Julia London (30 page)

“But as the charge was completely without foundation, Michael survived, and all was going well until his younger sister, Mariah, made her debut. I was on the continent at the time, but I was given to understand that the fragile goodwill that had been extended to Michael was not extended to her. There were no suitors for her hand. Her brother was in trade, after all, and the family stigma weighed more heavily on her than Michael. A lovely young woman, mind you, and not one single offer for her hand in her debut Season, which in some circles spelled the end for the poor girl.”

Spellbound by his tale, Abbey leaned toward him, her eyes wide. “How horrible for her,” she murmured.

Alex nodded his agreement. “When the
ton
turns its collective back, it takes a small miracle to turn it around again. Sometime later, I think Mariah believed the miracle had come in the form of a suitor. An Englishman, just returned from a voyage, saw her in Brighton and fell quite hard for her. He courted her in earnest, and when Michael returned home from the Mediterranean, he was presented with an offer for her hand, as his father was too incapacitated to act. Michael flatly turned it down. The suitor, you see, was the same pirate who had spread the rumors about him. Mariah was understandably devastated.

“A couple of years later, Ian McShane, a minor partner in
Michael’s trade, had occasion to meet Marian at Blessing Park, and the two fell in love. A handsome young fellow, but a Scot with no title. Nonetheless, Michael happily gave his blessing to the union. After the wedding, McShane took Marian to Scotland, where I believe they reside to this day. It was a proper courtship, to be sure, but when the
ton
learned of her marriage, rumors started to build that it hadn’t been proper at all, that McShane had defiled her—some went so far as to say she was with child.”

Abbey’s hand flew to her throat. Alex frowned as they neared Park Lane. “All lies, of course, but because McShane was a Scot and untitled, the vicious rumors persisted. Thankfully, Mariah has never been aware of the scandal that followed in the wake of her wedding. It all fell on Michael,” Alex said solemnly. He stopped at the park entrance and looked down at Abbey.

“And, as you know, Marian’s wedding was followed by the tragic death of Lady Darfield. Her untimely death came but a fortnight after the wedding, and rumors abounded that she had hanged herself to escape the shame of her daughter’s ruin. Lord Darfield died soon after that.”

“Dear God.” Abbey gasped softly, cognizant of the rage building in her. There was never a kinder, gentler, or more generous man than Michael, she thought angrily, and she felt nothing but scorn and intense rage for those who would tear him down. She stared at her feet in speechless frustration until Alex patted her hand.

“In the last few years Michael has chosen to remain at Blessing Park when he is not at sea. He has quietly and consistently rebuilt the family honor by earning a reputation as a shrewd and fair business partner and by erasing all the Ingram debts. Time and absence has helped heal the old wounds, to be sure. Just last year he happened to be in London during the Season and uncharacteristically attended a ball. Since he had kept to himself all those years, he was suddenly deigned the elusive Marquis of Darfield, and just as suddenly, everyone wanted to know him. He became the most coveted guest at all events. He didn’t attend more than a handful, and returned to
Blessing Park as quickly as he could. The mystique has only intensified since then. When his marriage was announced, you can well imagine the frenzy. Now
you
are the most sought after person of the Season.”

Abbey paled. “Oh, dear God, how will I cope?” She moaned.

Alex chuckled. “I have every faith you will cope, Lady Darfield. Quite frankly, I believe you could charm an old billy goat into your bidding with a single smile. You will be fine, and I daresay the fairer half of the
ton
will be wild with envy.”

Abbey blushed and shyly looked at him. “Lord Southerland, you have been too kind. Thank you for rescuing me,” she said, and started to step away. She hesitated, then turned back and took one of his large hands in hers. “I needed to hear that. Thank you,” she said softly, and with a gentle squeeze, stepped away, darting gracefully across the street.

Alex Christian stood at the park entrance and watched her walking briskly toward Audley Street, an appreciative smile on his lips. When she had disappeared from view, he sighed with a bit of longing and turned back to the park, in search of his aunt and her fellow prowlers.

In the early evening, Michael returned from White’s where, for the first time in many years, he had actually enjoyed a card game. It was odd how easy it was to get along in Polite Society when one was not the object of scornful gossip. That realization did not endear the
ton
to him in the least, but he had enjoyed a relaxing afternoon nonetheless.

He smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs to his rooms. The anticipation among the same Polite Society of seeing Lady Darfield was particularly evident. Every single acquaintance he had greeted at White’s had asked if he were attending the Delacorte Ball and if his lovely wife would accompany him. One man had even asked him what she would be wearing, a question that had startled him. When Michael responded
he had not the vaguest notion, the man had sheepishly confessed that his wife was curious.

Sam, too, had grumbled that he could not get any work done because of the number of callers pestering him with questions about the Marquis and Marchioness of Darfield. His friend was obviously weary of the attention, but had grinned with great amusement when he related how some of the more illustrious patrons of the
ton
were scheming to meet Abbey. Michael chuckled under his breath as he untied his neckcloth and tossed it aside. He was half tempted to skip the ball. It would serve his former—and numerous—detractors right to be led down a path of great anticipation, only to wait all night for the woman who would never appear. He had no doubt Abbey would agree; she had been a bundle of nerves about the ball when he had left her that morning.

Michael ordered a hot bath and stripped out of his clothes. As he shrugged into the dressing gown Damon held out for him, he caught Abbey’s scent on the black velvet. He brought the fabric to his face and inhaled deeply. The truth was that he
wanted
to show the
ton
the prize that was his. After years of abuse, he
wanted
men to look at him with envy and know he was the victor. He
wanted
women who had so shamelessly thrown themselves at him last Season to understand the kind of woman he would make his. In truth, he anticipated this evening more than anyone else in London.

Strains of music drifted into his room from the adjoining chamber as he bathed. Abbey was playing a lively tune, a very good sign.

“It would appear her ladyship is in a festive mood, sir,” Damon muttered as he handed Michael a towel.

Michael smiled. “It would appear.” He secured the towel around his waist and walked to the basin, lathered his face, and began to shave.

“What do you think, Damon? Black attire this evening?” he asked as he scraped at his whiskers.

“Yes, my lord, and, if I may suggest, the silver silk waistcoat.”

“Fine. You will find a box on the dresser with some amethyst
studs. Lay those out as well,” Michael said, and toweled his face dry. As he dressed, the music continued to drift in his room, and he found he could hardly contain himself.

“Get on with it, Damon. There is a beautiful woman calling to me,” he said lightly, and the normally stoic Damon chuckled. When he was fully dressed, the valet uncharacteristically whistled in appreciation.

“If I may say so, my lord, you look remarkably … fine … this evening.”

Michael smiled as he adjusted his neckcloth one last time. “With talk like that Damon, you may just turn my head,” he replied, and laughed when Damon turned crimson red. He picked up a box from his dresser and strolled through the door adjoining Abbey’s chamber.

Abbey did not hear him enter her room. She was standing in front of the hearth, her violin on the settee next to her. Staring into the fire, she was lost in thought, her head bowed and her hands clasped behind her. The flickering light of the fire shadowed the fine angles of her face.

Dear God, how easily she took his breath away.

She was wearing an exquisite pale-pink satin gown. The neckline was squared and revealed the very enticing swell of her bosom. The gown was fitted to her midsection, then flared out into a full skirt. The bodice was embroidered with tiny seed pearls, as was the hem and sleeves, and the skirt bore an elaborate design of the tiny pearls. Her hair was swept up in the unusual and very becoming simple style she preferred. A strand of pearls was threaded through her thick, dark locks. She looked every inch a princess, and Michael swelled with unconquerable pride.

“I must be dreaming. You look like an angel,” he said appreciatively from the door.

Abbey started at the sound of his voice and gave him a bright smile beneath the rose blush of her cheeks. As he strolled into the room, Abbey curtsied deeply. “Good evening, my lord husband,” she said demurely.

Michael frowned suspiciously as he pulled her up. “My lord? You’ve not deigned to address me—”

Giggling, she put a finger to his lips. He caught her hand and kissed her palm before brushing his lips across hers. The scent of lilac drifted between them, and Michael reluctantly drew back.

“Pray tell, how is it possible that you can look even more stunning than I have ever seen you?” he murmured.

She laughed nervously. “You flatter me unduly, especially when
you
look so beautiful. I thought I was supposed to draw attention.”

“Do not doubt for one moment that all eyes will be on you, sweetheart,” he said truthfully, snaking an arm around her waist and drawing her close when her smile faltered. “Nor should you doubt that I will be ever at your side,” he added, kissing her forehead. He grasped her slender hands in his and stepped back to admire her again.

“Why do you never wear your amethyst earrings, Abbey? They compliment your eyes so very well,” he remarked.

She colored slightly. “I suppose I grew tired of them.”

“I rather like them. Why don’t you put them on?”

Abbey guiltily averted her gaze from him. “I gave them to Sarah.”

Michael gasped with feigned shock. “To Sarah? Whatever possessed you?”

“I just grew tired of them,” she insisted. “Don’t you like my pearls?”

“I like the amethysts. So much so that, had I known you on your sixteenth birthday, I
would
have given you a pair,” he said casually.

Clearly surprised, Abbey’s violet eyes grew wide. “How did you know that?” she demanded.

“It doesn’t matter.” He laughed and then presented the velvet box.

“I want you to have your amethysts, sweetheart.” Abbey drew a long breath as she slowly opened the lid. Inside was a pair of large, pearl drop amethyst earrings dangling from two small diamonds, and a matching necklace and bracelet of amethysts interspersed with diamonds. In addition, there was a ring that boasted a large, square-cut amethyst stone.

“Oh, Michael,”
she whispered. Her hand fluttered at her throat as she gazed in astonishment at the gems. Michael reached behind her and unclasped the pearl necklace she wore and put it aside. Still staring at the gems, she had not even noticed as he removed the pearls and draped the necklace around her slender neck. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around so she could admire the jewels in the mirror. Abbey slowly inhaled at the glittering necklace, then quickly donned the earrings and bracelet, her violet eyes sparkling like the stones.

“They are beautiful,” she whispered.

Michael, who thought the gems did not compare to her, kissed the back of her neck before taking the ring from the box. “I am, at last, providing you with a proper betrothal ring,” he said softly.

Abbey’s eyes grew misty as he slipped the ring on her finger. She held out her hand to admire it.

“Have I ever told you how much I love you?” she asked after a moment.

“Not since this morning.” He laughed. He was cut short when she threw her arms around his neck and jerked his mouth to hers, kissing him with a passion that set fire to his blood. If she kept that up, damn the Delacortes. He had to force himself to disengage from her before he ruined her hair and gown. Abbey laughed lightly at his discomfiture, then turned once more to admire the amethysts, and proclaiming them a perfect match with her gown. Michael did not know if that was true or not; but between her sparkling earrings, her sparkling eyes, and her brilliant smile, he was almost blinded, and blissfully so.

“Now, my darling marchioness, if you are ready, I believe we are expected at a ball,” he said, and with a bow and a sweep of the arm befitting a queen, he very gallantly offered her his arm.

Abbey’s heart began to pound with anxiety when she saw the crush at the gate in front of the Delacorte mansion. Ornate carriages, brightly clad footmen, and dozens of guests crowded around the front steps and into the street. The Delacorte residence was at least as big as Michael’s, if not larger, and bright lights glittered from every window. Michael helped Abbey from the coach, then tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and covered it with his own. He smiled reassuringly and began to lead her to the entrance. She moved woodenly, acutely conscious that several people turned to gape at them. Fans snapped up and open and women’s heads bent together, peering at Abbey over the tops. Michael noticed it, too, and put a comforting hand on her waist. When she glanced up at him, he winked and gave her a smile that suggested he found it all highly amusing.

“It’s Darfield!”

Abbey heard the frantic whisper, then watched as more heads turned toward them and more fans snapped open. “Dear
lord
,” she murmured.

“Mmmm, overly curious, are they not? Reminds me of
chickens gathered about their feed,” he whispered into her ear. Abbey smiled at that, and the whispers seemed to grow more frenzied. Michael led her through the crowd, bowing in polite greeting to those he knew. His hand rode her waist, never leaving her, and Abbey found it to be a huge comfort. Inside, Michael gave his coat and hat to a footman, then helped Abbey with her cloak. She heard a muffled gasp behind her as her gown was revealed.