Authors: Elle Q. Sabine
Charles sighed, and Mitch moved past him to check the beasts. “It looks like nothing more is to be done then, unless anyone knows anything else, or comes forward.”
Plenty of the men shifted their feet, but they were shaking their heads practically in unison.
“Right then, you all get back to your business. It’s a long walk back, unless Mitch here carries you.”
Laughter welled and the mood lightened. No one had been hurt, and the horses were safe.
The only danger was waiting, impatiently, when he turned around and strode past the wagon to take Charger’s reins from Abby. She glared at him, uncaring for any that might hear. “I’m to be sent off to the corner in safety, but it’s all right for
you
to stand in front of those maniac horses and chat? What were you
thinking,
Meriden?”
Deliberately allowing her mood to bring his fury back to the surface, Charles gripped her reins and turned the horses away. He waited exactly twenty seconds for her to stew, then said tightly, “I was
thinking
you would be a goddamned obedient wife and stay where I put you.
Out of danger
.”
“I,” she ground out in a low, furious tone, “am
not
your wife. And as for
obedient
, get that nonsense out of your head this instant.”
He glared at her, slowing the horses so that they didn’t get back to the front door any more quickly than he wanted. “In less than two days, Abigail, you’re going to
vow
to be obedient. Get used to the notion, and by God, start practicing. If I have to worry about you every time you walk out of the front door, you’ll find yourself with a constantly sore rear that will make you want to stay home, away from broken-down carriages, runaway horses and irresponsible parents.”
Abigail sniffed huffily and jerked the reins from him. “Stop pulling on her. It will hurt her mouth.” She rubbed a hand on the mare’s mane, then smiled at him. Too sweetly. “As for my vows, I would never vow before God to something I couldn’t possibly keep, especially when you are apt to go off on some ridiculously dangerous high jinks at any moment. And have you never been to a wedding in your own church? For shame, Meriden. I, at least, had the intelligence to address the question days ago.” They were close to the house, and the front door was opening, but Abby continued unheeded, her own aggravation clear. “Danvers
never
requires the woman to recite the promise to obey. He says Margaret pointed out to him it was impossible to make a woman promise something like that, when her first obligation is to her own conscience and God.”
Charles stared at her in disbelief, but they were already at the front steps and Grady was hurrying down them. Charles flung himself off Charger and stomped—even he recognised it as suspiciously like a tantrum—over to her, practically dragging her off the sorrel mare.
She let him pull her up the front steps and into the dimmer hall, but at the bottom of the steps she stopped stubbornly. “I’m going up,” she said firmly, even imperiously, “to change and then meet with Aunt Betsy and the maids. Let go of me.”
“I bloody well will
not
!” he seethed. “We’re going to settle this—”
“There’s nothing to
settle
.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Danvers won’t ask me to and I won’t do it, anyway. So unless you intend on cancelling the whole event, let me go upstairs, try on my wedding gown, and practice vowing to
love and cherish
you.”
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into!” Charles growled, but he forced his fingers to loosen. It was something she’d said, something subtle. He was too intent on her to think now, but he’d remember if he could just see past the fiery woman standing toe to toe with him.
“I know
exactly
what I’m getting myself into,” she returned pertly, already climbing the stairs. “I’m getting myself into a hot bath, peach-scented lotion and white silk. And then I’m going to hit you over the head for being so dense as to even
think
I’d make such a ridiculous promise.” Her voice was fading on the stairs, but Charles gaped after her as she continued to rant her way up the main stairs. “Obey you? Ha! Complete gammon, while you go chasing down runaway wagons and jumping off a galloping warhorse like it’s a stroll in Hyde Park.”
She really was furious with him.
Was he being dense? If he was, it wasn’t about the obedience vow, although he could see that was a losing battle already. He’d been unknowingly outmanoeuvred because of his own ignorance and lack of advance preparation, so there was no sense in stewing. She turned at the landing and headed towards her room. Not to the countess’s suite, but to her old room.
He frowned. She was going to promise to love and cherish him. She would never vow before God something she couldn’t possibly keep.
Charles felt the blood drain from his head as the realisation hit him. A ridiculous smile crept over his face.
A hot bath sounded like a good idea. He could do with one, and no one would see his smiles except Robert, who was already keeping any number of his secrets.
He hoped. Perhaps Robert needed a raise. And Annie. And Grady. Not to mention the rest of them.
* * * *
By the time Abby glided through the drawing room doors before dinner, he’d worked out his intentions. Charles would have to wait until later to speak to her about any of it, but he’d let her know now that he wasn’t angry anymore—he doubted she even realised to what she’d admitted. Charles wouldn’t remind her, either. He wanted her to say it intentionally, not because he’d trapped her into speaking the words.
She watched him cautiously, but Betsy was not yet down. He lowered his eyebrows and reached out, beckoning her to him, and with a resigned sigh and a frown, Abby came to his side.
He pulled her against his chest and lowered his mouth to hers, deliberately making the kiss a tender exchange.
Charles had just lifted his head when Betsy stumped through the doorway. Abby was still within his arms, looking dazed, her lips slightly puffy. If she turned, Betsy would know immediately that they’d done more than simply embrace—
The woman glanced at them and snorted. “Poor girl spent the entire afternoon fuming. Good thing you took care of it so we can have a peaceful dinner.”
Charles held back a laugh. The old tartar was as outspoken as his grandmother had been, though much less prudish. He loosened his hands from Abby’s waist and released her, amused when she swayed against him for a second before blinking and turning towards her aunt.
Betsy had a long list of questions regarding the locals, and he had to pay attention and focus on her probing through dinner. By the time the teacart came in, he felt as if he’d relayed the entire long history of his corner of the county in excruciating detail.
They all looked up when a loud rapping sounded in the front hall, and heard Grady hurrying to answer it.
“Who in the world would call this time of night?” Abby asked, looking at him.
Charles shrugged. He couldn’t imagine.
Grady immediately filled the doorway to the library. “My lord, my ladies,” he said, more formally than normal, “Lady Fiona de Rothesay has arrived, wishing to speak to Lady Abigail.”
Beside him, Abby frowned. Meriden stood gracefully as Fiona came into the room, and Abby flew across to her and wrapped her in a warm embrace.
Fiona was willowy and slender, with hair as black as Meriden’s own and pale skin hauntingly reminiscent of Lady Winchester’s. She looked tired and worn, but clutched Abby warmly in a tight hug.
When they parted, Fiona went directly to her aunt and kissed the woman’s cheek. Charles watched as Betsy hmphed and returned the gesture. “Wouldn’t have thought they’d send you, what with Genevieve still in town,” the woman muttered.
At once, Abby’s glance went to Charles and their eyes widened. Neither had told her about—
“That’s why I’m here, as it happens,” Fiona said briskly, looking up at her sister soberly. She must have recognised something in Abigail’s gaze because she shook her head and stepped towards her.
Abby spoke firmly, her hand on his elbow. “Meriden, this is my sister, Lady Fiona. Fiona, the Earl of Meriden, my fiancé Charles.”
Charles bowed to her properly, glad he had dressed appropriately. Fiona was garbed in a warm travelling gown, her hair tightly coiled on her head. “Lady Fiona,” he greeted her. “Welcome to Meriden Park.”
“Lord Meriden,” she said, curtsying shortly.
“Dare I hope you’ve come to see your sister married?” he inquired.
Fiona’s lips pursed, but she came directly to the point. “I don’t know. I have things I have to share with Abigail—a family matter. Whether I stay or not depends on Abigail and Aunt Betsy.”
“I see.” Charles raised his eyebrow, assuming that Genevieve’s situation was the cause of her arrival. “Well, then, shall I have a tray brought in? You must be hungry. And, of course, Abigail is pouring your tea already.”
“The tea I’ll take,” she said, moving away to sit beside Abigail. “But nothing to eat, thank you.”
“You must be starving, child,” Betsy said softly.
Fiona shook her head. “I rented a chaise and four, plus the driver. We had to stop two hours ago to change horses, so I ate then.”
Betsy frowned in apparent disapproval, so Fiona went on hastily, “Of course, Mama’s old dresser Frenchie is with me. The butler took her off to warm up and settle in.”
“What’s so important that you came up in a hurry, then?” Betsy asked forthrightly.
Fiona hesitated and glanced at Charles indecisively. He didn’t budge, but Abby murmured, “You can speak in front of him, Fiona. He knows my secrets and can even keep them from Aunt Betsy.”
“He’s not de Rothesay. Or, more to the point, he’s not a Bentley like Mother,” Fiona returned bluntly, mistrust clearly colouring her response.
Charles nodded. He hadn’t sat back down, and now he deposited his teacup on the cart and bowed. “Your point is hardly debatable. As it happens, I have a few things to take care of upstairs before I retire. Abby, would you join me for just a moment and then you can return to your sister?” He met Abby’s eyes carefully. “About the letter we discussed after lunch.”
Abby’s eyes widened. “Yes, of course, Charles,” she agreed, meeting him. “Do excuse me, Aunt, Fiona.”
Charles smiled, somewhat relieved by her willingness to leave with him for what amounted to a private moment. They passed into the front hall, where Grady was clearly waiting.
“Yes?” Charles asked.
Grady looked to him and then to Abby. “All the guest rooms were prepared earlier this week, madam. But Lady Fiona has not visited before. Does she have any particular requirements?” he asked.
Charles smiled, noting the open manner in which Grady deferred to Abby for the decision. He remembered Abby’s comments days ago about bribing the servants and nearly laughed. The senior staff definitely needed a raise, but it would come from his pocket, not hers. He listened as Abby asked, “Is there one near Aunt Betsy’s that is suitable?”
“Yes, madam,” Grady said, “there is one just past your aunt’s, but it is smaller and lacks a sitting area. There are other, bigger ones farther down the corridor, however.”
Abby nodded. “For now, use the one next door. She won’t mind about the size. I doubt Fiona will be here long, and she’ll want at least an escritoire for writing. If her stay is for some reason extended, she’ll need to move to one of the suites with a sitting room.”
“Of course. Immediately, madam.” Grady bowed and withdrew, then Charles clasped her closer to his side.
“He’s calling you madam.” He chuckled, pulling her through the open doorway of the drawing room. The room would be unusable for sitting or entertaining until after the wedding breakfast, but it would do for a private moment or two.
“He has been, and so does Mrs Carlton.” Abby smiled. “Though I have yet to work out why Aunt Betsy and I weren’t given those lovely suites at the end of the wing when we arrived.”
Charles cleared his throat. “Don’t blame Grady for that. Or Mrs Carlton.”
“Oh, I haven’t,” Abby said pointedly. And waited.
“I didn’t want to make hiding in your room
too
comfortable,” he grumbled finally. Taking a deep breath he ploughed forward. “I hope she can offer you an explanation that will give you some peace of mind, or that will help us decide if there is anything we can do about it.”
Abby nodded slowly, waiting for him to continue.
“After she speaks, if you still feel the need to write to Genevieve immediately, my rider will leave at dawn for London regardless. I’ll be sure there are writing materials in your escritoire upstairs. Bring me the letter when you come to bed—I’ll get up early and add it to the packet.”
Swallowing, Abby looked at him, noting his deliberate expectation that they would still be sharing a bed. “Thank you,” she said simply, sliding her arms up and around his neck. “Thank you.”
He snaked his arms around her and gathered her close. “Don’t stay up all night, Abby-heart. You need your sleep—I won’t be happy if you look worried and exhausted on Tuesday morning.”
Abby lifted her head and met his eyes, her own very sober. “I-I-I
almost
wish it had been Genevieve, for you. You would have taken care of her.” She faltered.
Charles felt the pain in her voice to his soul, but a sudden jealous rage ran down his spine at the notion. “That would have left you for Peter Devon,” he objected. “And
that
is not to be even considered as an option, do you understand me?”
He watched Abby’s lips twist. “Yes. It’s just that I’m stronger than Genevieve. I could stand up to him, survive him.” Her voice wobbled at the end, but it was her simple acceptance of his role that soothed him.
“Any reason, sweetheart. Any reason, any time, she can always come here. I promise,” Charles said huskily.
She sniffed. “Yes, I know. I’ll tell her.” Abby let her lips twist as she pulled back. “I have to go. They’ll be waiting for me.”
“Be a good girl. I don’t want to have to paddle you tonight,” he murmured.