Authors: Elle Q. Sabine
In any event, Charles was thoroughly confident in his ability to make more money to replace that which he had spent to acquire Abigail. And, if the day did come where her parents threw themselves on his mercy, and requested a roof for their heads, he could easily insist Abigail install them at Aston Manor. He’d already ordered the leaking roof to be replaced and measures taken to restore the house and grounds to respectable condition, though turning the land into a profitable farming operation would require more time.
Charles had been certain that Winchester would call his bluff on the marriage demand. Winchester was socially experienced and had an expert for a wife, so Charles could not understand why he had agreed. He’d been sure the man would come back to him and ask him to reconsider, or to offer him some alternative. Arranged marriages, after all, could reflect poorly on the bride as being desirable only for her money. In addition, hastily executed weddings were inevitably perceived to be a symptom of hidden drama, and, with no history between Charles and Abigail, most people would assume money was the cause for hurry. Despite these concerns, Winchester had agreed in principle and had appeared to negotiate faithfully.
Charles could have forced the sale of or seized the valuable London house to satisfy the debts and foreclosed on the Aston mortgages. The other far-flung properties, in Wales and Ireland, were uninhabitable from neglect and old age and deeply mortgaged already, courtesy of various banks.
To evict the countess and her four unmarried daughters from their London house, to publicly reduce them to poorhouse poverty—genteel or not—would have incensed polite society and signed the death certificate on Charles’ welcome among his peers.
Initially, Charles had agreed to accept any of the four well-established and lively beauties as his bride and retired to his room at Brooke’s. During the next few days he’d surreptitiously watched all four on their daily excursions, admiring each for their composure and grace.
However, as the days had passed, he’d formed his own opinion on the matter, and had begun to wish that he’d been more specific in his demand to Winchester. He had wished he’d asked for Abigail.
Charles had been astonished when Winchester produced the contracts, signed and sealed, with Abigail’s name and signature on them. As soon as he had them in hand, Charles had packed his few belongings and returned north. He hadn’t wished to give Winchester or his daughter any simple route for changing their minds.
Fiona, popularly said to be the family bluestocking and the eldest, had been the obvious choice. Twenty-four already, the girl was said to be uninterested in marriage. Charles had expected to have Fiona fobbed unwillingly into his bed, and would have welcomed her in fulfilment of his honourable word, even if she wasn’t part of his deepest fantasies. Either because Fiona was intelligent and known to be sharp-witted as well as sharp-tongued, or as a result of it, she was often left on the outskirts of an outing or by the wall in social settings. He’d have been happy for his children to inherit her intelligence, independence and evident strength of character. He could see no reason why they would not have developed a practical and friendly relationship over time, with her cooperation. He’d already pondered the notion of having to acquire a long-term mistress to attend his everyday needs, as he was quite sure Fiona would have little interest in sharing his bed any more frequently than was required.
He’d not expected anyone to breathe Gloria’s name. Gloria was the eighteen-year-old rage in London, the object of the devoted attentions of at least three earls and one widowed duke twenty years her senior, and, though the rumour mill claimed she had already chosen one, no public announcement had been made. Gloria would have looked down her nose at Charles and waltzed off without a backward glance. The threat of poverty was unlikely to have swayed Gloria in the least—if the rumours could be believed, her future was assured no matter what the state of her father’s finances.
Sixteen-year-old Genevieve could attract the attention of a dozen bucks and blades simply by walking down Bond Street with her sisters. According to the men that congregated in Pall Mall and lodged in rooms on Jermyn Street, it was not uncommon for the younger set to call at Winchester House, ostensibly to pay court to Gloria but in actuality to lie in wait for a glimpse of Genevieve, who was permitted to appear in the drawing room with her sisters for no more than twenty minutes every morning. Genevieve was not officially out and about in society, of course, but marrying her off now would have saved Winchester from the expense of at least one London season. But then, like Gloria, Genevieve would not need to worry about her own financial security. Finding a man susceptible to those girlish curves and that virginal womb would hardly be a challenge, even without a penny to her name.
Almost before his musing was concluded, the earl found he had been bundled by his well-intentioned servitors into a plain black carriage he’d kept.
Abigail’s aunt, Lady Arlington, had begun to recover, with the fortitude of her intimidating reputation, as soon as she’d been laid flat in the back of the cart. Still, her wound was serious and the ride up the lane in the dray would be excruciating if she woke. With her coachman and a footman on each side of her, pressing fresh bandages to her head, she’d been loaded into the back. When he’d stepped back, Lady Arlington had been stirring.
Lady Abigail and a maid—both pale with shock and pain—were already settling into the seat opposite him. From their appearances, it seemed as though the servant had taken the brunt of any injuries. She was clutching her arm in desperation, while Abigail hugged her and murmured words of encouragement and comfort.
Charles hadn’t expected Lady Abigail to be her parents’ choice, either. He’d assumed Fiona was the natural sacrifice—perhaps even the reason Winchester hadn’t refused his plan outright. In the days after his meeting with Winchester, Charles had watched Fiona, Abigail and Gloria in the park, in Bruton Street, and even from the shadowed corridors of Hatchards. Gloria had amused him by subtly but effectively interrogating every man who had approached her about politics, parents and pocketbook. Fiona, both gracious and reserved, had chatted politely with all who had approached. Abigail, either unaware of him or at least ignoring his presence, had flirted freely with an established circle of suitors who were Charles’ equal in almost every respect. She had attracted peers of his age, rank and intelligence who were looking for a bride, precisely because she was not a ninnyhammer, socialite or awkward wallflower. Even excluded, Charles understood how Abigail had charmed all those around her with her smiles and laughter. One day soon, she would turn that witty, teasing beam on him and he knew he would struggle to keep his hands from her tempting curves.
At that moment she was ignoring him, and he grasped the opportunity to study her. She was drenched, and the rivulets still dripped from the tendrils of reddish-brown curls that peeked from her bonnet. In the dim lamplight of the carriage he couldn’t see the shade of her eyes, but he knew better light would reveal questioning, brown orbs. Right at that moment, they would likely be consumed with concern for her aunt, and he was certain her shoulders would be drooping from exhaustion if she had not been occupied with comforting the maid.
Charles couldn’t muster an ounce of pity for her state.
No, Abigail looked stunning.
He shifted uncomfortably in response to an awkward and unwelcome erection, glad that the carriage was nearly already in the forecourt. Darkness had long since fallen, and it was useless to think that he might be able to speak with Abigail alone that night. Her aunt would need, even deserve, Abigail’s attention, if any could be spared from her own injuries.
Charles winced inwardly as the carriage lurched to a halt. He glanced at Abigail, who had looked up, before saying abruptly, “My butler will help you both.”
Her jaw tightened a bit with wilfulness, but she acquiesced with a brief nod, a motion that sent water dripping from her bonnet down her nose and eyes. Abigail grimaced openly, and the reversal of expressions almost brought a chuckle to Charles’ lips. So she wouldn’t see it, or the telltale signs of his arousal, he jumped from the coach into the rain and waved forward his butler, Grady.
“Take care of them,” he told the man shortly, then had to frown at the small smile on Grady’s lips. His blasted butler understood him far too well.
Charles hurried inside and up the steps, not bothering to throw his greatcoat at a footman. For the moment, it hid his more prominent problem. At the landing, he turned to the left and strode down the gallery, making a quick turn into the narrower corridor that led to the earl’s apartments. Abigail’s boudoir was on his left and the main bedchamber ahead of him, but Charles turned to the right, to his own sitting room.
The room was lit, and he was rubbing his palm against the flap of his trousers even as he dropped the greatcoat carelessly on the floor. His valet Robert would clean up his mess. Charles stopped to fumble with the buttons on his trousers, then sank down on the chaise and stared at the painting above the fireplace. The subject was a particularly charming mistress of Louis the Fifteenth in little clothing and a provocative position. It had always been helpful for just these surprising situations, but this time Charles felt absolutely nothing when he looked at the eager girl.
Frowning, he gripped his still-hard cock in his fist and pumped it, remembering again his fierce reaction to Abigail’s discomfiture, to rescuing her, and even to her saucy tongue. He used his left hand and palmed the heavy sac beneath his penis, massaging it in conjunction with the fisted cock. He’d expected—and had felt—sympathy and a violent protectiveness. He hadn’t expected such a strong surge of arousal, however. The turbulent and unfamiliar emotions had made Charles more abrupt than usual, and he’d barked at her instead of speaking as a gentleman ought to have spoken.
As he remembered her disgruntlement, he hardened further. Many peers might value gentlewomen but the patriarchs of the Wessex clan had historically prized, sought and zealously guarded their queens. Charles was no different. Abigail’s spirit had been tested and she’d come through as valiantly as any soldier he’d seen in Spain. He was more convinced every day that she could rule his corner of Warwickshire, and heaven help him, but he wanted her to.
Charles slid his hand up towards the head of his fully engorged cock and pulled hard and fast, imagining Abigail’s face drawn with sensual exhaustion rather than pain. On the heels of that thought came another, firmly forbidden fantasy that Charles couldn’t resist. It was Abigail’s face as he thought she would look when consumed with lust. Her eyes would beseech and her body would beg and her voice would plead for him to give her relief and succour, to pleasure her.
Charles let his cream shoot down the side of his trousers, which had already been ruined by the rainy excursion. He fell back and sighed as relief and an unexpected sense of anticipation gripped him. He’d have to wash and change, then he’d see about Abigail. He had a suspicion she wouldn’t be safely in her bed, resting.
Chapter Two
They weren’t married, nor yet even properly introduced. Aunt Betsy was Abigail’s chaperone, but of course, Aunt Betsy was in bed and still unconscious.
Abigail sank into the armchair at the far end of the room, ignoring the persistent ache in her left ankle and leg as the doctor examined her aunt. She’d have to meet the earl alone now. There was no choice but to set aside custom and the rules of polite society. In any event, she was affianced to the man.
Both her father and mother had denied Abigail’s plea to escort her to Warwickshire themselves. Winchester was deep in negotiations with His Grace the Duke of Lennox to marry Gloria to Lennox’s heir, the Earl of March. Fiona couldn’t be spared from keeping a strict eye on the hordes that ogled Genevieve at every turn. Abigail’s mother, immersed in preparation for Gloria’s engagement announcement and the subsequent ball at Lennox House, had insisted that Aunt Betsy keep a strict watch in her place.
Meriden had supposedly returned to his country home and posted the banns in his own parish, with the second reading this very morning. At the very least, Abigail had eight days of grace—the third reading of the banns would be a week from today.
Abigail had argued for three days, even as she was fitted for her wedding gown and a complete new wardrobe for her trousseau, but both Winchester and the countess had agreed that, of the four sisters, Abigail would be best suited to life at Meriden Park. Winchester could not have afforded to renege, and Fiona had refused outright. The only alternative would have been Genevieve, and Abigail found the notion repellent—not only was Genevieve simply too young, but she could never have survived the separation from all that she knew, or cope with being at the mercy of a physically overpowering man.
Abigail doubted her own ability to counter such a man as Meriden. He was popularly believed to be heartless, ill-mannered and temperamental by word and deed, but Abigail swore to maintain her grace and composure before him. Genevieve would have been overwhelmed and hysterical by now, Abigail conceded with her usual practical honesty. The girl could think of nothing but poetry and painting, had no experience of country living or running a household, and had a bad habit of fainting at the mention of blood.
Still, Abigail couldn’t help but wonder at the impossibility of the very fine line she was expected to walk. According to her mother, she was not to involve herself in any episode that might raise a gossip’s brow. She was to avoid tête-à-têtes, confrontations, taking charge of the household and lengthy explorations of the gardens. The countess still held out hope that the marriage could be avoided. Abigail didn’t see how that would be possible, particularly with Aunt Betsy in her current condition.
To be blunt, Abigail knew her mother’s reservations were irrelevant. Abigail firmly believed Meriden had no intention of allowing her to manoeuvre out of the arrangement. By now the banns had been read twice in his own parish church. To beg off would humiliate him in front of his own villagers and tenants, not to mention the entire English aristocracy. An engagement announcement had been run in
The Times
, so neither Abigail nor Meriden would be free of the social consequences should the engagement be broken.