The Worldly Widow by Elizabeth Thornton

some lady with an elegant bonnet, and without conscious thought he ' d find himself comparing her to Annabelle and that air of hers, a compound of bravado and sauciness, as she ' d sported her ridiculous chapeau with its broken plumage when he ' d escorted her through the galleries. Nor could he descend the stairs to his rooms or cross the gardens of the Palais Royal without reliving every minute of that escapade which had almost cost him his life. Like any callow youth, he had exulted in the danger, savoring the opportunity of demonstrating to the woman of his choice that the offer of his protection was no empty boast. Like a knight entering the lists for his lady, he ' d wanted to prove his mettle. Later, though this part was hazier, he had claimed his reward. And though she had accepted him with such sweet surrender, in the morning, while he still slept, she had crept from his bed and had gone straight to the arms of "The Milksop. " The wound to his dignity outweighed every other feeling of revulsion.
    He wanted to punish her. He wanted to protect her. But more than anything, he wanted to stake his claim to her. He knew, then, that with or without the ambassador ' s commission, there had never been any question that he would run Mrs. Annabelle Jocelyn to earth. On that cheering thought, he doused the candle and went to bed.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
     
    F or a full fortnight, with unwavering perseverance, and until she was word perfect, Annabelle rehearsed in her mind exactly how she would handle the situation if she should have the unlikely misfortune to meet up again with Dalmar. She would be everything that was civil, Annabelle decided, but remote, perhaps even faintly regal, and should he be ungentlemanly enough to so much as hint at what had transpired between them in his rooms in the Palais Royal, she would widen her eyes just a fraction and plead ignorance. And if the gentleman should dare to go further and cast her conduct in her teeth, she would look him in the eye and call him a liar.
    Dalmar ' s eyes held hers across the throng of people in the drawing room of her house in Greek Street, and Annabelle felt her knees turn to water. Since her return from Paris, she had refused every invitation, cutting herself off like some recluse, and all to avoid the calamity which had overtaken her like a bolt from the blue. He had caught up with her in her own drawing room, during one of her own parties. She could not quite take it in and stood rooted to the spot, her mind spinning in every direction.
    Holding her in the steel of his gaze, Dalmar took one step into the room. There flashed before Annabelle ' s eyes a scene from a book she had recently published—the picture of a man- eating tiger stalking the poor little lamb which had been used as bait to lure the ferocious feline into the open. As far as she could remember, no one ever gave a fig for the fate of the lamb.
    Dalmar took another step in her direction, and Annabelle let out a strangled yelp, one hand fluttering wildly at her throat as if to protect her jugular.
    "Annabelle, " said a feminine voice in her ear, "I think your protégé is on the verge of creating a scandal, and enjoying every minute of it, by the looks of him. Those unprintable words which he promised to eliminate from his vocabulary? They ' re tripping off his tongue as if someone had just opened the sluice gate to his mouth! Lady Holland looks to be in dire need of smelling salts, and she ' s no prude. Annabelle, are you listening? You ' ve got to do something. "
    Annabelle ' s shocked eyes turned upon her friend and companion Beatrice Pendleton, a moderately handsome woman of fair complexion whose habitually serene expression had given way to a graver mode. "Bertie, " said Annabelle, her voice unnaturally husky, "hold the fort! I ' m needed in the kitchen, " and she picked up her skirts and bolted.
    Annabelle heard her friend ' s dismayed plea raised in protest at her back, but she did