Marquesses at the Masquerade(43)
“I love you,” he whispered and kissed her ear.
She made a sweet, soft humming sound.
“Rest, my love.”
He strolled to the door and then turned. She had shifted onto her side again. The gold firelight danced on her curls. He watched her for a long moment and said a small prayer for her and their child’s safety, and then he slipped into the dark corridor.
Chapter Two
* * *
Three years later
Annalise clutched the leather portfolio containing her late father’s naturalist work as the carriage rolled past the Hyde Park gates. Here, Patrick had whispered, “I love you.” Gazing deeper into the park, she spied the spreading oak where they had first kissed—a quick, nervous brush of the lips. Later, in a darkened, empty room beside a ballroom, they’d enjoyed a more indulging kiss. How these memories had comforted her at night as she’d kept vigil beside her sick parents’ beds as the lonely country wind keened in the grate.
“You are smiling, miss,” Mrs. Bailey, Annalise’s family servant, remarked from across the hired coach. “I haven’t seen you smile since your papa was alive.”
“I’m so happy to be back,” Annalise cried, gazing out at the streets that she and Patrick had once walked. “So happy.”
She had chosen to come back to London after living under a cloud of dread for more than three years, nursing her dying parents in the quiet, lonely countryside. And now, although she still walked the earth, it felt as though huge parts of her were buried in the churchyard along with her parents.
“I don’t understand how this city—Satan’s broadside—can make you so happy,” Mrs. Bailey said.
Annalise couldn’t explain to poor Mrs. Bailey, who was country-bred and, until now, had never ventured beyond the county of her birth, how London shined as bright as the crown jewels in Annalise’s mind. Although her one Season had ended in shameful ruin, for a small time in London, when Patrick had loved her as much she loved him, she’d felt more alive than she ever had in her life. She wanted to live that way again—filled with hope, laughter, and love.
The coach skirted Mayfair’s perimeter before finally reaching its destination, a stately town house on Wigmore Street.
“This is it?” Mrs. Bailey hmphed. “This is your uncle’s fine London home? I was expecting one of those fancy houses by the park. This is a teensy thing. How do they get everyone in there?”
“It’s larger than it appears from the outside,” Annalise said diplomatically. Uncle Harry’s family, like their home, hung at the outer edges of fashionable Society.
The front door flew open. A young lady in vivid blue cotton rushed out. Her spiraling honey-colored curls bounced around her as she cried, “She’s here! She’s here!”
Good heavens, was that little Phoebe all grown up now and rolling her hair? Aunt Sally had written that Phoebe was enjoying her first Season, but in Annalise’s mind Phoebe remained the adolescent who fawned over Annalise’s gowns and stayed up until the early hours for her return to listen, wide-eyed, to tales of the balls that she had attended that evening.
Behind Phoebe, two more girls followed—Shelley and Caroline, who had been a toddler when Annalise had been sent away. The three hopped about the walk excitedly, soon to be joined in their makeshift dance by their mother, Sally Sommerville. The daughters and mother all shared the same physical characteristics—creamy skin flecked with freckles, golden hair, long noses, and bow-like lips. Annalise took after her Dutch father in looks, but it was always said that her personality matched that of her maternal aunt and cousins. It was a long-standing family joke about the excitable nature of the female members. “Silly and high-strung the lot of them,” her uncle often quipped.
Annalise reached for the door handle and hopped down before the carriage driver could let down the steps. Her aunt and cousins crowded her, enclosing her in a large, boisterous hug.
“There’s to be a masquerade!” Phoebe announced before even inquiring about Annalise’s well-being or if her trip had been pleasant. “I wanted to go as Anne Boleyn—with my head off. It would have been delightful. But Papa says I must go as a boring shepherdess. What will you be?”
“So many parties this Season,” Aunt Sally cried, repeatedly kissing Annalise on her cheeks. “You shan’t have a single dull moment. Not a one. Oh, but you are so pale. My poor, poor dear, what you must have suffered. I’m sorry I couldn’t visit after the funerals. The children, you know. But I have the perfect potion from my apothecary that will put blooms on your cheeks again. Oh, and the draper received a darling new shipment of fabric from India. We must go tomorrow. We must! There is the most delightful gown featured in The Ladies Mirror.”
“It’s beautiful!” Phoebe agreed. “Mama said that I may have one made up. And you too! Everyone will find it so darling.”
“I thought Papa said that we must be careful taking Annalise to parties because of her reputation,” Shelley said innocently.
“Hush, Shelley!” Phoebe admonished her sister. “You weren’t supposed to say anything. And everyone would have forgotten by now.”
“She’s here. She’s here,” said a male voice in mocking falsetto tones. Annalise glanced up. Her uncle, Harry Sommerville, leaned against the threshold, arms crossed. He was a slender man with slightly receding hair that he brushed forward. He possessed a strong nose and heavy eyelids, which made him appear perpetually bored. “Why don’t you girls let your cousin inside and stop dancing about and clucking like excited, mindless hens on the walk for our neighbors’ entertainment?”