The Trouble with Anna

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

L ADY ANNA RESTON STOOD AT the bottom of a wide stone staircase, wearing a borrowed dress and a grim expression.

The great house at Mayne was lit up and glowing in the cold, with lanterns splashing light over the mellow limestone walls to bounce between the building’s crown of fanciful spires, and thousands of candles winking in clusters along the drive. Music, lively and quick, skipped down the steps toward her, and underneath it, Anna could hear the chatter of hundreds of thoroughly overexcited guests. Even the stars seemed to twinkle their brightest in the ink-black sky, as if they wanted to join the party.

Tonight’s ball was already a smashing success, destined to be talked about for years to come. Which was why, Anna thought bitterly, there was absolutely no reason for her to attend.

Two rows of footmen resplendent in navy and silver stood at the top of the stairs, blinking down at her as if wondering at her hesitation.

“Are you sure this isn’t too much for you?” she asked her grandfather, the Viscount Barton, standing ramrod straight beside her.

“I don’t plan to die just yet, girl! But for god’s sake, must we dawdle out in the cold? It’s bad enough that you dragged me here.”

Anna shot him a look. Only someone with the intelligence of a squirrel could think she wanted to be here, swaddled in a ridiculous confection of silk.

“We’d best get it over with,” she said, and took her grandfather’s arm.

The Viscount patted her hand. “Now you’re talking sense.”

Anna squared her shoulders and marched resolutely forward.

Gifford, the butler at Mayne, stood still as a statue at the entrance to the ballroom. He puffed out his chest, heavy with silver braid, and bellowed, “The Right Honorable Viscount Barton! Lady Anna Reston!”

As Anna passed through the door, Gifford whispered, “Lady Charlotte will be delighted to see you.”

“Thank you, Gifford,” Anna whispered back. “May I say how splendid you look tonight?”

The Viscount jostled his way into the crowd and Anna pushed after him, staring around the room. Charlotte had crammed it full of real orange trees, which Anna had to admit looked spectacular and smelled even better. Candles hung from the trees and lined the gallery where the musicians played, and the enormous chandelier overhead sparkled bright enough to blind her. Four long refreshment tables seemed to quiver under the weight of the food laid out on them, and in pride of place was an enormous iced copper bowl from which footmen scooped pale mounds of sorbet into what looked like—good lord, could those be hollowed-out lemons?

Still, Anna’s shoulders crawled up toward her ears, as if she were a turtle in need of a shell.

“Ah! At least there’s someone here worth talking to,” the Viscount cried, well within earshot of most of his neighbors. “Ramsay! Lord Ramsay! I must tell you about my horse.”

Anna turned hot, then cold.

Oh no. Not him! Not now!

Julian Aveton, the Earl Ramsay, turned around and Anna’s chest cracked open. She dropped her eyes to the gleaming floor, but it didn’t help—the sheer force of him still hit her like a slap. He was tall, with shoulders that were almost alarmingly wide, and thick chestnut hair cut a little long, a little unruly. He was handsome, almost insultingly so, as if the stark planes and angles of his face were designed expressly to muddle her senses. But it was his air of command that undid her completely—the sweeping intelligence of dark eyes that saw so much and were impressed with so little. Anna might have found him cold, or a little remote, except every once in a while something caught his attention and he sparked with laughter.

Lord Ramsay bowed. “Good evening, Lord Barton.”

“Ramsay! I have a horse I particularly wanted to—”

“Good evening to you as well, Lady Anna.”

Anna’s cheeks stained themselves red, her tongue tied itself into knots, and any scrap of brain that hadn’t already melted gathered itself up and scuttled away. He’s Lord Ramsay! she reminded herself firmly. He was miles above her. Miles above everyone, in fact. A man swooned over by society’s daughters, and mamas, and a shockingly large number of young society matrons. Swooned over by a good number of the men as well, from what she could see.

“Good evening,” she managed, though she fixed her gaze firmly on her slippers. She could feel him searching her face and squirmed, knowing he must wonder—if he thought of her at all—why his sister Charlotte had ever bothered to befriend her. Anna knew she was plain to look at and prickly to deal with, but she never felt it more sharply than when he was around.

“Ramsay, it’s about my Archer,” said the Viscount. “You’d be a fool not to put your mare—”

Lord Ramsay turned his attention to Anna’s grandfather and she took the opportunity to walk briskly in the other direction. It wasn’t convenient, it wasn’t sensible, and it certainly wasn’t pleasant to feel this way, yet Anna’s heart did giddy flips in her chest.

Stop it! Anna ordered her heart, but it thumped back at her rudely.

You barely even know the man! she argued, but her heart thrummed a ridiculous song about the lick of impatience in his eyes.

Oh, go stuff—

A ball of blush pink and bouncing black curls crashed into her.

“There you are!” cried Lady Charlotte. “I thought you’d never arrive. How do you like my party?”

“It’s glorious. I love it,” Anna lied loyally.

Charlotte beamed. “Let’s have a look at you. How does the gown I sent over fit?”

Oh dear. Not even a lie could save Anna now. The fit of the gown wasn’t too tragic, but somehow the apricot silk made her look paler and more pinched than ever, and it felt so odd against her skin that Anna kept twitching. All the other young women whirled around looking proud and glorious in their finery, but she yearned to be back in the sensible wool of her riding habits. There was nothing to do but shake her head and laugh. “I look a wreck, Charlotte. Even you have to admit it.”

Charlotte frowned. “Where’s the sash?”

Anna glanced down at herself. “Oh! I must have lost it in the carriage.”

“Anna, really! There’s no shape to the gown without the—never mind! You should have told me earlier that you had nothing to wear.”

“How was I to know my gown had a whacking great stain on it?”

“Yes, your one gown. And how many million riding habits do you have? If you would give me just a few hours at the village seamstress, I could—”

“Enough, Charlotte!” cried Anna. “I’m here, aren’t I? Surely that counts?”

Charlotte sighed. “I know how you feel about parties, but—”

A footman coughed discreetly at Charlotte’s elbow. “My lady, Gifford would like a word. There’s a troupe of fire-eaters on the doorstep, and—”

“Oh, have they arrived? Anna, I won’t be a moment. I promise you’ll have fun tonight, even if we have to sneak up to the gallery and drop ice chips on the dowagers.”

Charlotte skipped away into the crowd, leaving Anna alone. Only fifteen minutes in, and already the night felt endless.

At least it can’t get much worse.

Julian Aveton, the Earl Ramsay, stood in the center of his Suffolk ballroom and brooded. Being an earl, he reflected, was not just counting gold and banishing peasants, as the average Englishman seemed to think. In fact, in the fifteen years since the coronet had first landed on his head, Julian hadn’t banished so much as a single farmer and wouldn’t enjoy the task if it fell to him. Rather, most of his days were busy with drainage, dry rot, and seeping damp in places damp ought not to be. Come to think of it, the average Englishman might be quite sympathetic, if only he remembered the average English weather.

Certainly, very few Englishmen would envy him Charlotte. Was this really her idea of a simple country dance?

Ten years younger and the product of his father’s second marriage, Charlotte was generally one of Julian’s favorite problems, but this time she’d gone wildly past the limit. She’d crammed his ballroom full of people, all in their finest gowns and jewels, all fanning themselves against the heat of the crush and their own excitement. Revelers spilled out down the terraces, laughing too loud under peach and apricot lanterns that splashed light against the lawn below. Champagne flowed into great towers of crystal coupes, and some of the younger guests already sported the glassy eyes and hectic smiles to prove it.

He always noticed who drank too much.

So how should he respond to Charlotte? Should it be chains? The dungeon? Should he sever her head, or worse, her allowance? Or—since she had been out four Seasons now and was much too old for any of that—should he congratulate her instead?

A burst of flame erupted from across the ballroom and the guests gasped and applauded as a troupe of fire-eaters began twirling their torches. Julian took a long sip of champagne, a particularly excellent vintage smuggled up from his own private cellar, he noted. Definitely the dungeon, then.

Julian turned his attention to another grievance, the sweetest and yet the most vexing.

Petit fours.

Two whole tables full, taunting him.

Little pink petit fours wrapped up like presents and filled with strawberry cream. Tempting white domes, each finished with a twist of sugared lemon. And of course the chocolate ones, each topped by a single pouting raspberry, calling to him like a dark addiction.

His sister was a fiend.

Also a master tactician who knew all his weaknesses.

A peal of laughter caught his attention. There she was, by the terrace doors, in charge of an army of lovestruck young men.

Julian inclined his head and she came dashing over. “This is a small country dance?”

“Well, you know I like to do things properly,” said Charlotte. “Besides, you so rarely come up to Mayne. We owe our neighbors a little entertainment.”

“Yes, a little entertainment. Suffolk hasn’t seen a ball like this in half a century.”

Charlotte went pink. “Oh, Julian, how kind of you to say so!”

His mouth quirked. “That was a complaint, brat, not a compliment. I should take the costs out of your allowance.”

“That would be less kind. Besides, my allowance wouldn’t begin to cover it.” The music changed and Charlotte brightened. “It’s the waltz! I must run, but I need to ask a particular favor. Dance with Lady Anna tonight?”

“The one who scowls mightily but will never say a word?”

Charlotte showed him a mighty scowl of her own. “No, I mean my dear friend Lady Anna, who is actually quite a firebrand if you get to know her. Did I tell you she’s running Chatham’s racing stud practically all by herself now?”

“Ah, she’s horse mad. In that case, I’m all impatience.”

“Don’t be beastly!” Charlotte said, but she was already rushing off. “Just one dance! You’ll adore her, if only you get to know her!”

Julian shrugged. He was quite sure he wouldn’t adore Charlotte’s little friend, but he’d do his duty and dance with her.

It wasn’t as if he had high expectations for the night anyway.

Was sneaking away allowed at a ball?

Anna crossed the ballroom, heading for the far corner and the little stairs the servants used, which led to Charlotte’s room, where she planned to toss off her slippers and flop on the bed until it was time to go home. She’d promised to attend the ball, but surely she could attend from a nest of cozy coverlets, perhaps with a good book in hand? Charlotte was certain to have something naughty tucked under the mattress.

You’re a coward! her conscience muttered darkly.

I’m a genius! she shot back, looking over her shoulder as the door to the staircase swung closed behind her. Charlotte doesn’t need me and —

Anna smacked hard into what seemed to be a solid wall of white linen. Impossibly well-muscled white linen that sent the oddest thrill shivering over her skin and carried the irresistible scent of—

Strong hands clamped down on her upper arms. “Lady Anna?”

Anna’s gaze swept up, way up. Over a warm, wide chest, up a strong column of neck and over the sharp curve of a jaw, up again past the dip of a rather stern mouth until she finally encountered a pair of bronze eyes, remarkably keen and clear.

Lord Ramsay.

Oh god .

Her mouth opened and closed like a dying trout.

Ramsay frowned. “Where are you going?”

“I—I—I…”

But as hard as Anna tried, she couldn’t form a proper sentence. Just one small word, over and over again.

“I see.” His mouth quirked. “Off to steal the silver, are you?”

Anna’s brain froze and her tongue doubled in size. Silence stretched out between them, long enough to strangle her.

“Shall I help?” he prompted. “When someone asks a question, it’s customary to answer.”

Heat seared across her cheeks. “Charlotte’s room,” she gasped. “I wanted a moment of peace.”

For a moment, his expression softened. “I see. It’s Bedlam out there, isn’t it?”

Anna wanted to answer. She wanted, one time, to say something easy like, God, yes! There are so many people and they’re all talking such nonsense! Perhaps he’d respond; perhaps they’d strike up a conversation and talk glorious nonsense together. But she could barely look at him, let alone speak.

Anna watched the faint hint of empathy on Lord Ramsay’s face flicker out, replaced by boredom. “I’m afraid I must insist you return to—”

He was interrupted by a woman’s voice, low and urgent, coming from just beyond the door.

“I won’t ask him again, Freddy! I can’t, when he’s already given you so much. I’ll sort out something from my allowance, of course, but—”

“You expect me to be satisfied by my sister’s pin money?”

“No,” the woman said softly. “I don’t expect you to be satisfied by anything.”

There was an ugly laugh. “That brooch of yours will satisfy me, at least for tonight.”

“Freddy, you can’t—no!” cried the woman.

There was a ripping sound and anger surged through Anna, so clean and glorious that it swept all her hesitation away. Ramsay’s whole body went tense behind her, like a fist clenching for a fight, but she couldn’t pay attention to that, not when she could hear the man on the other side of the door walking away. He took one heavy footstep, and then another, and Anna knew she had only seconds to act.

She gave a battle cry and slammed her shoulder into the swinging door. The solid oak hit the man with a satisfying whack, and he went down with an odd broken yelp and a wall-shaking crash. Triumph howled through her, and then horror, because she couldn’t control her momentum. The floor rushed toward her with dizzying speed and—

“Oof!” Anna’s abdomen connected with the warm muscle of Ramsay’s arm as he hooked her and pulled her against him, knocking the breath out of her. Once again she was flooded with the scent of clean linen and… was that peat? Her shoulder and stomach both smarted like hell, but all she could think was that the damned man smelled impossibly good, as if he slept each night in a freshly made four-poster bed at the top of some faraway Scottish mountain. Stop it! she scolded herself, aware that this line of thought wasn’t helping her breathe.

Lord Ramsay turned her in his arms. She could feel him searching her face, as if he’d never looked at her properly before. “Are you all right?”

Anna gulped down some air. “Perfectly!”

“You’re not injured?”

Anna ignored her shoulder. “Of course not!”

“No, of course not,” he said gravely, even as his mouth twitched.

Ramsay set her gently aside, scooped up a little diamond wreath, and stepped over the man still writhing on the floor. “Mrs. de Lacy, I believe? You seem to have dropped your brooch, and, oh dear—you’ve torn your lovely gown. Lady Anna will escort you to the retiring room.”

The tiny, dark-haired woman looked near to tears, but she nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Lady Anna. I’ll remain here and deal with the mess on the floor.”

Mrs. de Lacy’s brother groaned and she flinched, looking down at him with doubt and fear. “I really should—”

“You should come with me. Shall we?” Anna offered her arm.

Mrs. de Lacy, with a worried glance over her shoulder, allowed Anna to lead her away. As Anna passed by Ramsay, he dropped his voice into a whisper.

“Nicely done, firebrand.”

After Anna brought Mrs. de Lacy to the retiring room and found her mother for her, and then found her dear friend Lucretia who was handy with a needle, she circled back to the ballroom for what she considered a well-deserved lemon sorbet. The night hadn’t been too tragic, had it? She dipped her spoon into the tart ice and considered. No one had asked her to dance, but that was more relief than tragedy. Her shoulder felt like a big, aching bruise, probably because it was. But somehow she’d survived the ball with her spirits intact, buoyant even, and that seemed a minor miracle.

Oh, don’t lie! You’re merry as a cricket and it’s all because Lord Ramsay noticed you.

Anna ignored that thought, shoveling another big bite of sorbet into her mouth.

Just then came a muffled thump from the far corner of the room. Gasps went up and a low rumbling of voices, and then the urgent call of “Doctor! We need a doctor!” The music screeched to a stop.

Oh dear , Anna thought, licking her spoon, what now?

She craned her neck but couldn’t see over the tight knot of people gathered in the corner. One by one, their faces turned, strangely solemn, searching for someone. The crowd gave an odd, shuffling ripple and parted to form a path from Anna to the person lying on the floor, unnaturally still.

Anna’s spoon clattered on the parquet as the room receded and a footman made his solemn way over.

“Lady Anna, it’s your grandfather.” The footman’s voice echoed in her bones. “Come quickly.”