“Where are we going?” Annabelle asked, resisting his hold on her wrist.

“To the house. If they’re not willing to be witnesses, then it seems I’ll have to debauch you in front of someone else.”

“Wait!” Annabelle squeaked. “I’ve already agreed to marry you! Why must I be compromised again?”

Hunt ignored the combined protests of Westcliff and the Bowmans as he replied succinctly. “Insurance.”

Annabelle braced her heels, refusing to budge as he pulled at her arm. “You have no need of insurance! Do you think I would break my promise to you?”

“In a word, yes.” Calmly, Hunt began to drag her along the path. “Now, where should we go? The entrance hall, I think. Plenty of people to witness you being ravished there. Or maybe the card room—”

“Simon,” Annabelle protested, as she was hauled unceremoniously in his wake. “Simon—”

Her use of his name caused Hunt to stop suddenly, turning to look down at her with a curious half smile. “Yes, sweet?”

“For God’s sake,” Westcliff muttered, “let’s save this for amateur theatrical night, shall we? If you’re so bloody bent on having her, Hunt, then you may as well spare us all any further exhibitions. I’ll gladly bear witness from here to London about your fiancee’s besmirched honor, if only to have some peace around here. Just don’t ask me to stand up with you at the wedding, as I have no desire to be a hypocrite.”

“No, just an ass,” came Lillian’s murmur.

Low-spoken as the words were, it appeared that Westcliff had heard. His dark head whipped around, and he met Lillian’s deliberately innocent expression with a threatening scowl. “As for you—”

“We’re all agreed, then,” Simon interrupted, preventing what surely would have evolved into a prolonged argument. He glanced at Annabelle with purely male satisfaction. “You’ve been compromised. Now let’s go find your mother.”

The earl shook his head, exhibiting a degree of frosty offense that could only be achieved by an aristocrat whose wishes had just been gainsaid. “I’ve never heard of a man being so eager to confess to the parent of a girl he’s just ruined,” he said sourly.

CHAPTER 20

Philippa’s reaction to the news was one of astonishing calmness. As the three of them sat in the Marsdens’ private parlor, and Simon relayed the news of their betrothal, and the reason for it, Philippa’s face turned white, but she made no sound. In the brief silence that followed Simon’s spare recitation, Philippa regarded Simon with an unblinking stare, and spoke carefully. “As Annabelle has no father to protect her, Mr. Hunt, it falls to me to ask for certain reassurances from you. Every mother wishes for her daughter to be treated with respect and kindness…and you must agree that the circumstances…”

“I understand,” Simon said. Struck by his soberness, Annabelle watched him intently, while he focused his attention completely on Philippa. “I give you my word that your daughter will have no cause for complaint.”

A flicker of wariness crossed Philippa’s face, and Annabelle chewed her inner lip, knowing what was coming next. “I suspect you are already aware, Mr. Hunt,” her mother murmured, “that Annabelle has no dowry.”

“Yes,” Simon replied matter-of-factly.

“And it makes no difference to you,” Philippa said with a questioning lilt in her voice.

“None whatsoever. I am fortunate in being able to set aside financial considerations in the matter of choosing a wife. I don’t give a damn if Annabelle comes to me without a shilling to her name. Moreover, I intend to make things easier for your family—assuming debts, taking care of bills and creditors, school tuition and the like—whatever is required to see that you’re comfortably settled.”

Annabelle saw Philippa’s hands tighten in her lap until her fingers were white, and an unfathomable tremor of what could have been excitement, relief, embarrassment, or some combination of the three, shook her voice. “Thank you, Mr. Hunt. You understand, if Mr. Peyton was still with us, things would be much different—”

“Yes, of course.”

There was a contemplative silence before Philippa murmured, “Of course, without a dowry, Annabelle will have no source of pin money…”

“I’ll open an account for her at Barings,” Hunt said equably. “We’ll start it at, say, five thousand pounds?…and I’ll refresh the balance from time to time as necessary. Of course, I’ll be responsible for the maintenance of a carriage and horses…clothes…jewelry…and Annabelle may have credit at every shop in London.”

Philippa’s reaction to the news was lost on Annabelle, whose mind spun like a top. The thought of having five thousand pounds at her disposal…a fortune…it scarcely seemed real. Her amazement was tinged with a tingle of anticipation. After years of deprivation, she would be able to go to the best modistes, and buy a horse for Jeremy, and refurbish her family’s home with the most luxurious furniture and fittings. However, this blunt discussion of money coming on the heels of a marriage proposal gave Annabelle the disquieting feeling of having sold herself for profit. Glancing cautiously at Simon, she saw that a familiar taunting gleam had entered his eyes. He understood her far too well, she thought, while unwanted heat climbed up her cheeks.

Annabelle kept silent as the conversation touched upon lawyers, contracts, and stipulations, discovering that her mother had the persistence of a bull terrier when it came to marriage negotiations. The businesslike discussion was hardly the stuff of high romance. Furthermore, it did not escape Annabelle that Philippa had not asked Hunt if he loved Annabelle, nor had he claimed to.