Once Upon a Wager Read Free Page A

lovely, with arched brows, high cheekbones, and cornflower blue eyes that took his breath away.
    Excusing herself from her admirers, she walked toward him with a slow smile. Then again, walking was not the right word. Swaying was the better choice, and all he could do was stand there, heart slamming in his chest as she approached, the gossamer silk gown caressing her curves. Were it dampened—as was the fashion with London’s faster set—it would be almost transparent. Just like that morning when she had gone swimming in the fountain, casting a spell over him like a sorceress.
    “Alec, how nice you could join us this evening. I worried that in the end, something pressing would keep you in London. So often in these past two years, that has been the case.” Once, she’d have embraced him impulsively, laughing all the while. Now, she gave a surprisingly ladylike curtsey, extending one gloved hand. He leaned down to press a kiss upon it, and if his lips lingered a moment too long, he was rather proud of his self-control. It had been just enough to breathe in the scent of her—a familiar mix of honeysuckle soap and the lemon drops she loved. But there was also something new. Something dangerous.
    “I wrote that I would be here, Annabelle. I am man who honors my obligations.”
    She tilted her head, angling it up toward him, her eyes bewitching beneath half-lowered lashes. “Is that what I am now? An obligation?”
    She would scramble his wits if he wasn’t careful.
    “Of course not. We’re old friends, despite the distance between us.”
    He’d been referring to the distance between London and Nuneaton, but he was certain she had leaned closer. His body all but screamed it.
    “Perhaps we can ease that distance tonight.”
    God above. Did she have any idea how that might be interpreted? He managed a self-conscious pat on her shoulder before stepping back, hoping he appeared collected and calm, instead of dizzy with the nearness of her.
    “You are looking very well,” he said after a long pause. “How … big you have become.”
    And with that asinine statement, he turned on his heels, vanishing into the crowd.
    • • •
    Why must Alec be indifferent to her, when so many other men were eager to gain her attention? There was Horace Briarly, the squire’s son from the village. He’d vowed his eternal love these past three years or more. Lord Percival Spencer, the rather rakish heir to a viscountcy in Warwickshire, made every excuse to visit her father with lepidopterological concerns—though it was obvious he had no interest in the hobby. And then there was the widower, Sir Boniface, an amateur artist. He’d already presented her with a number of lovely paintings, although it was embarrassing to have six portraits of oneself. Wherever Annabelle went, men seemed to sprout up like spring flowers.
    But none of them was as endlessly
fascinating
as Alec Carstairs. So noble and decent. So restrained and responsible. The one reliable constant of her childhood, he’d become the man against whom she measured all others.
    Not to mention the beauty of him. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, and long legs, all encased in immaculately tailored clothing. Dark brown hair, still wavy but shorter now than she remembered. Beautiful lips, wide and generous. Prominent cheekbones and a straight nose that flared slightly. Those toffee-colored eyes that always reminded her of Cook’s caramels, still warm from the stove.
    Gaining his attention this evening required a new strategy. But she couldn’t plot effectively if she was caught up in a conversation with Horace, who was heading her way like a hound on a scent. She quickly blessed the wall of potted palms beside the door. With a quick movement, she slipped behind them, escaping out onto the drive.
    As escapes went, it was poorly planned. It was a party, after all. Guests were getting out of their carriages and walking up the meandering stone pathway to the castle entrance. Distracted