“Then they should take up needlework, or do whatever it is that proper women do to enjoy themselves,” the earl growled. “At least they should find a hobby that doesn’t involve running na**d through the countryside.”

“They weren’t naked,” Simon pointed out. “Much to my regret.”

“That comment impels me to say something,” Westcliff said. “As you know, I’m not usually one to give advice when it isn’t asked for—”

Simon interrupted with a bark of laughter. “Westcliff, I doubt that a day in your life has passed without you giving advice to someone about something.”

“I offer advice only when it is obviously needed,” the earl said with a scowl.

Simon gave him a sardonic glance. “Dispense your words of wisdom, then, as it appears that I’m going to hear them whether I wish to or not.”

“It pertains to Miss Peyton. If you’re wise, you’ll divest yourself of all notions concerning her. She’s a shallow bit of goods, and as self-absorbed as any creature I’ve ever met. The facade is beautiful, I’ll grant you…but in my judgment there’s nothing beneath to recommend it. No doubt you’re thinking of taking her as your mistress if she fails in her bid to win Kendall. My advice is, don’t. There are women who have infinitely more to offer you.”

Simon didn’t reply for a moment. His sentiments regarding Annabelle Peyton were uncomfortably complex. He admired Annabelle, he liked her, and God knew he had no right to judge her harshly for becoming another man’s mistress. But all the same, the very real possibility that she had taken Hodgeham into her bed engendered a mixture of jealousy and anger that surprised him.

After hearing the rumor that Lord Burdick had been spreading, that Annabelle had become Lord Hodgeham’s secret mistress, Simon hadn’t been able to resist investigating the claim. He had asked his father, who kept meticulous account books, if anyone had ever given him money for the Peytons’ butcher bills. Sure enough, his father had confirmed that Lord Hodgeham had occasionally settled the Peytons’ account. Although that hardly was conclusive proof of anything, it provided yet more weight to the possibility that Annabelle had become Hodgeham’s mistress. And Annabelle’s evasiveness during their conversation the previous morning had certainly done little to contradict the rumor.

Clearly the Peyton family’s situation was desperate…but why Annabelle should have turned to a fat old windbag like Hodgeham for help was a mystery. On the other hand, so many of life’s decisions, good and bad, were made as a simple result of timing. Perhaps Hodgeham had managed to intervene at a moment when Annabelle’s defenses were at their weakest, and she had allowed herself to be persuaded to give the old bastard what he wanted in return for the money she needed so badly.

She had no walking boots. Christ. Hodgeham’s generosity must be paltry indeed, to allow for a few new gowns but no decent shoes, and undergarments that were nearly in rags. If Annabelle was to be some man’s mistress, she could damn well be Simon’s, and at least receive proper recompense for her favors. Obviously it was far too soon to broach the question to her. Simon would have to wait patiently while Annabelle tried to wrest a proposal from Lord Kendall. And he intended to do nothing to harm her chances. But if she failed with Kendall, Simon intended to approach her with a much better offer than her current hole-and-corner arrangement with Hodgeham.

Envisioning Annabelle stretched na**d in his bed, Simon felt his lust rekindle, and he struggled to retrieve the thread of conversation. “What gave you the impression that I had any interest in Miss Peyton?” he asked in a noncommittal tone.

“The fact that you nearly fell off your horse when you saw her in her drawers.”

That elicited a reluctant smile from Simon. “With a facade like that, I may not give a damn about what’s beneath.”

“You should,” the earl said emphatically. “Miss Peyton is a selfish jade if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Westcliff,” Simon asked conversationally, “does it ever occur to you that you might occasionally be wrong? About anything?”

The earl looked perplexed by the question. “Actually, no.”

Shaking his head with a rueful grin, Simon spurred his horse to a faster gait.

CHAPTER 11

As the girls walked back to Stony Cross Manor, Annabelle became uncomfortably aware of a twinge in her ankle. She must have turned it during the Rounders game, though she could not recall the precise moment when it had happened. Sighing heavily, she hefted the basket in her hand and lengthened her stride to keep pace with Lillian, who looked pensive. Daisy and Evie walked a few yards behind them, both of them involved in an earnest conversation.

“What are you worrying about?” Annabelle asked Lillian in a low voice.

“The earl and Mr. Hunt…do you think they will tell anyone about having seen us this afternoon? It would put a nasty dent in our reputations.”

“I don’t think Westcliff would,” Annabelle said after a moment’s thought. “I was inclined to believe him when he made that remark about amnesia. And he doesn’t seem to be a man who is given to gossip.”

“What about Mr. Hunt?”

Annabelle frowned. “I don’t know. It didn’t escape me that he made no promise to remain silent. I suppose he’ll keep his mouth closed if he thinks he has something to gain from it.”

“You should be the one to ask him, then. As soon as you see Mr. Hunt at the ball tonight, you must go to him and make him promise not to tell anyone about our Rounders game.”