The Apple Blossom Bower (Historical Romance Novella) Read Free Page A

waited upon the squire.
    After hastily straightening her fichu and smoothing her borrowed apron, she stepped into the room. One of the two gentlemen seated at the table was Sir Edwin Page. She decided to withdraw to the corridor and send Polly back in her stead—but wasn’t quick enough to escape his notice.
    Squaring her shoulders, she advanced to the circular table and handed the baronet a bill of fare.
    “What a pleasant surprise, Miss Kelland,” he intoned blandly. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. I boasted to Mr. Corston that the service at the Castle is as excellent as the food. I daresay you’ll prove me right.”
    A serving maid would probably have bobbed a curtsy. Momentarily at a loss, Annis wasn’t sure how best to respond. Smiling tentatively at his companion, a stranger with blond hair and a sunburned nose, she said, “The soup is very good today, sir.”
    Looking up from the paper she’d given him, the man asked, “And how are the wines? Does your master have something special hidden away in his cellar—a bottle or two that slipped past the Excise officers?”
    A fiery blush swept over her cheeks, and she couldn’t bear to look at Sir Edwin. Twice in one day he’d been reminded of her connection, however distant, to the smuggling trade.
    “It would be far too risky for the Russells to keep any untaxed spirits, Garth. We’ll begin with a bottle of the best claret. And, Miss Kelland, I’ll try the soup.”
    So began a painfully embarrassing and aggravating evening, made worse by the knowledge that she’d brought it on herself. Her uncharitable desire to go against the squire’s wishes was being punished. By impetuously taking on the role of serving wench she’d disgraced herself before the man whose admiration she secretly sought.
    From time to time she permitted herself to notice the way the candles in the sconces burnished Sir Edwin’s chestnut hair, tied behind with a dark velvet ribbon.
    For two years she had loved him. After inheriting his great-uncle’s title and country house, he’d called upon her stepfather—that first encounter was engraved upon her memory. Of his life before he’d come to live in Devonshire she knew almost nothing. And, as a result of her actions this night, her curiosity would go unsatisfied.
    She should have known better than to go off into the orchard with him during the harvest home, but when he’d taken her hand and led her out of the crowd she hadn’t protested. His hot, desperate kisses had been a revelation. His fingers, which first moved tenderly across her face and then down her neck, to finally settle on her breasts, had evoked exquisite sensations. For as long as he’d held her in his arms, it hadn’t mattered who he was or what her own father had been or done.
    Ever since, she had cultivated a frigid civility, intended to communicate her disavowal of what they had done together that night.
    While removing the empty plates from the last course from the table to the sideboard, she listened intently to his discourse with his friend, who had consumed more wine than food and was dominating their conversation.
    “Where did you leave your yacht?” she heard him ask.
    “Torquay. I made excellent time from Lyme Regis, considering that the direction of the wind was against me. The pater and mater were after me to stay close by—they insisted I attend some damned local assembly, the sort of thing I abominate. But I sailed away quick as ever I could. And the closer I got to Devonshire, the more I was tempted to make good my threat to pay you a visit.”
    “Fortunate for me.”
    Annis, alert to every inflection in that low, pleasant voice, detected the faintest note of sarcasm.
    “From the moment I received your letter boasting about that string of horses you’ve got at Harbourne Court, I’ve been eager to see ’em.”
    “You may try them, if you like. When do your parents expect you back in Lyme?”
    Annis, with the wine decanter,