Page 15 of Enticing the Devil

Realizing that her internal agitation had lengthened and quickened her strides, she’d already begun to slow her steps as she neared the doorway connecting the drawing room to the dining room. Even so, she barely managed to avoid colliding with a gentleman stepping across the threshold.

It had to be Mr. Thomas, of course.

Reacting far more quickly than she was capable of doing, the man stepped back just as she swept by him, resulting in just the swish of her skirts against his boots instead of more devastating contact.

It all happened quickly enough that no one else in the room seemed to notice.

But Anne’s heart had leapt right into her throat before dropping back down to thud against her ribs. She intentionally didn’t glance back but she did slow to a more sedate pace. The low sound he’d made as she’d passed him stayed with her—settling low in her belly—as she left him and the other guests behind and walked confidently from the room.

She continued across the main hall to a narrow passage that led toward the water closet.

In the small, private quarters, she dabbed a bit of water from the bowl on the washstand to cool her heated cheeks and took a moment to calm her reckless heartbeat.

She’d have to return. But not yet.

Anne Humphries was no coward, but neither was she a woman to put herself on display while in such an emotionally flustered state. And though she would have liked to blame her current distress on her unfortunate partner, in truth, it had been her own internal thoughts which had gotten her so worked up. Mr. Thomas had simply served as yet another indicator that she simply wasn’t the type of woman men tended to seek out for companionship—of even the most casual nature.

It was something she had to accept since she abhorred the idea of spending the rest of her years pining over the lack of a husband. No man—imagined or real—was worth that kind of self-limiting misery. She did not need a man at her side to enjoy her life.

She’d spent her entire existence to date trying to fulfill her father’s expectations and then society’s. She’d perfected the comportment and attitudes she’d been told were desirable and had mastered every skill required of a female in her position. And for what, exactly?

Peering at her reflection in the oval mirror set above the washstand, she saw the answer in her own disenchanted gaze.

It had all been for nothing.

Well, she was done with that.

In a way, spinsterhood offered something she’d never had before. Liberation. A chance to live as she wished—to explore herself, her interests, her abilities. Surely, she had more to offer the world than pretty manners and an array of common accomplishments. She just had to figure out what. Anne took several deep breaths, acknowledging that the task might be easier to declare than it was to accomplish. But she was nothing if not determined. Her new life started now.

With a final, firm nod at her reflection, she turned and left the water closet and headed back toward the party.

Unfortunately, all of her reclaimed poise nearly fled in a rush as she stepped into the drawing room and her gaze was immediately draw to where Mr. Thomas stood alone in a far corner of the room. His deep, black gaze cut right through the distraction of the other gathered guests to strike her with a curious force. For a split second, it felt like he’d been waiting for her to reappear. Impatiently.

But then he glanced away, shifting his attention with an expression of tortured boredom.

For the rest of the evening, she made a sincere effort to enjoy the general air of revelry and anticipation present amongst the rest of the guests. But as soon as a few people began to make their excuses, Anne also murmured a few quick good nights and made her way up to her bedroom, where her maid was waiting.

Without an appropriate female relative to fill the role of chaperone, Anne’s father had hired a woman to fulfill the duty her first season, after which he determined the expense unnecessary. Apparently, the idea that Anne might actually engage in anything that could resemble scandalous behavior was inconceivable to her frugal father. And the staid Lord Humphries certainly wouldn’t deign to attend any of the frivolous social events in support of his only child. Such things were for the realm of women, not serious men such as he.

As an alternative, Anne had been forced to prevail upon her friends, asking to accompany them to the various parties and events. Bethany and Lily had never made her feel like a burden or an extra wheel, but by her third season, Anne had started attending social events alone, despite the possible perception of impropriety.

Perhaps not surprisingly, no one even seemed to notice her breach in etiquette.

Once she was alone and all the candles had been snuffed, Anne sat in the window seat overlooking the garden and recalled the mantra she’d often repeated as a child.

Alone does not have to mean lonely.

Then she added something new: And I am capable of more.

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THE ENTIRE HOUSE WAS bustling with activity the next morning as everyone came down early in order to be ready for the first competition of the day.

Archery.

There was still a morning haze in the sky when the guests gathered on the south lawn. A row of targets had been set up at three different distances from the five tables where the archers were to take aim. One partner would have three shots at the closer target and the other partner would take the one farther away. Based on the results of the first two rounds, the couple could choose between them who would take on the third and farthest target. The targets themselves consisted of three colored rings with three points being awarded for each hit in the center ring, two points for the next one out, and one point for the outermost ring.

Anne was one of the first to arrive at the scene of the competition, having walked from the house with Lily and Lord Harte. As more people made their way to the small archery range, Lily and her husband stepped away to greet their other guests and offer words of encouragement for the coming event.

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