Free Taming of Annabelle by MC Beaton

‘Annabelle,’ he said. ‘We hardly know each other, and, yes, your youth is a great disadvantage. No. Let me speak. The man you will want at twenty-one
may not be the man you want now. We shall get to know each other, first as friends, and then, if I am convinced that your mind is set, I shall write to your father and ask his permission to pay my
addresses.’
    A heady feeling of triumph assailed Annabelle. She had won! Now all she had to do was to play her cards aright and soon she would be able to plead prettily that she be married at the same time
as Minerva.
    He rested his head against the wing of the chair, his face suddenly white and drawn.
    ‘Leave me now, my child,’ he said faintly. ‘I am curst weak.’
    Annabelle stood up. ‘I shall send help,’ she said anxiously.
    ‘Simply ring that bell over there and I shall do the rest,’ he said. ‘Go now. I shall see you again soon.’
    Annabelle rang the bell and then hurried from the room. She would not tell Minerva or anyone until it was a fait accompli. Now she would need to bribe Betty with a scarf or some trinket
to make sure that upstart miss kept her mouth firmly shut.
    After she had left, the Marquess of Brabington was helped by two stout footmen to his bedchamber. He lay back against the pillows staring up at the canopy, his hands behind his head. What did he really know of Miss Annabelle? Had he been too precipitate? But somehow he found he could not think beyond her beauty. He had been dazzled from the first moment he had set eyes on her. Then
her memory had faded a little. He was always conscious of the difference in their ages.
    But he loved her, he thought with a smile. And that was too rare and beautiful a thing to be picked over and analysed. He closed his eyes and settled down for sleep, seeing his life stretching
out in front of him, one long, sunny road with Annabelle on his arm; a laughing, enchanting, adoring Annabelle, forever beautiful, forever happy, and quite, quite uncomplicated.
    The following days were to be passed without a glimpse of the Marquess. It was said he had a high fever and Annabelle fretted as the physician came and went. Lord Sylvester always seemed to be
watching her curiously, and she had to endure the fact that her love for him had not abated one whit.
    At last came the glad news that the Marquess’s fever had abated and that he was recovering quickly. The ladies of the house, with the exception of the Duchess, had quite warmed to
Annabelle since she now appeared quiet and reserved, seeming to take no interest in the gentlemen whatsoever.
    And then after a thaw and a following driving wind, the Reverend Charles Armitage, vicar of St Charles and St Jude, made his arrival.
    Annabelle heard his loud voice as she was descending the stairs and peeped over the bannisters.
    The vicar was standing in the hall, clutching a letter in one hand, his face grim. Before him stood the Duchess of Allsbury.
    ‘What’s this here,’ the vicar was demanding, ‘about Bella behaving bad?’
    ‘I think she should answer for herself,’ said the Duchess coolly. ‘Her behaviour has been quite pretty of late but one shudders to think of a recurrence of her disgraceful
manners.’
    Annabelle heard a step behind her and swung around to find the Marquess of Brabington smiling down at her.
    Down below in the hall, the angry vicar had been joined by Minerva and Lord Sylvester. Annabelle shuddered before the wrath of her father to come; like a child, she turned and pressed her face
into the Marquess’s coat and whispered, ‘I’m afraid. Papa will horsewhip me.’
    The Marquess put an arm about her and held her close. He knew his worth on the marriage market. He knew the one way to allay any parent’s wrath was to present himself as a future
son-in-law. And yet . . . and yet . . . it was a great step to take.
    He raised her face and looked down into her eyes. ‘If he knew we were to be married, he would no longer be angry,’ he