They reached the clearing beyond the pear orchard, where a stone table had been set in a graveled circle. Coming to a stop, Kendal looked down at Annabelle, who had leaned back against the edge of the stone table in a studied pose. He dared to touch a stray curl that had fallen to her shoulder, admiring the glints of gold in the pale brown strands. “Miss Peyton,” he murmured, “by now it must be evident to you that I’ve developed a decided preference for your company.”

Annabelle’s heart had begun to hammer high in her throat, until she thought she might choke on it. “I…I have found great pleasure in our conversations and walks together,” she managed to say.

“How lovely you are,” Kendall whispered, drawing closer to her. “I’ve never seen eyes so blue.”

A month ago, Annabelle would have been overjoyed for this to happen. Kendall was a nice man, not to mention attractive, young, and wealthy, and titled…oh, what the devil was wrong with her? Her entire being was suffused with reluctance as he bent over her flushing, tightening face. Agitated, bewildered, she tried to hold still for him. Before their lips could meet, however, she wrenched away with a muffled gasp and turned away from him.

Silence descended in the clearing.

“Have I frightened you?” came Kendall’s inquiry. His manner was gentle and quiet…so different from Simon Hunt’s arrogance.

“No…it’s not that. It’s just…I can’t do this.” Annabelle rubbed her suddenly aching forehead, her shoulders stiff amid the florid puffs of her peach silk gown. When she spoke again, her voice was heavy with defeat and self-disgust. “Forgive me, my lord. You are one of the nicest gentlemen I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. Which is exactly why I must leave you now. It’s not right for me to encourage your interest when nothing could come of it.”

“Why do you think that?” he asked, openly confused.

“You don’t really know me,” Annabelle said with a bitter smile. “Take my word for it, we’re an ill-matched pair. No matter how I tried, I wouldn’t be able to keep from trampling you eventually—and you would be too much of a gentleman to object, and we would both be miserable.”

“Miss Peyton,” he murmured, trying to make sense of her outburst, “I can’t begin to understand—”

“I’m not certain that I understand it, either. But I am sorry. I wish the best for you, my lord. And I wish…” Her breath came in irregular spurts, and she laughed suddenly. “Wishes are dangerous things, aren’t they,” she murmured, and left the clearing quickly.

CHAPTER 19

Railing at herself, Annabelle strode along the path that led back to the house. She couldn’t believe it. Right when everything she wanted had been within her grasp, she had thrown it all away. “Stupid,” she muttered to herself beneath her breath. “Stupid, stupid…” She couldn’t begin to imagine what she should tell her friends after they arrived at the clearing only to find it empty. Perhaps Lord Kendall would remain where she had left him, looking like a horse whose feed bag had been yanked from his jaws before he had the chance to eat.

Annabelle vowed that she would not ask the other wallflowers to help her find another potential husband—not when she had just thrown away the opportunity that had been handed to her. She deserved whatever happened to her now. Her pace increased to a near run as she headed to her room. She was so intent on her frantic retreat that she nearly plowed into a man who was walking slowly along the path behind the drystone wall. Stopping suddenly, she murmured “I beg your pardon,” and would have rushed around him. However, his distinctive height and the sight of the large, tanned hands withdrawing from his coat pockets immediately betrayed his identity. Stunned, she staggered backward as Simon Hunt looked at her.

They regarded each other with identical blank stares.

Having just run from Lord Kendall, Annabelle could hardly fail to note the differences between them. Hunt looked positively swarthy in the gathering dusk, big and potently masculine, with the eyes of a pirate and the casually ruthless air of a pagan king. He was no less arrogant than he had ever been…no tamer, no more refined…and yet somehow he had become the object of such all-consuming desire that Annabelle was certain she had lost her mind. The air around them felt charged, crackling with passion and conflict.

“What is it?” Hunt asked without preliminaries, his eyes narrowing at the sight of her tumult.

The task of distilling her emotions into a few coherent sentences was impossible. Nevertheless, Annabelle tried. “You left Stony Cross without a word to me.”

His gaze was as hard and cold as ebony. “You put away the chess game.”

“I…” She looked away from him, biting her lip. “I couldn’t afford distractions.”

“No one’s distracting you now. You want Kendall?—Have at him.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said sarcastically. “It’s so kind of you to step aside gracefully, now that you’ve ruined everything.”

He glanced at her alertly. “Why do you say that?”

Annabelle felt absurdly cold in the swaddling of summer-warm evening air. A fine trembling began in her bones and rose upward through her skin. “The ankle boots I received when I was ill,” she said recklessly, “the ones I’m wearing right now—they were from you, weren’t they?”

“Does it matter?”