Authors: Elle Q. Sabine
His lips compressed, he kept her in his arms until her breathing was sure and steady. When the fire burned low, even later, he carried her to the bed and tucked her into it, then stood up and watched her face in the dim room. It was nearly dawn, and he wouldn’t sleep anyway, only stare restlessly at the ceiling and worry.
Impatiently, he shoved his hand through his hair and turned, blowing out the lamp and banking the fire. She’d sleep through breakfast if he had anything to say about it, and the first words on the subject would be to his man Robert, who could tell Annie.
Chapter Seventeen
Hours later, Charles walked into the morning room to break his fast. He knew he must look exhausted, but it wasn’t as if the servants hadn’t already seen him in this state. He needed coffee, and something more substantial.
Fiona was sitting at the table, staring blankly at the plate of food in front of her.
“Lady Fiona.” He nodded, seating himself as Grady hurried forward with his coffee and a plate, already filled. The man was a godsend, in more ways than one. He’d hardly blinked over Meriden’s odd orders this morning.
She glanced up, then shook herself, staring down at the plate again.
Charles looked at her, more critically. She’d slept, but her colour was still pale and she seemed as grief-stricken as Abby, without the tears. “Did you wish for cocoa?” he asked gently. “Or tea?” Despite the fact that he was worried, something about Fiona’s appearance struck him as oddly familiar. Perhaps there was something in her that resembled Abigail after all, though he couldn’t imagine what it was.
Fiona shook her head. “No, thank you, my lord.” She grimaced. “Abigail is usually up and about by now but I couldn’t tell where her room was. Does she not breakfast downstairs?” Her eyes had drifted to the one remaining place setting untouched at the table.
Charles hesitated. He had no wish to humiliate Abby, but it wasn’t as if their arrangement was a secret. The entire household knew, and doubtless Fiona’s maid would too, soon. “Lady Arlington tends to breakfast in her room upstairs. Abby does come down for breakfast by now usually, but she’s still sleeping.”
He’d just checked on her, actually. It was a fitful sleep. She’d tossed and turned, but when he’d leaned over and kissed her forehead, she’d sighed and slipped deeper into the pillow.
His voice hardened even as he fought to keep it level and unemotional. “As she was up crying until dawn, I told her maid not to disturb her. She needs the rest.”
Fiona gaped at him, then furrowed her brow. “
Why
was she crying? What did you say to her?” the indignant woman asked.
Setting down his cup with a decisive clink, he glared back. “She was crying—sobbing, actually—over whatever
you
told her. And I goddamn know it was about more than Genevieve’s engagement, so don’t even think to fob that off as an excuse. When I finally found her in the morning hours, hiding in a stupidly frigid, unused room in the dark, it was much too late for any meaningful conversation. At the time, the only concern I had was to make sure she got warmed up and into bed. So perhaps now you have something you wish to share?”
Fiona stared at him, her mouth open. Charles suspected cynically that she wasn’t accustomed to anyone speaking to her so bluntly.
Visibly she collected herself. “I’m afraid I am the bearer of bad news, but she seemed to think last night that she should be the one to tell you.” Pushing her chair back, the plate untouched, she grimaced and stood.
Charles automatically stood too, with good manners that probably seemed intimidating.
“It’s not a role I want, or something I’ve been assigned. But it’s something Abigail must know, and there’s no way to keep it from our aunt, no matter how much I’d like to. So, I-I have to tell Aunt Betsy,” Fiona said in a whisper. “I can hardly bear to repeat the whole sordid story another time, but I can’t expect Abigail to tell it twice either. If you’ll excuse me?”
Charles nodded and sighed, sinking down into his chair glumly. He’d eat, and if Abigail was still asleep, he’d take a nap on the library chaise. If Abigail and Fiona were any indication, Betsy would be in histrionics. And Abby? Her misery didn’t bear thinking about.
He’d make it all right for her. He had to.
* * * *
Abigail let herself into the library, unannounced. She’d slept through breakfast, and had had a plate of cold fruit and cheese for lunch as she’d methodically bathed and dressed. Annie had been solicitous and kind, clearly concerned about her mistress’ haggard appearance, despite the fact that it was already early afternoon.
When Abigail had been astonished by the late hour, Annie had assured her that both she and Robert had been firmly prohibited from entering the bedroom. “His lordship, up at dawn he was, said you was to sleep undisturbed. He checked on you twice, himself, and said as how you was up all night worryin’ over your sisters.”
It was only partly the truth, Abigail thought bitterly.
She’d thought about seeking out Fiona and her aunt, who must have dragged the truth from Fiona by now. But the truth was that she couldn’t make any sense of her future until she’d confessed the sins of her parents and had put her fate in Meriden’s hands.
Meriden looked up as she entered, and immediately came for her. His gaze was hooded and dark, almost forbidding. For a moment, she wondered if he knew, but he cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her head up, and she knew his mood was occasioned by her sadness.
Abigail couldn’t seem to help it. She knew the sorrow was obvious.
“Come,” he said simply, taking her hand and leading her to a settee that was situated by the long windows. He sat her on it, then took the seat beside her and tilted her face up so he could see it under the bright glare of the sunshine.
“You still look exhausted,” he murmured. “I do not approve.” The words were gentle, beguiling, and Abigail felt pain spear through her chest, as though someone were ripping her heart from her.
“I have to tell you. Now.” The words were emotional and breaking and Abigail sucked in a breath. “S-so you can decide what to do.”
Meriden looked at her curiously, but dropped his hands to hers, clasping them in her lap. “Tell me about it, then, Abby-heart. Let me do what I can to put the sunshine back in your face.”
An agonised cry broke from Abigail’s lips. She hadn’t wanted him to be so tender. “Don’t,” she begged. “Don’t be kind. Not now. I can’t bear it.”
He frowned and shook his head in confusion. “What, you would prefer I scold you?”
Abigail trembled. She knew he could feel it, so she hurried on, “Just listen, listen to all of the horrible mess. Hear me out. Please?”
Serious, focused on her, Meriden nodded. She could feel his tenderness evaporating as she spoke, knew his body was tensing, could feel the fury in his eyes as he looked at her. Eventually, he stood up and paced back and forth, while she finished the awful truth, her words thick with despair and shame.
She stared at her hands. “I am so, so sorry, Charles. I swear I didn’t know—I never would have promised to marry you, to bring—”
“
What
?” he practically roared, striding back to her and jerking her face up to look at him. “Why the hell
not
?”
Abigail wished she could wipe the tears away, to see him clearly, but it was impossible until he let her go. Shaking, her hands fisted so tight her nails were numb, she managed, “I’m a b-b-bastard, Charles, a true one. Your family… Your heritage… You deserve better than that. I’ll leave tonight—”
“Over my dead body. I swear to God, I am going to paddle you tonight, so hard that you feel it every damned minute of the day tomorrow.” He glared at her, his voice raised in temper. “And if you make me chase a carriage half the night, so that tomorrow I’m dragging you up in front of Danvers in a travelling gown and old bonnet, I’ll spank you in front of the whole damned church.”
“I don’t
want
to go,” she whispered. “But someday you will hate me for this, for being trapped in a marriage with me, someone unsuitable—”
“The only thing you need to worry your pretty head about, Abigail, is whether I use an oak paddle or a leather strap.” The words, harshly uttered, pierced her brain. It wasn’t the implied physical threat that caught her, but the absolute commitment in his voice. To her.
Abigail’s heartache intensified. “Why can’t you
see
it?” she pleaded. “I don’t want you to marry me out of pity. I don’t want to be rescued, Charles.”
“At last!” he grated. “Something we agree on. Because I’m not
rescuing
you. I’m
taking
you. You’re
mine
, Abigail.
Mine
. You labelled yourself the spoils of war a few days ago, to be captured and prized, and by God, I am doing just that.”
Sniffing, Abigail stared at him. Tears were still running down her face, but she could see the fierce, forbidding presence above her, bending over her, and a tiny measure of hope fluttered inside her. “Are you really saying you still want to marry me?” she whispered, stunned disbelief crashing through her.
He sighed and sat back down beside her, lowering his head until their noses touched. “I
want
to marry you. I
want
to have children with you. I
want
you in my bed at night, wrapped in my arms. What I want with you isn’t a function of who your parents are, it’s about who
you
are.”
She closed her eyes as relief rolled through her, and she lifted her fingers to cover his hands on her cheeks.
“In any event,” he growled, “after all you’ve said, I’m actually glad not to be sullying the bloodlines with Winchester’s poison. It’s not as if you’re not as blue-blooded as I am, anyway.”
“What do you mean by that? Haven’t you been listening?” Abigail began.
Meriden shook his head impatiently. “I listened to every word. Your mother was having
affaires
with noblemen, Abby, not dock workers or street sweepers. That means your birthright is perfectly acceptable, and, even if it wasn’t, I couldn’t care less. Nor would my ancestors. Meriden earls marry whom they wish, without regard to the expectations of London biddies. My mother is the daughter of an Oxford scholar and my great-grandmother was nothing more than a fiery Irish girl my great-grandfather literally plucked off of a fishing boat and claimed as his. We could go back some more generations and find more unexceptionable matches, if you insist. By those standards, I’m sure your blood is bluer than mine.”
Abigail stared at him, mouth open for a moment. “I don’t have any words to tell you what you mean to me now, Charles,” she eventually whispered, emotion welling within her and colouring her words. “What you’ve come to be over the last week. But I swear to you, on all that I was, am or ever hope to be, all that is holy and good, I will always be faithful to you. No matter what. I know we’ve argued about it and I know what I said then, but no matter what you do, I will never make the mistakes of my mother. Never.”
A small smile touched his face as he stared down at her. “Abby-heart, the only promises I ever need to hear from your sweet lips are in your wedding vows, where you promise to love and cherish me. If you keep those promises, there’s no reason to worry about anything else.” A small movement in his jaw caught her attention, but then he added, “Besides, I plan to keep you far too busy loving me and cherishing me to have time for anyone else, just as you so wisely advised me to do.”
Abigail blinked, knowing his tenderness was intended to calm and settle her. “Why was I the lucky one?” she asked, turning her face and kissing his palm gently.
“Lucky?” he asked, drawing her close against him.
“Of my sisters, I mean. Fiona is going to spend her life bitter and angry now, always afraid for Gloria and Genevieve, and maybe me. I’m afraid for Gloria the most. Thinking of her trapped at Lennox House terrifies me. And while the evilness of Genevieve’s marriage might be delayed two years and more, it’s still there. She’s trapped. But me? I have you.”
A deep chuckle reverberated against her ear. “That’s me, who is going to paddle you later for even imagining that you are not perfect just as you are, and despite all the sweet things you’ve said since. Not everyone would consider that lucky.”
Abigail considered it lucky, and it was heavenly to lean against Meriden and breathe again. The tightness in her chest loosened and she simply sat, letting his strength welcome and comfort her. They stayed there, quiet, for long minutes, and Abigail had nearly decided she would have to clean her face and find her aunt, when the library door opened imperiously and Betsy sailed in, Fiona scrambling behind her.
Abigail stiffened. Betsy was not truly her aunt now. All in all, the woman was probably angry, just like Winchester. Beside her, Meriden straightened and went to stand, reluctantly sliding his arm from around her waist.
“No, sit.” Betsy stayed him with an outstretched hand. Her eyes raked over Abigail’s face and lower, to her gown. “Well, Meriden, are you still man enough to marry my niece or do those tears mean you’re no better a man than her father?”
“I’m man enough,” Meriden groused. “The tears are because she dared to imagine she wasn’t
woman
enough. But we’ve cleared that up.”
“Good, because she looks like she hasn’t slept in days.” Betsy’s voice was acerbic. “Hardly the blushing bride.”
Abigail sighed but made no move to pull away from Meriden’s embrace. “I didn’t even wake up until you two were eating lunch. I apologise for not hurrying to join you, but Charles deserved the first call on my time and attention about all this. It’s not as though it’s a minor matter.”
“Your mother will be humiliated for allowing the wedding to Devon,” Betsy said censoriously, “Even if she had no knowledge of the engagement and has no power to prevent it. Especially after Gloria’s marriage to a man with March’s reputation, and to a lesser extent Meriden’s, even though that’s rather blown out of proportion. I don’t know if it will help Genevieve survive socially to be ensconced under Lady Theresa’s wing, but if it wasn’t for that measure of her physical safety, I’d be back on my way to London now to kidnap the child myself.”