Joan Wolf Read Online Free PDF Page A

your cheeks.”
    I couldn’t resist. I looked around the immense marble entrance hall in which we were standing, with its Roman-style columns and classical statues poised in pale green niches, and asked innocently, “Where is Mr. Jack’s portmanteau, Hodges?”
    He said immediately, “It is under the stairs, my lady.”
    We looked at each other. I knew, and he knew I knew, that he had sent it over to Uncle Adam’s even before I came in.
    “It is nice of you to keep up the pretense that I am in charge here, Hodges,” I said amiably.
    He had the grace to look abashed. I grinned and went across the gleaming black-and-white marble floor, past the great formal staircase, and into the corridor. Instead of crossing the corridor into the formal salon, I turned left and went along the passageway that led to the family part of the house. The door opposite the bedroom staircase was open, and I walked into the library, an enormous, chestnut-paneled room with book shelves that reached all the way up to the high, gilt-ornamented ceiling. Above the green and white marble fireplace hung a portrait of the first Earl of Weston, a man who looked remarkably like Gerald dressed in the gaudy finery of the Restoration.
    There was a man standing by the front window, and even though my feet made no sound on the thick, Turkish carpet, he turned to face me. The sunlight glinted off his fair hair, and for a moment, even though I knew who he was, my heart leaped into my throat.
    “Annabelle,” Jack’s voice said. He came toward me, then frowned in quick concern. “What’s wrong?”
    “It’s just... when the sunlight caught your hair... I thought for a moment that you were Gerald.”
    “Oh, my dear. I am sorry. Sit down, you look alarmingly pale.”
    I managed a smile. “I’m all right.” But I let him take my arm and lead me toward the group of four Chippendale armchairs that were arranged in a square next to the great globe. I sat and looked up into the face that bore the stamp of Gerald’s blond-haired, blue-eyed, good looks without Gerald’s geniality. There was a hardness about Jack’s mouth, a faintly hawk-like look about his nose that had not been present in my husband.
    “Let me pour you a glass of Madeira,” he said.
    My knees still felt a little shaky. “All right,” I agreed, and watched as he went to the Sheraton cabinet that always held a few bottles of wine and glasses. He poured, then handed me the glass in silence. I took one sip, and then I took another. I looked up into his concerned face and repeated, “I’m all right.”
    He touched the bridge of my nose with a light finger, said, “You’ve been riding without a hat again, your freckles are out,” and went to pour some Madeira for himself.
    I fortified myself with another sip of wine and watched him as he took the chair opposite to mine. “You probably think I’m here because I’m on a repairing lease,” he said, and took a healthy swallow.
    “The thought had crossed my mind,” I replied frankly.
    He grinned. “Not this time, Annabelle. In fact, I did fairly well at Watier’s last week. I rather think I won enough money to last me for a while.”
    “My congratulations,” I said.
    He settled his broad shoulders against the rose silk chair back. “I came because I was worried about you.”
    I twirled the stem of my glass with my fingers. “There is no need to worry about me, Jack. I am going on very well.”
    “London isn’t the same without you, Annabelle.” He looked at me over the top of his wineglass. “Even that muttonhead Byron wrote a poem about you—called it ‘Farewell Brightness,’ or some such nonsense.”
    “Have you taken to reading poetry, Jack?” I asked in amazement.
    The grin dawned again. “Not likely,” he said.
    The door opened and a footman came in bearing a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses.
    “Lemonade?” Jack said in horror.
    I said firmly, “Thank you, William. You may set it down on the table