have no intention of sitting at the same table and letting him humiliate me any further in front of your father.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because I was foolish enough to confide my feelings for Lady Yew to him.’ Peregrine looked at her and sighed. ‘He knew exactly how I felt—and he said nothing at all about it being a hopeless quest.’
Anna needed no further explanation. How could she explain that it was just her brother being himself? ‘I’m sorry, Peregrine. Really, I am. And I know how hard it is not to be with the person you love, but there will be others. You have only to open your heart and let love find you.’
His mouth twisted. ‘I’ve been open to love a long time, Anna, but this is the first time it’s come anywhere close to finding me. Infatuation is one thing, but true love doesn’t come along every day.’
No, it did not, Anna reflected as she sat down to write the letter to Sir Barrington. True love was elusive: as fragile as a sigh, as mysterious as the night. It inspired placid gentlemen to write romantic poetry and sensible young women to lose themselves in dreams. For those lucky enough to find it, love could be a life-altering experience.
But falling in love could also be a painful and humiliating experience, one that shattered a person’s belief in their own self-worth and that was best forgotten as quickly as possible. Her brief, ill-fated liaison with the Honourable Anthony Colder was a prime example of that, as was poor Peregrine’s misplaced affection for Lady Yew. If anyone needed proof of the destructive power of love, they need look no further than that.
Lady Annabelle’s note arrived well in advance of Lord Yew’s visit and while Barrington was relieved that a solution had been found, her words did not make him feel better. Not when he knew what it had cost her to write them.
Sir Barrington,
As time is of the essence and Mr Rand is otherwise occupied, I thought it best to send word of his intentions as quickly as possible. I have been informed that he is indeed guilty of having an affair with the lady in question; however, he has assured me that he intends to end the relationship and that he is willing to confirm the same in a letter addressed to her husband. I hope you will convey these sentiments to the gentleman and that he will find it a satisfactory resolution to the problem.
Neither my father nor Mr Rand has been made aware of this correspondence and I would prefer that it remain that way. As one who has been accused of ‘involving herself in the convoluted lives of others’, I think it the wisest course of action.
It was simply signed ‘Annabelle Durst’ in a clear and legible hand.
So, Mr Peregrine Rand had been unable to maintain his lies in the face of the lady’s questioning. Good—because there was no doubt in Barrington’s mind that Annabelle had questioned him. Profess to believe him she might, but she had still needed to hear from his own lips that he was innocent of the charge and that the rumours were not true.
How devastated she must have been to find out that they were … and how difficult for her to write this note. She had believed wholeheartedly in the young man’s innocence, put trust in her intuition when it came to what he would and would not do—only to discover that her intuition was not strong enough to stand up against the wishes and desires of his own heart. Disillusionment was always a bitter pill to swallow.
He glanced again at the parchment in his hand. Closing his eyes, he raised it to his nose and gently inhaled. Yes, it was still there … a lingering trace of her fragrance, the scent sweet but sensually provocative. An echo of the lady herself. He set the parchment down and walked slowly towards the long window, his mind filled with thoughts of Anna.
It was a long time since a woman had affected him to this degree. Indeed, he wasn’t sure one ever had. For the most part, he’d always believed aristocratic ladies to be like exotic birds: lovely to look at, but troublesome to own. They strutted around society’s stage like the fragile, inconsequential creatures they were, generally offering nothing of substance beyond the ability to play the piano or paint pretty pictures. It was the reason he had found commitment so easy to avoid.
But Lady Annabelle was neither fragile nor inconsequential. She was intelligent. Passionate. The quintessential lady and beautiful beyond all. But beauty without soul had never appealed to him, and it was because she cared so much about other people that Barrington found himself so strongly attracted to her. She cared about Mercy Banks and the host of other silly young women who needed her help in extricating themselves from situations that could have ruined them. She cared about her country visitor, who might well be her half-brother, and about her father, who, with typical male arrogance, was ready to dismiss everything she said. Yes, admirable indeed was the Lady Annabelle Durst. A lady worth getting to know.
And yet, as a result of what had passed between them, Barrington doubted a deeper acquaintance was possible. In his hand, he held her acknowledgement that she had been wrong, and he right. That was the first strike against him. He had proven everything she had most desperately wanted not to believe. She had stood up for a man who hadn’t deserved her loyalty, and she had been let down. Matters would never be easy between them now.
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