not so much as slow her stride to look over her shoulder. She came to a door and whisked herself behind it. By degrees she became aware that she ' d shut herself in the broom closet at the top of the short flight of stairs which led to the kitchens. Though her breathing finally slowed to normal, her mind continued to keep pace with the thousand questions which rattled around in her head.
How had he found her? What was he doing here? How could she evade him? What had he learned of her? Should she ask him to leave? And if he refused, how could she make him? Oh, how had he found her, and what did he want?
It took every ounce of willpower to subdue her emotions and put her thoughts into some kind of order. It was just possible, she chided herself, that he ' d come on a whim. After all, there were no gilt-edged engraved invitations to her literary soirees. Her parties, by Mayfair standards, were very informal affairs; her guests, with few exceptions, of a sort that were rarely met in ton circles. Friends of a literary bent vouched for their friends. It was understood that only those who held unorthodox views, were given to some eccentricity, or could claim an exotic background were assured a welcome. Perhaps Dalmar, at a loose end, had taken up a friend ' s suggestion and had come merely to satisfy his curiosity.
She examined her conjecture from all angles and almost immediately discarded it. He was here for a purpose which boded no good for Annabelle Jocelyn. She could feel it in her bones.
By the time she returned to her guests, she thought she had herself well in hand. Bracing herself for Dalmar ' s sure and certain onslaught, she paused just inside the arched entrance to the ground-floor drawing room. Her eyes quickly scanned the noisy, milling throng. She found him almost immediately. His back was to her, but she would have recognized him anywhere. She almost groaned aloud when she saw the man with whom he was deep in conversation. It was the Viscount Temple, the gentleman whom Dalmar derisively referred to as "The Milksop, " and whom he had mistaken for her lover.
Annabelle expelled a shaky breath. From all appearances, the thought of a duel was the farthest thing from their minds. Dalmar was conversing as if he and the Viscount were on the best of terms, and his companion ' s lips formed a smile.
She wondered, then, if Lord Temple had taken a few drops of laudanum before the party. He seemed more relaxed than he ' d been in an age. The rigid lines of pain and tension which frequently disfigured his finely chiseled features had softened, revealing a face that was more beautiful than handsome. Not for the first time the word pretty flashed into Annabelle ' s mind, and she suppressed it, feeling vaguely disloyal. If Temple lacked something of his companion ' s uncompromising masculinity, she counted it a virtue.
Temple looked up at that moment, and catching sight of her, beckoned with his index finger. Annabelle composed her features into a mask of well-bred civility and forced her legs to carry her to the small alcove where the gentlemen had secluded themselves. She steeled herself for the coming introduction.
"Annabelle, " drawled Temple with that faintly proprietary air which she heartily disliked, "I ' d like you to meet an old school friend whom I haven ' t seen in an age. I thought for a moment I ' d walked into the wrong house when I saw him in your drawing room. " His next words were patently derisory. "He ' s one of our brave soldiers who ' s given the best years of his life to king and country. A Tory and proud of it! "
Annabelle squirmed at the insult in Temple ' s words, and she flashed a look of apology at his companion. Though it was true that she held unshakable convictions about the inefficacy of war in general, and in particular on Tory policies in the last number of years, she made it a rule never to attack the man, but only his dogma. Temple ' s inflammatory remarks embarrassed her. If anyone else
How had he found her? What was he doing here? How could she evade him? What had he learned of her? Should she ask him to leave? And if he refused, how could she make him? Oh, how had he found her, and what did he want?
It took every ounce of willpower to subdue her emotions and put her thoughts into some kind of order. It was just possible, she chided herself, that he ' d come on a whim. After all, there were no gilt-edged engraved invitations to her literary soirees. Her parties, by Mayfair standards, were very informal affairs; her guests, with few exceptions, of a sort that were rarely met in ton circles. Friends of a literary bent vouched for their friends. It was understood that only those who held unorthodox views, were given to some eccentricity, or could claim an exotic background were assured a welcome. Perhaps Dalmar, at a loose end, had taken up a friend ' s suggestion and had come merely to satisfy his curiosity.
She examined her conjecture from all angles and almost immediately discarded it. He was here for a purpose which boded no good for Annabelle Jocelyn. She could feel it in her bones.
By the time she returned to her guests, she thought she had herself well in hand. Bracing herself for Dalmar ' s sure and certain onslaught, she paused just inside the arched entrance to the ground-floor drawing room. Her eyes quickly scanned the noisy, milling throng. She found him almost immediately. His back was to her, but she would have recognized him anywhere. She almost groaned aloud when she saw the man with whom he was deep in conversation. It was the Viscount Temple, the gentleman whom Dalmar derisively referred to as "The Milksop, " and whom he had mistaken for her lover.
Annabelle expelled a shaky breath. From all appearances, the thought of a duel was the farthest thing from their minds. Dalmar was conversing as if he and the Viscount were on the best of terms, and his companion ' s lips formed a smile.
She wondered, then, if Lord Temple had taken a few drops of laudanum before the party. He seemed more relaxed than he ' d been in an age. The rigid lines of pain and tension which frequently disfigured his finely chiseled features had softened, revealing a face that was more beautiful than handsome. Not for the first time the word pretty flashed into Annabelle ' s mind, and she suppressed it, feeling vaguely disloyal. If Temple lacked something of his companion ' s uncompromising masculinity, she counted it a virtue.
Temple looked up at that moment, and catching sight of her, beckoned with his index finger. Annabelle composed her features into a mask of well-bred civility and forced her legs to carry her to the small alcove where the gentlemen had secluded themselves. She steeled herself for the coming introduction.
"Annabelle, " drawled Temple with that faintly proprietary air which she heartily disliked, "I ' d like you to meet an old school friend whom I haven ' t seen in an age. I thought for a moment I ' d walked into the wrong house when I saw him in your drawing room. " His next words were patently derisory. "He ' s one of our brave soldiers who ' s given the best years of his life to king and country. A Tory and proud of it! "
Annabelle squirmed at the insult in Temple ' s words, and she flashed a look of apology at his companion. Though it was true that she held unshakable convictions about the inefficacy of war in general, and in particular on Tory policies in the last number of years, she made it a rule never to attack the man, but only his dogma. Temple ' s inflammatory remarks embarrassed her. If anyone else
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