Kiss Me Annabel. Eloisa James

      Kiss Me, Annabel

      Eloisa James

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      This Kiss is for you!

      Table of Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

       Nine

       Ten

       Eleven

       Twelve

       Thirteen

       Fourteen

       Fifteen

       Sixteen

       Seventeen

       Eighteen

       Nineteen

       Twenty

       Twenty-one

       Twenty-two

       Twenty-three

       Twenty-four

       Twenty-five

       Twenty-six

       Twenty-seven

       Twenty-eight

       Twenty-nine

       Thirty

       Thirty-one

       Thirty-two

       Thirty-three

       Thirty-four

       Thirty-five

       Thirty-six

       A Note About Shrews, Coneys and Reading to Six-Year-Olds

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       Praise

       By the same author:

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       One

       London

       April, 1817

      The day the Scotsman came to Lady Feddrington’s ball, Annabel’s sister decided to give him her virtue, and Annabel decided not to give him her hand in marriage.

      In neither case had the Scotsman indicated a particular interest in undertaking such intimate activities with an Essex sister, but his participation was taken for granted. And, naturally, both of these decisions took place in the ladies’ retiring room, which is where everything of importance takes place at a ball.

      It was in those middle hours, when the initial excitement has worn away and women have an uneasy feeling that their noses are shiny and their lips pale. Annabel peeked into the retiring room and found it empty. So she sat down before the large mirrored dressing table, and started trying to pin her unruly curls so they would stay above her shoulders for the rest of the evening. Her sister Imogen, Lady Maitland, plumped down beside her.

      ‘This ball is nothing more than a breeding ground for parasites,’ Imogen said, scowling at her reflection. ‘Lord Beekman has twice asked me to dance with him. As if I would even contemplate dancing with that plump toadlet. He should look lower…perhaps in the scullery.’

      She looked magnificent, a few gleaming black curls falling to her shoulders, and the rest piled high on her head. Her eyes sparkled with the displeasure of receiving too much attention. In all, she had the magnificent rage of a young Helen of Troy, stolen by the Greeks and taken from her homeland.

      It must be rather annoying, Annabel thought, to have nowhere to direct all that emotion except toward unwary gentlemen who do nothing more despicable than ask for a dance. ‘There is always the chance that no one has told the poor toadlet that Lady Maitland is such a very grand person.’ She said it lightly, since mourning had turned Imogen into a person whom none of them knew very well.

      Imogen flashed her an impatient look, twitching one of her curls over her shoulder so that it nestled seductively on her bosom. ‘Don’t be a widgeon, Annabel. Beekman