Kiss Me, Annabel
Page 31

“I dislike formalities,” he said, sidestepping the question. “My name’s Ewan, and I’m hoping that you’ll call me by it.”
“Ewan,” she said, nodding.
He leaned forward at that, and kissed the very tips of her fingers. “This is the very first time that my future wife has called me by my given name,” he said. He was smiling with his eyes, in that way he had…as if she were everything he ever wanted in a wife. Still watching her, he turned her palm over and put his lips to her palm.
“You have such small hands,” he said. The touch of his lips on her palm made a sudden thrill shoot through her stomach. “I feel like a great, awkward farm boy next to you.”
She laughed, and he pressed another kiss into her palm. His touches were like wine, a heady pleasure. “So it’s already occurred to you that I look like a laborer, has it?” he teased. And kissed her again.
How could her palm feel so unbearably sensuous? A hundred men had held that palm and kissed her fingers during the last month, and yet…His eyes were steady on hers as he brought her hand to his mouth again. And this time she felt his tongue touch the center of her hand, and the shock was so great it burned down her legs.
“I would labor for you, Annabel,” he said, watching her. “Shall we move to a small cottage and keep goats?”
“I’m not very good at gardening,” Annabel said. And she was suddenly cool as could be, broken free of the spell of that husky voice of his. She pulled her hand away.
He leaned back in his seat, showing nothing more than an amused acceptance of her rejection. “What do you know of gardening? I should think young ladies do little more than snip roses, when the gardener bids her welcome.”
“Something like that,” Annabel murmured, closing her heart against the memory of Josie weeping when their beans died in the blight. She was determined not to be sullen with the earl, nor let him know just how great her reluctance to marry him was. None of this was his fault. Offering her his name was the act of a true gentleman.
She straightened on the seat and gave him a smile. “And do you have family, Ewan?”
“I do.”
She waited, and finally he said, “I have them, and I don’t have them. My close family is no longer living.”
“I am sorry,” she said.
“It’s difficult to know how to phrase it. My Nana is always trotting out a bit about how they’re waiting for me in heaven. But I very much doubt that they have naught to do in heaven but wait for my arrival, should I be lucky enough to end up at the right address.”
“How many of your family were—were lost?”
“My mother and father died in a flood,” he said, and for the first time, his eyes weren’t smiling. “And my brother and sister died with them.”
Annabel swallowed, and he answered her unspoken question. “I was six years old. Our carriage was caught in rising water. It didn’t seem dangerous at first. My father took me to high ground. He went back for the others, but…”
To her horror, Annabel felt tears pressing at the back of her eyes. She truly was overemotional from the events of the past few days. “I’m so sorry,” she said. There wasn’t much more to be said.
Besides, now—strange man that he was!—her husband’s eyes were smiling again. “I do believe that my mama has been watching the last few days, Annabel, and I’m quite sure she approves of you.”
There was no point in saying something cynical, which was the only sort of comment that came to mind. Finally, Annabel searched around for some sort of phrase one would say to a child, and came up with: “I’m naturally glad to hear of your mother’s approbation.”
His smile grew wider, almost as if he were mocking her, but he didn’t say anything more of that. “So when my parents died, that left my grandmother, Lady Ardmore,” he said. “My Nana, as I call her, is still alive, and a feisty Scotswoman to the bone. She’ll like you.”
Annabel doubted it. Wait till the feisty grandmother heard about her whinnying dowry.
“And there’s an uncle on my father’s side,” Ewan continued. “His name is Tobin. He spends most of his time hunting…I’m afraid he has a somewhat bloodthirsty nature. The household eats a great deal of venison, thanks to Tobin.”
Annabel smiled grimly. Well, that was better than her sisters’ rather dubious fishing skills.
“And then we have Uncle Pearce,” Ewan said, “although by all rights, he’s truly my great-uncle. He’s almost ninety but clear-minded. His favorite activity is cheating at cards.”
“Cheating?” Annabel echoed.
“Aye. And for money,” he said, nodding. “He’ll take every penny you have, if you allow him to deal the cards.”
“Oh. Thank you for the warning. Anyone else?”
“Certainly,” Ewan said. “There’s still the reason I came to London to find a bride.”
Annabel blinked. “I thought you wished for an heiress.”
He frowned at her. “You seem to have dowries on the brain. Nay, I didn’t come to London for such a flimsy reason. If I wanted an heiress, I could have married Miss Mary McGuire, whose lands march along mine. Nay, I came to London for another reason altogether. Well, for two reasons,” he said.
Annabel waited.
“He’s eleven years old,” Ewan said. “His name is Gregory, and I’m afraid—”
He seemed to be choosing his words, but she jumped ahead. “You have a son?”
“Not exactly. Could we just say that he’s a member of the household?”
She frowned at him. Her oh-so-honorable husband had a by-blow living in the house? But she suddenly realized that she didn’t care all that much. If he’d had a child out of wedlock and thrown the poor lad to the parish—now, that she would have disliked. “What is Gregory like?” she asked.
“He’s a pain in the rear,” Ewan said, picking up her hand again. “At the moment he has great ambitions for his future and he won’t accept the least opposition. I thought perhaps a wife might be able to soften the lad’s stubborn character.”
“That must be difficult,” Annabel said sympathetically. Life could be quite limited for those of illegitimate birth, precluding them from positions of power and responsibility.
“You have no idea,” Ewan said with a shudder. “He’s up at the crack of dawn, singing lauds at the top of his lungs. And believe me, while I’m well aware of the existence of boy choirs, Gregory would not be a happy addition to such a group.”
“Lauds?” Annabel said blankly.
He nodded. “He sings for almost an hour, up on the battlements. But you can hear him for a half mile. I’m sympathetic—”
She couldn’t help it; she interrupted him again. “What are Gregory’s ambitions?”
“To be a monk.”
“A monk! We don’t have monks in Scotland!”
“Nay, now, there you’re in the wrong,” he said. “There’s any number of monks in Scotland since Napoleon kicked them all out of France. And we’ve three of them on my land.”
“You have a monastery?”