Eloisa James - Kiss Me Annabel

‘I loved his dimple,’ Imogen said. ‘When we married, I…’ she stopped.

Annabel saw a glimmer of tears in her sister’s eyes and surreptitiously pulled a handkerchief from her bedside table. She kept a supply there. But Imogen shook her head.

‘Do you know the problem with being married only a matter of two weeks?’ she asked.

Annabel figured that was a rhetorical question.

‘The problem is that I don’t have many memories,’ Imogen said, her voice tight. ‘How many times can I remember kissing Draven for the first time? How many times can I remember his asking me to marry him? If we’d just had more time, even a month or two, I would have feasts of memories, enough to last me for years.’

Annabel handed her the handkerchief. Imogen wiped away a tear snaking down her cheek.

‘There will be other memories to treasure, someday,’ Annabel ventured.

Imogen turned on her with a flash of rage. ‘Don’t try to suggest that anyone could replace Draven in my heart! I loved him from the moment I reached girlhood, and I shall never, ever love another man as I loved him. Never.’

Annabel bit her lip. She always seemed to say the wrong thing. Perhaps she should inform Lord Rosseter that she wished to marry him immediately; at least it would get her out of the house. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that you would forget Draven,’ she said, controlling her voice so that no shade of irritation entered. ‘But you’re very young to talk of never , Imogen.’

‘I’ve never been young in that respect,’ Imogen said flatly.

Annabel decided to try for a new subject. ‘I have decided to marry Lord Rosseter,’ she said brightly.

Imogen didn’t appear to have heard her. ‘Rafe said something similar to me, this very evening in the carriage. He actually implied…’ she turned to Annabel and hesitated. ‘I probably shouldn’t say this to you, since you’re unmarried.’

Annabel snorted.

‘He accused me of missing the pleasure of the marital bed!’

‘Oh. And are you?’ Annabel inquired. It seemed a reasonable, if impertinent, inquiry, given Imogen’s behaviour on the dance floor.

‘Of course not! I miss Draven. But not…or rather – if Draven were…’

Annabel rescued her. ‘Well, I can see Rafe’s point. I should think that anyone could reasonably have assumed that you were missing those particular pleasures, given the way you looked at Ardmore on the dance floor.’

‘Nonsense!’ Imogen snapped. ‘I was merely being seductive. The same as you always are.’

‘I never act in that way,’ Annabel stated.

‘Well, of course, you don’t have the knowledge that I do,’ Imogen said pettishly. ‘You’re just a maiden, after all. I was able to be much more direct because I understand what happens between a man and a woman in the bedchamber.’

Annabel did not trust herself to speak.

‘At any rate,’ Imogen continued, ‘I have definitely made up my mind to take Ardmore.’

‘Take him?’ Annabel inquired, giving her a direct look.

‘Make him part of my retinue,’ Imogen said, waving a hand in the air. ‘That’s all I’ll say on the subject to a maid, even if you are my sister.’

Annabel ignored her provocation. ‘Be careful, Imogen. I would be very, very careful. That earl does not look like a tame pussycat to me.’

‘Nonsense,’ Imogen said crossly. ‘Men are all the same.’

‘All right,’ Annabel said. ‘Make him your cicisbeo, if you wish. But why put on such an exhibition while dancing? Why embarrass yourself in such a fashion?’

‘I was expressing our mutual –’

But they had been siblings for a long time. ‘Whatever it was you were expressing, it wasn’t a desire to bed Ardmore.’

‘Yes, it was!’ Imogen flared, and then the words died in her throat. She had been so certain that she was being inviting and sensual. But perhaps she had failed at that too. She glanced at Annabel. It was tempting to confide in her…

No. She couldn’t bear to tell Annabel of her marital failures, Annabel who had the ability to make any man within ten yards start panting.

‘You could talk to Tess about it,’ Annabel said now, showing that uncanny ability that sisters sometimes have to guess what another is thinking.

‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ Imogen said, coughing to cover the rasp in her voice. ‘I thoroughly enjoyed myself dancing with Ardmore, and I look forward to more happy hours with him.’

‘You sound like a vicar accepting a new post,’ her sister observed.

What did Annabel know about anything? Imogen couldn’t talk to her, and she couldn’t talk to Tess either, because for all Tess was married, she was happy.

She took a deep breath. ‘I am enthralled by the pleasure I shall share with Ardmore,’ she said.

‘Perhaps not a vicarage…a bishopric,’ her sister mused, clearly unimpressed.

Imogen turned away.

Lady Mitford’s garden party was savoured by each member of the ton lucky enough to receive an invitation. Of course, they savoured it for different reasons. Mothers of nubile girls found that the romantic bowers Lady Mitford placed around her gardens were excellent enclosures for nurturing intimacies that were not too intimate.

Those who were, for whatever reason, uninterested in mating games enjoyed Lady Mitford’s considerable efforts toward producing true Renaissance cuisine. There was the year, for instance, when a pie was split open to reveal five cross and extremely undercooked doves who promptly flew into the air. When one of them dropped a noxious substance on the head of an upstart young lord, the pie was deemed an enormous success.

Finally, the day was appreciated by those with a sense of irony. Ewan Poley, Earl of Ardmore, would have put himself in the latter category. In fact, this was by far the most entertaining gala he had yet attended in England.

Lady Mitford had positioned herself and her husband at the far end of a great stretch of lawn, the better so that entering guests could admire the spectacle. They were a plump couple stuffed into brilliant Renaissance clothing; Lord Mitford’s canary-yellow stockings were particularly noteworthy, as they were echoed by some thirty servants stationed about the lawns. The couple sat on gilded armchairs that had a suspicious resemblance to thrones, under a sky-blue silk canopy that rippled in the breeze. Around their feet frolicked a number of small dogs and a real monkey, tied to Lady Mitford’s chair with a silk ribbon. Ewan tried not to mark the fact that the monkey appeared to be squatting on Lady Mitford’s silk slipper and enjoying a private moment.

He bowed before her. ‘This is a tremendous honour, Lady Mitford. I cannot thank you enough for including me in your invitation.’

‘Wouldn’t have missed you,’ she barked at him, sounding for all the world like one of her small dogs. ‘I do believe I had at least eight requests for your inclusion – all from mamas, of course.’

Lord Mitford gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘Our gala is quite known for the matches that have ensued.’

They were an odd couple; Lady Mitford was wearing a high coned hat more suited to the reign of King Richard than that of Queen Elizabeth. Lord Mitford looked as kingly as a carnival barker, and the monkey, the dogs and the silk canopy spoke of that carnival as much as a Renaissance fête. But the Mitfords’ eyes were merry, and it was clear that they enjoyed their own eccentricities as much as did everyone else.

Lady Mitford raised a beringed finger and pointed off in the distance. ‘I understand that you have a particular interest in a lovely widow. She is over there, next to the rose arbour.’