Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Forgive me, Papa,” Elizabeth loudly announced, “I should have sent word last night, only Bella’s ankle remained too weak.
” She hurried Ginny, head bent beneath a wrap, up the stairs of her father’s house, the maid pretending to limp.
“Come, sister, let us get you settled. All will be forgotten in a few days, I am certain.”
And Ginny, bless her, let out a well-timed sniffle.
Elizabeth had discussed their ruse with Papa and her maid on the carriage ride back.
Only Cook, their most trusted servant, would know it was not Bella in her bedroom, and only Cook would be allowed entry inside.
No one was to disturb Miss Annabelle until she regained both her nerves and the use of her ankle.
Once inside Bella’s bedroom, Ginny quickly changed into one of Annabelle’s night-rails and climbed into the bed. Elizabeth locked her sister’s room from the outside and went in search of Cook, who quickly grasped the situation—and pocketed the key to Bella’s room even quicker.
Next Elizabeth sought Papa. He sat slumped at his desk, head folded in his hands, and for a moment she almost pitied the man. Until she thought of Annabelle.
“What would your wives think now, Father, were they alive to witness your present state?”
He remained silent, then looked up and gnashed his teeth. “Would that I had died alongside them, Lizzie! Would I were long buried too!” Tears welled at his eyes. “I was a wretch to both, and now to my poor Annabelle. God help me, I am a wretch…”
Loud pounding made Elizabeth grip her father’s hand; she hadn’t time to indulge his sorry self. “Follow my lead, whoever now knocks. Be now the father Bella needs. Protect her, though you did not protect me.”
A moment later, a man stepped into her father’s office who looked the very description of Hieronymus Finch. Elizabeth swallowed her fear and began to spin a tale worthy of her sister’s unwell state, and her own storytelling talents.
Alas, the man’s beady-eyed expression told her he’d not bought a word she’d said.
“Grieves me t’ hear yer sister is so poorly, milady, though a moment with meself, her betrothed, is sure t’ cheer the lady’s spirits.”
Elizabeth shuddered at his repulsive sneer.
“I might deliver her me flowers in person, just a brief hullo.” His gaze lit upon the nosegay he held, a bundle of ‘everlasting love’ or baby’s breath.
She shuddered only more.
Elizabeth’s lips felt parched. “That is most kind of you to offer, Mr. Finch, but I think it best we let Annabelle rest. Perhaps in a day or two you may wish her well in person.”
“Oh I’ll be back t’morrow, ma’am.” His eyes glittered. “Y’ can depend on it.” Those eyes landed next on her father. “A promise is a promise, after all.” He grinned again, one tooth dangling on a thread.
Elizabeth’s stomach flipped. “Ah yes, promises.” She swallowed her nerves. “I believe my husband, the Baron, promised me just this morning that he would pay you a visit.” She remembered to smile while speaking.
“That so?” Finch’s eyes gleamed. “Always a pleasure t’ deal with Jasper.”
“Such a shame I did not see you at our wedding, Mr. Finch. I hope it was not an oversight on my husband’s part to have forgotten to invite you.”
His face clouded over. “Not at all, Lady Milton. Jasp an’ I go way back, see. So far back, seems we’ve known each other a lifetime.”
“Strange, then, that he should not mention you, Mr. Finch, given all my husband shares with me.”
“Shares, eh?” His eyes lewdly swept her form. “I imagine he’s had ’is fun with you.” He laughed, low and nasty.
“Now look here, sir.” Papa finally came to Elizabeth’s defense. “I do not take kindly to—”
“No, you listen t’ me, old man.” Finch’s tone turned dangerously ugly, dangerously fast. “I gets what I am promised, or I takes what is mine.” His eyes turned to slits.
“So you tell that sweet daughter o’ yers I’ll be back t’morrow, expectin’ she greet me nice an’ pretty.
Fer if she don’t”—his eyes glinted maliciously—“I’ll make sure both you an’ she knows it. ”
He turned to Elizabeth. “An’ you tell yer fine husband t’ come visit anytime, Lizzie, now that we’re nearly family.”
Elizabeth took great offense but bit her tongue.
“Tell Jasp he’s had his run, but Finch is back fer good.” He bored his eyes into hers. “You tell ’im exactly this, sweet Elizabeth: Tell ’im Master Finch done returned t’ punish his boy.”
The man’s nasty, rasping cackle followed him out and down the hall as Papa’s entire body trembled, glued to his seat.
Elizabeth, too, sank into the nearest chair, her thoughts awhirl, churning with assumptions more awful than the next.
Was this the man who’d scarred her husband, abused him as a child?
And if he was, what horrors might he inflict on Annabelle?
She desperately needed to speak with Milton, though she dreaded relaying Mr. Finch’s words.
Harris had secured them lodgings, meal, and stable, for the horses needed rest. Hell, he needed rest. They’d made good progress on the road and had not been followed, a miracle he attributed to Jasper likely reading Winthrop the riot act.
All of which left Harris feeling a measure of relief—except that Annabelle might still steal off if he let the chit out of his sight. Though if he seduced the miss instead…
He disgusted himself. She was not some doxy seeking employment at The Leaf. She was a respectable young lady—too respectable for the likes of him.
He watched her polish off her meal, the abrasions on her wrists filling him with guilt. He’d undone her restraints after ensuring their room’s sole window was high enough the minx wouldn’t jump.
She began to undo her hair, piling pins upon a small table before she shook her chestnut locks free. “I should like a bath,” she announced, dropping the last pin to her pile.
“Darlin’,” he drawled, “this ain’t the sort o’ place as even has baths fer guests. You may wash with yon pitcher.” He motioned to the room’s washstand as she wrinkled her nose. “Well, go on then.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll just sit ’ere an’ stare.”
“You will turn around and afford me privacy, sir.”
“I think not.” He knew better. “Yer wrists are unbound an’ me wits are not lulled. If y’ wish t’ wash, do, but I’ll not fall into no trap. Whatever skin y’ show, dearie, I’ve seen before in abundance.” He looked her over in a crass caress.
The lady deliberated, no doubt desperate to wash the grime from their journey.
She squared her shoulders and pushed her chair back from the table.
“You won’t mind helping me out of my dress then, will you, Arthur?
” She turned her back, lifted her hair from the nape of her shapely neck, and let her hips swing.
Temptress.
In two strides Harris began to unhook her, pushing her dress roughly from her shoulders, and then, though she’d not asked him to, he began to unlace her stays.
He peeled them from her midriff and gripped her hips.
She froze.
“Better, miss?” he hissed low in her ear. “Or have you let a man undress you before, let him touch those parts of you”—his hands slid up her hips to brush the undersides of her breasts—“most tender of feeling?” He lingered there a minute too long as she stiffened.
“Or maybe, miss”—his lips nearly nibbled the lobe of her ear—“I’m the first and only man to touch you so.
” She shuddered. “Maybe, vixen, you even want me to.” His lips hit her cheekbone and traced a line to her mouth as he leaned her back, kissing her until she melted into his arms and pressed her body into his own.
Harris broke free and yanked her dress to the floor, leaving her in naught but her shift. “I’ll be neither fooled nor bewitched.” His heart beat loud in his chest. “Wash up before y’ take yerself to bed.”
His hands shook as he shed clothes on the other side of the room.
Yes, she’d tried to seduce him—and had bloody well almost succeeded—but that was not how this would work.
He was the seducer and she the innocent, and a rotten corner of his soul whispered that if he took her maidenhead tonight all difficulties would cease, for then she’d have to marry him. Meekly.
It would solve everything. Only he’d promised her, and Jasp, no lasting harm, and if he was one thing, Harris was a man of his word.
Fuck! All thought ceased the moment Miss Winthrop turned about. Titillating enough to watch her wash from behind, but to see her blot dry her damp shift, nipples mocking him like two winking darts…
He wrenched his gaze away and adjusted his straining breeches, then grabbed a blanket from the bed to thrust at her chest. “You’ll take chill.
Warm yerself by the fire.” He gruffly guided her to a chair he yanked closer to the flames.
Then he walked over to the washbowl, pulled his shirt over his head, and scrubbed his skin until he shivered.
Hell’s bells, what had he gotten himself into?
***
Warm at last beneath a blanket before the fire, Annabelle wondered why she’d ever thought she could seduce a man like Arthur Harris into letting down his guard.
Of course he’d seen right through her utterly unschooled attempt.
He was a man of the world while she was but a flibbertigibbet, an annoyance foisted on him by her brother-in-law.
Besides which, how was she to make her way back to London on her own, in the dead of night, without a penny to her person?
She’d been a fool to even try.
Annabelle left her seat to crawl under rough bedclothes.
She again pondered escape, refusing to accept her fate, turning ever more elaborate plans over in her head as if she were a character in one of Lizzie’s dramas.
It mortified her to imagine the Baron might even be paying Mr. Harris to abscond with her.
And where would her blasted kidnapper sleep now that she rested upon the room’s sole bed?
A minute later he snatched her pillow and curled up like a dog on the floor by her side. She heard him stir, wood boards creaking softly, then still, as if he were asleep.
Annabelle blew out the remaining bedside candle while her body pulsed and hummed. A vision of Arthur Harris’s broad shoulders glistening with water in the glow of firelight came unbidden to mind, making her toss and turn and sigh.
“Woman, stop yer thrashing,” he grumped from the floor. “Fer such a fine-bred lady, you’re as dainty as a sow in labor, gnashin’ and grindin’ yer teeth.”
“I am not a sow in labor, swine,” she pushed back. “It is your fault I cannot sleep, stuck in a carriage a night and a day and now locked in this room with you, forced to—”
“Forced t’ what, princess? Sleep in a soft bed, after a hot meal an’ clean wash? Lord, that this should be so awful.” He snorted.
“Oh, go to hell, you cretin!” She flung herself to the other side of the bed, as far from him as she could possibly get.
It felt like forever before she slept.