Greener Pastures
Lady Annabelle Wright quashed the overwhelming urge to lift up her skirts and run as fast as her feet could carry her. Far away from her betrothal ball with its beautiful people, and glorious music. The entire way home if necessary.
She winced. Home was no safe haven either, for her father, the Earl of Tonbridge ordered her marriage to Lord Oliver Burbank and she had two choices, both equally unpleasant. Accept the offer of marriage to Lord Burbank and claim her rightful inheritance, or refuse and be sent off to the country to act as governess to spiteful Aunt Ellen’s brutish children.
Her father always said, “Choose the devil you know.” This was easy enough to say when he was not the one forced to decide.
Lord Oliver Burbank was a cruel wastrel and a shudder of distaste rippled up her spine as she contemplated her future with such a man by her side. Her fiancé was a rake, an arrogant swine, and a gambler. She held nothing but contempt for him and his dallying ways. Why, only yesterday she met one of his whores when he had begged Annabelle to accompany him on a ride in his curricle through Hyde Park.
She snapped her fan shut. Annabelle still held ideals, standards if you will, and her heart refused to believe that she would have to give up her very self in order to claim what should be hers by right.
All week she had recited in her mind the explanation to the Earl, and the gentle let-down to Lord Burbank. She did not need to imagine her father’s wrath.
For, she knew that she could not marry Lord Burbank, yet it seemed when the moment came to tell him of her decision, the vice of her upbringing and general terror clamped down upon the chords in her throat, stilling the words. When had she become so weak? Too useless to fight for what she wanted? Society with its rigid demands and rules always caught her on the raw, undermining her sense of self. Being a Lady might allow her to enjoy fine gowns, and seasons in London, however it could not rid Annabelle of the feeling that the life she lived was not her own. The price simply became too high…
She opened her fan, fluttering it furiously in her face. Would the pain inside her chest ever end?
Her breath escaped in shallow puffs, the corset beneath her pale green gown restricted her lungs and she plucked at the low neckline. She fought back the urge to scream, wishing to rip the confining clothes from her body. Annabelle glanced up, searching for an exit to the terrace. It was not the thing, she knew, to remove one’s presence when the ball was held in your honor, but to stay for another minute meant she might lose all control.
The squeeze of the ballroom behind her, she grasped the banister and breathed deeply. She longed for a cool woodland breeze to ruffle through her hair, a soft, loose nightgown and chill bed linens.
“My dear, she does not need to know…”
The dark, familiar tone prodded her panic. It was him. Lord Burbank, cloaked in shadows in a violent clinch with one of his mistresses. Rage, panic and despair clouded her mind. At her betrothal ball, no less!
“You must call upon me, Oliver. Peter is away for some weeks…”
A woman’s soft laugh eddied into the night air. Felicity Gray held one of the most distinctive husky voices in the ton; which was no wonder when one considered that her aunt was a celebrated opera singer. Lady Gray was also married to an aging, indiscreet Lord Edward Gray, who took great delight in his own selfish pursuits. Altogether, she was a perfect mistress for a rake who wanted no other permanent ties.
Annabelle grimaced at the unmistakable sound of wet, ardent kissing. Her eyes closed, hands trembling, and nails dug into her palms. Tears pushed their way to the corner of her eyes, but refused to fall. Her face seemed to be frozen in a mask of pain. Isn’t that what her whole life amounted to? An unbearable charade?
She swallowed, the only sound she dare make. Annabelle saw it then. Stairs leading down to the gardens. She could simply walk away. The music floated around her, lilting, encouraging. Her father would be angry. She would marry someone else, anyone else. No, that was not true. She must be honest with herself.
She would…She would…
Her feet began moving by their own volition. She stared down at them numbly, watching their progress. The slippers made no sound upon the flat stone. Hopelessness became a whirlpool, its current demolishing fear, right and wrong.
No one came chasing down after her. She smiled. Her heart beat furiously, almost drowning out the loud music overhead. The path curved in two directions, one leading into the depths of the garden, the other around the front of the residence into complete darkness.
Yes. She yearned for the shadows, the black open air, and the soft warmth of her bed. She would order a carriage promptly, commanding to be taken away at once, claiming she was ill. It would be no lie.
A black carriage halted in front of Annabelle before she realised that she had not ordered any transport at all, but had been about to step out into the middle of the deserted street. A pair of splendid, chestnut horses snorted in the air, the bit between their teeth apparent before her distracted gaze. The driver sat in stoic silence at her interrupting presence. A dark hat shadowed his face, an overcoat disguising the tall, gaunt frame.
A closer look revealed a large gold emblem shining upon the door of the carriage, the strange crest was illuminated from the lights flooding from the residence. Brows knitted, Annabelle stepped back, allowing the man to continue on his journey.
The driver did not take up the reins. He turned slightly, giving a single rap to the roof of the carriage. The door swung open.
The breath stilled in her throat, but the faceless driver made no other movement, even as she tried to discern the light of his eyes, and failed. They seemed empty.
“If you would, Miss?” His arm gestured to the door of the carriage.
“You wish me…” her voice sounded rusty. “Who are you?”
The man turned to face forward, grasping the reins in both hands. “Your driver, Miss. You want to go for a ride, do you not?”
Did she? Oh, yes. More than anything. Annabelle did not believe that she would have the capacity to summon enthusiasm ever again. She walked to the door slowly. What if it was a trick? Would she even care? She peered into the carriage, glimpsing red velvet seats and complete darkness. Comfort and escape.
Heart heavy as lead, Annabelle lifted her skirts, pulling herself inside to rest on the plush seating. Her head relaxed back for a moment and she sighed with genuine bliss. Soon, she would be away from the ball, her betrothed, and her responsibilities even if for only a few stolen moments.
She reached out with a gloved hand to close the door, but it slammed closed before she could touch the handle. The carriage lurched unexpectedly, launching Annabelle from her snug seat onto the floor with a hard thump.
“Wait!” she called out. “Driver, slow down…” Her hand grabbed something solid and she pulled herself upwards, pushing her skirts away. “Stop, please…”
Realization hit with panic. She was being kidnapped by highwaymen. Oh no, this was just her rotten luck. Her hands flexed and the thing she held flexed back. Oh my. She looked up.
A pair of yellow eyes gleamed down at her, feral in their intent. A flash of white teeth in a hungry grin pushed through the darkness.
“Welcome, my dear.”
A sharp scratch of fingernails lifted the hair over the cleft above her ear. “You will please me very much.”
The burn of razor-sharp teeth sank into the soft flesh of her exposed throat. The instant scream curdled in her mouth before blackness overcame her.
By Naomi Westbrook.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!
