Julia London (18 page)

“Do you?” she whispered. Michael looked down at Rebecca and pondered her question. He did not love Abbey. But there was something there, something that had held his interest even when Rebecca had tried every feminine trick she knew to lay claim to his body. Something that made him feel a faint but definite twinge of guilt for being here. Something different, something he could not quite name, and something Rebecca did not have. She lifted her lashes and looked at him with wet green eyes.

“No,” he said kindly.

“But you want her.” She sniffed miserably.

Michael sighed impatiently and withdrew his hand. “There is no
her
, Rebecca. Try and understand. It’s just … over.” Without another word, he turned and walked out of her bedroom and her life.

Two grooms met Michael that afternoon when he arrived home and, as usual, Jones stood at the door. Michael strode up the stone steps, mildly perturbed that he had wanted to see Abbey standing where Jones was now.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Jones said blandly, and extended his hands to receive Michael’s hat and gloves.

“Thank you, Jones. Have a bath readied, will you? I seem to have found the muddiest road in all of Southampton,” he said as he moved past the butler toward the grand staircase. He jogged up the marble stairs to the first floor and turned down the corridor, hoping Abbey would appear before him. For reasons he did not fully understand, or care to understand, he wanted to see her.

He did not see her, but he heard her. A bright, rapid piece of music drifted through the upper chambers; if he had to guess, he would say Bach. He smiled to himself as he walked casually to his rooms. The notes from her violin immediately answered two questions for him. She was nearby, and she was in good spirits.

Michael entered his chamber and nodded to Damon, his
valet, who was putting away some freshly laundered shirts. He went directly to a small writing desk, shaking his head at Damon as he immediately started for him, his eyes on Michael’s boots. “As I am quite sure I can remove these boots myself, I will not be in need of your assistance.” He smiled at the stoic valet, who bowed and made to quit the room as Michael pulled open a drawer and found some paper.

“One moment. I would have you deliver a note.” Michael sat on an upholstered maple chair and dipped a quill in the inkwell. He quickly dashed off a note to Abbey, informing her of his return and requesting she dine with him that evening. By the time her reply was delivered, he was up to his neck in steaming hot water. Michael motioned for Damon to bring him the missive, and careful not to smear the ink, he quickly scanned her note.

Thank you. That would be lovely
. That was it, the extent of her note, but Michael realized he was grinning.

Ten minutes after the supper hour he was pacing impatiently in front of the long windows of the gold drawing room, the wait for Abbey becoming interminable. He was famished; his stomach growled in protest as he paced, and he was infuriatingly anxious. When at last Jones entered the room carrying a tray of crystal glasses, Michael demanded, “Where is Lady Darfield?”

“Here,” Abbey said quietly as she glided in behind Jones. She was wearing a gown of silver brocade trimmed in tiny seed pearls. Above the squre-cut bodice, a strand of pearls rested against the voluptuous flesh of her breasts. Her hair was pulled back from her forehead and fell down her back in a curtain of dark silk curls; one silken strand brushed against her cheek. Beneath long, black lashes, her violet eyes sparkled. “Welcome home.” She smiled.

“Thank you.” Michael slowly inhaled, marveling at how he could have managed to marry such a beautiful woman without even trying. “I was beginning to think you were not coming,” he said, crossing the room to her.

Abbey smiled a little timidly. He looked glad to see her,
which seemed very strange, given that he had felt it necessary to escape to Brighton again just to get away from her.

“What will you be drinking this evening? Rum? Whiskey?” He smiled as his gray eyes probed her face. His nearness was making her skin tingle.

“I think I would try the port,” she finally answered, trying her best to ignore the soft look in his eyes. Michael motioned to the footman, then took her hand and slipped it through the crook of his arm to lead her to a settee. Abbey forced herself to draw a slow, steadying breath; in his black dinner jacket and gray waistcoat, he looked every inch the swashbuckling hero about whom she had once dreamed. Just walking with him, she could feel the power of his muscular body, and blast it all, she was trembling by the time she sat. She flushed, hoping to high heaven he would not notice what his touch did to her. His masculine attempt to be as charming as he knew how—out of pity, or relief, no doubt—did not help her. It only made her task all the more difficult. And her task had not changed. She was determined to release him and go home.

“I was not aware you played the violin,” he remarked with a lopsided smile as he settled into a chair across from her.

Abbey blanched. Until two days ago, she had believed he had sent her the violin in hopes she would learn to play for him. “I took it up when I was a girl, in Rome,” she managed to say without choking on her words.

“You play beautifully. I heard you earlier—Bach, was it?”

Pleasantly surprised, she nodded.

“I am a great lover of music, too,” he added with a warm smile.

“I know—well, I have heard—” Abbey stammered.

Michael said nothing, politely ignoring her nervousness. He wanted to say her musical talent was brilliant. He wanted to tell her she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, stunning him in yet another celestial gown. Instead, he sipped his whiskey and watched Abbey’s long fingers drum rapidly against her thigh.

“How else do you occupy your time, I wonder? I know you play darts, but what of other games? Chess, perhaps?”

“Chess? No, I never learned. I know a variety of card games, and billiards, of course …”

“Billiards?” he asked with some surprise.

“Brussels,” she admitted by way of explanation.

Michael chuckled and shook his head. “Brussels, of course,” he said agreeably. “And where did you learn to play cards?” he asked, standing to refresh his drink.

“Aboard Papa’s ship, I suppose. But I learned to cheat in Cairo,” she added absently.

Michael grinned as he returned and took a seat next to her on the settee. Abbey’s eyes widened slightly with guileless consternation. “Cheating, indeed? That is quite scandalous, Lady Darfield.”

“I do not cheat as a rule, only when circumstances dictate,” she said softly. She was staring at his mouth, an innocent act that made Michael’s blood boil.

He placed his untouched drink on a table and moved closer to Abbey. “Exactly when, may I ask, do circumstances dictate?”

Abbey’s mouth parted slightly as if to respond. Michael leaned toward her and caught the lilac scent of her hair.

“When I am losing badly.”

“Hmm?”

“Wh-when I am losing. Badly,” she stammered. He was so close, she could smell his mild cologne. He was touching her hair, his fingers brushing lightly against her temple, sending a thousand tingling jolts down her spine. It was suddenly very hot in the room.
Very
hot. What on earth was he doing? Did he hope to frighten her off? If so, he was succeeding admirably.

Michael was reaching for the glass of port she held in a vice-like grip when Jones entered the room and announced supper. Michael glared at the butler, who pointedly ignored his lord as he opened the door wide, ready to attend them. With a heavy sigh of frustration, Michael rose slowly and helped Abbey to her feet. Grateful that her wobbling knees managed to hold her, she walked woodenly next to Michael to the dining room. It seemed so unfair that a simple touch from
him could turn her mind—and her resolve—to little more than mush.

Seated at the end of the long, mahogany dining table, Michael glanced surreptiously at Abbey, on his right. As the servants bustled about them, he could tell she was extremely nervous, and tried to think of inane topics that would put her at ease. He did not have to think long. As soon as the first course was served, Abbey suddenly began chattering like a magpie.

She started with a report of the two weeks she had been in Blessing Park while he was away, as if it were perfectly natural that she should have been abandoned on her honeymoon. She admitted to him that she had made some small changes in the house, including rearranging the main study, and then, of course, switching the sitting room and library upstairs. When she had fully recounted each and every activity of those two weeks, she artfully skipped any reference to his latest absence and segued effortlessly into tales of America.

She talked of her cousins, Virginia and Victoria, and her Aunt Nan at length. It sounded as if the two sisters argued with one another all day while Abbey cheerfully played the arbiter. After the soup bowls were cleared and the main course of trout was served, Abbey chattered endlessly about the places she and Harry had explored. That, naturally, led her to thoughts on various chapters of history, and one by one, every single thought that popped into her brain spilled out of her mouth. She talked about Roman history, then Egyptian history—with several references to Persian history—then European history, then American history. She peppered her recital with interesting, lesser-known facts she had gleaned during her travels. She lamented she did not know as much as she would like about the Orient, but vowed she would learn it, as if it were all at once the most important thing in the world. All the while, Michael quietly ate his food, listening politely to her stream of unending commentary, making suitable, monosyllabic comments as necessary, and resisting her enchantment.

He had no idea what made Abbey so extremely nervous, but she was. Her cheeks flushed prettily, and she looked everywhere about the room but never at him. She hardly ate a thing, and instead pushed the food around her plate as she talked. She was, he admitted to himself, a beguiling creature.

With a quiet smile on his lips, Michael finally leaned over and covered her hand with his. “Abbey. You can stop now,” he said simply. He fully expected her to deny she was rattled, but the look of relief that washed over her was enough to make him chuckle.

“I suppose I should meet it straight on,” she said wearily as she slumped back in her chair. She withdrew her hand from his and folded it demurely in her lap. Her long, sooty lashes just brushed her cheeks as she cast her gaze to her hands.

“What would you meet straight on?” Michael asked.

“Michael, I suppose you know … that is, I believed … well I
thought
that perhaps things were somehow different than they are, really, and I am quite mortified that I was so wrong about it, and, you see, I want to … I want …”

Michael did not like the reminder of her abject pain upon realizing her father had badly duped her, nor did he like the interruption in this extremely pleasant evening.

“Abbey, you don’t have to do this,” he said gently. She did not seem to hear him.

Her eyes remained fixed on her lap as she took a deep, steadying breath and continued. “I want to apologize. I never meant to cause you any discomfort, in fact, I would rather
die
than hurt you in any way, and really did not think I had, because, of course, I thought things were quite different than they truly are, apparently, despite the fact that you
clearly
stated the contrary, which of course I didn’t believe, because I obviously—and
stubbornly
, I should add—believed something entirely different altogether, and it was a very foolish of me, but it’s done now, and one cannot dwell on one’s own stupidity without the risk of becoming
completely
stupid—”

“Abbey, don’t,” Michael said insistently before she tumbled into another long-winded monologue.

But Abbey plunged on. “I know how absurd this must all
seem to you, and believe me, I think it the
height
of absurdity, really, over the top so to speak, and I am sorry for that, but I really think there is no recourse other than my immediate return to America.” She squeezed her eyes shut as if expecting some verbal assault from him, then slowly opened them, glancing up through her lashes when he did not.

Michael was stunned she was apologizing to
him
for having been duped by her father. He was about to tell her it was not her fault, but before he could speak, she rushed ahead in an effort to fill the momentary silence between them.

“I understand that my … your … fortune is all bound up in my father’s will, and I really don’t mind, I don’t want it, truly. You see, my Aunt Nan, she has a small farm, and we all work on it, and we make a decent living from it, and with the annuity, it really would not be a hardship for me at all, and it seems to me the only logical thing to do, because I rather think you should not be made to suffer my father’s reprehensible lies,” she finished, an octave higher than she began.

Michael regarded her for a long moment. Her violet eyes pleaded for his understanding while she unselfishly attempted to shoulder the burden of blame for her father’s misdeed, irrespective of her own future or happiness. He was touched by her offer but did not consider it for even a moment. He was not sending her back to America in disgrace and without a farthing to her name. The thought of her toiling for food made him angry; the idea of losing her was entirely unthinkable at the moment.

“That will not be necessary,” he said brusquely, wondering why he could not tell her how brave and perfectly noble he thought she was to offer such a thing.

“Not necessary?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he answered curtly.

“Had I known, I
never
would have … that is to say,
you
are the victim in all this, and I will not be party to a marriage that you clearly made against your free will,” she explained.

Michael fought for control, the muscles in his jaw working furiously as his mind raced. How could he say he had no intention of letting her go? He was hardly sure that was true.
How could he tell her his behavior had been abominable thus far and she deserved better? He was only just realizing it himself.