Page 106 of Dukes All Night Long

O wen paced the dining room, a practical space with a plain table surrounded by twelve straight-backed chairs, chintz curtains on the one window, and shelves of thick whiteware table settings against one wall.

Questions about the diverse bits of his dealings with Lucia—Annie—tumbled over one another in his mind.

He tried and failed to sort out where to start.

You’re going to babble like a goose and make a perfect donkey’s rear end out of yourself, Pritchard , he chided himself. As minutes, each feeling like an hour, passed, he doubted he could prevent making a mess of things.

When at long last she entered behind Mrs. Morrit, he couldn’t speak at all. He could only stare at the stranger she had become in a brown gown and tan pinafore, her glorious hair tucked under a simple cotton cap.

Mrs. Morrit directed them to sit at the table, Owen at the head and Annie to his right, while she walked to the far end and settled down with mending.

For a while, he studied Annie in silence. For her part, the woman he had loved long and passionately gazed only at her hands, clasped on the table. She spared him the merest glance or two.

“Does it hurt?” he asked at last, unable to take his eyes from the purple bruise on her cheek. It took all his strength to keep from touching her. Did he do it often? Did he beat you? Worse?

She shook her head. “It will heal.”

“Why…” he began.

“Why?”

“Why did you leave?” he asked. Me. Why did you leave me?

“I thought you were a stranger. You are a stranger. I was afraid my uncle would find out.”

“I meant why did you leave Rome so suddenly? I wasn’t a stranger then. One day we, uh, spoke and the next I couldn’t find you.”

“I asked you not to speak to her, but you did anyway!” She met his eyes then, fire burning in hers.

He couldn’t hold back a small smile. “You do remember. I was starting to wonder.” He slipped one hand across the table to cover hers. She didn’t pull away.

“I remember everything. Especially the afternoon at Campo Fiori. Then you went to her and ruined everything. She would never let me marry. Not ever!” Annie said.

“Never?” That had not occurred to Owen. He assumed Madame Castellano expected a title or a fortune.

Annie shook her head. “Not as I wished. Sooner or later, she might have sold me to some German landgraf, French comte, or Italian duc,” she murmured.

Leaning forward, she spoke more forcefully.

“But then , that summer in Rome, I was her investment. She planned grand concert tours—the great capitals. I was her secret to keep the money flowing in.”

“I still don’t understand the abrupt departure.”

Her gaze dropped again. “I’m not sure myself.

She spoke only with Margaret, her assistant and partner.

I think they had almost finished setting up concert dates.

My performances in Rome were designed to create talk.

” She raised her chin and glared at him.

“Besides, I was locked in my room after your, your—imposition. I think it caused them to move sooner than planned.”

Owen pulled his hand away and sat back, fighting guilt over his part in her disappearance, lost in thought and the sea of questions. “Why are you in Nether Abbas and not some grand chateau?” he asked.

“When my mother died, I had nowhere else to go.”

Owen reached and took her hand again, this time holding it in his. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

“It was four years ago. We were traveling through Switzerland and her carriage overturned on a mountain road. I was thrown clear, but she—Well.”

“But did she leave nothing?”

“Margaret told me there was nothing, at least not anything with us. She sold Mother’s jewelry to pay for my passage back to England.

There should have been more than that—” she spied the suspicion in his eyes.

“Yes, I think she stole from us. What could I do? I knew my mother had a sister. I was content to go to her.”

“You weren’t expecting the aunt’s husband.” He rubbed a thumb over the top of her hand, sending waves of sensation through him. Her eyes followed the movement.

“Lucia—Annie—you don’t belong here. Your talent is a precious gift that shouldn’t be hidden away, or worse, treated as shame, as your uncle would have it.”

“It won’t feed me.”

Owen leaned as close as he dared, his face inches from hers. “Yes, it could! With your permission, I could find you an agent, teachers. We could—”

“That’s a pipe dream and it was never mine. I hated the stage.” She squeezed his hand as if to convince him. “I am Annie, not Lucia. I play for the joy of it. I’m not the woman you want.”

Does she think I want to use her like her mother did?

Visions of all the ways he wanted her—of bedding her, of marriage, of children, of a life together, whatever name she chose to use, tore through Owen. He opened his mouth to tell her exactly how much he wanted her.

A sane corner of his brain shouted at him not to rush his fences. Think of her, not your needs and opinions. Her life is hers to choose.

He caught a stern glance from the housekeeper at the foot of the table. Breathing deeply, he changed tack. “Do you know the name of your mother’s solicitor? Have you spoken to him?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Sir Francis Hardy. I went to see him when I first arrived in London. At first, he said that there was a will. That I inherited, and that he would have funds transferred from my mother’s bank in Rome.

He sent me to Aunt Ella to wait, but later he wrote and said the funds were gone.

Uncle sold what I brought with me, my few jewels and clothing—for my board, he said. I have nothing.”

Mrs. Morrit made a show of folding up her mending. His time was running out. He rose, and helped Annie up, her hand still in his. She stood so close he could feel her heat. This wasn’t the time or place to kiss her as he wanted to, and yet he couldn’t resist a taste.

He kissed her lips with a gentle salute, but swallowed to rein in his attraction. “I want to see you, to spend time with you,” he said, his voice ragged. “But I have to go away on business.”

He put one finger under her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. “Annie, your life (and your name) are yours to choose, but we aren’t finished here. I’ll be back. You have my promise. I’m not going to lose you again.”

She left with Morrit, and Owen clung to the hope he believed he saw in her eyes. I will be back, my Lucia, light of my life. You can be sure of it.

First, he had business with Sir Francis Hardy in London.

*

Annie quickly fell into a routine helping the Duke of Glenmoor’s loyal staff maintain the great, empty house.

Compared to life at the vicarage, it was a simple but pleasant life.

Schedules and expectations were reasonable and predictable, meeting them no problem.

She found most days ended early enough to allow time in the music room.

On the third day, the housekeeper called her into the office.

“Have I failed in some way, Mrs. Morrit?” Annie asked.

“Not at all. Your work is excellent. It is my duty to inform you, however, that your uncle has come and is demanding to see you.”

Annie felt the blood drain from her face. “Must I?”

“Not at all. The porter showed him to the small parlor and sent word. Mr. Marshall decided you should have a choice. If you do not wish to see him, Marshall will deny him. One thing, though. What is your age?”

“I am four and twenty.”

“Excellent. You are beyond twenty-one and employed. He should have no hold on you. You may go back to work, and Annie?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You may want to stay above stairs for the afternoon. Until he is gone.”

The oddest sensation came over Annie as she climbed the back stairs. These people were protecting her. She realized the odd sensation was safety. For the first time in a long time, she felt safe.

The feeling persisted, even two days later when Uncle Virgil returned with Viscount Clavering, the local magistrate.

Morrit sent word for her to stay upstairs and not to worry.

Sam, the footman who served as porter, saw the entire exchange.

Marshall told the viscount that Annie Potter, being of age and under his employ, did not wish to speak to the vicar, much less return to his household.

He raised the duke’s authority for good measure.

“When the old buzzard… Begging your pardon, miss, the vicar began shouting and demanding and claiming he was your guardian, old Marshall told Viscount Clavering how you came to Mountglen all bruised and knocked about. If the old—I mean the vicar—had no papers giving him rights, you aren’t going anywhere. ”

She felt a moment of panic. “Does he?”

“Dunno, miss. Don’t think so. Not as he showed. Marshall said the viscount was welcome to stay for tea but the vicar could get himself back where he came from.”

Nerves gave her music extra energy that night after servants were released for the evening. To her shock, Mrs. Morrit came in quietly and sat and listened.

“You really are a very fine musician. I’ve seen the young ladies of great families at the keyboard, but I’ve never heard one play like you do,” the housekeeper said.

“Thank you,” Annie murmured. “Thank you for letting me practice.”

“Nonsense. Mr. Kendrick has the authority over the estate, and he said you were to be allowed to play whenever you wish. When Mister Pritchard returns, he will be pleased to know you are playing,” the housekeeper said.

“Is he? Coming back?” Annie hadn’t dared hope.

“Of course. He said he would.”

“Do you know where he has gone?” Annie blushed at the boldness of the question.

Mrs. Morrit gave her a quelling look, but she answered anyway. “When he first came, he spoke of a meeting in Exeter. The day he left, however, he asked Marshall the direction of the Woodglen solicitor in London. Make of that what you will.”

Annie ran her hand lovingly across the piano. “Do you mind if I play a bit more?”

“Do, but don’t stay up too late.” The housekeeper walked to the door but turned back. “Are you aware some of the other servants linger by the door to listen? You might want to schedule a program so they can enjoy it. Perhaps on Sunday?”

Annie’s brow furrowed. An audience?

No, just my friends. With that realization, a smile welled up. Annie had never played just for friends. “I think I would like that,” she said.