Chapter Four
Annabelle could not recall a dinner that had ever felt so wrought with tension. Beside the fact that the table was set with enough dukes and duchesses to form a small court of their own, she and Knox, the only unmarried couple, had been caught in a rather compromising situation.
And all the dukes and duchesses were pretending that particular detail never happened.
Including Knox.
Blazing scoundrel.
Bishop occupied the head of the table with Alyssia beside him. Across from her, the place had been left conspicuously empty, while Crane and Rosilee sat across from one another, leaving Annabelle seated opposite Knox.
And Knox did everything but pay attention to her.
Not even a peek.
And she would know, because all she could do was peek.
You exist.
Hah. Care to run that by her again? She existed. At this table, however, she might as well have been invisible.
She lifted her glass and took a big sip of wine. Sweet, red, and doing absolutely nothing to still the absurd flutter in her chest that had not ceased since the cottage. She simply couldn’t tell anymore if that flutter was anticipation or mortification.
Heaven save her, please.
What, precisely, had happened for them to .
. . for him to . . . for her to . . . throw caution to the storm, which still raged outside.
One moment, they had been, well, whatever, they had been, she couldn’t rightly recall, the next she had been in his arms, kissing him as though she had lost every scrap of sense she’d ever possessed.
Honestly, if Alyssia hadn’t sent the men out to search for and collect them, they could very well have been stranded for the night.
She shivered at the mere thought.
Rosilee nudged her foot and said softly, “You are scowling rather fiercely.”
Annabelle instantly smoothed her features. The last thing she wanted to reveal was any of her vexation, desire, or quite honestly, her confusion, on her face. Not that Knox would notice, anyway.
Her friend’s gaze flicked between her and the duke.
Bishop cleared his throat. “Friends ought to dine in good spirits and leave grievances behind.”
Annabelle cast a sidelong glance at the man. Was he referring to her and Knox?
“Agreed!” Alyssia chirped.
Wait a minute, did they believe them to be in the midst of a quarrel? She thought back to when Bishop and Crane had found them at the cottage. They’d been scrambling to cover themselves, and she might have glared at Knox at the time . . .
Oh.
So that was why they hadn’t been peppered with questions.
“There is little use in clinging to small offenses, is there?” Rosilee added. “Right, love?” she directed at her husband.
Crane grunted.
Annabelle wanted to put a stop to this absurd line of conversation and express they weren’t enemies or anything, but then, what were they? They weren’t friends either. For stars’ sake, the man would not even look at her!
Annabelle inwardly sneered. If they weren’t friends, weren’t anything amicable, then they could be considered a sort of foes, no? Foes who had a momentary lapse in judgment and vented their ire with a kiss. But still foes. Perhaps she should just treat him as such.
Blasted man.
She spared a glance across the table. Of course, the man was looking at his wine glass, his thumb tracing the stem. Strong, steady fingers. Fingers that had been tangled in her hair mere hours ago.
She took a sip, offering drily, “Then it’s a good thing this is a table filled with friends and not rogues.”
Across the table, Knox’s thumb stopped moving.
Silence fell, before Alyssia chuckled. “Oh, I suspect we are all rogues at heart. In any event, I wasn’t even aware there was a cottage on the property. It wasn’t too run down, I hope.”
Knox took a slow, agonizingly calm sip of his wine before speaking. “The shelter was adequate for the purpose it served,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a fresh shiver down Annabelle’s spine. “Though I find I prefer a bit more distance between myself and the rain.”
What a civilized response!
Annabelle gritted her teeth.
Ah, how she hated to feel like a silly, foolish girl.
And at the moment, that feeling threatened to flood her.
But she wouldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t let it take root.
What the devil was the man thinking? Did he have a pea for a brain?
Or simply a pea for a heart? No matter. She could play it just as cool.
“Wise,” she agreed lightly, lifting her glass as her eyes met his. “Some storms have a way of unveiling what one would rather avoid revealing.”
Take that, rogue!
*
Bloody hell. He’d been a damn arse.
Knox emptied the tumbler of brandy, grimacing at the memory of Annabelle at dinner.
Her barely veiled accusation. But what else was he supposed to do?
She was a lady. An innocent bloody lady.
He never got entangled with untouched innocents.
Lady Annabelle was even more forbidden since she was the closest friend to his friend’s wife.
How had he descended into such madness?
He was not a man to dwell on his failures or private apprehensions, but even he could not overlook the flash of panic that had seized him when Bishop and Crane found them in a state of deuced disorder.
Fortunately, they’d misunderstood, but every possible consequence had struck him at once.
The surge of alarm, however, had not been for himself but for her.
That Annabelle might be bound to a man such as him.
Bishop set his feet on his desk, eyeing him with interest. “What did you do to offend Lady Annabelle this time?”
Knox scowled. “Why do I have to be the one who offended her?”
Crane raised a brow. “Even if she offended you, just apologize.”
Bishop lifted his glass in agreement. “Well, given that you were practically naked when we arrived, I probably don’t have to ask why.”
Knox scowled. “The only alternative was to freeze to death.”
“That may be, but I implore you to be more mindful in the future,” Bishop murmured. “Alyssia would have my bollocks if anything happened to her friend.”
“I’m not a damn scoundrel.”
Both men stared at him.
“Not that much of one,” Knox muttered.
But God help him, he feared he was exactly that sort of scoundrel.
Even now, he wanted to hunt her down and claim not only her lips, but every inch of her exquisite body as well.
He hadn’t been unaffected by her at dinner.
In fact, he’d been so damn affected he dared not spare her even a glance.
If he had, he might have regressed to a caveman and carried her off.
Her eyes carving furrows into him hadn’t helped.
His blood had boiled every time those burning eyes had set on him.
“Keep away from the woman if you can’t help but bicker.” Crane sipped his brandy boredly.
“Agreed,” Bishop said. “Give us all a reprieve, will you? It would be so much better if you got along.”
Knox dragged a hand through his hair. “I’ll bloody try.”
Bishop lowered his feet from the desk and asked Crane. “Speaking of trying, have your brothers been in contact with you again?”
“Half-brothers.”
Knox snorted, welcoming the chance to get his friends off his back. “Still blood.”
Crane scowled. “Blood doesn’t matter as much as people insist.”
Who could argue that fact? The men in this room were more family than his own had ever been.
Bishop chuckled. “So they have been in touch.”
Crane shook his head. “Mostly letters.”
Knox arched his brow. “Letters? About what? How desperately they miss you?”
Bishop barked a laugh. “Do they sign them Your devoted brother?”
“Watch your damn tongue,” Crane growled. “And no. They’re mostly from Reaper and mostly one-line drivel.”
Knox shook his head. He only knew Drake Fury, and that was enough. Crane had to deal with all seven. Needless to say, difficult men or not, he quite envied how these men—some of them at least—had effortlessly stepped into wedded bliss.
He could not picture marriage for himself.
Could not picture waking to someone in his bed every morning. Could not imagine someone waiting for him, trusting him, depending on him.
Christ.
Why was he even contemplating this?
Yet, for a fleeting, treacherous instant, he saw it. Dark waves spilling over his pillow. Bright eyes softened by sleep. A small, warm body curled against his side as though it belonged there.
Knox tipped the glass into his mouth to empty its contents.
Bloody dangerous thought, that.
One he could absolutely not entertain.
Bishop watched him over the rim of his glass. “You look as though you’ve just swallowed something nasty.”
“Or stepped into shite,” Crane murmured, amused.
He snorted. “Considerably worse, actually.”
The men chuckled. Knox, however, did not share their amusement.
One more moment in that cottage, one more breath with her mouth under his, and he might not have heard anyone approach, might have ruined her without a second thought.
Now he was left suspended between wanting to feast and forcing himself to starve.
This obsession with her defied reason.
Which was precisely why distance was the only sensible course. Now, all he had to do was resist Lady Annabelle Swanley and hope, by God, he wasn’t utterly, thoroughly, doomed.