Page 3 of A Raven Reformed

Michael caught just a glimpse of what must have been Miss Hattigan peering down from her window before she quickly ducked out of sight. Thank God she’d grown into a young woman, and his recurring nightmare of coming to wed her, only to discover she was still a child, had not come to pass. What must she be thinking about his arrival? This was sure to be an interesting night for them both. Nervousness was not something he was accustomed to feeling, but he certainly felt it now. His stomach fluttered and his palms were sweaty. Of all the things he’d managed to achieve in his life, why did he feel so unequipped to deal with this? He drew in a long breath and then followed Carlyle into the house.

Very little had changed in the house since his only other visit fifteen years before. Stepping into the study brought back the memory of that long ago night as clearly as if it were yesterday. But he wasn’t the same man he had been then. Back then, most of his nights, and days, had been spent deep in his cups and between the legs of one whore or another, his newly inherited estate crumbling and nearly in ruin. Since then, he’d restored the estate, given up the booze, and opened The Raven’s Den with his closest friends. The gaming hell, and all that came with it, gave him a sense of pride and purpose in his life he’d never had before, and undoubtedly helped him to stay sober. He could only hope the changes he’d made over the past decade and a half would allow him to provide her the life she deserved. After all, her father’s money had paid for it all.

“Barley water?” Carlyle held out a glass of the cloudy liquid.

Michael smiled and took the drink. “Thank you.” He’d been sure to request it ahead of time. At this point, he trusted himself enough that he hadn’t asked them to hide the liquor. After all, he was around spirits every night at his club now and didn’t succumb to temptation. But even still, he didn’t trust himself with easy access for long periods of time.

“How was your crossing?” Carlyle gestured toward the plush chairs in front of the fire.

“A bit rough, I’m afraid.” Michael settled himself and rested the glass on the arm of the chair. “I’m not terribly fond of boats on the best of days, and most of these days were definitely not the best.”

Carlyle grimaced. “I’m sorry to hear it, my lord.”

“Let’s just say I am not looking forward to the return journey.” He took a sip of his drink. The smooth liquid had grown to be a great comfort to him over the years. “But enough about me. Tell me about Miss Hattigan. What does she know about me?”

The man shrugged. “As you requested, we’ve not told her about you. She only knows you’re here for a visit, but not the purpose of it.”

Michael rubbed a hand over his face. “Hopefully it was the right decision. I really wanted her to enjoy her life as much as possible, without this betrothal hanging over her head the whole time.”

“Only time will tell, I suppose.”

“Do you have a copy of the contract for me?”

Carlyle nodded and set his glass on the side table. He crossed the room to the desk and returned with the paperwork. Michael glanced briefly over the pages, then folded them in thirds and tucked the packet into his breast pocket. He drained his glass and let out a long sigh.

“Well, no reason to put off the inevitable, I suppose. Wish me luck.”

As Michael stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting for Miss Hattigan to be fetched, he felt like an utter fool. You’d think the maid was bringing him a dragon that needed slaying, the way his stomach had suddenly lodged itself somewhere near his Adam's apple.

After a while, however, even that faded. He wasn’t made to wait very often, and quite frankly, he didn’t like it.

The maid reappeared. “My lord.” Her voice was soft, and she stared at her fidgeting hands as she spoke. “I’m afraid she’s refusing to come down.”

“She’s what?” He wasn’t sure whether to be angry, relieved, or even offended.

“Well, she’s not very happy about being summoned to greet you, whilst knowing almost nothing about you.” The maid swallowed nervously and glanced up at him. Her face was flushed and her eyes wide with worry.

He tried to reassure her with a smile. “What happened to the precious little innocent I met on my last visit? You haven’t raised her to behave like a brat, have you, Mrs. Ingram?” But before she could say a word, marching footsteps started down the stairs.

Michael was instantly enchanted by her beauty, even with her arms folded defiantly across her chest and her chin held high. She wasn’t delicate or pale. Her skin had been kissed by the sun, and freckles were sprinkled across her cheeks. Her folded arms only accentuated her substantial breasts, making it nearly impossible to tear his eyes away from them.

“What do you mean, on your last visit? I’ve never met you before.” She came to a halt two steps up and stared him straight in the eye. “And I am not behaving like a brat.”

“Miss Hattigan, I presume.” He gave her a polite bow.

Her maid quickly stepped forward to continue the introduction. “Belle, this is Lord Dalinridge.” Her green eyes simply continued to stare at him, until her maid nudged her firmly with her elbow. Annabelle glared at her, but in the end, gave him a slight nod.

“Shall we take a stroll?” He offered her his arm, but it took another push from her maid before she grudgingly accepted it.

Mr. Carlyle spoke up then. “The rear gardens are beautiful in autumn, my lord. I’m certain you’ll enjoy them.” Not another word was spoken as they all made their way, like a procession, through the house.

The door closed behind the two of them as they stepped out into the late afternoon sun. Annabelle stopped and turned back. She stared at the door, probably wondering why her maid hadn’t accompanied them. And with good reason. It wasn’t exactly appropriate for her to go wandering, unchaperoned, in the gardens with a strange man, but there was just no way around it. He had to speak to her alone.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

Annabelle whipped around, and for a moment, looked like a frightened lamb being led to slaughter. In an instant, however, the fear, or at least the appearance of it, was gone. She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. Perhaps he’d only imagined the fear because he felt like a predator. He was about to turn everything she knew on its ear, and there was nothing she could do to change that. Perhaps keeping their betrothal from her had not actually been the right decision, but there was no changing that now.

“Flowers or topiary?”

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