Recalling the dance that would take place at the manor that evening, Annabelle groaned. She was relatively—no, positively—certain that she could not bear to face Hunt after what had happened that afternoon. On the other hand, Lillian was right—one couldn’t assume that Hunt would be silent. Annabelle would have to deal with him, much as she dreaded the prospect. “Why me?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.

“Because Hunt likes you. Everyone knows that. He’ll be much more inclined to do something you ask.”

“He won’t give something for nothing,” Annabelle muttered, while the throbbing in her ankle worsened. “What if he makes some vulgar proposition to me?”

A long, apologetic pause ensued, until Lillian offered, “You may have to throw him a bone of some sort.”

“What kind of a bone?” Annabelle asked suspiciously.

“Oh, just let him kiss you, if that’s what it takes to keep him quiet.”

Astonished that Lillian could make such a statement in so nonchalant a manner, Annabelle inhaled sharply. “Good God, Lillian! I can’t do that!”

“Why not? You’ve kissed men before, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“One pair of lips is like any other. Just make certain no one sees you and get it over with quickly. Then Mr. Hunt will be placated, and our secret will be safe.”

Annabelle shook her head with a strangled laugh, while her heart began to pound painfully hard at the idea. She couldn’t help but remember that long-ago secret kiss in the panorama theater, the seconds of devastating sensual upheaval that had left her shaken and speechless.

“You’ll just have to make it clear that one kiss is all he may expect from you,” Lillian continued, “and that it will certainly never happen again.”

“Pardon me for casting aspersions on your plan…but it stinks like six o’clock fish. One pair of lips is not like any other, if they happen to be attached to Simon Hunt! And he’ll never be satisfied with something as trivial as a kiss, and I couldn’t offer him anything more than that.”

“Do you really find Mr. Hunt so repulsive?” Lillian asked idly. “He’s not bad, actually. I’d even go so far as to call him handsome.”

“He’s so insufferable that I’ve never really taken notice of his looks. But I will admit that he’s…” Annabelle fell into a confused silence, considering the question with a new and unsettling thoroughness.

Objectively speaking—in the unlikely circumstance that one could ever be objective about Simon Hunt—he was indeed a good-looking man. The word “handsome” was usually applied to people with highly chiseled features and slender, elegant proportions. But Simon Hunt redefined the word with his bold, cleanedged countenance, his audacious black eyes, with the strong blade of a nose that could only belong to a man, and the wide mouth that was forever edged with irreverent humor. Even his unusual height and brawn seemed to suit him perfectly, as if nature had recognized that he was not a creature to be formed by half measures.

Simon Hunt had made her uneasy from the first moment they met. Although Annabelle had never seen him any way other than perfectly dressed and thoroughly self-controlled, she had always sensed that Hunt was, at best, half-tamed. Her deepest instincts had warned her that beneath his mocking facade, there was a man who was capable of an alarming depth of passion, perhaps even brutality. He was not a man who could ever be mastered.

She tried to imagine Simon Hunt’s dark face over hers, the hot brand of his mouth, his arms closing around her…just like before, except that she would be a willing participant. He was only a man, she reminded herself nervously. And a kiss was indeed a fleeting thing. But for the moment that it lasted, she would be bound in intimacy with him. And from then on, whenever they met, Simon Hunt would gloat silently. That would be difficult to endure.

She rubbed her forehead, which was suddenly as sore as if it had been whacked with a Rounders bat. “Can’t we just ignore the whole thing and just hope that he’ll have the good taste to keep his mouth shut?”

“Oh, yes,” Lillian said sarcastically, “Mr. Hunt has so often been linked to the phrase ‘good taste.’ By all means, let’s just cross our fingers and wait…if your nerves can bear the suspense.”

Massaging her temples, Annabelle made a sound of distress. “All right. I’ll approach him tonight. I’ll…” She hesitated for a long moment. “I’ll even kiss him, if necessary. But I will consider this more than adequate payment for all the gowns you gave me!”

A satisfied grin curved Lillian’s mouth. “I’m certain that you can come to some agreement with Mr. Hunt.”

After they parted company at the manor, Annabelle went to her room for an afternoon nap, which she hoped would restore her to rights before the supper ball. Her mother was nowhere to be seen, most likely having elected to take tea with some of the other ladies in the downstairs parlor. Annabelle was thankful for her mother’s absence, which allowed her to change her clothes and wash without having to answer any unwanted questions. Although Philippa was a fond and generally permissive parent, she would not have reacted well to the news that her daughter had been involved in some scrape with the Bowman sisters.

After changing into fresh undergarments, Annabelle slipped beneath the slickly ironed bed linens. To her frustration, the nagging pain of her ankle made it impossible to sleep. Feeling weary and irritable, she rang for a maid to bring a cold footbath, and she sat with her foot soaking for a good half hour. Her ankle was most definitely swollen, leading her to conclude grumpily that it had been a singularly unlucky day. Cursing as she eased a fresh stocking over the pale, puffy flesh, Annabelle dressed herself slowly. She rang for the maid once more when she needed help to tighten her corset and fasten the back of her yellow silk gown.