Julia London (14 page)

“Shall I expect you at supper?” Those were definitely not the words he was trying to summon; it was as if his tongue had a mind of its own. He did not want to be with her, a small fact his tongue apparently had forgotten.

Abbey’s cheerful smile faded. God, he could be a dolt at times. He added softly, “I do not intend to interview you if you choose to dine with me.” She smiled shyly but did not answer him. Michael stood, regarding her without expression,
waiting for her to agree. When it became apparent she had no intention of responding, he began to feel like an awkward schoolboy. He did
not
want to be with her. He did not want anything to do with her. Good God, he could call on Rebecca if he was suddenly so desperate for companionship! He turned abruptly on his heel and strode purposefully toward the house.

Withers slowly shook his head as he watched him march away from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, God, Withers, he
despises
me!” Abbey moaned.

Withers snorted irritably. “You are naive and apparently blind. That man doesn’t despise you, gel, he wants you in his bed.”

Abbey blushed furiously. “He wants nothing of the sort,” she said, and stooped to pet Harry. Not that she wouldn’t have given anything for Michael to want in her some small way, but not just to bed. She was now convinced he did not want her even
there
. She had every intention of telling him this morning she would abide by whatever rules he laid down, but he had been so devastatingly handsome and so predictably cold that she could not bring herself to do it.

“I am not so much as allowed to leave Blessing Park, you know, or to visit the Havershams. That is hardly because he holds me in great esteem.”

Withers chuckled. “I reckon it has more to do with his esteem for the Havershams.”

“But it’s so unfair! Galen is coming all this way to visit me, and I suppose I will not be allowed to see him, either,” she sniffed.

Withers stopped what he was doing and glanced over his shoulder. “Galen? Who in the devil is Galen?”

Surprised, Abbey smiled at Withers. “My cousin Galen. Do you not recall him? He was aboard the
Dancing Maiden
the year we sailed to Africa. He wrote me and said he is coming to visit, very soon. That is, if
he
will allow it.”

Withers’s fleshy face darkened noticeably, and he turned slowly back to his roses. “If he don’t, it’s for your own good, silly gel,” he muttered.

Puzzled by his reaction. Abbey straightened and stared the
gardener’s broad back. “Withers, he is my cousin. Surely even Lord Darfield wouldn’t begrudge me a visit by my own cousin!”

“He won’t put you in harm’s way, you can count on that! Now, don’t be looking at me like ’at!”

Abbey frowned and examined the leather ball in her hand. She did not believe Withers and chalked up his blustering to a seaman’s superstition. In her experience, sailors had a superstition for just about everything under the sun. She shrugged and tossed the ball for Harry. She still owed the Black Marquis a graceful way out if he needed it. Perhaps she would join him at supper. Perhaps she would cry off then, and perhaps he would be so enormously thankful, he would allow her cousin to visit. How happy she would be to see Galen. God knew she could use a friend just now.

Except for two cool brief encounters during the day, Abbey managed to think little of Michael until it came time to dress for supper. Now, the prospect of seeing him again made her oddly nervous, and she insisted Sarah help her select an appropriate gown and arrange her hair.

While Abbey dressed, Sarah chatted endlessly about Lord Darfield. To hear the gushing young maid tell it, he was even more a saint than Captain Carrington could have imagined. But Abbey was wise to her new friend and her desire to see the Darfields firmly united, and politely ignored her chatter.

She could not really concentrate, anyway. Inside, she was a jumbled mess of confused emotions. She wanted to look appealing, but she did not want him to notice her. She wanted him to like her, but she wanted to remain aloof and separate.

When she was finally ready, she slowly descended the winding marble staircase and paused at the foot of the stairs. She was in no hurry to join him; more and more this was seeming a very bad idea. She should keep her distance from him, maintain a distinct separation, speak only when spoken to. She walked languidly toward the drawing room, her fingers
trailing carelessly over furniture, admiring the portraits that lined the walls. One portrait in particular caught her attention. It was a woman who closely resembled Michael, except that she had light hair and a beautiful smile. The Marquis of Bitterfield had a beautiful smile, too, but he so rarely used it.

“It’s my mother,” Michael said from behind her.

Startled, Abbey jumped and whirled around. A faint smile touched his lips as she sucked in a deep, calming breath and turned back to the portrait.

“She was beautiful,” she murmured, gazing up at the portrait.

“Yes, she was,” Michael agreed.

Abbey sighed wistfully. “You must miss her very much.”

Michael politely offered his arm, which she reluctantly took. “Indeed, I do,” he said simply, then led her to the gold drawing room and seated her on a gold, chintz-covered chair before moving gracefully to the drink cart.

Through the veil of her lashes, Abbey watched him. He was wearing formal black evening attire. The whiteness of his pristine collar and neckcloth made his face look even more bronzed, and his thick black hair seemed to melt into his broad shoulders. Abbey bit her lower lip and looked away so that he would not catch her practically drooling over him.

“A sherry?” he asked politely.

“I much prefer a rum, if you have it,” she responded.

With his back to her, Michael arched a brow, but said nothing. He brought her the drink, then settled in a chair next to her, casually crossing one leg over the other.

“I wonder where in America a girl would develop a taste for rum,” he said lightly.

“I don’t have a taste for it yet, but I thought I should try it.” She missed his curious look and sipped cautiously. She immediately shut her eyes and wrinkled her nose.

“Not to your liking?” he asked with a smile of amusement.

She opened her bright eyes. “I like it better than the whiskey,” she said hoarsely, “but not as much as ale.”

Michael chuckled.

“I was only in America for three years.”

“Indeed? I was under the impression you had not been to England in some time,” Michael said.

“Not since I was a very young girl, that’s true.” Abbey caught a breath in her throat. He
knew
she had lived most of her life at sea! He knew every place she had lived, did he not?

“What of you?” she asked hesitantly. “Have you been to America?”

“Twice. My ships are built in Boston.”

Abbey perked up at that. “I am quite fond of Boston. We always had such a grand time when we went there. Last year they had a rather large festival on the waterfront. There were big ships from all over the world, and one was actually permitted to tour them! They are much larger than those my father owned.”

Michael nodded. “I attended that festival. I had quite a grand time of it myself.”

Abbey’s smile faded. He had been in Boston only last year and did not attempt to see her? He had been at the same festival. She glanced away as she tried to collect her thoughts. She was jumping to conclusions again, a practice she definitely had to stop. He obviously had not known how to contact her. Or perhaps he was involved with Lady Davenport at the time and did not
want
to contact her. She put her rum down, a little harder than she would have liked.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Abbey took a steadying breath and composed herself, determined not to let him see her disappointment. “I think the rum does not quite agree with me.” She smiled nervously.

But Michael could plainly see it was not the rum. Her violet eyes had darkened with an emotion he would have termed misery.

Jones entered the room just then, smiled broadly at Abbey, and announced that supper was served.

“Are you ill?” Michael asked, a bit alarmed at the sudden change in her.

Abbey’s thin smile did nothing to assuage his concern. “Not in the least. Truly, it was just the rum,” she said, and stood. Michael came to his feet, offering his arm. Abbey
stared at it, then reluctantly put her elegant hand on his forearm. Staring straight ahead, she fell in beside him and marched off to what a casual observer might have reasonably expected was the hangman’s noose instead of the dining room.

Once seated Abbey decided she had to divert the subject from their past until she could talk about it without getting so abysmally emotional. She could not do it at supper; he seemed too relaxed, and that pleased her enormously. Except for her doubts about his presence in Boston, their conversation was amicable. She asked him about his ship, the
La Belle
, and he lit up with excitement. It was the latest design, he explained to her, built to speed over the water. It had made its maiden voyage six months ago and was now ready to be launched for a voyage to the Mediterranean. That led her to ask about his life at sea, and he talked with great animation, regaling her with tales of various ports he had visited, many of which Abbey had been in at one time or another. She tried to ignore the feeling that something was not quite right. Ships went in and out of port every day; it would have been impossible for him to have known where she was at any given point in time.

But he had known where her father was.

After supper, they retired to his private library. Abbey peered into the dimly lit room before taking a small step across the threshold. She eyed the fine furnishings and stood shyly next to the servant waiting attentively at the door. The walls were covered with dark paneling and bookshelves full of leather-bound volumes. A globe stood near the hearth, where a fire crackled brightly. Rich velvet draperies, the color of wine, adorned two large windows. Big, soft leather chairs faced each other in front of the hearth, next to a long leather couch. Two upholstered chairs were in the center of the room, with a low polished table separating them.

Michael removed his coat as he crossed the thick Persian rug and dropped it carelessly across the wing-backed leather chair stationed behind a massive mahogany desk. He then strolled casually to the hearth, nodding imperceptibly to a footman, who immediately brought two snifters of brandy.

When Abbey moved slowly to the fire, Michael surreptitiously perused her feminine figure. In the green dress, her soft, curving figure was well displayed. Her gown was a soft velvet gathered at her natural waist—not a currently fashionable design, but certainly very comely and elegant. She looked something like a goddess, and the idea of pulling the gorgeous creature onto his lap flitted swiftly across his mind’s eye.

“That’s a lovely dress,” he remarked genuinely.

Abbey blushed prettily. “My cousin Victoria made it for me. She’s rather handy with a needle, fortunately, as I don’t have a single notion of what is fashionable.”

“Indeed? I rather think your gowns are quite becoming.”

“Really?” she asked, clearly pleased. “I owe it all to Tori. Fortunately, she is
much
better with her needle than Virginia is with her paste.” She laughed lightly.

“Virginia?” Michael asked.

“My other cousin. She is responsible for the hat.” She nodded.

Michael grinned. “Ah, yes, the hat. And what are
you
handy with, Abbey?” he asked as he brought the snifter to his lips.

Her blush deepened, contradicting her careless shrug. “Oh, nothing, really. I’m very poor at navigating cloth with a needle, and I certainly have no eye for hats. I helped Aunt Nan manage the farm.” She moved to the chair across from him and settled in a cloud of green. With the firelight flickering against her skin, she easily could have been an artist’s creation.

“And what did you do before that?” he asked, more interested in the creamy skin of her breasts rising softly above her bodice than her answer.

“You know,” she replied nervously. His eyes flicked to hers.

“Do I?” he asked, the lazy grin snaking across his lips again.

“You
know
you do,” she insisted. He had no idea of what
she was talking about and merely smiled. Abbey stiffened noticeably in her seat and set aside the brandy, untouched.

“I think we should talk,” she announced suddenly.

“Of what?” He gestured subtly to the footman, who quietly quit the room.

“I think we should establish some rules now, don’t you?” she asked carefully.

Michael’s eyes suddenly hardened, and he slowly crossed one leg over the other.

“I believe the rules have been established,” he said coolly as he swirled the brandy in his snifter. His intent gaze made her terribly self-conscious, and she stupidly wondered if he was comparing her to Lady Davenport.

Flustered, she bit her lower lip and looked intently at her lap. “After hearing your preferred arrangement—”

“It is not my
preferred
arrangement, it is
the
arrangement—”

“After hearing the
arrangement
. I thought we should mutually agree upon a few simple ideals For example, you shall live in Brighton, and I shall live here, is that not correct?”

“I shall live where I see fit, Abbey.
You
shall live here.”

“You implied you would leave me to Blessing Park. I think that, given the unfortunate circumstances in which we find ourselves, I prefer you to remain in Brighton unless there is some compelling need for you to be here.”

Michael actually looked surprised for a moment, but his expression quickly gave way to bland indifference. “I did suggest I would spend my time in Brighton. But I may change my mind at any given moment, and it is best you understand that I will do as I please.”

Abbey released a small, weary sigh. He was suddenly so cold and distant, her courage was beginning to crumble. “I see,” she muttered, and stood abruptly. She crossed to a library table and absently fingered the books that lay there as she tried to muster her resolve.