Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(35)

At the moment, the usually coolheaded earl seemed rather more perturbed than the situation warranted.

“Damn,” Westcliff finally exclaimed. “I have occasional business dealings with their father. How am I supposed to face Thomas Bowman without remembering that I’ve seen his daughter in her underwear?”

“Daughters,” Simon corrected. “They were both there.”

“I only noticed the taller one.”

“Lillian?”

“Yes, that one.” A scowl crossed Westcliff’s face. “Good God, no wonder they’re all unmarried! They’re heathens even by American standards. And the way that woman spoke to me, as if I should have been embarrassed to interrupt their pagan revelry—”

“Westcliff, you sound like a prig,” Simon interrupted, amused by the earl’s vehemence. “A few innocent girls scampering about in the meadow is hardly the end of civilization as we know it. And if they had been village wenches, you’d have thought nothing of it. Hell, you probably would have joined them. I’ve seen you do things with your paramours at parties and balls that—”

“Well, they aren’t village wenches, are they? They’re young ladies—or at least they’re supposed to be. Why in God’s name are a bunch of wallflowers behaving in such a way?”

Simon grinned at his friend’s aggrieved tone. “My impression is that they have become allies in their un-wedded state. For most of the past season they sat without speaking to each other, but it seems they’ve recently struck up a friendship.”

“For what purpose?” the earl asked with deep suspicion.

“Perhaps they’re merely trying to enjoy themselves?” Simon suggested, interested by the degree to which Westcliff had taken exception to the girls’ behavior. Lillian Bowman, in particular, seemed to have bothered him profoundly. And that was unusual for the earl, who always treated women with casual ease. To Simon’s knowledge, despite the numbers of women who pursued him in and out of bed, Westcliff had never lost his detachment. Until then.

“Then they should take up needlework, or do whatever it is that proper women do to enjoy themselves,” the earl growled. “At least they should find a hobby that doesn’t involve running na**d through the countryside.”

“They weren’t naked,” Simon pointed out. “Much to my regret.”

“That comment impels me to say something,” Westcliff said. “As you know, I’m not usually one to give advice when it isn’t asked for—”

Simon interrupted with a bark of laughter. “Westcliff, I doubt that a day in your life has passed without you giving advice to someone about something.”

“I offer advice only when it is obviously needed,” the earl said with a scowl.

Simon gave him a sardonic glance. “Dispense your words of wisdom, then, as it appears that I’m going to hear them whether I wish to or not.”

“It pertains to Miss Peyton. If you’re wise, you’ll divest yourself of all notions concerning her. She’s a shallow bit of goods, and as self-absorbed as any creature I’ve ever met. The facade is beautiful, I’ll grant you…but in my judgment there’s nothing beneath to recommend it. No doubt you’re thinking of taking her as your mistress if she fails in her bid to win Kendall. My advice is, don’t. There are women who have infinitely more to offer you.”

Simon didn’t reply for a moment. His sentiments regarding Annabelle Peyton were uncomfortably complex. He admired Annabelle, he liked her, and God knew he had no right to judge her harshly for becoming another man’s mistress. But all the same, the very real possibility that she had taken Hodgeham into her bed engendered a mixture of jealousy and anger that surprised him.

After hearing the rumor that Lord Burdick had been spreading, that Annabelle had become Lord Hodgeham’s secret mistress, Simon hadn’t been able to resist investigating the claim. He had asked his father, who kept meticulous account books, if anyone had ever given him money for the Peytons’ butcher bills. Sure enough, his father had confirmed that Lord Hodgeham had occasionally settled the Peytons’ account. Although that hardly was conclusive proof of anything, it provided yet more weight to the possibility that Annabelle had become Hodgeham’s mistress. And Annabelle’s evasiveness during their conversation the previous morning had certainly done little to contradict the rumor.

Clearly the Peyton family’s situation was desperate…but why Annabelle should have turned to a fat old windbag like Hodgeham for help was a mystery. On the other hand, so many of life’s decisions, good and bad, were made as a simple result of timing. Perhaps Hodgeham had managed to intervene at a moment when Annabelle’s defenses were at their weakest, and she had allowed herself to be persuaded to give the old bastard what he wanted in return for the money she needed so badly.

She had no walking boots. Christ. Hodgeham’s generosity must be paltry indeed, to allow for a few new gowns but no decent shoes, and undergarments that were nearly in rags. If Annabelle was to be some man’s mistress, she could damn well be Simon’s, and at least receive proper recompense for her favors. Obviously it was far too soon to broach the question to her. Simon would have to wait patiently while Annabelle tried to wrest a proposal from Lord Kendall. And he intended to do nothing to harm her chances. But if she failed with Kendall, Simon intended to approach her with a much better offer than her current hole-and-corner arrangement with Hodgeham.