Secrets of a Summer Night
Page 53

“No.” Disbelieving, despairing, Annabelle watched her mother calmly precede Hodgeham from the room. “Mama, don’t go with him!” But Philippa left as if she had not heard.
Annabelle was not aware of how many minutes passed as she stared blankly at the empty doorway. There was no thought in her mind of touching the lunch tray. The tang of vegetable broth that flavored the air made her feel nauseous. Bleakly, Annabelle wondered how this hellish affair had ever started, if Hodgeham had forced himself on her mother, or if it had initially been a matter of mutual consent. No matter how it had begun, it had now turned into a travesty. Hodgeham was a monster, and Philippa was trying to pacify him to keep him from ruining them.
Weary and miserable, trying not to think of what might be occurring between her mother and Hodgeham at that very moment, Annabelle levered herself off the settee. She winced at the protesting ache of her muscles. Her head hurt, and she was dizzy, and she wanted to go to her room. Walking like an old woman, she made her way to the bellpull and tugged. After what seemed an interminable length of time, there was still no response. With the guests gone, most the staff had been allowed their day off, and maids were in short supply.
Scrubbing her fingers distractedly through the limp locks of her hair, Annabelle assessed the situation. Although her legs were weak, they felt serviceable. That morning her mother had helped her to walk the length of two hallways from their room to the Marsdens’ upstairs parlor. Now, however, she was fairly certain that she could manage the short journey on her own.
Ignoring the brilliant sparks that danced across her vision like fireflies, Annabelle left the room with short, careful steps. She stayed close to the wall in case she needed to avail herself of its support. How odd it was, she thought grimly, that even this minor exertion should cause her to pant as if she had just run for miles. Infuriated with her own weakness, she wondered ruefully if she shouldn’t have drunk that last cup of clivers after all. Concentrating on setting one foot in front of the other, she made slow progress along the first hallway, until she was nearly at the corner that led to the east wing of the estate, where her room was located. She stopped as she heard quiet voices coming from another direction.
Hell’s bells. It would be mortifying to be seen by anyone while she was in this condition. Praying that the voices belonged to a pair of servants, Annabelle leaned her weight against the wall and stood without moving. A few strands of hair stuck to her clammy forehead and cheeks.
Two men crossed the passageway before her, so involved in their conversation that it seemed they wouldn’t notice her. Relieved, Annabelle thought that she managed to escape detection.
But she was not that fortunate. One of the men happened to glance in her direction, and his attention was immediately rivetted. As he approached her, Annabelle recognized the masculine grace of his long strides even before she saw his face clearly.
It seemed that she was destined to be forever making herself an exhibition in front of Simon Hunt. Sighing, Annabelle pushed away from the wall and tried to appear composed, even with her legs trembling beneath her. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hunt—”
“What are you doing?” Hunt interrupted as he reached her. He sounded annoyed, but as Annabelle looked up at his face, she saw the concern in his gaze. “Why are you standing alone in the hallway?”
“I’m going to my room.” Annabelle started a little as he slid his arms around her, one at her shoulders, the other at her waist. “Mr. Hunt, there’s no need—”
“You’re as weak as a kitten,” he said flatly. “You know better than to go anywhere by yourself in this condition.”
“There wasn’t anyone to help me,” Annabelle replied irritably. Her head swam, and she found herself against him, letting him support some of her weight. His chest was wonderfully solid and hard, the fabric of his coat silky-cool against her cheek.
“Where is your mother?” Hunt persisted, smoothing back a tangled lock of her hair. “Tell me, and I’ll—”
“No!” Annabelle glanced up at him with instant alarm, her slender fingers biting into his coat sleeves. Dear God, the last thing she needed was for Hunt to instigate a search for Philippa when she was probably in some damnably compromising situation with Hodgeham at that very moment. “Don’t look for her,” she said sharply. “I…I don’t need anyone. I can reach my room by myself, if you’ll just let go of me. I don’t want—”
“All right,” Hunt murmured, his arm remaining firmly around her. “Hush, I won’t look for her. Hush.” His hand continued to smooth her hair in gentle, repeated motions.
She wilted against him, trying to catch her breath. “Simon,” she whispered, vaguely surprised that she had just used his first name, for she had never used it even in the privacy of her thoughts. Moistening her dry lips, she tried once more, and to her astonishment, she did it again. “Simon…”
“Yes?” A new tension had entered his long, hard body, and at the same time, his hand moved over the shape of her skull in the softest caress possible.
“Please…take me to my room.”
Hunt tilted her head back gently and regarded her with a sudden faint smile playing on his lips. “Sweetheart, I would take you to Timbuktu if you asked.”
By that time, the other man in the hallway had reached them, and Annabelle was dismayed, though not surprised, to see that it was Lord Westcliff.
The earl glanced at her with cold disapproval, as if he suspected that she had somehow arranged this situation as an intentional inconvenience.