Authors: Elle Q. Sabine
Grady clearly knew to make his announcement quickly. “Lord Kresley has called, my lord. He’s waiting in the library.”
“What does
he
want?” Meriden spat out in frustration.
“The same thing everyone else will, Meriden,” Abigail said calmly. “You’re getting married in four days. They’re being considerate and attempting to dispense with whatever business they have with you
before
the wedding, so they won’t be obliged to indelicately call for a few weeks after. It’s the proper thing. They’ll not want to disturb us until we make it clear that we’ve organised ourselves and are ready to take our proper places in local society again—the natural time for that will be at the Hunt Ball in November.”
Meriden stared at her, openly bewildered, then at Grady. “Just so,” the butler confirmed gravely. “And quite the correct thing, my lord. Mrs Carlton and I are even considering sending what staff we can spare off to their families as soon as the wedding is over and the plum harvest is in. You won’t be entertaining or having guests, so it seems a propitious time to have as many away as possible.”
“I see,” Meriden said, his mouth firming ominously. Abigail looked at him quizzically. “So I should expect the rest of the neighbourhood to descend soon, as well?” he asked, his eyebrows lowering in an abrupt frown.
“One would imagine,” Grady said placidly.
“Today and tomorrow, in my opinion,” Abigail said firmly. “Sunday isn’t really an appropriate day to do business, after all, especially in the countryside. Monday is the day before the wedding. Everyone knows the house will be up to its ears that day with preparations.” She frowned at him. “I imagine even you will have some sartorial tasks that day.”
A growl seemed to come out of his chest. “Fine,” he spat out, drawing a deep breath. Narrowing his eyes in Abigail’s direction, he opened his mouth to speak.
Abigail broke in, smiling serenely, her voice soft and deliberately private. “I know you have other matters on your mind today, Charles, but the privacy afterward will be worth your time and attention now. Think about it, please.”
“Oh, I will,” he rasped, releasing her hand and turning away as his secretary, Benjamin, hurried up, looking harried. “I definitely will.”
* * * *
Abigail didn’t see him again until she came downstairs for dinner. The guests were expected at seven, and she descended the stairs at precisely ten minutes to. She’d spoken to Aunt Betsy, and the lady had agreed not to come down until a quarter after—no one wanted to exhaust her.
And, Abigail knew, while discomfiting Meriden would ultimately be worth the time and trouble, completely avoiding him would unnecessarily arouse his suspicions. Besides, Abigail thought to herself, she wanted him to look. She just didn’t want him to have time to do anything about it, at least for a few more hours.
She was not surprised at all to see Meriden haunting the bottom of the staircase, not even bothering to disguise his intentions. When he looked up, he stopped his pacing and stared.
Abigail slowed her descent, fisting her hand in her skirts to prevent her from tripping, and very deliberately stood before him, smiling contentedly.
His expression was now, she knew, deliberately veiled. He walked around her in a complete circle, then stood before her again and swallowed. “Abby.”
“Yes, Charles?” she asked, tipping her head to the side.
“Don’t you think that, well, some lace…” He waved a hand. “Or a shawl? Something? We’re having dinner with the rector, after all. And your aunt.”
Abigail frowned, visibly shrugging one shoulder so that the fabric over her chest shifted slightly, revealing extra inches of skin and displaying her cleavage to Charles. “I really can’t see why. It’s perfectly presentable as it is, and quite fashionable. I’m hardly a debutante, after all. I bought this for the Bishop of Dorchester’s ball last month. He complimented me on it himself. My mother thought it was just perfect. If my parents and the bishop approved of it, I can’t see why Reverend Danvers—who only has eyes for his wife anyway—should object. Can you?”
Meriden looked into her eyes and Abigail felt a wave of masculine, possessive heat wash over her. “You know exactly what I object to, Abigail,” he said, the colour rising in his cheeks. “What you’re
presenting
is mine—”
Outside, Abigail heard the clopping of horses, and Meriden paused. “I can hardly change now, my lord,” she said, waving her hand at the door as Grady hurried into the hall. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to tolerate whatever
objections
you have.” She turned, but Meriden caught her arm tightly. Her gaze swung back to him and she gritted her teeth. “
Not
in front of the footmen and Grady, Meriden.”
Regardless, he pulled her against him, even as Grady was opening the door. “Mine,” he breathed into her hair. “Don’t you dare try to taunt any of them in that outrageous outfit or I
shall
carry you out over my shoulder and lock you in my dressing room, humiliation or not.”
Abigail gasped, but the motion just served to draw Meriden’s gaze downward to the problem. He groaned and looked away, and Abigail took the chance to retrieve her arm. She turned away and glided off, leaving Meriden to silently curse before following her.
She met Margaret Danvers at the door, and the lady immediately exclaimed in delight over her costume before the two men with her even made it through the door.
After that, Abigail ignored Meriden as much as possible, despite his glowering. Margaret’s eyes twinkled, and even Aunt Betsy—dressed in a gown that was a scandalous shade of red with black ribbing—looked on in amused approval after a few moments of observing the company.
When Grady came in to announce dinner, Abigail directed Dr Franklin to Margaret Danvers and her brooding fiancé to her aunt, while attaching herself to Reverend Danvers’ side.
Behind her, she heard Betsy pat the earl on his coat. “She’s a fine hostess, of course,” Betsy preened. “She’ll make an excellent countess for you.”
Meriden was having a difficult time putting away his ire, but he managed to answer in a way that made his feelings clear to the eavesdropping woman in front of him. “I assure you, my lady, I am very much looking forward to having her as my wife.”
Beside Abigail, Danvers choked back a chuckle and looked down at her. “I heard about his somewhat incomprehensible tantrum this morning,” he whispered. “But you’re hardly playing fair now.”
“I’m sure the twitting will be good for him in the end,” Abigail answered serenely, as Grady himself held the chair back at the end of the table. It was as short as had been possible, but a good eight feet still separated Meriden from her, and he had Aunt Betsy on one side of him, and Dr Franklin on the other. Abigail, flanked by the rector and Mrs Danvers, felt well protected.
She relaxed and enjoyed the entertainment at the table all through dinner—the heated looks from Meriden, the amusement of both Margaret and her aunt, and even the daring silent toast from Dr Franklin after Abigail turned and lifted her wine glass up to Grady, pulling and stretching the fabric of her décolletage even more daringly. Reverend Danvers set himself to make her laugh, deliberately, clearly realising he was adding to Meriden’s distress.
Even Grady hovered, watching the table and turning away after he couldn’t contain a smile.
Finally, he stood behind her and Abigail leant forwards and rose. Meriden blanched and then practically jumped to his feet. “We’ll leave you to your port, gentlemen.” She smiled, waving Grady away to the door. The other ladies joined her, and she slid out of the room with barely a glance at the man who stared after her.
In the drawing room, Abigail collapsed on the sofa. Margaret Danvers laughed until she almost had tears in her eyes, and Abigail watched her aunt shake with amusement. “That,” Aunt Betsy finally said severely, “was quite an exhibition. Whatever put that into your head?”
“I did,” Margaret explained, describing Meriden’s overt possessiveness of the morning.
Abigail explained seriously about teaching Meriden the lesson of sharing his day’s plans and a considerate farewell, as well as the number of unexpected visitors through the afternoon, and Aunt Betsy hmphed. “So he’s showing symptoms of possessiveness, hmm? And he hasn’t had a chance to scold you for going out this morning without his approval, and he had to endure that dinner? Child, that man is hardly one to prod.”
“I can hardly let him think, Aunt Betsy, that he can get away with organising either my daily calendar or my wardrobe. ‘Tis better to make it clear now, and in such safe company, than to battle him later when he has the advantage of our marriage. Margaret assured me that she did not mind for her husband’s sake, and Dr Franklin is likely going to see more than that before I’m much older, as he’s the only doctor around and the earl has every expectation of filling up his nursery.” Abigail pursed her lips. “And, to be frank, I’m sure I’m not afraid of Meriden. Maybe over the first few days, but not now. He’s not going to act out violently in a temper. He’s an honourable man, and he’s seen my point already, however reluctantly. He’ll accept it, too. Eventually.”
Aunt Betsy laughed at that. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, my girl, and I can hardly protect you with my cane. I’m likely to fall asleep here on the sofa before the teacups are finished.”
Margaret joined in with Betsy’s laughter, but Abigail simply smiled. “I’ll lock my door, Aunt. To be truthful, Meriden is hardly likely to do anything in which I’m not willing. After all, I haven’t actually married the man yet and I could always change my mind.”
“True. Nevertheless, come over here and sit beside me, child. Otherwise I might miss what’s left of the entertainment.”
Chapter Eleven
Over a glass of port with Danvers and Franklin, Charles managed to calm himself. His two friends wisely said nothing about Abigail’s obvious challenge—instead, they chatted idly about plans to renovate the rectory come spring. Charles owned the place and he supposed he should pay attention, but frankly he didn’t care what Margaret and Danvers wished to change. Short of turning it into a castle with towers and bailey, they were welcome to do whatever was required to make the place a suitable home.
By the time he’d finished his drink, Meriden had talked himself into being glad that she’d brought out that gown only in this very limited company. If they’d arrived at the Hunt Ball with her in that dress, he’d have had to embarrass them both by insisting they leave immediately.
As it was, he now knew to inspect her attire well before they left the house or before company was expected. He’d make it damn clear to Annie that she was to inform him sooner than immediately if Abigail took it into her head to wear something even mildly inappropriate, and he wasn’t above haunting her dressing room prior to descending the stairs. It wasn’t that he minded the display in general—it was only that he minded sharing it.
Having resolved the matter of forward strategy, the question he faced now was how to
respond
to her outrageous statement. Abigail had thrown down a challenge and was expecting a scene at the first chance he got. He had every intention of giving her one, but it wouldn’t do to be too terribly predictable.
He could say not a word about the gown, thus disappointing her, and rely on his pickets to keep such an incident from being repeated. He could, he supposed, focus on the issue that had started this day—her escape from his bed during the night. He doubted Margaret Danvers knew precisely what had aggravated him, but she naturally agreed with Abigail. Stalking out of the house, barely decent, as his disobedient wife-to-be had escaped had been an impulsively poor decision on Meriden’s part, but it was too late to change.
Annie already knew Abigail had spent the night in his room, and so did his own man Robert, so Meriden had no compunction about repeating the experience again. He’d simply inform the maid tonight that she should wait for her mistress in the countess’ apartment come morning. In his saner moments, Meriden took no issue with Abigail’s wish to preserve appearances for the next few days before most of the staff. Ringing for Annie from the earl’s bedroom or even the boudoir was tantamount to a public announcement.
Meriden watched Danvers sip at his port, pondering whether he dared yet to engage with Abigail on the underlying issue they were sparring over. He knew instinctively that Abigail saw his morning rush to intercept her, and his reaction to her gown, as an extenuation of his dominant nature. Riding roughshod over everyone else’s contributions really was the fastest way to get what he wanted most of the time, and no doubt he would find it difficult to adapt. She’d chosen the gown deliberately, both to taunt him and to prod his possessiveness. And she intended, clearly, to make the point that his opinions on such matter were not to be the deciding factor. He was sure she would say, if asked, that his opinions would matter not one whit.
Of course, she was wrong. But the process of teaching her to flaunt herself to him and no one else was likely to take much longer than the few days before the wedding.
His best response was to keep her off guard. On the thought, Charles stood and his companions followed. Grady swept in, and Charles drew him aside. The butler narrowed his eyes at his instructions but knew better than to argue—he took away the port tray and went to perform his duty.
In the drawing room, Charles was a perfect gentleman, engaging in witty repartee with Lady Arlington, who seemed even better than on the previous day. He exchanged notes with Margaret on the planned springtime renovation, and let himself be drawn into an absorbing discussion of the plum harvest with Franklin and Danvers.
But to Abigail he barely glanced, and never once did his gaze drift lower than her chin.
After an hour, Danvers sighed. He gathered up his wife and Franklin, and called for their gig to be brought out.
“I’ll see you out, then,” Charles said easily, glancing at Abigail and Betsy still on the sofa. Abigail went to rise, but he waved her back. “No, no, stay there and rest.”