Annabelle retracted her hand and made to flee.

"Wait," Nathaniel’s velvet dipped voice rumbled, saturated in experience and lust. Annabelle froze. Blaming her thundering heart for drowning out all thought and reason, she prayed in earnest for her conscience to awaken. She begged for it to blare something—anything that would reinforce her crumbling will and fleeting virtues.

Warring against her prayers, Nathaniel’s cool fingers took hold of her hand once more, disbanding all possibility of an escape. In dreamlike obedience, Annabelle allowed the spaces between them to close. Turning her face away from him, she blindly let him draw her in.

"Come," he demanded softly, the faintness of his voice a tender caress. Biting her lip, Annabelle fought to keep from succeeding. With colossal strength she fought the ripples of ecstasy brought upon by his words. Never had she thought a voice could be so fatal.

Clenching her other hand into a tight fist, Annabelle braced. She should leave. Clearly she should dash from the room, especially when the simple sound of his voice had the dangerous ability to threaten all her virtues.

With what little strength she could gather, Annabelle decided to leave when feather light hands trailed slowly up her arms. Ushering Annabelle down beside him, Nathaniel smoothed up to her shoulders. Squeezing them in silent yearning, he whispered,

"Do not be frightened."

 Annabelle gasped, the soft yet demanding firmness in his touch sending shameful pleasure rippling through her body. Feeling her traitorous body tense with anticipation, a suffocating warmth viciously gathered in her chest. It betrayed her virtue, begging her to move closer, to offer herself to Nathaniel without question or consequence. Was he not the man she lived waiting for? The man whom she'd willingly bound herself to that stormy night?

Gripping the settee for strength, Annabelle turned away from Nathaniel. It didn’t deter him. Instantly his hands welcomed themselves to her waist. Drawing himself closer to her back, the smokiness of his breath against the nape of her bare neck sent Annabelle’s eyes into a slow, welcoming darkness.

 A silent sigh escaped her as his finger eased down her robe; gently, determined. Smoothing down her sleep dress, a low growl rumbled in his chest as he exposed the valley between the blades of her shoulders. Biting her quivering lip, Annabelle pleaded for her conscience to break free from the night's spell. It was useless, everything within her begged for him. He would never want her after that night and her heart lamented this. But then and there, she would be his and he would love her.

Surrendering, Annabelle inhaled deeply as Nathaniel gently freed her hair from its binds; limp curls cascading down her back. Though her conscience had failed her and her body betrayed her, in that last passionate inhale it was Nathaniel that unwittingly offered Annabelle one last warning.

The strong scent of brandy in his breath screamed at Annabelle that boundaries were being reached; unknowingly by one and mindlessly by the other. Once those lines were crossed, there would be no way back. The liquored fragrance in his breath begged Annabelle to awaken from her passionate possession and realize the truth. Nathaniel would take her that night, with no promise, old or new. And after he did, he wouldn’t ever want her.

But, as Nathaniel gently tilted her head onto her shoulder and kisses rained lightly upon the delicate skin of her neck, Annabelle accepted that holding on to their childish promise was a testament to her foolishness. Promise? There was no promise. There were just words spoken by a boy to a girl; a boy who was now a man about to claim a woman.

It was there, in the glow of the dying embers that Annabelle's resigned to hope and her last dream settled into devastating ashes.

*

The following morning found Nathaniel pacing his bedchamber in the foulest of moods. 

"Blasted brandy," he muttered, attempting to button his gray vest fruitlessly. His eyes still swirled from the prior night, making it impossible to bring the buttons to their proper holes. He wondered how much brandy he'd consumed, then chuckled, thinking to himself, enough to survive.

It would have been impossible to endure the night without the constant pouring and draining of his preferred liquor. Between Madeline's laughter and constant attempts at cornering him, it was either Brandy or death of which if he were to marry her, both would surely be employed. But then a more distressing thought settled upon Nathaniel. How had he reached Logan’s bedchamber that night?

Nathaniel scrubbed his chin. He remembered meaning to check on Logan, but everything else was a blur. Shrouded images taunted his thoughts, but vanished upon closer inspection. But did it matter? Perhaps his subconscious too sought to avoid Madeline...

Nathaniel shuddered. Escaping Madeline was a futile effort. In few weeks, she would be his wife and dare he think it, the mother of his children? Cursing, he violently loosened his cravat, feeling it slowly suffocate him. Massaging his temples, he sighed. There was no need to spend his last days as a bachelor suppressing heaves and thoughts of murder. He'd have a lifetime for those once he married.

Marriage, Nathaniel scoffed. At twenty and four, he was considered to be one of the richest prizes in all of England. Aside from being strikingly good looking, there was also the fortune and the title which made him most desirable on the Marriage Mart. But, Nathaniel never paid any attention to the sordid business that was marriage in London society. The news of his proposal was as much a surprise for him as it was for the pack of ravenous mothers who held such dreams for their daughters.

Perhaps it was fate, Nathaniel wondered. After all, it had been the second time in five years the idea marriage had been thrust upon him. There was Madeline, he thought with a nauseating indignation. But there had also been Logan's mother, Janet; a grave mistake. Thoughts of Janet made Nathaniel tense with anger and guilt. Mistresses normally took the necessary precautions to avoid the scandal brought on by pregnancy, but Janet had been wise in her ways and Logan was the result.

The thought of abandoning Logan never crossed Nathaniel’s mind. The idea of marriage to Janet, however, nearly sent him fleeing to the Americas. Thankfully, Logan's mother refused to marry; monetary compensation for her silence being the favorable option.

Glancing in the mirror, Nathaniel held his breath and attempted the button once more, sending it into the wrong hole. He ripped the vest, forgoing all buttons and thrust it into the fire. Irritably, he threw his head back, seeking a moment of solace. Busy feet outside his door robbed him of all opportunity, further igniting his rage.

Storming to the corner furthest from the door, he settled back into the nearest chair, but his reflection upon a neighboring vase haunted him. Within seconds, that too went flying against the fireplace and all the footsteps outside silenced.

 There was a tap at the door.

 "Who is it?" Nathaniel growled through clenched teeth praying doubly for it not to be Madeline, though the prayer was in no manner selfish in nature as it would be to her best interest considering his mood. The door opened slightly, followed by the frame of a man he'd long called friend. Sighing, Nathaniel threw his head back once more, asking his valet "What is it Milton?"

Milton approached and presented Nathaniel with a curious drink. "After last night, sir, this should help." 

Nathaniel eyed the glass curiously. "Taking the direct method I see," he taunted, holding the offered glass to the bright sunlight. The clouded drink encouraged a shift in mindset, much welcome to Nathaniel.

"Miss Madeline insisted on preparing it herself," Milton responded, arching an amused brow. Nathaniel shuddered. The devil he would drink it. No pain or ailment would ever coerce him to drink the substance. Putting the glass down, he shook his head in disgust not wanting to discuss the vile drink and equally vile creator any longer.

He said, "Any word from Richard? Please tell me you've something lest I actually drink this revolting thing out of sheer desperation." Nathaniel winced, gazing at the misty concoction. 

"I'm afraid not my lord," Milton replied, retrieving the cravat that lay just outside the fire. "Your cousin has not written since the last letter in Essex. Perhaps he has learned of your dear Annabelle's whereabouts," he offered.

Nathaniel waved his hand dismissively. "Sleep evades me, as you well know Milton, would not dreaming as well? I refuse to think of any possibility at finding her until I can smell the honeysuckle of her hair and feel her silken skin under my fingertips." He swallowed, steadying his trembling voice. Turning his attention toward his clasped hands, Nathaniel began a rapid descent into his mind when Milton spoke.

"Tell me again why you refuse to go back and find Miss Annabelle yourself? Do you not think she would prefer to be swept off her feet rather than collected?"

Nathaniel's gaze narrowed. "Perhaps too bold?" he offered warningly.

"Forgive me my lord; I shall stick my hands in the fire as punishment," Milton replied sarcastically. Though only his valet and at times severely improper, Nathaniel found a great deal of comfort having Milton around. It was only Milton and Richard that knew of his life altering secret making their presence vital for what sanity remained.

Pensively, Nathaniel settled back. Was dreaming while awake still considered dreaming? What if he did return for Annabelle? It was impossible, he accepted that the minute he accepted his new name and identity. But the vision remained, replaying over and over like a ghostly haunting where he would walk up behind her and call her name. She would turn, her auburn curls bobbing and coming to a slow stop. Then upon seeing him standing there, her green eyes would gleam with tears and she would smile—that singular, beautiful smile. 

Clearing all emotion from his throat, Nathaniel stood. "Too much of a risk. I cannot risk going back to my old home, someone might recognize me. Have I not already been uncovered by these--these—"

"Scoundrels?" Milton offered referring to the Melbourne's. Standing before Nathaniel with a similar cravat as the one roasting in the fire, he offered his master a compassionate nod.

Sluggishly rising, Nathaniel smiled. "Scoundrels indeed, yet I think you are too kind." Tying the silken fabric, Nathaniel noticed his valet seemed torn.

"Out with it, good man," he ordered, batting Milton's hands away. Having released his frustrations of the prior night on the poor shattered vase, he felt much more like himself and able to tie his own cravat.

Milton began, "I just wonder… You remember Miss Annabelle in her youth. But have you thought that perhaps she is married or perhaps even widowed, fat and unappealing?"

Nathaniel paused. "Do you value your job, Milton?" he asked, his tone saturated with indifference as he paced about admiring the various trinkets drowning the room. Stopping at a painting of Madeline, he cringed. Clearly some type of tolerance would need to be developed if he were to marry the girl but the sheer sight of her masculine brow and seedy eyes caused a knot in Nathaniel's stomach he could not rid.

"Of course sir." Milton regarded Nathaniel curiously. "Why would you even ask?"

Nathaniel turned from the horrid painting, "Because someone who values their position as much as you claim to would not be so foolish as to spit on the name of the woman whom my sanity rests upon. Choose your words wisely."

"Forgive me sir." Milton cleared his throat, but then straightened and decidedly faced his superior. "And forgive my boldness for stating it once more, and perchance risking my position, but what if she is married, with children of her own, and dare I say it, what if she is happy? Perhaps...." Milton trailed off somberly, "Perhaps she wishes not to be found."

The words cut Nathaniel; five years of unwanted freedom and obsession had he spent reflecting on such a thought. Upon inheriting the title and free to marry of his choosing, Nathaniel sent for Annabelle only for Richard to return with the words that nearly sent him to death's door at his own hand; "She has vanished."

Naturally there was anger at first; a blinding, obsessive rage that swiftly swindled into deep depression; Milton's very statement plaguing his mind. Not until hearing the limited accounts surrounding her disappearance did Nathaniel reject the preposterous claims that Annabelle willingly ran off. No, only something severe could have chased her away. And as he knew he loved her, he held that even if she had willingly fled, he would keep his promise and find her still.

"Indeed you are risking your position." Nathaniel grinned, admiring his friend's courage. "But if you knew her the way I did, her loyalty and sense of word..." He took a moment to tame the emotion tightening his voice. "If you felt the way she held me that night so long ago, heard the pain in her sobs, you would understand my conviction. And perhaps I have gone mad, but I am certain she waits for me." His body hardened. "Wherever she is, she keeps herself for me, and I will find her."

A moment of silence passed to which then Milton sighed in resigned acceptance. "Most certainly, sir. But there is also the matter of who she is expecting." His voice reduced to a whisper. "Nathaniel Hawkins, not the Earl of Lanceford my lord."

"Appearances and status change nothing. I made her a promise that I would return for her, and she's always been loyal."

"The girl you knew was loyal, but what of the woman? 

"Though perhaps differing in appearance, the girl I knew is that woman," Nathaniel snarled, feelings of guilt accusing all of his senses. "Dammit Milton! I will find her and Lord Help me I will—"

"Will what?" Milton challenged, and while severely improper, Nathaniel knew he meant well and thus allowed him the liberty of boldness. "Make her your mistress, my lord? You and I both know that is all she can become unless you want your," his tone lowered, "secret exposed." Nathaniel closed his eyes, dreading the day he chose to take off Nathaniel Hawkins and suit up as William Hamilton, however selfless his motivations might have been. 

Ending the matter, Nathaniel stated, "Then deuces take all! I will make her my mistress, and she will be the only woman I ever look at, the only woman I ever lay with."

"And what of your soon to be fiancé?"

A smile twisted at Nathaniel's lips. "Seeing as she will be hanging from me like a blasted coat to which you already tend to, perhaps you can take care of her as well." Slipping on his waistcoat, he took his hat from Milton and turned. "But enough on the matter, I must go and see to my son." 

"Ah, yes. I almost forgot. Mrs. Melbourne requests to see you in the library; something about a nurse."

Nathaniel nodded. Last minute knowledge of his visit to Melbourne House left him unable to secure a proper nanny for Logan, Mrs. Melbourne thus offering to see to the trouble. 

"Very well. Good day Milton" Nathaniel replied and directed his steps toward the library.