The male mind views matters rather simply. It does not consider its past failings as any reason to delay its present happiness. It does not consider how things done for the contentment of itself and those it cares for, might look from the emotional standpoint of others. And most of all, it quite often possessed the tendency to believe that the words 'I'm sorry' are all that is needed to worm one's way back into a lady's favour.
So it was that Annabelle received a bouquet of yellow loosestrife the next day. It was not brought by Jack this time, but by a Dunlap footman. Annabelle sighed when the maid brought it into her room and set it on the mantel.
'I am sorry; let us forget our quarrel.'
The maid hovered, waiting excitedly for Annabelle to ask who had sent the posy, but was instead dismissed with a wave of the hand. Disappointed, she left.
Annabelle sat on the bench at the foot of her bed and gazed up at the bouquet. Adrian was apologizing. Did he mean it, or was he merely saying it to get back into her good graces? And why was he pursuing her in any case? He didn't wish to be engaged to Adeline - fair enough. Everyone was due the right to dislike someone. But why Annabelle? If he wanted to a fiancé, there were plenty girls amongst the London ton who would gladly wear his ring.
Jealousy reared its head, but Annabelle quickly shoved it away. It wasn't relevant at the moment. He was pursuing her. Her. Annabelle Carina Bradford.
Did she want him to pursue her? Annabelle wasn't sure. He was handsome and the heir to a title and a respectable fortune. He seemed kind. He had been concerned about her health. He neither wanted nor expected a wife with no mind of her own. All in all, he seemed a good match, but there was a world of truth in what Melanie had said the night before.
Human beings rarely enjoy being thrust into situations they have never expected they would be in; Annabelle was no exception. Certainly, she had always wanted to be in her current position, but what if it turned out that it was not all she had dreamed it would be? What if Adrian wasn't all she had dreamed he would be? She had heard too many stories about just such occurrences not to be wary. Naïve young girls, blinded by the grandness of titles and money and fancy words, would find out too late what monsters they had given themselves to. Annabelle had no intention of being one of those girls.
In comparison to that, marriage to a man who simply wanted heirs or money seemed a blessing. At least in such a union, she would not have any expectations to be dashed.
Standing, she paced over to the mantel and gently touched one of the small, yellow blooms. A wind slipped through the open window and brushed against her cheek in a similar carress. Looking out the window, she gazed at the garden below.
She would send a bouquet in response. Openly this time, never mind what society might say. Perhaps if she cast some questionable shadow on her reputation, Adrian would abate this chase. But what to send?
Several choices flitted through her head. Aconite. Cockscomb. White columbine.
Annabelle ran over the choices as she descended the stairs and made her way to the garden. Finally, she stopped before a stand of anemone.
'Your charms no longer appeal to me.'
She did not bother with sheers, but plucked them by hand, hardly noticing the sap that ran down her fingers and palms. When she had enough, she went into the garden shed and tied them with a bit of ribbon. Taking a card from her desk, she wrote a note to Adrian, thanking him for the flowers. It was cold, impersonal, as if they were no more than casual acquaintances. At the bottom, she simply put 'From Lady Annabelle.'
She couldn't bring herself to put 'sincerely' when her words were anything but, and she certainly could not write 'love' or 'yours.'
She did not call Jack to send the flowers, but, following Adrian's lead, sent them with a footman. Somehow, getting the boy to deliver them seemed too intimate.
There was no answer that day or the next. Annabelle buried her nose in a poorly written romance and cried silent rivers - whether over the woeful love of the couple in the book or her own muddled love life, even she wasn't sure at times. At last, two days after she had sent the anemone, a small bunch of burdock arrived.
'I refuse to be discouraged.'
Annabelle, her face just freshly washed, broke into inconsolable tears once more. Melanie sent the maid to stand outside the door and alert them if either one of their parents should come. The two sisters sat huddled on the bed until Annabelle's sobs at last subsided into an undignified chorus of sniffs and hiccups.
"Oh, dear, Anna," Melanie cooed. "What has happened now?"
In broken sentences, Annabelle explained about Adrian's last salute at the ball, her fear of having her hopes dashed, and the continuation of her and Adrian's correspondence. When she finished, Melanie sighed.
"Anna, you mustn't let your fears get in the way of your happiness," she told her sister softly.
Annabelle sniffed wetly. "What if that happened with James? What would you do?"
"I don't know. I don't think anyone can think of what they would do. They simply have to trust that their hearts won't lead them into that sort of thing."
Another sniff, followed by a hiccup. "I don't think I can trust my heart that much. It's done nothing but get me in trouble since I sent those bluebottles."
"What trouble?" Melanie countered.
"This - this - catastrophe with Adrian!" Annabelle burst and was reprimanded by another onslaught of hiccups.
"Oh dear." Melanie couldn't suppress a small giggle. "This isn't a catastrophe, love. It's simply...a blessing in disguise! Isn't that what our nanny always said such things were?"
"Our nanny, who now lives in the countryside and can no longer remember her name?" Annabelle asked rather scathingly.
"Well, she always did enjoy the country air, so perhaps that's her blessing. No doubt she would be chasing after another pair of daisy-eating monsters if she could remember her name," Melanie commented tartly.
They both looked at each other and grinned. The maid, tired of waiting, glanced around the door to see if Annabelle was still crying. She found the sisters clutching their stomachs as they laughed, tears of merriment running down their faces.
▫▪▫
Adrian stepped down from his carriage, worrying about how Annabelle had reacted to the burdock he had sent earlier that day. Under different circumstances, he would have allowed her time to reply before approaching her, but time was fast running out. He only had four days left.
He loped up the front stairs of the Athmore townhouse and rapped smartly on the door. To his surprise, Jack was the one who opened it. Or at least, that's what he thought at first. Then he realized that the back of Jack's shirt was held firmly in the grip of a stately butler.
"I didn't do it!" the boy yelled.
The butler ignored him, inclining his head to Adrian. "My lord?"
"Adrian!" Jack cried with relief. "Tell 'is wag t' let me go, will ye?"
Before Adrian could reply, a voice from the stairs cried out. "Jonty! You'll choke the poor boy!"
"Deserves the gallows, he does," the butler muttered, but released the boy.
In a flash, Jack was off, jeering, "Gallows? I mock 'em gallows! Me own name's th' word back-t'-front, doncha know?"
"My lady is too kind to the boy," Jonty murmured as Annabelle reached the bottom of the staircase.
Uncertainty invaded Annabelle's eyes, and Adrian felt his hackles rise. "It is not your place to criticize the lady's choices," he reminded the butler shortly. Jonty looked surprised, but the younger man could have sworn that the beginnings of a smile played on the other's lips as he glanced between the two young nobles.
"Of course, my lord." Turning to Annabelle, he inclined his head. "My apologies, my lady. I spoke without thinking."
Annabelle barely took in his words. She was staring at Adrian. Blinking, she nodded. "Of course."
Without waiting for an invitation, Adrian stepped inside, and took Annabelle's hand. It was obvious from her lack of gloves that she had not been expecting company. Knowing he shouldn't, Adrian brushed his lips against her bare knuckles. "I trust you received my present, my lady?"
"Your - Oh, yes. Yes, I did." Their eyes met as he straightened, and he caught her wetting her lips nervously. "They're - they're lovely."
He waited, watching her expectantly. He knew she didn't want him here, but he was both determined and desperate. Finally, she forced a smile.
"Would you like to sit down, my lord?" she inquired, gesturing towards the sitting room.
"Indeed." He offered her his arm, and she reluctantly took it.
They sat in silence for awhile, Annabelle fiddling uncomfortably while Adrian watched her quite calmly.
"Why are you here?" she demanded at last, raising her chin proudly.
He leaned forward in his seat. If she hadn't been regarding him as if he were a dangerous stranger, he might have taken her hand. "I'm here to convince you to be my fiancé, Annabelle." He treasured the way her name tasted on his lips.
She frowned. "Your fiancé. Not your wife. You just want to use me as an excuse not to marry Adeline. Once you find someone you actually want, you'll cast me aside."
The accusation caught Adrian on the raw. Was that what she thought he was doing? She had alluded to something much like it at the ball, but he hadn't thought she actually believed...
This time, he did take her hand, if only to keep her from standing and stalking away. "Annabelle, that's not what I intend at all. I only said 'fiancé' simply because you yourself pointed out that we are not yet in love. And if we should find in the duration of our engagement that we are indeed not suited to one another, then -"
"Ah, Adrian, my boy!"
They both looked up to see Lucas Bradford, Marquess of Athmore, standing in the sitting room doorway. Adrian guiltily dropped Annabelle's hand and stood.
"My lord," he greeted the marquess.
Athmore waved that off. "No need for all that, now, my boy. Call me Lucas." He glanced at Annabelle and smiled. "Well, my dear, it seems you've made a fine match." Bending down, he pecked her cheek. "Perhaps you and your sister can have a shared wedding, eh? If that Fulton boy ever gets around to asking, that is. Well, I have an appointment to keep, so I'll leave you two alone. Must keep the doors open, though - propriety and all that, you know."
And with that, he took his leave of them. Adrian turned back to Annabelle to find her staring at him with cold rage.
"You asked him?" she demanded, standing and drawing herself up to her full height, even though that was little higher than his chin. "You asked him before you asked me?"
Sensing danger, Adrian took a small step back. "In all fairness, that's usually how it works."
"But you knew I was opposed to the idea. And I still am!" she added before he could pounce on that.
"I had a week, Annabelle. As it is, I only have four days. I couldn't very well wait to woo you, rush to ask your father's permission and then run back to you and propose!"
"Really? Or is it that you first needed to know that my father would consent to the marriage at all? Perhaps you were thinking that you shouldn't waste time wooing a woman if her father wasn't going to agree in the end, so you checked first. Is that it, Adrian?"
"Well, certainly, that would have been a concern if I had thought of it that way, but I didn't. I swear it, Annabelle!"
"Do not raise your voice at me, sir," she snapped, turning on heel and striding out of the room.
"Annabelle." He reached out to grasp her arm, but thought better of it; the footmen might well toss him out of the house if they thought he was mishandling her. They might still do it when they saw the rage on her face.
"Annabelle, I promise you my affections are sincere," he pleaded as she turned onto the staircase. He put his own foot on the first step, but someone took hold of his shoulder before he could follow after her. Scowling, he looked back to find the butler with his brows raised.
"I do not believe the marquess would see fit to allow you to follow the lady to her chambers," Jonty said stoically.
Huffing, Adrian stepped down, but continued to call after Annabelle until he heard a door slam shut. Growling low in his throat, he snatched up his hat and left.