Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(54)

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.

“Miss Peyton,” he said crisply, “I assure you, there was no need for you to make your way through the hall unescorted. If there was no one available to help you, you had only to ring for a servant.”

“I did, my lord,” Annabelle said defensively, trying to push away from Hunt, who wouldn’t let her. “I rang the bellpull and waited for at least a quarter hour, and no one came.”

Westcliff’s regarded her with obvious skepticism. “Impossible. My servants always come when they’re summoned.”

“Well, today seems to be an exception,” Annabelle snapped. “Perhaps the bellpull is broken. Or perhaps your servants—”

“Easy,” Hunt murmured, pressing her head back to his chest. Although Annabelle couldn’t see his face, she heard the note of quiet warning in his voice as he spoke to Westcliff. “We’ll continue our discussion later. Right now I intend to escort Miss Peyton to her room.”

“That is not a wise idea, in my opinion,” the earl said.

“I’m glad I didn’t ask for it, then,” Simon returned pleasantly.

There was the sound of the earl’s taut sigh, and Annabelle was vaguely aware of his carpet-muffled footsteps as he walked away from them.

Hunt bent his head, his breath warming the tip of her ear, as he inquired, “Now…would you care to explain what is going on?”

All her veins seemed to dilate, bringing a flush of pleasure to her cool skin. Hunt’s nearness filled her with equal amounts of delight and yearning. As he held her, she couldn’t help remembering her dream, the erotic illusion of his body pressing over hers. This was all so terribly wrong, that she should revel silently in being held by him…even knowing that she would get nothing from him but temporary pleasure followed by everlasting dishonor. She managed to shake her head in answer to his question, her cheek rubbing against the lapel of his coat.

“I didn’t think so,” Hunt said wryly. He released her experimentally, assessed her unsteady balance with a narrow-eyed glance, and bent to lift her in his arms. Annabelle surrendered with an inarticulate murmur and linked her arms around his neck. As Hunt carried her along the hallway, he spoke in a quiet voice. “I might be able to help, if you would tell me the problem.”