Authors: Elle Q. Sabine
“I see,” Abigail murmured, wondering. She settled to wait patiently and enjoy her breakfast.
An hour later, she was still alone. Grimacing, she quit the breakfast room, and wandered the reception rooms, the library, even peeking into the estate office.
Climbing the stairs was a reluctant exercise. Abigail wished—wanted—to see Meriden and perceive for herself if he was irritable because she’d not waited up for him. She knew very well what he had wished to do, what he had promised to do, and what she had denied him the opportunity to pursue last night. Her normally unflappable nerves and composure were beginning to falter. She’d have preferred the inevitable altercation be held downstairs earlier in the day, in rooms far distant from their private apartments and requisite furniture.
Wandering into the circular anteroom, she stood at the tall windows that looked over the house’s forecourt, and immediately understood her wish for a swift resolution was to be denied. In the drive, Meriden was again mounted. As she watched him speak briefly to Grady, then wheel away, Abigail sighed.
It was true, they were not yet married, and yet she felt slightly distressed by his oversight. She stood and watched as he cantered up the drive, taking in his easy strength and physical command. Her mind, though, was elsewhere. Whether Abigail’s perturbation was caused by the simple fact he’d not greeted her with a good morning or farewelled her with a goodbye, or by the denial of an anticipated scene, she simply couldn’t have said.
He disappeared from sight and she turned away. As it was, there was nothing to be done. Except, she thought with a triumphant smile, perhaps there is something?
After a short detour, Abigail joined her aunt and Mrs Carlton. The pair was deeply involved in planning the wedding breakfast, and Abigail eagerly joined in. She had no idea when Meriden was expected back, and the current topic was obviously one of importance.
By lunchtime, Meriden had not returned. Abigail ate with Aunt Betsy, then fell to pacing the floor of the gallery studying his ancestors, knowing she was utterly failing in her attempts to occupy herself until his return. Short of staking out his dressing room, however, there seemed to be little for her to do at least until dinner.
Thanks to her time with her aunt and the housekeeper, Abigail now had a list of tasks to be tackled early the next morning in the village. For the moment, however, she was free. Aunt Betsy had needed to nap. The efficient household staff were scurrying under Mrs Carlton’s direction to prepare extra guest rooms in case they were needed. The workers had long performed well without a mistress, and instinctively Abigail knew that these few days left were not the time to begin changing or even judging how well the house was run. Abigail did not need the distraction of household matters before the wedding—managing Meriden was turning out to be exhausting enough.
Except he wasn’t in the house, and she was pacing.
With a decided grimace, Abigail quit the upper gallery and walked determinedly to her room. Annie could help her change—Abigail needed to get out of the house for a bit and enjoy the sunshine.
* * * *
Tired, hungry and dusty, Charles crested the last hill on Charger, and looked down at the landscape below him. Meriden Park lay before him, the long drive up to the house directly ahead. The lanes crossed the countryside, and he observed contentedly the unexceptional movements among them. The harvesting had begun, and great wagons of hay were being loaded and drawn to the barns. In the pastures, sheep and cows still grazed happily, but they would need to eat all winter. In the far distance, he could see the low dairy barns, and the amiable cows had already begun drifting in their direction. Milking time wouldn’t begin for at least an hour, but the cows swayed slowly along, drawn instinctively by their inner clocks to arrive not too soon and not too late. In the long, mature orchards, boys were picking apples. He could distinguish their cheery calls and chatter on the wind, and, as his gaze swept past them, he saw the younger plum trees with their darker leaves.
He’d have to remember to warn Abigail about the plum harvest. It was expected to be ready in about two weeks, and would disrupt life around the manor and farms for days after.
On that thought, he spied a lady on horseback cantering along with a groom following her. She wasn’t in the lanes, but on the track that ran through his orchards, below him, clearly heading towards the Park. His eyes sharpened. The groom was clearly exercising one of the matched set of blacks that drew his phaeton, and she rode one of his large steeds—Chaucer. His face hardened and his eyes swept back to the graceful figure.
It was Abigail. Almost automatically, he evaluated her posture and comfort. She was a competent rider, he thought, even mounted on Chaucer. He was a pretty grey, an older brother to Charger below him. He’d ridden Chaucer in the war—aging and the hard life of soldiering had tamed the beast. The animal still liked a run now and again, and probably had done well with the light burden on his back.
Still, Charles would get her a mare, knowing the horse inappropriate for her. Chaucer was too large for her to handle in a crisis, and, while he didn’t startle easily, Charles didn’t like the risk.
Something smaller and with a sensitive mouth
, he thought, unconsciously starting Charger down the hill,
and not temperamental, of course.
Abigail couldn’t be put at risk.
He could hardly fault his head groomsmen, however. There wasn’t such a beast in his stable—indeed, he’d had hardly the need for such a creature before. He had Charger and Chaucer, of course, and a few pairs of carriage horses, and the usual collection of workhorses to draw the various gigs and wagons. But he’d had no need to acquire horses for the ladies of a household to ride. Clearly it behoved him to rectify the situation.
Without truly thinking of it, he took a path that would intercept the riders.
He came upon them as they exited the orchards, drawing up as Abigail looked about. Charles could see Jimmy was giving her directions, then watched as both saw him.
Abigail smiled at him. Gloriously.
Charles felt a tension in his chest relax even as one in his groin overtook it. He drew up alongside Abigail, letting their two beasts greet each other. Glancing at Jimmy, who’d instinctively backed his horse away, he smiled kindly. “Why don’t you take him for a fast run before getting back? I’ll see Lady Abigail to the house.”
Jimmy bobbed his head deferentially. “Yes, your lordship,” he murmured, then said awkwardly, “My pa said as how her ladyship shouldn’t ride alone, especially not bein’ familiar with the place an’ all.”
“That’s exactly right, Jimmy,” Charles agreed congenially. “Her ladyship shouldn’t ride alone. If she wants to ride another time and I’m not available, I trust you’ll be happy to accompany her?”
“Of course, your lordship, my lady.” Jimmy bobbed his head again, and turned away, pushing the black up the path to the hill at a faster pace.
Abigail blinked. “He seems afraid of you,” she remarked calmly.
“He won’t be for long,” Charles returned, unable to keep the disapproval out of his face or voice. “His father is new here. They were formerly at a house in Norfolk, but left after the owner—a belted earl like me, damn his hide—took a carriage whip to the boy for walking into the stables while the earl was engaged in a
mesalliance
with his mistress. In broad daylight. In a stall.”
Abigail opened her mouth then shut it again, flushing. Charles smiled intently at the sight but lowered his voice. “Patrick took his family and left—not for the dalliance, but for the whipping. Jimmy was just doing his work and had every business being in the stables that time of day. And, of course, Jimmy hasn’t yet learnt that I’d do no such thing.”
At that, Abigail found her voice. “You wouldn’t?” she challenged, meeting his eyes, more than one question in her luminous orbs.
Charles was suddenly off balance. What wouldn’t he do? He met her eyes evenly. “I’d never use a carriage whip on an innocent,” he said deliberately. “I’d never hit a child for something accidental, or for my own failure to be responsible and discreet. And I’d never bring a courtesan into our homes. Or to our stables, come to that. A man’s beds are for his wife.” He cleared his throat, remembering suddenly his earlier notion of keeping a mistress on the side to indulge his darker, more painful predilections.
He knew better than to swear to never have a mistress—even if the thought of taking any other woman to bed at the moment was an anathema. His lips quirked unintentionally, but he finished gently, inwardly cursing the horses between them and the necessity of holding their reins. He wished he’d simply taken Abigail off Chaucer and sat her on the saddle in front of him, so he could hold her within his arms while they talked.
“I do not yet know what sort of husband I’ll turn out to be, my dear, but I cannot see why, when a man is blessed with a loyal, willing and passionate wife, he should turn to a mistress at all.”
Abigail studied her hands, then commented soberly, “That is not the common situation in our class, my lord.”
Charles blinked, and with a shrug started out along the track, keeping Charger to a walk. After a moment, he added, “I am not in the common situation of our class, Abigail.” After a brief pause, he continued, “And it is not the
common situation
for women of our class to remain loyal, willing and passionate, either.”
He hadn’t precisely meant to throw down a gauntlet, but turned his eyes to meet hers anyway, perfectly aware of the intensity he could not conceal from his face and speech, and realising immediately how his words might be interpreted. Rather thankful that he had the reins to grip tightly instead of her, Charles added, “And, should it not be clear to you already, I do expect you to be loyal. Indeed, I will not tolerate otherwise.”
“No?” Abigail’s voice was faint. Charles watched her swallow, noting that she did not seem angry, only a bit dazed. He let his gaze rake up and down her frame, settling on the telling white ribbon tied charmingly around her long sleeves.
“Abigail, you’re mine now, and
I will not share
.” Feeling the blood pounding in his head as he strived not to push Charger on with his knees, Charles added more softly, danger evident in every word. “Do not even think of it, do you understand me?”
“I had no intention of it. You brought it up,” Abigail returned with a sudden bout of temper. She looked ahead, seeing the stables in the distance, and, farther along, the house. “If you’ll excuse me, Chaucer needs one last stretch.”
She sprang the horse and let him run, leaning low. Charles watched her go, eyes narrowing as he held Charger back from following her. He really wished he’d indulged his urge to pick her up off the warhorse and put her on Charger with him. Chasing her down was foolish, but he couldn’t help himself, so, after a moment, he let Charger loose in her wake, and they did not speak until they were in the stable yard.
Charles was off Charger’s back almost before the horse had stopped. Abigail had trotted Chaucer up to the mounting block, and a groom was running to her side, but Charles waved the boy back. His body was stiff with undisguised tension. It took no more than a moment to see Abigail’s eyes were narrowed and swarming with temper as well. Still, Charles couldn’t seem to help himself. Reaching up, he lifted her off the oversized beast and against him, deliberately sliding her down the front of his clothing until her boots hit the ground. “I didn’t know the very notion of it would affect me so intensely,” he ground out reluctantly. “But now that I’ve thought it, I know what I think of it, and it will
never
do. So tell me you never will.”
Abigail looked at him steadily, her jaw stiff with what he suspected now was offended rage and her eyes glittering in what was perhaps suppressed emotion. “Let go of me,” she said quietly.
Charles forced himself to do so, loosening one finger at a time from her waist. Abigail stepped back, drew a deep breath, and stared him directly in the eye. “As long as you don’t, I won’t,” she enunciated precisely, and, turning abruptly, she marched away.
The flare of her skirts startled Chaucer, even as Charles reached out his hand to take hold of her again. Charles, ignoring the sudden pounding alarm in his head, was forced to deal with the animal beside him, and Abigail escaped.
Charles gave her until late afternoon, knowing she would take tea with her aunt, then summoned her to the library. She made him wait, then breezed in, her head held high. Charles watched as Abigail shut the door behind her, meeting his gaze as she deliberately turned the lock. Any indication of a smile disappeared from Charles’ face.
Abigail had changed and was gowned in a perfectly charming claret-coloured gown. The white ribbons had disappeared, and were replaced with claret-hued lengths that were wrapped through the coiled braid that rested high on her head. A soft curl bounced flirtatiously against her jaw on each side. The colour emphasised the red highlights in her hair and brought colour to her cheeks, as well as to the expanses of her shoulders and neck, which were bare.
With her chin up, as it was, she looked very much in the role of haughty countess.
Charles doubted not that she was still angry, but he had no intention of stepping over himself in apology. If nothing else, he was quite looking forward to the upcoming battle. He briefly imagined her with red in her upper cheeks, drawing deep breaths so that her bosom lifted up and out, but then caught himself and shook away the image. He’d have to be careful to keep his eyes on hers. She’d notice if they drifted down, he was sure of it.
He’d already risen, and now moved from behind his desk as she glided across the room. They met in the middle, with Charles taking both her hands in his and drawing her towards the chaise where they had previously dallied.
“I don’t believe I will be staying, my lord. Perhaps you should simply state what business is needed and we can conduct it, so that I can be on my way.” Abigail’s voice was distant and formal, and she refused to meet his eyes, instead glaring at the offending furniture.