Lady Anne's Deception (The Changing Fortunes Series Book 4) (4 page)

“Oh, I think you’ll find you’re invited,” he said easily. “Everyone’s going to be there.”

Annie remembered all the gilt-edged invitation cards stuck in the corner of the looking glass in the drawing room. She had not studied them, knowing the names would mean nothing to her. She had another ball gown that should have arrived that morning. It was the same leaf green as her blouse and would turn Marigold’s eyes the same color with envy.

“The Worthingtons are very grand,” he was saying. “Not only are we to have a ball but a fireworks display as well.”

“I hope we’re invited,” said Annie anxiously. “I’ve never seen a fireworks display.”

“What! Not even on Guy Fawkes Night?”

“We don’t celebrate Guy Fawkes in Scotland.”

“No November fifth! What a heathen country. Ah, here we are.” He called to his groom, who ran round and held the horses while the marquess escorted Annie to the door.

“Thank you for a very pleasant drive, my lord,” said Annie shyly.

“My pleasure.” He bent and kissed her gloved hand, smiling into her eyes in a way that left her feeling strangely breathless. Then he turned and climbed back into his carriage, cracked his whip, and moved off as Miss Winter’s butler opened the door.

Annie trailed into the drawing room, unpinning her hat as she did so and feeling strangely flat.

Aunt Agatha came sailing in, looking flustered. “My dear Annie, I have just had a telephone call from your papa, and such news! It appears that Crammarth’s second cousin, the disgraceful one that went to America, has died—he was older than your papa, so one must
not
mourn—and he has left your papa a vast fortune. Just think! Marigold is a wealthy, wealthy heiress. You, too, my dear. But, of course, Marigold’s child will be the heir because, naturally, she will marry first.”

“I might well marry before Marigold,” said Annie.

“Oh, my dear, you are pinning your hopes on the wicked Jasper. Well, I am afraid we were all a bit silly about that. I telephoned that horrid Mrs. Burlington to tell her that Torrance was quite smitten with you, for it seemed as if he must be since he never entertains debutantes, and she said that Torrance had said at the Trevelyns’ ball that you were ‘an amusing little thing.’ Now, I ask you, is that what a man with any serious intentions would say about a girl? And, of course, with a beauty like Marigold around, it’s amazing that he noticed you
at all.

“I didn’t believe her, and said so, but Mrs. Burlington said that Torrance had said that to Bertie Ffrench, so I telephoned Bertie Ffrench. He was maddeningly vague but said, ‘Oh, you mean the gel with the hair like a pillar box? Jasper did say something fatherly.’ So there! You will just need to look around for someone more your weight. I have not forgotten your punishment, so you may finish your lines while I escort Marigold to the Worthingtons’.”

“Why can’t I go to the Worthingtons’?” asked Annie, in a bewildered voice. Her emotions were going up and down like a seesaw. There was so much to assimilate. Papa was very rich, which meant that she, as well as Marigold, must now be considered an heiress. The marquess had said that she was merely an “amusing little thing.” And she was not to go to the Worthingtons’.

“Well, you see,” said Aunt Agatha, “it was a teensy bit foolish on my part. I was so concerned with finding a husband for Marigold that when Mrs. Worthington told me about the ball, well, I only mentioned Marigold, and it would be too pushing to take you along because it would upset the supper arrangement to have one more, and the Worthingtons are such sticklers. So you see. And you are being punished anyway.”

“It’s just
not
fair,” said Annie, rebelliously.

“On the contrary, it is very fair. Despite your appalling behavior, I allowed you the treat of a drive with Torrance, so you have had quite enough for one day. Now go to your room and don’t let me hear another word!”

When Annie reached her room, she turned the key in the door. Marigold would no doubt be calling shortly to crow over her defeated sister.

Annie paced up and down, up and down. In her mind’s eye, someone, not necessarily the marquess, would propose to Marigold at the Worthingtons’, and she would have to take second place again as she had done all of her young life.

Annie’s very dull and sheltered upbringing had kept her very emotionally immature. First a nanny, and then a governess, who favored Marigold no matter what she did, had made her very bitter toward her sister. She burned with hurt and a desire for revenge. Somehow, she just
had
to get to that ball.

The door handle turned, then stopped. “Let me in!” called Marigold.

“Go away,” said Annie, furiously.

“Oh, you silly cat. You’re just mad because I’m going and you’re not.”

Annie took a deep breath, then said loudly and clearly, “Of course I am furious. I had hoped to be allowed to spend some time with my fiancé.”

“
What!
”

“You heard me.”

“You can’t mean Torrance. Oh, it’s too stupid. You’re such a liar. I’m going to tell Auntie.”

Marigold’s footsteps could be heard retreating rapidly down the corridor. Annie slowly went over and unlocked the door. She had just told one terrible lie. And, somehow, she knew all at once that she was going to go on telling it.

Aunt Agatha opened the door and walked into the room. “Now, what’s all this tarradiddle, Annie?”

“Send her away first,” said Annie grimly, pointing to Marigold, who was hovering in the doorway.

“Oh, very well, but if this is another of your… Go away, Marigold. Now, Annie!”

“Well, he did propose to me,” said Annie defiantly. “I didn’t tell you because he said he would be writing to Papa and that he would be calling to see you tomorrow.”

Aunt Agatha sank into a chair and stared at Annie with a bewildered look on her face. “One would almost think you were telling the truth,” she said slowly.

“I am,” said Annie, “and if you don’t believe me, well, there’s an easy way to find out.”

“Which is…?”

“Why, telephone him,” said Annie, sending up a silent prayer that her aunt would react as she expected her to.

“No. I couldn’t possibly do that. It would be questioning his honor. If you are lying, then it would make a terrible fool of me. And if you are not, then he would think me extremely rude.”

“In that case,” said Annie, trying to keep her voice level, “do you not think that the best idea would be to take me with you to the Worthingtons’? Jasper said he was looking forward to dancing with me.”

“Oh, very well. I shall telephone Mrs. Worthington and tell her to expect an extra guest. I shall say nothing to Torrance unless he chooses to speak to me. But if he ignores you, if his manner proves that he has not the slightest interest in you, then you will be sent home.”

With that, Aunt Agatha left the room, leaving Annie in a misery of anxiety. To follow her aunt and apologize, to say that she had made the whole thing up, would mean that she would be sent back to Scotland anyway.

Even the sight of her new green ball gown spread out on the bed did nothing to allay her fears.

Marigold was nearly dancing about with glee before they got into the carriage that was to bear them to the Worthingtons’.

“Of all the awful lies,” she whispered. “Won’t it be fun seeing Torrance’s face when I tell him.”

“You won’t,” said Annie, hopefully. “Aunt will stop you.”

“So it
is
a lie,” hissed Marigold, as the steps to the carriage were let down.

“If you choose to think so, then that is your affair,” retorted Annie, in what she hoped was a chilling voice.

“Please let him not be there,” she prayed as the carriage bore them inexorably nearer to the Worthingtons’.

The Worthingtons lived in a large mansion in Princes Gate, so the drive, unfortunately for poor Annie, was very short.

Again the red carpet, the canopy, the police, the stairs, and the hostess. Again the gentlemen bowing and scribbling their names in her card. Again Mr. Russell with his moustache and sideburns begging her for the supper dance.

“I’m surprised you didn’t try to keep a dance for your fiancé.” Marigold tittered from behind her fan.

“I did,” said Annie defiantly. “The last. That’s the one he asked me to keep.”

(“Please, oh
please
, don’t let him come.”)

Aunt Agatha leaned across Marigold and addressed Annie in a threatening whisper, “Mind, young lady. No engagement, and back to Scotland you go. Oh, I just
know
you’re lying. Why did I ever listen to you? Why can’t you be more like your sister?”

“Who wants to be like
her
?” muttered Annie, but Miss Winter mercifully did not hear, and Annie’s partner approached to claim her for the first dance.

Of course, the marquess would have to arrive just as she was beginning to relax. Just as she was beginning to enjoy herself. Please let him not speak to Marigold or Auntie!

Then Annie stumbled and fell over her partner’s feet. “I must go,” she blurted. “I have to tell my aunt something important.” For the marquess was heading straight for Aunt Agatha.

Annie managed to get there at the same time. Under the cover of her fan, she winked and grimaced at him desperately. He raised his eyebrows slightly but turned away from Annie and bowed over Aunt Agatha’s hand.

“My dear Lord Torrance,” said Aunt Agatha, with a grim edge to her voice. “I must thank you for entertaining Lady Annie this afternoon.”

“Not at all. The pleasure was mine entirely,” he murmured.

“I gather you had a very interesting conversation,” pursued Aunt Agatha.

“Quite,” said the marquess, at his most urbane.

Annie heaved a sigh of relief. Now if she could get him alone and ask him to help her out of this jam!

Oh, no! Marigold.

That young lady came tripping up on the arm of her partner. Annie closed her eyes.

“Lord Torrance!” cried Marigold, all false innocence. “My congratulations! Our little Annie has achieved the first engagement of the Season. When is the wedding to be?”

There was a heavy silence. Annie closed her eyes tighter.

They flew open at the sound of the marquess’s amused, lazy drawl. “Oh, I think in about a month’s time. Neither Annie nor myself believe in long engagements.”

He turned to Annie who, by this time, was chalk white, and took her hand in his.

“You are a naughty puss, Annie,” he said playfully. “You are supposed to wait for your father’s permission before you tell anyone. I shall call on you tomorrow, Miss Winter, to formally request
your
permission as a start.”

“Delighted,” said Aunt Agatha faintly.

“Now, Annie,” said the marquess, giving her limp hand a little shake. “Let me see your dance card. Who has the supper dance? Russell. Ah, well, he will let me have it now that he knows I have prior claim. There you are, Russell. You must really let me have this dance, old chap. You see, Lady Annie is engaged to me. You shouldn’t all stand with your mouths open like that. I had a friend who kept doing that and do you know what happened to him?” He smiled benignly at his stunned audience.

“Well, one day, a blooming great wasp flew right into his mouth and stung him right in the back of the throat, and he nearly choked to death. Come along, Annie. The music’s started.”

Annie placed her hand on his arm, and he walked off with her to the center of the floor.

Somewhere behind them, Marigold began to scream.

CHAPTER FOUR

 

At first the Earl and Countess of Crammarth were worried about the shortness of their younger daughter’s engagement. Such speed was open to misinterpretation. They had traveled to London as soon as they had heard the news.

But the fact that their daughter had hooked the catch of London society was not to be overlooked. The marquess was all that was reassuring. And so they agreed to the early wedding.

Perhaps Annie would have called the whole thing off if she had been left alone in her fiancé’s company. Perhaps she would have realized the danger of getting married simply for revenge. But no sooner had he won her parents’ approval than he had taken himself off to France “on business,” promising to return only the day before the wedding.

Also, revenge on Marigold was terribly sweet. Now Annie was the fêted and petted one. And so she went headlong toward her marriage to a man she did not know in the slightest and had not even kissed.

Annie had been deprived of affection and attention for as long as she could remember. She luxuriated in it now; she basked in it.

Marigold did all she could to puncture Annie’s balloon of happiness.

“He’s a masher,” said Marigold, triumphantly. “And there’re a lot of rumors around that he’s short of money, and it’s well known that his father expects him to support himself. He must have jumped at the chance when you threw yourself at his head. It was all around the ball as soon as we arrived that we were heiresses. Aunt Agatha told Mrs. Worthington on the telephone when she rang her to say that you were coming, and Mrs. Worthington told everyone else. You poor, deluded little thing! Think of all the mistresses he’s had!”

“I shall change all that,” said Annie stubbornly.

“Rakes never change,” said Marigold. “Everyone except you knows that.”

But those sorts of remarks were all Annie expected from Marigold. A man settled down once he was married. No one could expect him to behave like a monk before then. All of her romances had been full of wild and savage heroes who had been tamed and brought to heel by the love of a pure and innocent girl. So it must be true.

The time until the marquess’s return from France hurried past in a bewilderment of fittings and pinnings and shopping. Marigold went alone to balls and parties with Aunt Agatha. The Earl and Countess of Crammarth bustled about Annie as if they had just given birth to her.

And then the marquess returned. Annie had met his parents and had searched, without success, their austere, cold faces for some sign of their son’s sunny insouciance. They seemed to neither approve nor disapprove of her.

Her fiancé arrived too late for the wedding rehearsal, so Annie’s cousin, Jimmy Sinclair, had to stand in as groom. But nothing could dim Annie’s flying spirits, her heady feeling of success. The Countess of Crammarth was so engrossed with the multiple arrangements for a society wedding that she failed to arrange for the couple to be left alone when the marquess called to see his fiancée. She also failed to give that little talk to her daughter about the intricacies of the marriage bed.

Annie was almost as innocent as the day she was born when she walked proudly up to the altar of St. George’s, Hanover Square, on her father’s arm.

Her slim figure in a dress of priceless old lace gave the lie to the gossips who had hinted that there must be a sinister reason—in the heraldic sense—for the rushed wedding.

Marigold as maid of honor looked a blonde vision. But this was Annie’s day of triumph. She could see no farther ahead than this one splendid, glorious day.

She knew that she and Jasper were to spend the night at his town house and then to travel to Paris on their honeymoon, but she thought vaguely of it all as a sort of family holiday.

The wedding breakfast was held at the newly opened Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly since Aunt Agatha’s house in Manchester Square was not nearly large enough to hold all of the guests.

Annie’s highly colored fairy tale went on. She sat proudly at the head table beside her husband and responded prettily to all of the toasts. Proudly, she took the floor with him, her long train looped gracefully over her arm.

Breathlessly, she allowed a bevy of maids to assist her into her going-away clothes. Joyfully, she threw the wedding bouquet as far away from Marigold as possible. It was caught by their governess, Miss Higgins, who turned quite pink with delight.

And then… and then… they were in
his
carriage, going to
his
town house in St. James’s Square.

And it was all over.

She had been revenged on Marigold for all those years of humiliation. She had had her day of triumph.

Now what?

There was a coachman on the box and two splendid footmen on the backstrap. Barton, the maid, had been assigned to her as her very own.

But soon the coach would stop and the coachman would take the gaily decorated carriage round to the mews. The footmen would help her down and open the doors, and then they, too, would go away. Barton would prepare her mistress for bed and then she would leave.

And Annie would be alone with her husband.

All at once it burst over her head, the folly of what she had done.

The wedding night!

What was she supposed to do? What would he do—to her?

He ushered her into a pleasant, book-lined room on the ground floor of his house. “It’s all very masculine,” he said. “But you can make any changes you want.”

The room smelled of leather and tobacco. The evening had turned chilly and a fire had been lit in the grate. There were pictures of horses and rather dark landscapes in heavy, gilt frames ornamenting the walls. The furniture was a harmonious mixture of periods. There was a Boulle writing table in one corner, and in another a pretty little bureau bordered with crushed mica by Pierre Golle. There were window seats by Chippendale and four Louis XV armchairs. Electricity had not been installed yet and the soft glow of two large oil lamps illuminated the room.

“Well,” said Annie brightly. “Here we are.”

“Yes,” he echoed. “Here we are. Do you wish anything to eat?”

“No,” said Annie. “I think I ate enough at the—the… reception.”

“In that case, my love…”

“But I would like something to drink.”

“Very well.” He touched the bell and then murmured something to the butler.

“Now, Annie,” he said, walking toward her. Annie held on to the chair back for support.

“Your servants will—will… enter at any moment, Jas-Jasper, and we should not… I mean…”

“Quite,” he said equably. “Why don’t you sit down? You look as if you’re about to face a firing squad. Or would you like to retire to your room and freshen up? Yes, why don’t you do that, and I will have the champagne sent upstairs.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Annie, overwhelmed with relief. She never thought that he meant to join her.

Her new quarters were spacious and elegant, and showed all the signs of having been recently decorated. There was a sitting room and a bedroom, in feminine shades of rose.

The large wardrobe in the bedroom held only her dresses and coats, and the two chests of drawers were full with the rest of her trousseau, which had been brought round earlier in the day and unpacked by Barton.

Annie’s fear slowly left her. There was no sign of any masculine occupation. These were her rooms. He obviously planned to sleep in a suite of his own.

The bed was pretty and very French-looking, with its white-painted cane back and canopy of white lace. It was also very large.

Annie sat by the fire in the sitting room—what luxury to have a fire in summer!—and turned over the weighty responsibilities of marriage in her mind. She would be expected to produce an heir, although she had not the slightest idea of how that was to be achieved. Then she must see the housekeeper when they returned from Paris and go over the books.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. Her husband entered carrying a tray with a bottle of champagne and two tall, thin crystal glasses.

Annie fought down the fears that were rising up in her again, telling herself that he
was
her husband and that it was natural he should join her in her sitting room.

He sat down opposite her and poured the champagne. Annie had already drunk quite a great deal of wine that day, what with all the toasts, but she realized that her mouth was dry and she was very thirsty indeed. She drained her glass in one gulp and held it out to be refilled.

“I’m nervous as well,” said the marquess, in a gentle voice that she had never heard him use before. “I haven’t been married before.”

He then went on to talk about the wedding reception, who was who on his side of the family and what they did, interspersing all the facts with amusing anecdotes that were so ridiculous that Annie was sure they were fictitious.

Somehow, during all this, they had succeeded in not only drinking the one bottle of champagne but also another that he had rung for while he was talking.

Annie was not aware that she had drunk most of it; she was only aware that she was feeling hazy and lazy and relaxed, and everything he said began to seem exquisitely funny.

And somehow it all seemed natural when he gently took her glass from her hand and said, “Bed.”

He stood up, drawing her up with him, pulling her into his arms. He bent his head and kissed her full on the mouth for the first time, his mouth gently pressing and exploring, his long fingers cradling her face.

At first she stayed immobile, her mouth tightly closed under his own. But a delightful, warm sort of prickly feeling like goose flesh began to run over her skin, and the pleasurable feel of his mouth on hers made her part her lips and kiss him back, her arms winding about his neck.

He swept her off her feet and carried her easily through to the bedroom, laying her down on the bed, his nimble, experienced fingers beginning to work loose the intricate fastenings of her dress.

Had she not drunk so much, had she not felt so cold and lost when he stopped caressing her, then she would surely have felt shocked. But with each new caress, her body seemed to scream for more, and when at last she was naked and he drew away to remove his own clothes, she could hardly wait for him to take her in his arms again.

He covered one small, rounded, firm breast with his hand, and Annie groaned against his lips. His body was hard and muscled, surprisingly so in so languid and lazy a man. He seemed to have muscles in the most unexpected places, Annie thought in a lucid moment before she went down under another wave of passion.

He paused, propping himself up on one elbow and looking down into her face, his eyes very blue and searching. Annie dreamily thought that he had never looked as handsome. His crisp black hair framed his tanned face. His eyelids were curved, giving his face a look of amused mockery. His nose was straight. His mouth strong and beautifully shaped. The strong column of his neck rose from a broad, powerful chest.

One hand languorously stroked the length of her back, then firmly clasped itself round one of her firm, rounded buttocks.

“Will we have a baby?” whispered Annie.

“Oh, I should think so,” he said tenderly. “Lots and lots of little Jaspers.”

Suddenly, all of the champagne she had drunk seemed to mount to Annie’s brain in a rush and she giggled tipsily. “I’ve just
got
to have a baby before Marigold. Imagine going through all this just to get revenge and then finding she somehow managed to get married and produce an heir to the Crammarth fortune before me.”

As she looked into his face, she was reminded of the shadow of the cloud passing over the shining waters of the Serpentine on that first drive with him. It was almost as if he had
dressed
his face, had covered it in some way, so that all of the laughing tenderness was gone, leaving only the familiar, lazy mockery.

“Such a pity we can’t have that honeymoon in Paris after all,” he said.

“Why?” Annie’s mind fought to rise above the mists of alcohol.

“Oh, I have things to do in town. And now, good night, Annie.”

Numbly she lay and watched him swing his legs out of bed, rise, and get dressed.

“You had better pull the covers over you or you’ll catch cold,” he said.

He said, “If I do not see you at breakfast, use any of my carriages you wish.”

He said, “There is money in the desk in my study. Take as much as you like and buy yourself something.”

He said, “And why don’t you call on Marigold in case her jealousy has reached a low ebb.”

And then the door closed behind him.

Annie fought with drunkenness, with sleep.

She had said something terribly, terribly wrong.

But, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what it was.

The Marchioness of Torrance walked gloomily down the little main street of Britlingsea followed by her maid, Barton, and wondered whether to send a postcard to her husband.

Nothing had gone right since that wedding night, and yet, in a way, nothing had changed. It seemed to Annie that she was still a child being directed about what she should do by adults, one of the adults now being her husband.

She had been instructed on how to write checks and had been given permission to draw as much money from the bank as she wanted. The house in St. James’s Square was terrifyingly well run, and the servants seemed to be in no need of supervision. The marquess had shown no inclination to take his new bride to his country estate, Frileton House. He escorted her to a few social engagements and left her almost as soon as they entered the room. He had then driven her to his parents’ estate in his new motorcar, and there he had left her. Annie had endured the torments of loneliness and boredom since the duke and duchess hardly ever entertained.

Annie’s parents had gone back to Scotland. Marigold had never once called since Annie’s marriage, which was the only blessing Annie could think of.

And then one day while Annie was languishing at her in-laws, a letter from Marigold arrived. It was short but far from sweet. It reminded Annie that it was more than likely that the marquess had married her for her money. It instructed her to please see the enclosed cutting.