Annabelle would have given anything to be able to answer “no.” Her heart was beating so hard that it seemed to drive the breath from her lungs…she fought to think and speak above the insistent hammering. “Don’t go near her,” she said, amazed that her voice was steady. “Don’t speak to her.”

“Ah, Miss Peyton, you wound me…I, who have been your family’s only friend in those difficult times when others have deserted you.”

She stared at him without blinking, without moving, as if she was face-to-face with a venomous snake that was poised to strike.

“A happy coincidence, is it not, that we find ourselves attending the same party?” Hodgeham asked. He laughed quietly, the movement causing his combed-over hair to slip in an oily banner across his low forehead. He smoothed it back with his plump palm. “Fortune has indeed smiled on me, to provide for such proximity between myself and a woman whom I esteem so highly.”

“There will be no proximity between you and my mother,” Annabelle said, clenching her fist hard to keep from driving it into his gloating face. “I warn you, my lord, if you bother her in any way—”

“Dear girl, did you think that I was referring to Philippa? You are too modest. I meant you, Annabelle. I have long admired you. Yearned, in fact, to demonstrate the nature of my feelings for you. Now it seems that fate has presented us with the perfect opportunity to become more familiar with each other.”

“I would rather sleep in a pit of snakes,” Annabelle replied coldly, but there was a catch in her voice, and he smiled at the sound.

“At first you will protest, of course. Girls of your sort always do. But then you’ll do the sensible thing…the wise thing…and you’ll see the advantages of becoming my friend. I can be a valuable friend, my dear. And if you please me, I will reward you handsomely.”

Annabelle tried desperately to think of a way to destroy any hope he might have of making her his mistress. The fear that he might trespass on another man’s province was likely the only thing that would keep Hodgeham away from her. Annabelle forced her lips into a scornful smile. “Does it appear that I am in need of your so-called friendship?” she asked, fingering the folds of her fine new gown. “You’re mistaken. I already have a protector—a far more generous one than you. So you had better leave me—and my mother— completely alone. Or you will answer to him.”

She saw the progression of emotions across Hodgeham’s face, initial disbelief followed by anger, and then suspicion. “Who is he?”

“Why should I tell you?” Annabelle asked with a cool smile. “I would much rather let you wonder.”

“You’re lying, you devious bitch!”

“Believe what you like,” she murmured.

Hodgeham’s meaty hands half curled as if he was longing to seize her and shake a confession from her. Instead, he regarded her with a fury-mottled complexion. “I’m not done with you yet,” he muttered, spittle flecking his fleshy lips. “Not by half.” He left her with crude abruptness, too incensed to bother with a show of courtesy.

Annabelle stood without moving. Her fury faded, leaving behind a stinging anxiety that settled in her bones. Had what she told Hodgeham been enough to keep him at bay? No—it was merely a temporary solution. In the coming days he would be watching her closely, scrutinizing every word and action to ascertain whether or not she had been lying about having a protector. And there would be threats, and barbs, designed to shred her nerves. But no matter what, she could not allow him to reveal the arrangement that he had shared with her mother. It would kill Philippa, and certainly it would ruin Annabelle’s chances of marriage.

Her mind swam with feverish thoughts, and she stood motionless and taut-framed, until a quiet voice nearly startled her out of her slippers.

“Interesting. What were you and Lord Hodgeham arguing about?”

Blanching, Annabelle whirled around to behold Simon Hunt, who had approached her with catlike quietness. His shoulders blocked the profusion of glittering light from the drawing room. In his utter self-possession, he seemed infinitely more threatening than Hodgeham.

“What did you hear?” Annabelle blurted out, cursing inwardly as she heard the defensiveness in her own voice.

“Nothing,” he said smoothly. “I merely saw your face as the two of you talked. Obviously, you were upset about something.”

“I was not upset. You misinterpreted my expression, Mr. Hunt.”

He shook his head, and stunned her by reaching out with a single fingertip to touch the upper part of her arm that was not covered by her glove. “You turn splotchy when you’re angry.” Looking down, Annabelle saw a pale pink patch of color, a sign of her skin’s wont to color unevenly during times of distress.

A quiver ran through her at that glancing brush of his fingertip, and she stepped back from him.

“Are you in trouble, Annabelle?” Hunt asked softly.

He had no right to ask something in that gentle, almost concerned manner…as if he was someone she could turn to for help…as if she could ever allow herself to do so.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” she retorted. “Any predicament of mine would delight you to no end—then you could step in with an offer of help and take advantage of the situation.”

His eyes were narrow and intent. “What kind of help do you need?”

“Nothing from you,” she assured him curtly. “And don’t use my first name. I’ll thank you to address me properly from now on—or better yet, don’t speak to me at all.” Unable to bear his speculative gaze for another moment, she swept past him. “Now if you’ll excuse me…I must go find my mother.”