Safe.
Alive.
The ratafia was so sickly sweet that the danger of tears receded. She drained the glass. Why should she sit about mourning Draven when she could be—
The pain caught her heart and wrenched it so hard that she almost gasped aloud.
How could Draven be dead? Automatically she started to count to ten but it was too late. She could feel a sob tearing its way up her chest.
The only person who loved Draven besides herself was Draven’s mother. And when Lady Clarice had seen that Imogen was not carrying a child, she simply gave up. She stopped eating, caught a chill…leaving Imogen in a world of fools who didn’t know Draven, who didn’t remember how exquisitely funny he could be, how full of life, how…
Tears made the world blurry but one of Lady Mitford’s pavilions loomed before her, offering a bench and a canopy of fluttering white silk.
She sat down and launched into a familiar routine. First, she sat rigidly upright. She had discovered that one was less likely to dissolve into tears if one’s backbone was straight. Then she counted her breaths: one, two, three. Finally, she turned her thoughts to Rafe’s behavior the previous night. How dare he? How dare he presume to say anything to her about her behavior? He wasn’t her brother, nor an uncle, nor anything to her. He was simply the guardian she had before marrying. He was nothing to her now, and yet he presumed—he presumed!
Her eyes narrowed and the tears were gone.
Thank goodness. There was nothing she hated more in the world than letting people see she was crying. She had enough pity from her own sisters. Pity or patronization: it was all the same, and none of it helped this awful bitterness that she could taste in her mouth. Like metal. It wasn’t exactly grief; grief tasted more like tears.
Draven was gone. She pushed herself off of the bench.
Six
Annabel was just growing a trifle impatient when she saw Lord Rosseter strolling back toward her. There he was.
She had dressed carefully, given that Rosseter had made a formal offer that very morning. As per her instructions, Rafe had accepted, and all that remained was for Rosseter to personally request her hand.She was wearing a dress of straw-colored muslin, trimmed in silk tassels. It was demure yet flattering. Rosseter was dressed in a morning coat of pale brown stripes lined with yellow. His cravat was not too elaborate: just precisely right for a garden party. The rightness of it all, even down to the polished tips of his extremely expensive boots, warmed her soul. This was a man who would understand her desire to wear silk next to her skin at all times: understand it, and never question her. She would never have to count pennies again.
She gave him a lavish smile on the strength of it. He smiled faintly in return and turned to meet her chaperone. But Lady Griselda sent him off to bring her a glass of lemonade.
“I wanted a moment,” Griselda said, giving her a smile bright with conspiratorial pleasure. “I think the pavilion to the far right corner of the garden is the proper place. I strolled by earlier and there’s no entertainment planned for that pavilion, so you won’t be interrupted by a caterwauling singer abusing a lute. It’s covered in rose silk, which has a most flattering effect on the complexion—not that you need it, my dear. And finally, if you wish to allow him a small expression of his devotion, you are unlikely to be seen by more than twenty or thirty, and that should ensure that the news travels far faster than an announcement in the Times would do.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Annabel murmured. Now that the moment was at hand, she just wanted to move on. To be safely married, and never have to even think of worrying about money again.
“Remember, your married life begins now,” Griselda said. “Be kind but firm. Your every expression will inform Lord Rosseter what liberties he may or may not take. You must train him to understand your every glance. Do you understand, Annabel?”
“I think so,” Annabel said.
Rosseter had begun walking back toward them, trailed by a page carrying a tray with a glass of lemonade for Griselda.
“Now, look at that,” Griselda said. “You’ve made a good choice, dear. He acts decisively.”
“I suppose so,” Annabel said.
“It’s not every man with the providence to think ahead and avoid the possibility of staining his clothing,” Griselda told her. “And I like the fact that he’s a bit older than you are. It gives him a sense of depth.”
“How old do you think he is?” Annabel said, watching him drift toward them, raising a white hand in response to a remark tossed to him by a friend.
“Oh, at least—well, let’s see. I was married to Willoughby when I first met him, but he was by no means a newcomer to the season…I would guess forty-three or forty-four. Seasoned but not antique. Perfect!” she said brightly.
Twenty years older than she was…it was a bit more of a gap than Annabel had thought. Rosseter’s face was ageless, though, so perhaps it didn’t matter. After all, men didn’t age the way women did.
“No one’s ever caught him,” Griselda said. Rosseter had stopped and was exchanging greetings with one of the royal dukes, Clarence. “But you seem to have taken him effortlessly, my dear. A true triumph.”
“Thank you,” Annabel murmured. Rosseter seemed to be truly engaged in talking to His Royal Highness. He wasn’t even glancing her way in apology. Annabel felt a prickle of annoyance. He knew perfectly well that she was awaiting his proposal. Was it too much to ask that he actually do that particular deed, rather than chatter nonsense with a fat overgrown lummox of an English prince?
As she watched, Rosseter turned to the boy following him and murmured something, and the boy started hurrying toward them with the lemonade.
Annabel turned to Griselda, but Griselda spoke before she even opened her mouth.
“I absolutely agree. Absolutely. Clarence is no reason to delay a proposal of marriage. Rosseter needs to be taught a lesson.”
Annabel knew precisely the man to do it. She had just happened to notice that the Scottish earl had shown up again and was standing off to her right, watching an exhibition of tumbling.
“Perhaps you should—” Lady Griselda began, but Annabel ignored her. She didn’t need to leave her chair. Instead she looked directly at Ardmore, allowing a little smile to play around her mouth.
His rumpled dark red hair and sculpted shoulders made him look like a medieval knight. In fact, she wouldn’t mind seeing him pull back an arrow at the archery…
Not for Ardmore, the drifting, sophisticated walk of Rosseter. Ardmore walked through the crowd directly toward her, not even taking his eyes from hers.
“Do you remember what I said about him?” Griselda squeaked next to her. “That is not a man to toy with!”
Annabel wrenched her eyes away and smiled at her chaperone. “I’m not going to toy with him, Griselda. He’s a countryman, and I think he can be a friend. I’m simply going to ask him to accompany me to the archery stand.”
“Ah, archery.” Griselda watched Ardmore walking toward them. “I do like a man with a broad set of shoulders.”
Annabel noticed from the corner of her eye that Rosseter had seen who was approaching. Undoubtedly, he would now conclude his conversation with the duke. Without thinking about it, she rose and walked toward Ardmore. He truly was a complete opposite of her chosen husband. Every inch of him was Scots, from those sturdy, muscled legs to his strong chin and angled cheekbones. She had no problem imagining him as an ancient Pict, painted blue and wearing just a—