“There’s a man who thinks well of himself,” Lillian said dryly. “I wonder what—if anything—could ever set him back on his heels.”

“I can’t imagine,” Annabelle replied. “But I would like to be there if it happens.”

Evie drew closer and nudged her arm lightly. “There is Lord K-Kendall, in the corner.”

“How do you know that he is Kendall?”

“Because he is surrounded by a dozen unmarried women who are circling him like sh-sharks.”

“Good point,” Annabelle said, staring at the young man and his milling entourage. William, Lord Kendall, seemed befuddled by the inordinate amount of female attention he was receiving. He was a fair-haired, slightly built young man, his lean face adorned by a pair of perfectly polished spectacles. The reflection of the glass lenses flashed as his perplexed gaze moved from face to face. The passionate interest being shown to a man of Kendall’s timid demeanor proved that there was no aphrodisiac more effective than endof-season bachelorhood. Whereas Kendall had been supremely uninteresting to these same girls last January, by June he had acquired an irresistible allure.

“He looks like a nice man,” Annabelle said thoughtfully.

“He looks like he will spook easily,” Lillian commented. “If I were you, I’d try to appear as bashful and helpless as possible when you meet him.”

Annabelle gave her an ironic glance. ” ‘Helpless’ has never been my forte. I’ll try for bashful, but I can’t promise anything.”

“I don’t foresee that you’ll have any problem in diverting Kendall’s interest from those girls to you,” Lillian replied confidently. “After supper, when the ladies and gentlemen return here for tea and conversation, we’ll find some way to introduce you.”

“How should I…” Annabelle began, and paused as she felt a soft prickle along the nape of her neck, as if someone had drawn the fronds of a fern across her skin. Wondering what had caused it, she reached up to touch the back of her neck, and suddenly found her gaze caught by Simon Hunt’s.

Hunt was standing across the room, leaning one shoulder negligently against the side of a flat pilaster, while a group of three men around him were engaged in conversation. He looked deceptively relaxed, his gaze intent, like that of a cat considering whether or not to pounce. It was clear that he had noticed her interest in Kendall.

Hell’s bells, she thought in vexation, and deliberately turned her back to him. She wouldn’t put it past Hunt to cause trouble for her. “Have you noticed that Mr. Hunt is here?” Annabelle asked her friends in a low voice, and saw their eyes widen.

“Your Mr. Hunt?” Lillian sputtered, while Daisy whipped her head around to catch a glimpse of him.

“He’s not mine!” Annabelle protested, making a comical face. “But yes, he’s standing on the other side of the room. I saw him earlier today, actually. He claims to be a close friend of the earl’s.” She frowned and predicted darkly, “Mr. Hunt will do everything possible to wreck our plans.”

“Would he really be so s-selfish as to prevent you from marrying?” Evie asked in amazement. “With the intention of making you into his…his…”

“Kept woman,” Annabelle finished for her. “It’s hardly outside the realm of possibility. Mr. Hunt has a reputation for stopping at nothing to get what he wants.”

“That may be true,” Lillian commented, her mouth firming with determination. “But he’s not going to get you—I can promise you that.”

Supper was a magnificent presentation, with gigantic silver tureens and platters carried in a ceaseless procession around the three long tables in the dining room. Annabelle could scarcely credit that the guests would dine like this every night, but the gentleman on her left—the parish vicar—assured her that this was commonplace for Westcliff’s table. “The earl and his family are renowned for their balls and supper parties,” he said. “Lord Westcliff is the most accomplished host of the peerage.”

Annabelle was not inclined to argue. It had been a long time since she had been served such exquisite food. The lukewarm offerings at the London soirees and parties couldn’t begin to compare to this feast. In the past few months the Peyton household had not been able to afford much more than bread, bacon, and soup, with the occasional helping of fried sole or stewed mutton. For once she was glad not to have been seated next to a sparkling conversationalist, as it allowed her long periods of silence during which she could eat as much as she liked. And with the servants constantly offering new and dazzling dishes for the guests to sample, no one seemed to notice the unlady-like gusto of her appetite.

Hungrily she consumed a bowl of soup made with champagne and Camembert, followed by delicate veal strips coated in herb-dressed sauce, and tender vegetable marrow in cream…fish baked in clever little paper cases, which let out a burst of fragrant steam when opened…tiny buttered potatoes served on beds of watercress…and, most delightful of all, fruit relish served in hollowed-out orange rinds.

Annabelle was so engrossed in the meal that several minutes passed before she noticed that Simon Hunt had been seated near the head of Lord Westcliff’s table. Lifting a glass of diluted wine to her lips, she glanced discreetly at him. Hunt was exquisitely dressed as usual, in a formal black coat and a rich pewter-shaded waistcoat, its silk weave gleaming with a quiet luster. His sundarkened skin contrasted sharply with the starched white linen at his throat, the knot of his cravat as precise as a knife blade. The heavy sable locks of his hair needed an application of pomade…already a thick forelock had fallen over his forehead. It bothered Annabelle for some reason, that unruly lock. She wanted to push it back from his face.

It was not lost on her that the women seated on either side of Simon Hunt were competing for his attention. Annabelle had noticed on other occasions that women seemed to find Hunt quite appealing. She knew exactly why—it was his combination of sinful charm, cool intelligence, and arrant worldliness. Hunt looked like a man who had visited many women’s beds and knew exactly what to do in them. Such a quality should make him less attractive, not more so. But Annabelle was discovering that there was sometimes a vast difference between what you knew was good for you, and what you actually wanted. And though she would have liked to deny it, Simon Hunt was the only man who had ever attracted her physically to this degree.

Although Annabelle had always been somewhat sheltered, she was acquainted with the basic facts of life. Her scant knowledge had been accumulated through hearing mention of things and putting two and two together. Annabelle had been kissed by a few different men who had shown fleeting interest in her during the past four years. But none of those kisses, no matter how romantic the setting, or how handsome the young man, had ever elicited the kind of response from her that Simon Hunt had.

Try as she might, Annabelle had never forgotten that long-ago moment in the panorama theater…the gentle, erotic pressure of his mouth on hers, the compelling pleasure of his kiss. She wished she knew why it had been so different with Hunt, but there was no one to ask. Talking to Philippa about it had been out of the question, as Annabelle had not wanted to confess that she had once accepted ticket money from a stranger. And she was hardly going to mention the incident to the other wallflowers, who clearly didn’t know anything more about kissing and men than she herself did.

As Hunt’s gaze suddenly locked with hers, Annabelle was perturbed by the realization that she had been staring at him. Staring, and fantasizing. Although they were sitting far apart from each other, she was aware of an immediate, electric connection between them…there was an arrested expression on his face, and she wondered what he saw that fascinated him so. Coloring violently, she tore her gaze away and dug her fork into a casserole of leeks and mushrooms blanketed with shavings of white truffle.

After supper, the ladies retired to the parlor for coffee and tea while the gentlemen remained at the tables for port. In the traditional style, the group would eventually reunite in the drawing room. As clusters of women laughed and chatted easily in the parlor, Annabelle sat with Evie, Lillian, and Daisy. “Have you found out anything about Lord Kendall?” she asked, hoping that one of them might have gleaned some gossip from the dinner conversation. “Is there anyone in particular whom he might have taken an interest in?”

“The field seems to be open so far,” Lillian replied.

“I asked Mother what she knew about Kendall,” Daisy supplied, “and she said that he has a sizable fortune and is unencumbered by debt.”

“How would she know?” Annabelle asked.

“At Mother’s request,” Daisy explained, “our father commissioned a written report on every eligible peer in England. And she’s memorized it. She says that the ideal suitor for either one of us would be a poverty-stricken duke whose title would guarantee the Bowmans’ social success, while our money would ensure his cooperation in the marriage.” Daisy’s smile turned sardonic, and she reached over to pat her older sister’s hand as she added. “They made up a rhyme about Lillian, back in New York…‘Marry Lillian, you’ll get a million.’ The saying became so popular that it was one of the reasons we had to leave for London. Our family looked like a bunch of gauche, overly ambitious idiots.”

“And we’re not?” Lillian asked wryly.

Daisy crossed her eyes. “I’m only fortunate that we left before they could make up a rhyme about me.”

“I have,” Lillian said. “Marry Daisy, and you can be lazy.”

Daisy gave her a speaking glance, and her sister grinned. “Never fear,” Lillian continued, “eventually we will succeed in infiltrating London society, and then we’ll marry Lord Heavydebts and Lord Shallowpockets, and finally assume our places as ladies of the manor.”

Annabelle shook her head with a sympathetic smile, while Evie left with a murmur, presumably to attend to her private needs. Annabelle almost felt sorry for the Bowmans, for it was becoming apparent that their chances of marrying for love were no greater than hers.

“Is it both your parents’ ambition for you to marry a title?” Annabelle asked. “What is your father’s opinion on the matter?”

Lillian shrugged nonchalantly. “For as long as I can remember, Father has never had an opinion about anything regarding his children. All he wants is to be left alone so he can make more money. Whenever we write him, he disregards the contents of the letter, unless we happen to be asking to draw more funds from the bank. And then he’ll respond with a single line— ‘Permission to draw.’ “

Daisy seemed to share her sister’s cynical amusement. “I think Father is pleased by Mother’s match-making, as it keeps her too busy to bother him.”

“Dear me,” Annabelle murmured. “And he never complains about your requests for more money?”

“Oh, never,” Lillian said, and laughed at Annabelle’s patent envy. “We’re hideously rich, Annabelle—and I’ve got three older brothers, all unmarried. Would you possibly consider one of them? If you like, I’ll have one shipped across the Atlantic for your inspection.”

“Tempting, but no,” Annabelle replied. “I don’t want to live in New York. I would rather be a peer’s wife.”

“Is it really so wonderful, being a peer’s wife?” Daisy asked plaintively. “Living in one of these drafty old houses with bad plumbing, and having to learn all the endless rules about the proper way to do everything…”

“You’re no one if you’re not married to a peer,” Annabelle assured her. “In England, nobility is everything. It determines how others treat you, the schools your children attend, the places you’re invited…every facet of your life.”

“I don’t know…” Daisy began, and was interrupted by Evie’s precipitate return.

Although Evie displayed no obvious signs of being in a hurry, her blue eyes were lit with urgency, and excited color had gathered at the crests of her cheeks. Taking the chair she had previously occupied, she perched on the edge of the seat and leaned toward Annabelle, stammering and whispering. “I h-had to turn ‘round and hurry back to tell you…he’s alone!”

“Who?” Annabelle whispered back. “Who is alone?”

“Lord Kendall! I saw him at the b-b-back terrace. Just sitting there at one of the tables by himself.”

Lillian frowned. “Perhaps he’s waiting to meet someone. If so, it would hardly do Annabelle any good to go charging forth like a rhino in season.”

“Might you be able to come up with a more flattering metaphor, dear?” Annabelle asked mildly, and Lillian flashed her a grin.

“Sorry. Just proceed with care, Annabelle.”

“Point taken,” Annabelle said with an answering smile, standing and straightening her skirts deftly. “I’m going to investigate the situation. Good work, Evie.”

“Good luck,” Evie replied, and they all crossed their fingers as they watched her leave the room.

Annabelle’s heartbeat escalated as she walked through the house. She knew full well that she was treading through an intricate maze of social rules. A lady should never deliberately seek out a gentleman’s company; but if they crossed paths accidentally, or happened to find themselves on the same settee or conversation chair, they could exchange a few pleasantries. They should never spend time alone unless they were riding horses or being conveyed in an open carriage. And if a girl chanced to meet a gentleman while heading out to view the gardens, she must take pains to ensure that the situation did not appear compromising in any way.

Unless, of course, she wanted to be compromised.

Drawing close to the long row of French doors that opened onto the wide flagstone terrace, Annabelle saw her quarry. As Evie had described, Lord Kendall was sitting alone at a round table, leaning back in his chair with one leg stretched carelessly before him. He seemed to be enjoying a momentary respite from the overheated atmosphere of the house.

Quietly Annabelle strode to the nearest door and slipped through it. The air was lightly scented with heather and bog myrtle, while the sounds of the river beyond the gardens provided a soothing undercurrent. Keeping her head down, Annabelle rubbed her temples with her fingers as if she were afflicted with a nagging headache. When she was ten feet away from Kendall’s table, she looked up and made herself jump a little, as if she was startled to see him there.