And then her white slippered feet veered away. Pierce froze again, shifting, turning his neck at an impossibly awkward angle-she was walking around the couch. He held his breath, prepared to be discovered at any moment.
But she did not walk around it to sit down. Instead, she ambled past the sofa and the table and chairs surrounding it, her long pristine white skirts and equally long sheer veil trailing behind her. His gaze was unwavering. But now he was surprised. For an open bottle of champagne was clasped by its neck in her right hand.
She halted at the window, her back to him, gazing out at the sunny afternoon, or so he assumed. "How has this happened?" she whispered, and she raised the bottle and swilled directly from it.
The bottle was, he saw, two-thirds empty. Goddamn it. The bride was unhappy, she. was drunk, and she was never going to leave the library so he could make his escape.
He quickly considered the possibility of slipping out of the room without being detected while she drank at the window. It was too risky. He considered standing up, before she turned, and introducing himself. Again, too risky-he'd be accused of the heist later. These two options he analyzed with lightning speed, within the span of several seconds. As a third option came to him, she turned, once again drinking from the bottle like a common saloon girl.
He froze.
She swigged. And for another moment, as she clutched the bottle, he saw that she was drinking la grande dame of champagnes, a vintage year of Veuve Cliquot, and he gave her half a dozen points for her good taste and her ability to hold her liquor. She did not see him yet, but that would change in a moment. But where were her warts and birthmarks? Poor, unfortunate, just-barely-a-spinster Annabel Boothe was not what he might have expected-had he been expecting anything. She was blond, blue-eyed, angelically beautiful. Then he saw that she was staring at the painting that was hanging so lopsidedly over the fireplace. "Oh, dear," she said to herself.
He grimaced, about to rise from his very awkward position on the floor.
And then her gaze moved directly to, and upon, him- where it riveted.
He smiled up at her, feeling rather foolish.
She gaped.
"Hello," he said, aware of using his most devastating grin upon her.
"Oh, dear! Are you hurt?" she cried, rushing forward.
"Actually," he said, seizing upon the excuse, "it is my knee. A bad injury, you see." He began to rise.
To his surprise, she put the champagne down and in the blink of an eye was actually assisting him to his feet, supporting his weight with her shoulder. "Did you fall down?" she asked when he was finally standing upright, her arms still around him.
He stared into her brilliantly blue eyes, a blue that even two thirds of a bottle of superior champagne could not dim. In other circumstances, he would enjoy her concern and take advantage of it. "Yes, thank you, I did."
"Here, let me help you to sit, then," she said, pushing him toward the sofa.
"No, I am fine." He resisted, and she was strong, surprisingly so for a woman of her size and attractiveness.
"But you are hurt."
"It is an old injury, actually," he said, smiling. "The war."
"The war?" She continued to press her body against his, trying to urge him to the sofa. "What war?"
"The-ah-er-a brief skirmish in South Africa, you see."
" South Africa? Of course, you are British. Your accent is quite pronounced. And-" Suddenly she stopped in mid-sentence. Her blue gaze was on his. He knew the moment she realized that she was embracing him and that he was a man-and an exceedingly rakish one at that. Or so many women had told him.
Her cheeks turned a very becoming shade of pink. She dropped her arms. "Perhaps you should sit," she said, low and huskily, now avoiding his eyes.
He could not help himself, he staggered, as if unbalanced by his bad knee without her support.
"Oh," she cried, with concern. Her arms went around him again.
He smiled at her as their gazes met. Poor, unfortunate Annabel Boothe? Inwardly, he did laugh. "Miss Boothe," he said, as gently as possible, not breaking contact. "Are you not wanted elsewhere?"
She remained flushed, her gaze holding his again. And as she grasped his meaning, her expression changed dramatically. It crumpled, and she stepped away from him. He wondered if he was about to have a weeping woman on his hands. Perhaps she would swoon. That would be convenient. "Miss Boothe?"
But she snatched the bottle and looked at him defiantly. "I am hardly wanted, sir," she snapped. But her tone was tremulous, ruining the effect of her glare.
"I am sure you are wanted very much, Miss Boothe," he said gently, wanting her to go her merry way. But now she was angry-a response he had not anticipated. ki have heard that the groom is smitten."
She gazed at him as if he had lost his mind.
He smiled again. "Smitten and with his own fortune, as well. A lady could hardly do better," he encouraged. And almost added, at your age.
"He is a worm."
He blinked. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.
Tears filled her eyes. "He is a spineless toad," she said, her full pink mouth trembling. "I cannot marry him!"
He was taken aback. "Perhaps, my dear Miss Boothe, you and your fiance should have a heart-to-heart after the nuptials?"
She continued to regard him as if he were a traitor. And then Pierce realized what was wrong. The organ had ceased playing. There was no wedding march. "Damn it," he said.
"There cannot be nuptials or I shall be unhappy for the rest of my life," she cried, drinking more champagne.
He could not believe his dilemma. "My dear Miss Boothe. This is your grand opportunity in life. Every young lady wishes to marry, especially a fine young man like your fiance."
"I do not wish to marry," she said. She pushed the bottle toward him. "Would you care for a drink?"
On any other occasion he would have said yes. "Miss Boothe. If you reject your fiance now, you may not have a second chance," he said as calmly as possible.
"Do you refer to the fact that I am twenty-three and a half years old, sir?" She swigged again.
He smiled, and it was forced. "I would hardly be so bold."
"I am being sold off like a milk cow," she said.
"You are hardly a milk cow, Miss Boo the. You are attractive, well-spoken, gracious, why, you are what every man dreams of." There, he thought, that should do it.
"Are you well?" she asked. "I think you are delusional."
Most women did not have such a word in their vocabulary, much less even know its meaning, and he could only stare.
Pierce was actually contemplating commanding her to go to the ballroom when he heard a woman calling Annabel's name from outside the library. "Annabel?"
He jerked around, alarmed.
"It's my mother," Annabel muttered. "Oh, God, why does the entire world think I should marry him?"
He whirled again. "Because you should, you can," he said, his hands on her shoulders, "and you will." His intention was to push her out of the room, by damn, before they were discovered-before he was discovered. But he felt something odd on his hip. Something hard. Something that should not be there. At first he thought it was the champagne bottle that she continued to grip by her skirts.