Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(37)

She tried to imagine Simon Hunt’s dark face over hers, the hot brand of his mouth, his arms closing around her…just like before, except that she would be a willing participant. He was only a man, she reminded herself nervously. And a kiss was indeed a fleeting thing. But for the moment that it lasted, she would be bound in intimacy with him. And from then on, whenever they met, Simon Hunt would gloat silently. That would be difficult to endure.

She rubbed her forehead, which was suddenly as sore as if it had been whacked with a Rounders bat. “Can’t we just ignore the whole thing and just hope that he’ll have the good taste to keep his mouth shut?”

“Oh, yes,” Lillian said sarcastically, “Mr. Hunt has so often been linked to the phrase ‘good taste.’ By all means, let’s just cross our fingers and wait…if your nerves can bear the suspense.”

Massaging her temples, Annabelle made a sound of distress. “All right. I’ll approach him tonight. I’ll…” She hesitated for a long moment. “I’ll even kiss him, if necessary. But I will consider this more than adequate payment for all the gowns you gave me!”

A satisfied grin curved Lillian’s mouth. “I’m certain that you can come to some agreement with Mr. Hunt.”

After they parted company at the manor, Annabelle went to her room for an afternoon nap, which she hoped would restore her to rights before the supper ball. Her mother was nowhere to be seen, most likely having elected to take tea with some of the other ladies in the downstairs parlor. Annabelle was thankful for her mother’s absence, which allowed her to change her clothes and wash without having to answer any unwanted questions. Although Philippa was a fond and generally permissive parent, she would not have reacted well to the news that her daughter had been involved in some scrape with the Bowman sisters.

After changing into fresh undergarments, Annabelle slipped beneath the slickly ironed bed linens. To her frustration, the nagging pain of her ankle made it impossible to sleep. Feeling weary and irritable, she rang for a maid to bring a cold footbath, and she sat with her foot soaking for a good half hour. Her ankle was most definitely swollen, leading her to conclude grumpily that it had been a singularly unlucky day. Cursing as she eased a fresh stocking over the pale, puffy flesh, Annabelle dressed herself slowly. She rang for the maid once more when she needed help to tighten her corset and fasten the back of her yellow silk gown.

“Miss?” the maid murmured, her eyes squinting with concern as she glanced into Annabelle’s set face. “You look a bit peaked…Is there aught I can bring for you? The housekeeper keeps a tonic in her closet for female ailments—”

“No, it’s not that,” Annabelle said with a wan smile. “It’s just a twinge in my ankle.”

“Some willowbark tea, then?” the girl suggested, moving behind Annabelle to button the back of the ball gown. “I’ll run down and fetch it straightaways, and you can drink it while I do your hair.”

“Yes, thank you.” Annabelle stood still as the maid’s nimble fingers fastened the gown, then she sank gratefully into the chair before the dressing table. She stared at her own strained reflection in the Queen Anne looking glass. “I can’t think how I injured it. I’m never clumsy.”

The maid fluffed the pale golden tulle that trimmed the sleeves of Annabelle’s gown. “I’ll hurry with the tea, miss. That will set you to rights.”

Just as the maid left, Philippa entered the room. Smiling at the sight of her daughter dressed in the yellow ball gown, she stood behind her, and met her gaze in the looking glass. “You look lovely, darling.”

“I feel wretched,” Annabelle said wryly. “I turned my ankle during my walk with the wallflowers this afternoon.”

“Must you refer to yourselves that way?” Philippa asked, looking perturbed. “Surely you could think of some more flattering name for your little group—”

“But it suits us,” Annabelle said with a grin. “If it makes you feel better, I do say the word with a suitable touch of irony.”

Philippa sighed. “I’m afraid my own store of irony is quite depleted at the moment. It isn’t easy for me to watch you struggle and scheme, while other girls of your station have so much easier a time of it. Seeing you in borrowed gowns, and knowing the burdens you carry…I’ve thought a thousand times that if only your father hadn’t died, and if only we had just a little money…”

Annabelle shrugged. “As they say, Mama…‘if turnips were watches, I’d have one by my side.’ “

Philippa stroked her hair lightly. “Why don’t you rest in our room tonight? I’ll read to you, while you lie with your ankle propped up—”

“Don’t tempt me,” Annabelle said feelingly. “I’d like nothing better—but I can’t afford to stay up here tonight. I can’t miss a single opportunity to make an impression on Lord Kendall.” And negotiate with Simon Hunt, she thought, feeling hollow with apprehension.

After drinking a large mug of willowbark tea, Annabelle was able to make her way downstairs with scarcely a wince, although the swelling of her ankle had refused to abate. She had time for a brief exchange with Lillian before the guests were led to the dining hall. A touch of sun had left Lillian’s cheeks pink and glowing, her brown eyes velvety in the candlelight. “So far, Lord Westcliff has made an obvious effort to ignore the wallflowers,” Lillian said with a grin. “You were right—there’ll be no trouble from that quarter. Our only potential problem is Mr. Hunt.”