Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(49)

After tucking a lap blanket around Annabelle’s knees, Philippa set a cup of clivers tea on a table beside her. “You must drink this,” she said firmly, in response to Annabelle’s grimace. “It’s for your own good.”

“There’s no need for you to stay in the parlor and watch over me, Mama,” Annabelle said. “I will be quite happy to relax here, while you go have a stroll or chat with one of your friends.”

“Are you certain?” Philippa asked.

“Absolutely certain.” Annabelle picked up the clivers tea and took a sip. “I’m drinking my medicine…see? Do go, Mama, and don’t give me another thought.”

“Very well,” Philippa said reluctantly. “Just for a little while. The housekeeper said for you to ring the bell on the table, if you want a servant. And remember to drink every drop of that tea.”

“I will,” Annabelle promised, pasting a wide smile on her face. She retained the smile until Phillippa had left the room. The moment that her mother was out of sight, Annabelle leaned over the back of the settee and carefully poured the contents of the cup out the open window.

Sighing with satisfaction, Annabelle curled into the corner of the settee. Now and then a household noise would interrupt the placid silence: the clatter of a dish, the murmur of the housekeeper’s voice, the sound of a broom being employed to sweep the hallway carpet. Resting her arm on the windowsill, Annabelle leaned forward into a shaft of sunlight, letting the brilliance bathe her face. She closed her eyes and listened to the drone of bees as they moved lazily among the flowering bursts of deep pink hydrangea and delicate tendrils of sweet pea that wound through the basket-bed borders. Although she was still very weak, it was pleasant to sit in warm lethargy, half-drowsing like a cat.

She was slow to respond when she heard a sound from the doorway…a single light rap, as if the visitor was reluctant to disrupt her reverie with a loud knock. Blinking her sun-dazzled eyes, Annabelle remained sitting with her legs tucked beneath her. The mass of light speckles gradually faded from her vision, and she found herself staring at Simon Hunt’s dark, lean form. He had leaned part of his weight on the doorjamb, bracing a shoulder against it in an unself-consciously rakish pose. His head was slightly tilted as he considered her with an unfathomable expression.

Annabelle’s pulse escalated to a mad clatter. As usual, Hunt was dressed impeccably, but the gentlemanly attire did nothing to disguise the virile energy that seemed to emanate from him. She recalled the hardness of his arms and chest as he had carried her, the touch of his hands on her body…oh, she would never be able to look at him again without remembering!

“You look like a butterfly that’s just flown in from the garden,” Hunt said softly.

He must be mocking her, Annabelle thought, perfectly aware of her own sickroom pallor. Self-consciously she raised a hand to her hair, pushing back the untidy locks. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be at the neighbor’s party?”

She had not meant to sound so abrupt and unwelcoming, but her usual facility with words had deserted her. As she stared at him, she couldn’t help thinking of how he had rubbed her chest with his hand. The recollection caused the stinging heat of embarrassment to cover her skin.

Hunt replied in a gently caustic tone. “I have business to conduct with one of my managers, who is due to arrive from London later this morning. Unlike the silk-stockinged gentlemen whose pedigrees you so admire, I have things to consider other than where I should settle my picnic blanket today.” Pushing away from the doorframe, Hunt ventured farther into the room, his gaze frankly assessing. “Still weak? That will improve soon. How is your ankle? Lift your skirts—I think I should take another look.”

Annabelle regarded him with alarm for a fraction of a second, then began to laugh as she saw the glint in his eyes. The audacious remark somehow eased her embarrassment and caused her to relax. “That is very kind,” she said dryly. “But there’s no need. My ankle is much better, thank you.”

Hunt smiled as he approached her. “I’ll have you know that my offer was made in a spirit of purest altruism. I would had taken no illicit pleasure at the sight of your exposed leg. Well, perhaps a small thrill, but I would have concealed it fairly well.” Grasping the back of a side chair with one hand, he moved it easily to the settee and sat close to her. Annabelle was impressed by the way he had lifted the sturdy piece of carved mahogany furniture as if it were feather-light. She threw a quick glance at the empty doorway. As long as the door wasn’t closed, it was acceptable for her to sit in the parlor with Hunt. And her mother would eventually come to look in on her. Before that happened, however, Annabelle decided to bring up the subject of the boots.

“Mr. Hunt,” she said carefully, “there is something I must ask you…”

“Yes?”

His eyes were definitely his most attractive feature, Annabelle thought distractedly. Vibrant and full of life, they made her wonder why people generally preferred blue eyes to dark ones. No shade of blue could ever convey the simmering intelligence that lurked in the depths of Simon Hunt’s sable eyes.

Try as she might, Annabelle could think of no subtle way to ask him. After grappling silently with a variety of phrases, she finally settled for a blunt question. “Were you responsible for the boots?”