Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(55)

Annabelle considered that for a moment. The only thing that would come from confiding her woes to Simon Hunt was an almost certain offer to support her as his mistress. And she hated the part of herself that was tempted by the idea. “Why should you wish to involve yourself in my problems?” she asked.

“Do I have to have an ulterior motive for wanting to help you?”

“Yes,” she replied darkly, causing him to chuckle.

He set her carefully down at the threshold of her room. “Can you reach the bed by yourself, or shall I tuck you in?”

Though his voice was lightly teasing, Annabelle suspected that with very little encouragement, he would do just that. She shook her head hastily. “No. I’m fine, please don’t come in.” She put a palm to his chest to keep him from entering the room. Frail though her hand was, it was enough to stop him.

“All right.” Hunt looked down at her, his gaze searching. “I’ll see that a maid is sent up to attend you. Though I suspect that Westcliff is already making inquiries.”

“I did ring for a maid,” Annabelle insisted, embarrassed by the peevish note in her own voice. “Obviously, the earl doesn’t believe me, but—”

“I believe you.” With great care, Hunt removed her hand from his chest, briefly holding her slender fingers in his before letting go. “Westcliff isn’t quite the ogre he seems. You have to be acquainted with him for some time before you appreciate his finer qualities.”

“If you say so,” Annabelle said doubtfully, and heaved a sigh as she stepped back into the stale, darkened sickroom. “Thank you, Mr. Hunt.” Wondering anxiously when Philippa would return, she glanced at the empty room, then turned back to Hunt.

His penetrating gaze seemed to unearth every emotion beneath her strained facade, and she sensed the multitude of questions that hovered on his lips. However, all he said was, “You need to rest.”

“I’ve done nothing but rest. I’m going mad from boredom…but the thought of actually doing anything makes me exhausted.” Lowering her head, Annabelle stared at the few inches of floor between their feet with morose concentration, before asking cautiously, “I suppose you have no interest in continuing the chess game later this evening?”

A short silence, and then Hunt replied in a softly mocking drawl. “Why, Miss Peyton…I’m overwhelmed by the thought that you might have a desire for my company.”

Annabelle couldn’t bring herself to look at him, her face covered with an awkward blush, as she muttered, “I’d keep company with the devil himself, if only to have something to do besides stay in bed.”

Laughing quietly, he reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “We’ll see,” he murmured. “Perhaps I’ll come by your room later.”

And with that, he gave her a deft, shallow bow and left, walking down the hallway with his usual self-assured stride.

Too late, Annabelle recalled something about a musical evening that had been planned for the guests while they enjoyed a buffet supper. Certainly Simon Hunt would prefer to keep company with the guests downstairs rather than play a rudimentary game of chess with a sickly, unkempt, cross-tempered girl. She cringed, wishing that she could withdraw the spontaneous invitation…oh, how pitifully desperate she must have appeared! Clapping a hand to her forehead, Annabelle trudged into her room and let herself collapse stiffly onto the unmade bed like a tree that had just been chopped down.

Within five minutes, there was a knock at the door, and a pair of chastened-looking maids entered the room. “We came to tidy up, miss,” one of them ventured, “The master sent us—‘e said we must ‘elp you with anyfing you need.”

“Thank you,” Annabelle said, hoping that Lord Westcliff had not been too severe on the girls. Retreating to a chair, she watched the whirlwind of activity that ensued. With almost magical speed, the young housemaids changed the bed linens, opened the window to admit fresh air, cleaned and dusted the furniture, and brought in a portable bath that they proceeded to fill with hot water. One of the girls helped Annabelle to remove her clothes, while the other brought in a length of folded toweling and a bucket of warm rinse water for her hair. Shivering in comfort, Annabelle stepped into the mahogany-rimmed folding tub.

“Take my arm, please, miss,” the younger of the two said, extending her forearm for Annabelle to take hold of. “Yer not quite steady on yer feet, looks like.”

Annabelle obeyed and sank down into the water, and let go of the girl’s muscular arm. “What is your name?” she asked, lowering her shoulders until they were submerged beneath the steaming surface of the water.

“Meggie, miss.”

“Meggie, I believe I dropped a gold sovereign on the floor of the family’s private parlor—will you try to find it for me?”

The girl gave her a perplexed glance, clearly wondering why Annabelle had left a valuable coin on the floor and what would transpire if she couldn’t find it. “Yes, miss.” She bobbed an uneasy curtsey and rushed from the room. Dunking her head beneath the water, Annabelle sat up with a streaming face and hair and wiped her eyes as the other maid bent to rub a cake of soap over her head. “It feels nice to be clean,” Annabelle murmured, sitting still beneath the girl’s ministrations.

“Me ma allus says ‘tisn’t good to bathe when yer ill,” the maid told her dubiously.