Rexanne Becnel - Scandalous Weddings

His words thrilled her, but she did not want to be thrilled, and they also frightened her. She said, "No one, not ever! you, could ever subdue me, Braxton."

He was silent. A tension fell that was thick and heavy, and with it an absolute silence, in which only their breathing could be heard. "Is that a challenge, my dear?" he finally asked.

Annabel stopped breathing. Her heart drummed against her chest. "No."

He laughed. The sound was as rich as his voice, as tempting, as infuriating. "I think that was a struggle, Annabel."

"I hate you," she cried, slamming her fist into his chest. "Now get out-and don't you dare come near me again!"

His laughter died. He caught her right wrist immediately, the action reflexive. And suddenly Annabel fell fully against him-and she was practically in his arms.

She became acutely aware of her hand in his, his fingers on her wrist, and his long, hard body pressing up against hers. She looked up. He had also became motionless. Their gazes locked.

Annabel knew he was going to kiss her. She forgot the past. Expectation-anticipation-engulfed her.

"I knew," he said suddenly, his tone low, his words slow, "that if I said good-bye, you would convince me to take you with me. That I would not be strong enough to resist you."

Annabel felt her gaze widen.

He still held her hand. But now he was clasping it. "I did not want to be responsible for ruining your life. You deserve far more than a life on the lam. You had your entire life in front of you, with so many possibilities. I did not want to take any of those opportunities away."

Annabel was stunned.

His reached up and touched her cheek with two fingers, a brief caress that sent shivers coursing over every inch of Annabel's body, followed by an intense longing- a yearning that had never completely died. "I honestly did not think I would ever see you again," he said, and his expression was twisted and odd. "I think I had better go."

Annabel was stunned by the entire encounter, but one coherent thought was clear in her mind-she did not want him to go, not so soon, not yet. It had been so long since they had been together, even just to converse with one another.

But she had pride, and never had she been more confused in her entire life. She watched him crack open the door. "The hall is clear," he said, pausing-as if he did

not want to leave quite yet, either. His regard was so direct it was unsettling.

She found her sanity and her voice. "Then go." She swallowed. "Pierce. My sisters and brothers-in-law are here, as well."

He stared. And smiled, with his eyes. "Thank you for the warning," he said.

Annabel could not find an appropriate response.

His gaze held hers for another moment before he slipped from the room.

She stood in the doorway, staring after him, long after he had disappeared. Tears were falling from her eyes.

Pierce regarded the rain.

The downpour continued, unabated. It was accompanied by a heavy fog, making it almost impossible to see more than a dozen feet in any direction. Pierce did not see, not the rain, not the blanket of mist, nor the few evergreens poking through pockets of it. He only saw Annabel, barefoot and disheveled, and in spite of her courage, obviously so damn vulnerable.

How perverse life was.

He had not lied when he had told her that he had not thought to ever see her again. He was dismayed. He had not wished for their paths to ever cross again. Yet he was also elated, peculiarly so, and there was no denying it.'".

His pulse continued to pound.

He sighed, turning away from the window, clad only in his shirt and trousers, his sleeves rolled casually up. His single leather trunk, large enough to contain an average-sized man, lay on the floor. His single valise lay on the bed. His jaw set, he went to the black trunk and began removing his clothing from it. He had a job to do.

Which was why he could not leave. And it had nothing to do with Annabel Boothe, but everything to do with the Countess Rossini.

Annabel entered the salon where the guests mingled before supper. It was a large room with gleaming oak floors and Persian rugs, and two brass gaslight chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, which was painted moss green. The walls were papered in a tree-of-life print, and most of the furnishings were yellow or green. Her heart was racing far too wildly to be ignored. Annabel paused on the threshold, glancing around. Numerous guests were present, including her sisters and their husbands, the women in lavish evening gowns, the men in black dinner jackets. But Braxton had not come. She had known he would not, anyway, for it was far too dangerous. But her heart sank like a stone, filled with undeniable dismay.

Annabel realized she had been trembling, and she grimaced. Worse, she had dressed with great care for supper, in a splendid gown of creamy beige lace that was very bare, showing off most of her bosom and all of her shoulders. She wore a velvet choker around her neck, and hanging from it was one large and perfect South Sea pearl. Never one to care particularly about her appearance, tonight she had wanted to be beautiful, and in this gown and necklace, neither of which she ever wore, with her cheeks flushed with excitement, her blue eyes brilliant, her hair upswept, she had known that was the case. How foolishly disappointed she now was that he was not present to notice and admire her.

She saw several men staring, including James Apple-ton Beard and the elderly Mr. Frank. Annabel sighed, moving toward her family without looking at anyone else. As she passed a group of guests, she heard someone say, "Can you believe that is her?" in shock and incredulity, as if such elegance and beauty were an impossibility for herself.

"Annabel!" Lizzie cried, beaming. "I have never seen that gown before! How wonderful you look!" Lizzie was holding the hand of her two-year-old soil, Evan.

"That is because I have never worn it." Annabel bent to tousle Evan's dark hair and kiss his plump cheek. "Hi, sweetie. How was your supper?"

He stuck his thumb in his mouth and smiled at her. "Goo'," he said.

His nanny stepped forward. "We were waiting for you, Miss Boothe. It is time for Master Evan to say good-night."

Annabel bent and hugged him, holding him against her chest for a moment. "Sweet, sweet dreams, Evan. I will play with you in the morning, I promise." She smiled at him.

"Play ten?" he asked, taking his nursemaid's hand.

"Yes, we shall play tennis, weather permitting." Annabel grinned.

Evan was led away. For one moment Annabel watched him, not hearing Melissa making a comment on how odd it was to teach a two-year old to play tennis before he could even spell his ABC's. And then she froze. Standing not far from the doorway, watching her intently, was none other than Pierce St. Clare.

Annabel could feel all the coloring draining from her face. Her heart, which felt as if it had halted, now resumed beating, but violently. She had never dreamed he would dare to show himself. Even if he was in disguise- somewhat.

He smiled slightly at her and inclined his head. Annabel turned abruptly away. Was he insane? He had added thick streaks of white to his hair, changing it from a lustrous blue-black to an iron gray. He had done something to his mouth, she was not sure what, but the bottom lip was fuller and protruding. His nose too had changed, it was larger and crooked. But as far as Annabel was concerned, he was quite remarkable, and anyone who knew him would recognize him instantly.

"So where did you get that dress, Annabel?" Melissa said petulantly.

Annabel blinked, only hearing her sister when she had repeated herself. "It was a part of my trousseau. You can have it if you wish."

"Really?" Missy brightened. "I would certainly wear it, again and again."

"Do not give that dress away!" Lizzie said, glaring at Melissa. Then, "Annabel, what is wrong?"

Annabel realized she was twisting her neck to get another glimpse of Braxton, damn his hide. But when she saw that her entire family was also turning to gaze in his direction, she abruptly looked away, filled with fright. She stared at Lizzie, her mind going blank, unable to respond. Had they seen him?

Had anyone recognized him?

"You look as if you have seen a ghost," Adam said, his tone kind. "Are you all right, Annabel?".

"I am fine. I, er, did think I saw someone I knew, but I was quite mistaken." She flashed a smile, certain the world could see how contrived it was.

Lizzie was regarding her, her scrutiny unnerving. There were few secrets Annabel could keep from her youngest sister. Then she glanced one more time in Braxton's direction. Annabel dared not turn. Finally Lizzie smiled and stepped closer to her. "Thomas Frank is staring at you, Annabel. He is going to come over here at any moment. And so is James Appleton Beard!" There was glee in her tone.

Annabel darted a glance over her shoulder, and saw Braxton in a group of men, chatting in a congenial manner. But the moment she turned, his glance found hers, and briefly they made eye contact.

Annabel put her back to him, extremely flustered. And Lizzie was right. Mr. Frank was approaching, smiling at her.

She stiffened, dismayed. She had no wish for Braxton to see her courted by an old man-as if she were an old maid herself. And then her gaze fell upon James. The moment their eyes connected, he smiled at her, blushing, and he bowed.

Annabel was not the least bit interested in him anymore, but she gave him her most encouraging smile and a graceful curtsy. An instant later he had entered their group, cutting off the advent of Thomas Frank. "Good evening," James said to one and all.