Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(18)

For some reason, Annabelle could not help grinning back at the ill-bred scoundrel. She pushed away from the table and dusted her skirts. “I’m not going to waste any more of my time telling you how to be polite when it’s perfectly obvious that you don’t wish to be.”

“Your time wasn’t wasted,” he said, coming around to her. “I’m going to lend some deep consideration to changing my ways.”

“Don’t bother,” she said, the smile lingering on her lips. “You’re a hopeless cause, I’m afraid. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to continue my walk through the garden. Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Hunt.”

“Let me come with you,” he said softly. “You can lecture me some more. I’ll even listen.”

She wrinkled her nose at him impudently. “No, you won’t.” She started off on the gravel path, aware of his gaze on her back until she disappeared into the pear orchard.

CHAPTER 6

Just before supper on the first evening of the party, Annabelle, Lillian, and Daisy met in the downstairs receiving room, a spacious area set with clusters of chairs and tables where many of the guests had chosen to congregate.

“I should have known that dress would look a hundred times better on you than me,” Lillian Bowman said gleefully, hugging Annabelle and holding her at arm’s length to gaze at her. “Oh, it’s torture, being friends with someone so ravishing.”

Annabelle was wearing another of her new gowns, a yellow silk with fluttering tulle skirts caught up at narrow intervals with tiny bunches of silk violets. Her hair was pinned at the back of her head in an intricately braided plait. “I have many flaws,” Annabelle informed Lillian with a smile.

“Really? What are they?”

Annabelle grinned. “I’m hardly going to admit them if you haven’t already noticed.”

“Lillian tells everyone about her flaws,” Daisy said, her brown eyes twinkling. “She’s proud of them.”

“I do have a terrible temper,” Lillian acknowledged smugly. “And I can curse like a sailor.”

“Who taught you to do that?” Annabelle asked.

“My grandmother. She was a washerwoman. And my grandfather was the soap maker from whom she bought her supplies. Since she worked near the docks, most of her customers were sailors and dockers, who taught her words so vulgar that it would curl your hair ribbons to hear them.”

Laughter rustled in Annabelle’s chest. She was thoroughly charmed by the mischievous spirit of two girls who were unlike anyone she had ever known before. Unfortunately, it was difficult to imagine either Lillian or Daisy being happy as the wife of a peer. Most gentlemen of the aristocracy wanted to marry a girl who was serene, regal, self-effacing…the kind of wife whose sole purpose was to make her husband the focus of admiring attention. However, enjoying the Bowmans’ company as Annabelle did, she thought it would be a pity for either of them to have to repress the innocent audacity that made them so beguiling.

Suddenly, she caught sight of Evie, who had entered the room with the reluctance of a mouse who had been thrown into a sack of cats. Evie’s face relaxed as she saw Annabelle and the Bowmans. Murmuring something to her dour-looking aunt, she headed toward them with a smile.

“Evie,” Daisy squealed in delight, beginning to rush toward the girl. Annabelle caught her gloved arm and whispered to her.

“Wait! If you draw attention to Evie, she’ll probably faint from embarrassment.”

Daisy stopped obediently and flashed her an un-abashed grin. “You’re right. I’m an absolute savage.”

“I wouldn’t say that, dear—” Lillian soothed.

“Thank you,” Daisy said in pleased surprise.

“You’re merely a quasi-savage,” her older sister finished.

Biting back a laugh, Annabelle slipped her arm behind Evie’s slender waist. “How lovely you look tonight,” she said. Evie’s hair had been piled at the crown of her head in a mass of gleaming red curls and fastened with pearl-tipped pins. The scattering of amber freckles across her nose only increased her appeal, as if nature had given in to a moment of whimsy and sprinkled a few flecks of extra sunlight over her.

Evie leaned into her partial hug as if she was seeking comfort. “Aunt F-Florence says I look like a f-flaming torch with my hair pinned up like this,” she said.

Daisy scowled at the comment. “Your aunt Florence should hardly make such statements when she looks like a hobgoblin.”

“Daisy, hush,” Lillian said sternly.

Annabelle kept her gloved arm around Evie’s waist, reflecting that from what little the girl had related to her, Aunt Florence appeared to take heartless delight in shredding what little confidence Evie possessed. After Evie’s mother had died at a young age, the family had taken the unfortunate girl into its respectable bosom—and the ensuing years of criticism had left Evie’s self-confidence decidedly battered.

Evie’s smile contained a flash of amusement as she regarded the Bowman sisters. “She’s not a h-hobgoblin. I’ve always thought of her as m-more of a troll.”

Annabelle laughed in delight at the little jab. “Tell me,” she said, “have any of you seen Lord Kendall yet? I was told that he is one of the very few unmarried men here—and aside from Westcliff, the only bachelor with a title.”