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Alone at last, Annabel took in her surroundings. The room was breathtaking. Sky-blue silk covered the walls, trimmed with freshly painted wainscoting. The bed—a massive four-poster—featured mahogany posts carved into palm trees, their gilded feather-like branches forming a canopy crowned with creamy feather finials.
A rich ivory, gold, and sky-blue rug framed a seating area with a striped damask sofa and matching armchairs, all arranged by a low table. Through a far door, Annabel glimpsed an adjoining room just as opulent as this one. Opposite the windows, gilt-framed portraits of Markham ancestors hung in stately grandeur.
Above her, the intricately paneled ceiling, painted in soft whites and creams, gleamed in the late afternoon light. Baydon Hall’s Tudor interiors, with their dark timbers and somber cream-painted panels, seemed gloomy compared to Avonmead’s airy elegance.
Annabel marveled at how her life had shifted in a single day. She could scarcely believe her daring in coming here.
She approached the copper tub, tested the water with her fingers, and stepped in, letting the warm embrace soothe her aching muscles. Leaning back, she breathed in the lavender-scented steam. Her pulse, racing with excitement since her arrival, refused to settle.
When she closed her eyes, her mind swirled with thoughts of Halmesbury, of his promise, and of the remarkable change in her fortunes.
She startled awake twenty minutes later, the water now cool and her neck aching from an awkward angle. Shaking off the lingering haze of sleep, she washed quickly, dried herself, and tugged on the fresh chemise.
Her limbs felt heavy as she slipped between the cool sheets of the magnificent bed. Exhaustion tugged at her, the culmination of a sleepless night and a month of ceaseless worry. For the first time in weeks, her mind was at ease.
As she drifted into slumber, her thoughts wandered back to her earlier conversation with Halmesbury. Why had he not spoken to Richard in three years?
* * *
As Philip buttoned his small clothes, he found himself bemused by the unexpected turn his life had taken earlier that day. His thoughts lingered on Annabel Ridley, the remarkable young woman who had so suddenly—and delightfully—changed his course.
Jones handed him his black trousers, but Philip waved them away.
“Jones, I believe something less formal is in order. Miss Ridley does not have proper evening attire for dinner, and I would not wish to embarrass her.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Might I suggest day wear to match the lady?”
Philip nodded, and Jones quickly returned with ivory trousers, a navy coat, and a poplin waistcoat.
As Philip stepped into the trousers, he felt a growing anticipation for the evening ahead. He eased his arms into the waistcoat, standing still as the valet tightened it to an exact fit. Raising his chin, he allowed Jones to tie his cravat in an intricate knot; the folds draping elegantly at his throat. Though Philip often avoided such stiff formalities when at Avonmead, tonight felt different. He wanted to look his best for Annabel.
“Will Miss Ridley be staying beyond tonight, Your Grace?” Jones’s tone was casual, but his curiosity was evident.
“Miss Ridley will leave in the morning,” Philip replied, adjusting his sleeves. “But I hope she will return by the end of the week—this time, as my bride.”
Jones’s hands stilled briefly before he resumed tying the cravat with practiced efficiency. “Congratulations, Your Grace. Just this morning, you were discussing the marriage mart, yet tonight you have a new duchess in hand.”
Philip chuckled softly at the valet’s understatement, recognizing the carefully phrased question behind the comment.
“Indeed, Jones. I was most surprised by Miss Ridley’s visit. Her timing was impeccable, and I find myself quite taken with her.”
Jones paused again, his gaze lifting to meet Philip’s. The valet’s bespectacled eyes shone warmly. “I am delighted to hear it, Your Grace. It will be uplifting to have a lady in residence once more. Miss Ridley sounds lovely—from what Clinton mentioned earlier.” He blanched. “Not that Clinton was gossiping, mind you!”
Philip allowed himself a brief smile. Jones had been with him since his teenage years, and their relationship had grown into one of mutual respect and trust. The valet’s well wishes were genuine and deeply appreciated.
“Miss Ridley is indeed lovely,” Philip said quietly as Jones retrieved the coat. Sliding his arms into the coat, Philip felt the weight of the fine wool settle over his shoulders. Jones fastened the gilt buttons with deft fingers, then circled him for a final inspection, smoothing the fabric and straightening every detail to his meticulous standards.
“I believe you are ready, Your Grace. Enjoy your dinner.”
“Thank you, Jones. I will meet with my man of business before dinner. Please ask Clinton to show him to my study when he arrives.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
“And Jones,” Philip added as he prepared to leave, “do not wait up for me tonight. I will undress myself. But I shall see you an hour before sunrise—I will escort Miss Ridley home at first light.”
The valet bowed, his satisfaction evident as he stepped back.
Philip exited his rooms, his mind racing with plans. He needed to set arrangements in motion, not only to finalize the matter with Lord Filminster, but also to prepare for his future with Annabel. His steps quickened as his thoughts turned to her—her courage, her wit, her intriguing nature.
