Through seven dining courses and three wines, she sat on pins and needles, and when Bette finally announced that the ladies would adjourn to the main salon while the men enjoyed their port, she had to repress the urge to leap from her seat and run.
In the salon, the ladies were treated to sweet wine. Anna sat beside Miss Crabtree, who smiled at her cup of wine as if she enjoyed a secret, while Barbara Lockhart regaled the ladies with her latest foray onto Bond Street, where she claimed to have purchased an astounding twelve pairs of shoes.
When at last the men rejoined the ladies, Anna made her excuses to Miss Crabtree and offered her seat to Mr. Fynster-Allen, who had rather suddenly appeared by their side, and who sheepishly accepted her place on the settee next to Miss Crabtree. Anna moved to the far end of the salon, away from Drake, away from Mr. Bradenton, and anyone else who looked as if they might wish to speak with her.
And away, unfortunately, from Grif. He strolled in well after the others with a glass of port in hand, casually surveying the crowd. As he looked about the room, his gaze met Anna’s. She didn’t move, just smiled quietly and held his gaze for a long moment. Until Grif lifted his port glass in a silent toast to her… and then to Drake.
Sickly warmth fluttered in her belly, and Anna dropped her gaze to her lap. The cacophony of voices seemed to crowd all rational thought from her head, and she suddenly needed air, a breath of cool night air. She abruptly stood and went to the doors leading onto the terrace, and walked outside.
There was no one about. She walked to the edge of the terrace, gripped the stone railing, and closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the cool night air until the bit of nausea passed. Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked out over the landscape lit by a full moon. Her gaze drifted down to the white rose garden, directly below her. White roses glistened everywhere beneath the moonlight, and Anna had the overwhelming desire to touch them.
What possessed him to follow Anna, Grif could not say. All evening, he kept seeing her in Lockhart’s embrace until he was crazed with it, but he had nevertheless slipped out the terrace doors, away from the laughing voices in the salon and the mangled tune coming from the pianoforte, which some good soul was determined to play.
Anna was not on the terrace. Grif lit a cheroot and walked to the railing. He caught sight of her below, moving languidly among what seemed like hundreds of white roses, pausing here and there to take in their fragrance. In the moonlight Anna looked like one of the flowers—she was wearing a white gown with an overlay of sheer gold silk that shimmered in the milky pale light, strangely illuminating her.
Grif tossed aside the cheroot, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, he headed down, ignoring his conscience shouting at him to turn around.
The gardens were silent but for the sound of the night breezes and crickets, and he could hear her slippers crunching the gravel path. He caught up to her as she reached the bird fountain in the middle of the white roses, where her fingers idly skimmed the edge of the stone bath.
He must have made a sound, for she suddenly turned around. The moment she saw him standing there, something seemed to pass over her eyes, and she broke into an enchantingly warm smile. “Lord Ardencaple!” she said, gliding forth.
“Anna,” he responded quietly. Her hair, dark with glints of gold, was done up in soft curls. The white and gold gown went well with her complexion and her eyes, and Grif thought she never seemed lovelier than she did at that moment, standing there in the glow of the early summer moon.
“What a surprise to find you wandering about the gardens at this hour. I rather supposed you’d be inside, enjoying the company.”
“I rather supposed the same of ye,” he said, and clasped his hands behind his back as he was accustomed to doing when near Anna.
She cocked her head to one side, absently toyed with the sash of her dress as she considered him. “You seem rather pensive, sir. Has my sister treated you ill?”
“I am certain neither of yer sisters would treat meill.”
Anna laughed. “I daresay Bette wouldn’t,” she said with a bit of a wink, then gave him a smile that raced through his veins like fire. Grif grit his teeth and glanced down at the flowers, silently berating himself for having followed her out here like a fool. Her smile, her gaiety…his helplessness—anger and hopelessness rose up in him like an illness, sticking in the back of his throat.
But Anna blithely moved toward him and peeked up at his face. When he did not return her smile, she touched his arm.
Grif flinched away from her touch.
Her smile faded; she dropped her hand. “Dear Lord, what irks you? I’ve not seen you in such ill humor!”
Perhaps because he’d never been in such ill humor, had never felt as if he was turning inside out. “I would have this over and done,” he said curtly.