Chapter Seven
Like her aunt and Cousin Phoebe, Annalise was late arriving for breakfast. Her uncle had already eaten and left for an appointment with his solicitor. Without Uncle Harry presiding over the table, the dining room took on a joyous atmosphere as Phoebe regaled her sisters with her dance with Exmore, retelling every little detail.
“And his eyes were like smoldering embers. He is far and beyond more handsome than Edgar Williams, even when he was that gladiator in Love of a Legionary.” This was fine praise indeed. “And his fingers were long and elegant, and his coat molded to his strong shoulders.” Phoebe had noticed more specific details about Exmore than Annalise had. Annalise had felt him and his emotions, more than she had noticed his physical details.
“Didn’t you dance with him too, Cousin Annalise?” Shelley asked. “What did you talk about?”
Annalise had opened her mouth to answer when the slamming of the front door boomed through the house.
“Annalise!” her uncle yelled. “Get into my parlor, you reckless, foolish girl.”
Her aunt burst into tears. “Oh no! What have I done?”
“You have done nothing, Aunt Sally.” Annalise rested her linen beside her plate and rose. “I’ve managed to anger him.”
This must be about the ball last night and her notorious dance with Exmore. She knew gossip spread every morning in London like fire on dry straw. She wasn’t angry or annoyed, merely resigned.
Her uncle had reached the parlor first. He still wore his hat, which he tore off and threw onto the sofa. “Why must you make a mockery of me again?”
“Again?”
“You can’t comprehend it, can you? When Exmore sent Patrick Hume away, the marquess cut me. I wasn’t good enough.”
“I don’t—”
“You will talk when I give you leave to do so.” He paced near her. “Word is all over London about you. You seem to relish being the center of attention even if it requires making a fool of yourself.”
“I do not. I care nothing for Society.”
He laughed and gazed upward. “I’m not sure which is worse, having Mr.
Danvers, a prominent gentleman, almost turn away a member of my family, or I should say my wife’s family—you couldn’t possibly be my blood relation—or having you especially noticed by the Marquess of Exmore.”
He edged even closer. She sensed something darkly predatory about him, as though he took pleasure in demeaning her. “What game are you playing?” he asked.
“I’m not playing any game.”
“Exmore may be a deplorable rake, but you are far, far beneath him. He will not propose to you. If you aren’t good enough for his untitled cousin, you surely aren’t good enough for him. You must hold another attraction for him.” She felt her uncle’s moist, warm breath on her face. “What have you done, my girl? I will send you packing if you have behaved with any impropriety.”
Annalise straightened her spine. “You are correct. The marquess’s station is above mine. For the sake of your wife’s and your daughter’s place in Society, I danced with him. To my knowledge, I have not behaved improperly. The marquess and I are… friends.”
Her uncle thought this was wildly funny. He clutched his belly, he laughed so hard. “Friends? You are friends with a marquess? Friends with a libertine?” He seized her wrist, squeezing it. “Listen to me, there can be no friendship between an eligible marquess and a young lady of your station. You have no idea of the ways of the world. You are nothing but a plaything to such a man. No better than those actresses he seeks pleasure with.”
Annalise yanked her arm free. “Do not speak to me that way!”
“I am your guardian. I will speak to you as I please.”
“There is no legal paper stating that you are my guardian!” Annalise fired back. “It is all in your imagination. I am an independent woman of my own means. And I very much know how the world works, and I do not approve of it.”
Again, he laughed. “An independent woman? Such a mythical creature cannot exist. Women can’t take care of themselves. And the world does not seek the approval of a silly girl. Exmore can only intend to get you into his bed so that Society will further mock me.”
Annalise took several breaths to keep from hurling insults at her uncle. When she trusted her voice again, she spoke, low and controlled. “I have written to my cousins in Holland. As soon as I receive a positive response, I shall remove from your house.”
“No one will have you, Annalise. They have more sense than to let you into their homes. You should be nicer to me. I’m the only one who will take care of you. Everyone else sees you for the addle-brained girl that you are.”
Annalise had had enough of his invective. She turned and strode out of the room.
Her uncle shouted to her retreating back, “You will not speak to the marquess again. You will not encourage him, or I shall have to do something drastic. Something you don’t want to know about. Do you understand?”
* * *
Annalise rested on her bed and pondered leaving for the Continent tomorrow without waiting for replies from her Dutch cousins. She hadn’t visited Holland before and knew nothing of where to live or how society worked there, but it had to be better than living under her uncle’s roof and suffering his taunts. Exmore had kindly saved her from social ruin, but the idea of attending more balls and parties was enervating. Annalise almost wished he hadn’t come to her rescue, then she wouldn’t have to bother with Society anymore.
But if he hadn’t appeared, she wouldn’t have found out about the Visser lecture.
Nor would she have laughed.
How did this happen? Once, her mind had been filled with what parties she would attend and what she would wear to them. She had thought of each party as a chance to meet her potential husband. She had been consumed with falling in love then, even before she met Patrick.
Now, the only thing she truly anticipated was attending a botany lecture with Exmore. A friend.
Annalise took out a fresh sheet of stationery and dipped her pen.
Dear Patrick,
Can a man and woman simply enjoy each other’s company without any further entanglement?
I know that I need to release you from my heart and marry someone else. I truly want to fall in love again, yet it frightens me. My heart is only beginning to recover from your departure and my parents’ deaths. It is tired, and I feel that I don’t even know my own mind anymore.
I only want a friend who is a kindred spirit. Someone to talk to.
Annalise stopped, letting her pen hover over her words.
Alas, I shouldn’t be friends with Exmore for Phoebe’s and my aunt’s sake. They will have to continue to live with Uncle Harry when I’m far away, across an ocean.
Again, she paused to think.
I shall meet Exmore at the lecture as I said I would and then cease any further contact.
Yet, he makes me laugh.
* * *
Exmore woke up, for once feeling something other than the heavy listlessness of another day before him. His mind was clear, free of the dullness and pain of overindulgence. In his first waking thoughts, he remembered that he would attend a botany lecture in three days’ time. He chuckled aloud. Hadn’t he dreaded botany at Cambridge? Hadn’t he used those lectures to catch up on his sleep? Now, this lecture and seeing his new friend were the only things he truly looked forward to, and he hadn’t been excited about anything in a long time.
Throughout the morning, thoughts of Annalise drifted through his mind. He didn’t try to stop them, because they pushed away the gloominess. He noticed the details of people and things—the expression on the footman’s face, the gleam on the iron railing outside his home, and the fresh-bread scent wafting from the baker’s shop. The day felt buoyant, like it was water that sustained him, rather than letting him sink. In a bookstore, he found a journal with an article on African orchids that he thought Annalise would enjoy. He went out in Society that evening, hoping to come across her to discuss it, but unfortunately, she didn’t appear at any of the parties that he attended. He bought the journal the next day, marked the pages, and sent it to her, bundled with a pink orchid and pithy note that ended with, Looking forward to our grand secret.
That night, Exmore attended a painfully insipid play titled Love’s Joy and Misery, which, of course, was all the rage in London. He hadn’t realized he had enlisted for theatrical torture until after he had purchased the box and suffered through the opening scene. The second and third scenes only compounded his misery, and he was about to leave when he spied Annalise across the theater, in a box with Mr. Sommerville’s family. She was close enough to the stage that he could train his opera glass on her and pretend to watch the play, all the while safely studying her in delicious detail.
Maybe it wasn’t such a horrid play, after all.
While the Sommerville ladies wore tight, fashionable curls adorned with beads and other paraphernalia, Annalise’s hair fell in straight strands around her cheeks. It had the appearance of being hastily pinned up, yet it suited her—unaffected and natural. She had wound her shawl around herself like a comfortable blanket. Her cousin Phoebe sat forward in her seat, practically leaning over the railing, clearly enraptured by the sentimental rubbish. From time to time, Phoebe whispered excitedly to Annalise and pointed to the stage. Annalise didn’t share her cousin’s enthusiasm. He watched, amused, as she tried to conceal her chuckles at the supposedly serious moments, rolled her eyes at the trite conventions, and arched a brow at the hackneyed, melodramatic plot turns. He wished she were beside him, so they could exchange sarcastic commentary.
Exmore’s favorite part of the play happened when Phoebe caught Annalise yawning during a supposedly heart-wrenching love scene. A terrible sin! Although he couldn’t hear what they were saying, the animated conversation between the two ladies was far more entertaining to watch than what was on the stage.
At intermission, the lobby was flooded with people. Their chatter, echoing in the great hall, formed a roar of sound. Exmore edged through the crowd, the smell of perfumes and hair oils assaulting his nose as he searched for Annalise. He finally spotted her leaning against a marble column, just outside a circle formed by her uncle and his family. His heart quickened, and a smile spread over his mouth.
Her eyes widened with recognition as he drew nearer. He raised his fingers, a small, silent greeting. Her lips parted. She glanced at her uncle and then at Exmore again. She held his gaze for several moments, before turning and slipping into the crowd.
What?
It took a moment for him to fully comprehend the small exchange.
Annalise had cut him.
He stood there for another few seconds, staring at the column where she had stood, his anger flooding in.
How dare she treat him this way?
No woman had ever turned him away.
Did she realize how many other women vied daily for his attention?
He had an urge to chase after the ungrateful lady and tell her that he regretted saving her from social disgrace.
These were ungenerous thoughts, yet they bubbled in his mind.
He strode back to his seat. Why was he so wildly angry? Not annoyed, as he should have been, but viscerally irate. Hot, black rage coursed through him. When the next act started, he trained his glass on Annalise.
She sat, expressionless and wooden, watching the play.
Scene after scene he watched her, stewing in his anger and mentally admonishing himself. All the while, he waited for her to look his way.
What was he doing?
Then it finally happened. She glanced in his direction. Their eyes met. Then she glanced back at the stage.
Damn her.
He bolted from his seat and left the theater. He walked in the cold night, avoiding eye contact with prostitutes, peddlers, and conning thieves until he came upon a grimy tavern and entered. He edged through the eclectic, drunken crowd of dock workers, solicitors, seamstresses, and ladies of pleasure until he found a quiet corner in which to hide. He ordered a brandy, and when it arrived, he studied its warm, amber glow in the firelight and sank into his anger at Annalise.
He had saved her from social ruin, and this was how she thanked him. Did she somehow think she was his better? He was a marquess. She was a nobody. Worse than a nobody, she was almost an outcast before he had stepped in.
A drunken customer began singing at the bar. Exmore almost yelled for him to shut his hole, but the man’s lush tenor was surprisingly good. Wonderful, to be more accurate. He wasn’t a trained opera singer, but he had the voice of the common people. He sang of the loss of his love to another man. The tavern turned quiet and somber. The man’s plaintive singing reached to the pain that had driven Exmore’s fellow drinkers to this grim hellhole to drown their despair.
Exmore stared at the tenor but didn’t see him. His beautiful voice summoned Annalise’s face in Exmore’s mind as she had been the night they danced. How her sweet smile, which lit her eyes, had made his heart light, as though he could rise above the disaster of his life.
His anger receded, leaving the seemingly bottomless despondency that had consumed his life since his wife’s passing.
Why did Annalise have to turn away from him?