comfortable life with his own family by now—while she suffered every day,
forced to remain alone. The man might as well be dead and buried for all the
good he did her or anyone in England.
For all she knew he really could be
dead.
Her conscience prickled her. Actually, that
wasn’t exactly true. Unless he’d met with the fate he well deserved since last
her contact had sent news, then unfortunately Westforth was still alive and in
good health. Blast him! Anna chided herself for wishing anyone’s death, even
his.
There were easier ways to be done with such
straining ties to the man, and her plan couldn’t have been simpler—or so she’d
thought.
With Millie’s help she had handpicked eight
men. They not only had to be rich, but heavily titled as well—something that
would surely turn her father’s head to reason if only given the chance—though
he had forbidden her to try anything of the like.
Actually, she risked much by what she had
been doing these past months, personal scandal being at the top of the list,
quickly followed by the threat of being sent to the country for the Season.
Those fears were neither here nor there
now, as within three months all her suitors had deserted her.
"But . . . why?" she asked him,
pouting.
"I—I’m sorry, Anna. You are a very
sweet girl, but . . . ." The young earl fumbled with his hat, looking
around nervously. "This meeting privately and in secret is very thrilling,
but not at all seemly. If I could court you openly, then perhaps . . . ."
He broke off, looking altogether uneasy. "Lady Cullington is available,
and . . . I am deeply sorry, Anna. Really, I wish this could have gone a better
way between us. Everyone knows you are practically married already anyway. What
could have come of our courtship, if you could even call this a
courtship? We both risked scandal had anyone found out."
Anna harrumphed inwardly at his mumbling, a
sour expression she simply couldn’t hide at the mention of her engagement
instantly turning her fabricated sunny smile into a downright scowl.
"My father might have come ‘round and
changed his mind had a better future son-in-law been presented," she
offered stiffly. If the man could be this rigid and laced tightly with
propriety then she didn’t need or want him, so Anna tried to tell herself. It
wasn’t as though she met him in secret to fornicate or any such thing. Heavens
no! She’d gone twenty years without so much as a decent kiss, so she could
manage a little longer. That he dare act as though they had done anything really
scandalous insulted her through and through.
"Might have," he noted
softly, but with distinct emphasis.
Sighing heavily, Anna squared her shoulders
and shook her head, a billowy white-tipped feather in her riding cap swaying
wildly as she did so. She made a point to look downhearted. "I was so
hoping you wouldn’t buckle as the others did," she told him, pushing from
her mind all thoughts of Dallon Langston and how frustrated the blackguard made
her, especially at this moment.
"Others?" the earl asked with a
hint of surprise.
"Yes, my other secret suitors. You
didn’t think you were the only one, did you?" she asked sweetly, and then
laughed gaily at his surprise.
Taking a turn at being insulted now, the
earl turned a distinct shade of red and reached for the reins to his mount.
"I had no idea, really. Good day, Lady St. Claire."
"Good day to you too, James."
She threw in his given name simply to remind him she too could dangle their
very personal encounters over his head if he were to ever think to use them
against her. Not that she really thought he had the gall or intention. But one
could never be too careful.
The sun swelled behind her on the early
morning horizon, lifting a blanket of mist from the ground so the glistening
veil rested higher above the park grounds now. The green, dew-drenched grass
had been neatly trimmed where she stood. Since winter’s retreat, early spring
blossomed new life all around.
New love as well.
Most days she caught herself watching all
the happy new couples walking hand in hand, laughing and staring into one
another’s eyes. The torment made her predicament especially hard, and until
Lord Westforth had been dealt with, she could have none of those tender
moments.
A sudden despair followed on the heel of
her anger towards her intended, and her heart broke all over again for the
blissful life she was being denied on his account.
Stark rays of sunlight limned the earl as
he rode away. Anna sighed again, forlornly this time. How the duce would she
ever end her debacle now? She’d thought her idea would be an instant success.
A gem? Isn’t that what others called her?
She laughed inwardly at the terrible crux she had. She was a gem in
society. ‘The cream of the crop,’ she had been called, causing
her many a blush within the last few years. She socialized in all the highest
circles, yet because of her missing betrothed, she was also—and ultimately—the
most unavailable debutante not on the market when she should be.
Because of the marriage contract, she
hadn’t been allowed her coming out Season, hadn’t been allowed suitors—and she
certainly wouldn’t be permitted back to London again if her father ever found
out the ruse she employed in order to dissolve her wagered engagement.
After eight years of Lord Abington and her
father publicly blustering at one another over their farfetched wager, the
entirety of London—from those seated high in parliament to the lowest
innkeeper’s daughter—no doubt knew her plight.
Her father had lost at that fateful hand of
cards, and her life had been absolutely miserable since hiding in the secret
closet—a place she’d not visited once since.
When the time had come, Westforth’s honor
had paled in comparison to her own, something his father had sworn would never
happen—his words forever a whisper in her memory.
His family hadn’t received so much as a
letter, nor did any rumors spread of his whereabouts elsewhere in England. How
she wished she could have run as well, but she’d still been in the schoolroom
when the contract had been signed.
The earl had been correct; in her father’s
eyes and Abington’s, she was as good as married. To a ghost.
Even if Lord Abington would grudgingly
admit on occasion that she had turned out better than he had ever imagined
she could, he still vehemently insisted with an absurd hope that his son would
honor his wishes and come back someday to uphold his duty.
Thus, her quandary remained unchanged. She
would still be stuck in her predicament tomorrow, same as she was today. Though
her burden weighed much heavier now.
Her betrothed would never return. She’d
seen the look in those frightening gold eyes, eyes she dreamed of almost
nightly, as though they were seared into her mind.
Well, Abington could swear by whatever he
wished, but she intended to stick to her plan. She would be rid of her horrid,
absent betrothed by the year’s end.
One way or another.
With a tsk Anna took up her mount’s
reins and led her mare to a nearby bench, using the added height to help mount
since she’d snuck out without so much as a groom.
All she need do was put together a list of
more suitors.
Mayhap she could catch a duke’s eye, then
her father would be forced to find a way to end the contract. A duke would
certainly hold enough influence to negate Abington’s petty contract.
Yes, that would work perfectly.
©2012 Kerri M. Patterson
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