The Cold Earl's Bride: A Historical Regency Romance Read online

  “St. John is… very busy,” she tried to avoid a direct answer. “I believe that he is trading stocks.” This was much safer terrain. Her father was not averse to speculation on the stock market, but her mother was not at all interested in the complicated mechanisms of generating money.

  Her mother nodded, and as expected, she did not comment on the topic any further.

  “I do miss my sisters,” Annabelle steered the conversation towards its actual purpose. She had tried to exchange a few words with Felicity, but without any luck, so she had to take the indirect route via their mother to try and find out how her sister was doing. There was much more behind this unfortunate development than it seemed. Something must have happened between Felicity and Greywood that had changed her sister, to a point where Annabelle could hardly recognise her anymore. Her heart tightened as she looked at her sister’s pale face. She looked unusually thin. Even her hands, which were turning the sheets of music for Rose, seemed but skin and bone.

  “They miss you, too,” her mother replied. Her forehead showed some worrisome lines. “I am very worried about Felicity. Since your sudden engagement and the wedding to St. John, she hasn’t been the same.”

  Well, if you wanted to call a kiss in a park at midnight, followed by a lecture from an enraged father and a forced commitment to marry a stranger, ‘an engagement’, then her mother seemed to have decided to do just that.

  “I believe that she had a bit of a crush on him herself,” her mother continued, and she sounded so careful as if she was moving on thin ice. Annabelle bit her lip and did not say anything. Anything was better than sharing her fears about Felicity with their mother.

  “Your connection to the earl came as a surprise to all of us,” her mother said. She sighed. “I suppose that these are the modern times that my mother used to warn me about. And after all, he has proven himself a man of honour, despite your marriage being a mixed one. I just wish you had not presented your father with a fait accompli. He is still very angry and refused to accompany us to visit you today.” She took Annabelle’s hand in her own. “But this too shall pass, I promise you. Once he holds his first grandchild in his arms, he will forgive St. John. He has already forgiven you. He just cannot admit to it yet.”

  It was too much. Annabelle felt uncomfortably hot. She had hoped that a visit from her family would bring a little merriment into her dreary everyday life and make her feel less like a prisoner, but that was not the case. Instead, she was forced to evade her mother’s cautious questions and endure suggestions regarding their intimacy, of which there had been none and never would be. Last but not least, she was ignored by her sister, who had been the actual cause of the precarious situation in the first place. If Felicity had not looked so miserable, Annabelle would not have hesitated to ask her the questions that burned in her soul. However, since her sister seemed as if a mere breeze would knock her off her feet, Annabelle had decided against an inquisition, just as she had done throughout the recent months.

  “… invitation to dinner,” her mother finished saying.

  “I am sorry,” Annabelle murmured. “I was lost in thought. Which dinner are you talking about?”

  “The one the Countess of York will give this coming Friday.”

  “And… what about it?” Annabelle signalled to Wickham, who had come in to see if everything was in order, that he was not needed. Only when the door closed behind him did she turn her attention back to her mother. The small line between her mother’s brows told Annabelle more than a thousand words about how bewildered the duchess was concerning her daughter’s erratic behaviour.

  “I asked if you and St. John will attend.”

  How was she supposed to admit that she barely spoke with her own husband, let alone discussed going to a social gathering such as a dinner at the Countess of York’s estate? Restlessly, she shifted in her chair from side to side.

  “I do not know the answer,” she admitted and realised that her fingers were tugging nervously at an embroidered flower on her dress. Oh, dear! How she hated these overly laden, ugly dresses that her mother had insisted upon having made before the wedding. At least St. John had remembered that, as the lady of the house, she was in need of a maid. The young thing hardly spoke a word while she performed her duties skilfully, but cheerlessly. That was yet another matter that Annabelle needed to take care of urgently. Clarice – that was the girl’s name – seemed terrified of her, and Annabelle had no idea why.

  “I have not yet spoken to him about it. As I said, he is very busy,” she repeated sluggishly, which earned her a deep frown from her mother.

  “You already said that. But he will surely find time to accompany his wife to such an important dinner, will he not? If that is not the case,” she smiled mischievously at her daughter and suddenly looked twenty years younger, “then you should attend alone. After all, you are a married woman and no longer a debutante, who is not allowed to go out unaccompanied. Furthermore, your father and I will both be there.” She rose from her seat, and so did Annabelle. When she kissed her mother goodbye on her cheek, she no longer felt as low in spirits as she had been.

  Mama was right. She might not be a wife in the strictest sense of the word, or even in biblical terms, but apart from her and Marcus, nobody knew that. At least, nobody from high society. She had no doubt that his servants had long-since noticed that the earl and the Countess of Grandover did not share a bed.

  She said goodbye to her family, and out of keeping with her station, insisted on bringing the three women to the front door. Despite his expressionless features, Wickham’s disapproval was clearly noticeable. It was obvious in his rigid posture and the way he purposefully avoided looking at her, as she waved after the carriage. For a short moment, Annabelle thought about returning to the Chinese parlour and read a book, but she decided against it. First, she did not have anything to read; all of the books she had brought from home she already knew by heart. Also, St. John had forbidden her access to his library, and she did not want to spend the few pounds that remained in her porte-monnaie recklessly. Last but not least, the furniture in that parlour was, despite being exquisite, frightfully uncomfortable.

  What did other married women do, if their husbands did not spend time with them?

  With her head bowed, Annabelle walked up the stairs. More precisely, it felt as if she were sneaking up the stairs. She felt like a middle-aged woman after twenty years of marriage, who, apart from the shared name, lived an entirely separate life from her husband. As she mounted the stairs, she thought about the words her mother had said to her. The hint that she could now allow herself much more freedom would not leave her thoughts. Did St. John himself not tell her explicitly that she was able to take herself a companion, as long as she remained discreet? She was not planning on getting involved with another man, however, if he was indifferent to this aspect of their life together, then surely he could not possibly object to other more harmless things, could he?

  She opened the door to her private chambers and walked over to the windows whose curtains were constantly closed to ward off the heat. With one swift hitch, she pulled the heavy fabric aside and looked outside onto the street. Eaton Square was lively at this time of day. She watched servants running their errands; ladies and gentlemen nodding towards each other stiffly or warmly or not at all, maids with their fosterlings, and even a boy walking a small fat dog, which was wobbling rather than walking.

  She would never have any children.

  She could get a dog, which would maybe fill the emptiness in her heart. Or, she turned around with new-found determination, she could create a life for herself – one she used to dream about when she was younger. But most importantly, she needed to find out what her sister was hiding from her. If Felicity was not talking to her, then maybe Viscount Greywood would. St. John had forbidden her from bringing him into his house.

  However, he had not prohibited her from visiting Viscount Greywood and finding out what he had done to Felicity.
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  For as long as St. John preferred not to talk to her, or to explain his strange accusations and his aversion towards the viscount to her, Annabelle would do whatever she thought right.

  “She is up to something,” Finch started, leaning casually against the bedpost. “Clarice told me that she was asked to look out the least conspicuous dresses your wife owns and that she will not have her dinner in her room, as she usually does.”

  Marcus turned around. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call her that? And stop cleaning your fingernails with your knife until you are in your own room.”

  “Oh, someone is in a bad mood,” Finch commented dryly but slipped the dagger back into his belt. “Is it possible that–” Marcus scowled at him, and he left the question unfinished. “Now, to return to the unusual behaviour,” Finch continued matter-of-factly, straightening himself up. “This afternoon, her mother and two sisters were here. It was the first visit she has received since the wedding. She has not written any letters, and nobody has come by to pay their respects. She could very well be a ghost, with the little amount of attention she receives from society. Or is this your doing?”

  “Of course not,” Marcus replied and wondered whether to ask his confidant to follow her, or if he should do it himself. For all he knew, it could turn out to be a mere waste of time or the deciding clue. “It is all right with me if she feels unobserved. She may make a mistake, which will tell me what Greywood is up to.”

  “Are you sure he knows that you have guessed that he is behind the murders?” Only Finch could describe a thing, which was actually quite simple, in such a complicated manner. Marcus stood on one side, Greywood on the other. The fact that Greywood acted on behalf of someone else, who had managed to stay hidden in the background so far, complicated things. Marcus had to let Greywood live for long enough to try to gather evidence against him. As soon as he knew the identity of the other man, he would be able to get rid of Greywood – for good.

  The face of Annabelle appeared in his thoughts and was the decisive factor in his decision.

  “I will follow her myself,” Marcus said. “You tail Greywood. But be careful. He might look like a knut, but he is dangerous.” His friend’s answer was an unimpressed shrug. “I am serious, Finch,” he insisted.

  “Do not worry about me. But have you ever considered turning the lady around?” For one insane moment, Marcus saw Annabelle appear before his very eyes, turning around in circles with flying skirts like a child.

  “I hope you do not expect me to share one and the same woman with Greywood?” Utter disgust coloured his coarse voice.

  “I’m just saying,” Finch backed away and took his hat from the bed. By putting it on, he transformed from a friend and confidant to a servant. His facial expression, his posture, even his manner of speaking, changed. Marcus owed him a lot, not least his own life, but the most precious gift had been Finch’s lectures on disguises and concealment. “Just think about it for a while. I do not like her, but I do not get the impression that she is very experienced, even though she did return your kiss.” He twisted his mouth into a pointy pout and made smacking noises.

  “Get out of here,” Marcus shooed him out of the room. “She is my wife, and I will handle the situation how I see fit.”

  “Oh, now all of a sudden she is your wife?” Before Marcus had a chance to answer, Finch bowed ironically and followed his friend’s suggestion to leave. Only when he was gone, and the door had shut behind him with a soft clicking sound, did Marcus admit to himself that his friend might actually be right. It was worth a try to turn her to his side.

  All of this would not be a problem if she just did not look quite like Matilda.

  Chapter 5

  Just as Annabelle was about to ring for Clarice to help her get dressed, there was a knock on the door to her small salon. Marcus St. John entered her quarters. His presence dwarfed the room that was most certainly not small, and at once, it appeared like a dollhouse. The petite, but ugly furniture suddenly seemed so fragile! Even she, who was certainly not small or petite, had to look like a doll next to him.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, as he looked around the room observingly. She had tried to breathe some of her own personality into the room by arranging a few of her things from home. Atop the fireplace stood three precious porcelain figurines, which always had reminded her of herself and her sisters. Three girls, whose finely worked artificial faces expressed all the carelessness that would never come back, stood side by side – each holding an animal in their arms. The statue that resembled Rose, to Annabelle, anyway, held a lamb. Felicity pressed a rabbit against her chest. She herself held a cage with a singing bird in her hand.

  “I would like to know if everything is to your satisfaction,” he replied, his words sounding rehearsed and stiff.

  “Of course, everything is wonderful. What could I possibly complain about?” Sarcastically, she pointed at her wardrobe. “I have plenty of dresses and even more embellishments. Unfortunately, it has never been one of my favourite pastimes to dress up and stare out of the window, bored to death. I have two rooms completely to myself and a maid who won’t speak a word to me apart from “Yes, my lady”, “No, my lady”, and “As you wish, my lady”. I am alone and trapped in a marriage that I never wanted. So, what reason should I have to feel unhappy?” She had not even noticed that she had moved quite close to him, as he stood with his legs slightly apart like a king in the middle of the room.

  Marcus St. John lowered his head and looked her in the eyes. “You could entertain yourself with needlework or music. You could see your friends.”

  “That is all you have to say to me?” Annabelle remembered that he barely knew her, and that he had no idea how insulting his suggestions were for a woman like her. She had never managed to hit a note, hated needlework, and always preferred a book to a meaningless conversation.

  “No.” He threw the one syllable at her as one would throw a piece of bread to a beggar in the streets – from above and with the knowledge that the recipient had to be grateful for the grace shown. “On Friday, you will accompany me to the dinner of the Countess of York. You know her, and she specifically asked for you to come.”

  Annabelle felt a wave of gratitude towards the countess coming over her, and it was difficult not to include him in that same feeling. Maybe, if they would only speak to one another and clear up the misunderstandings that mounted between them… was there some softness in his gaze when he spoke of the countess?

  “The countess has also invited Greywood, and a good friend of mine, Lady Madeline Scorch, will also attend. I would like you to be in good standing with her.”

  “As long as you are discreet,” she returned his words from the day of their wedding. She knew herself that her voice sounded bland. Why only had he emphasized the viscount’s attendance so explicitly? And why did it hurt so much that he called another woman “a good friend”? She should have felt indifferent.

  “It is not what you might think,” St. John said through tightly pressed lips.

  “No? Then how is it?”

  “Complicated.”

  “Then talk to me! Tell me why you even took me as your wife, Marcus St. John,” she challenged him. “Why am I to befriend a woman who might or might not be your lover?”

  “As I have already told you, Lady Madeline and I are not lovers. We are friends,” he repeated coldly. “I do not lie.”

  Annabelle lifted her head and saw a treacherous twitch on his temple. This was the first time that she noticed a reaction in him – something that she would maybe be able to use. Marcus St. John did lie.

  “Neither do I,” Annabelle said softly. The fact that she had recognised and interpreted his physical reaction gave her a slight sense of security. She lifted her hand up to his face and laid it softly against his cheek. She felt his jaw grinding, how hard and tense even the smallest muscles were beneath her hand. She closed her eyes. “I know that you feel just as trapped in this marria
ge as I do,” she whispered. “But that does not mean that we have to hate each other until the end of our days. If you would only trust me…” She wanted to tell him that they did not need to love each other, even though it would have been nice to look at him and to know that he and she belonged together. Before love came respect, and respect needed trust to flourish. Or was it the other way around, and trust needed respect in order to grow?

  Annabelle only knew about loving a man from the books she had borrowed from her parents’ library. How was she supposed to know what love felt like and how it came about? Was just one glance sufficient, or did it need more than that? Why was he not saying anything?

  “You have the audacity to demand trust from me?” His words were little more than a hoarse whisper. “It is up to you to take the first step, Annabelle.” For the first time since they had met, he called her by her name. “Prove to me that I can trust you. Tell me everything you know about Greywood. Now.”

  Her head was spinning. Where should she start? She did not know much about the viscount and was really only able to assume what he had done to Felicity. As long as her sister refused to tell her a word, she could not and must not talk about it, either.

  “He is, or rather was, an admirer of my youngest sister,” she began, trying to stick to the truth. “I barely know him myself.”

  Annabelle had hardly finished her sentence when his face lost all of its expression. Had she not seen it with her own eyes, the absence of any feeling in a human face would have seemed impossible. St. John resembled more a statue than a living, breathing human being – he was the image of male beauty, but instead of a heart he hid a stone inside his chest.

  “I will expect you in the entrance hall this coming Friday. Until then… do as you please and comply to my rules.” He turned on his heels and left the room with stiff strides. He had not even noticed that he had contradicted himself in his last sentence.