Elizabeth Thornton (29 page)

The ironclad smile that Abbie had been wearing all evening remained intact. She was determined that nothing concerning Hugh Templar would ever shake her composure again. She’d walled him off in the deepest, darkest recesses of her mind, and that’s where he would remain.

Her sister was not so controlled. When Lady Greer moved away, it was obvious that Harriet was seething. “And to think,” she exclaimed, “that we all had such hopes that Abbie could bring him up to scratch. I was never more deceived in a man’s character in my life. Thank God, Abbie, that you were not in love with him.”

Lady Clivendon glanced in Hugh’s direction. “There was always something about him I did not like. He’s a cold man. Our Abbie could never be happy with a cold man.”

Abbie heartily agreed with them and quickly steered the conversation into less turbulent waters. She was fighting
a losing battle, because there were others who took up where her mother and sister left off. By the time she arrived home, she’d heard enough about Hugh Templar to last her a lifetime.

One thing had been made patently clear to her: the Hugh Templar who had resided in Bath was not the Hugh Templar who was known in London. He was a dangerous charmer; he was a shameless flirt; every young woman’s heart beat just a little faster when he walked into a room. And if it was true that his affair with Barbara Munro was over, he’d have all the bold hussies as well as matrons with marriageable daughters throwing out lures to him.

Not all women are like you, Abbie. As a rule, they’re not interested in the breadth of my knowledge, the scope of my interests, or my prodigious
 … 
ah
 … 
intelligence. They want a man who knows how to charm a woman
.

And she’d thought that Hugh Templar did not possess a sense of humor. Well, the laugh was on her.

As one day slipped into the next and there was no reply to her advertisement, and not one word or sign from George, Abbie’s hopes began to falter. She awoke each morning feeling dead inside. What kept her going was sheer force of will. Everyone’s hopes were pinned on the strategy she had mapped out. So she dragged herself out of bed, saw to her toilette, and after consulting her calendar, dressed for whatever event she had marked down for the day. Then she pinned her ironclad smile to her face and sallied forth.

She was close to the breaking point, and that point came when she was riding in Hyde Park with Harriet. She suddenly drew rein and looked around her as though she were lost. She noted that the trees were in bud, and
beneath them, the first crocuses and hyacinths were just coming out. It was late in the afternoon, and the promise of spring had drawn many people out of doors. She saw riders and pedestrians and carriages of every description.

“What are we doing here?” she asked.

Harriet had stopped a few yards farther on. She turned her mount and trotted back. “What is it, Abbie? What’s wrong?”

Abbie repeated her question.

Harriet said, “Don’t you remember, dear? Mama is making her afternoon calls, Giles is at the office, and Daniel has gone to Tattersalls, you know, in case George shows up there.”

“What on earth made him think that George would show up at Tattersalls?”

“Because that’s where gentlemen gather, you know, to buy and sell horses.”

“But we don’t need any horses.”

A look of alarm crossed Harriet’s face. “Are you all right, Abbie?”

Abbie looked around the park as in a daze. When she turned back to Harriet, tears were streaming down her face. “Why did you listen to me?” she cried out. “This is a harebrained scheme. George will never show up, and do you know why?”

“Don’t say it, Abbie!” cried Harriet. “Don’t you dare say it!”

“Dear God, I shouldn’t have to say it. More than a week has passed. A week! You were mad to listen to me. Didn’t you realize I was just clutching at straws? George is never coming back.”

With that, she dug in her heels and sent her horse plunging across the turf. They bolted through a strand of plane trees at the edge of the drive, straight into the path
of an oncoming curricle. Abbie’s mount reared up, almost unseating her. The driver of the curricle swerved to the right, avoiding her by inches, and the curricle came to a grinding halt. With a roar of rage, the driver jumped down and started to berate her.

Abbie stared at him with blank, hollow eyes, then she sent her horse flying across the turf.

Hugh witnessed the accident. He was coming from the other direction, driving his curricle, and Barbara Munro was sitting beside him. She recognized the girl on the horse and gave Hugh a sideways glance.

He reined in his team of chestnuts and stared after Abbie till she was lost to view.

The lighting became her. In fact, everything in Barbara’s house became her and had been chosen as a backdrop to show off her dramatic, dark beauty. The walls, the carpets, the upholstery, were in varying shades of gold. Her ermine-trimmed pelisse and matching muff, for which he’d paid a pretty penny, were in wintry white, and a startling contrast to the furnishings. He almost missed the maid who was kneeling in front of the grate adding coal to the fire. Her uniform matched the backdrop, and she seemed to fade into it.

It was like watching a performance on stage, thought Hugh. Barbara couldn’t help herself. As the maid murmured a greeting, her mistress deliberately stole the scene by gracefully removing her pelisse as she glided across the room. The gown beneath the pelisse was a midnight blue velvet, again, a contrast to the backdrop.

It was all very amusing. And very tiresome.

“Mary, dispose of these. I’ll ring if I need anything.”

Her voice matched the velvet of her gown, and she
knew just how to use it to play on the emotions of her audience. And that’s what he was, he supposed—an audience of one.

When they were alone, he moved to the sideboard, opened a door, and removed a decanter of whiskey and a crystal glass. Having poured himself a drink, he seated himself on one of the gold chairs. At least the chair was comfortable.

“We have to talk,” he said.

She laughed lightly, crossed to him, and boxed him in by placing one hand on each arm of the chair. “Let’s talk later,” she murmured.

She took his mouth with a skill and thoroughness that left him shaken. She was trying to seduce him. It couldn’t work, not only because he didn’t want to be seduced, but because he was remembering another seduction, one that owed nothing to skill or art.

When she raised her head, she was smiling, but her eyes were cold. “All right,” she said, “we’ll talk first.”

She disposed herself gracefully on the chair facing his. He had to give credit where credit was due. Barbara never did anything without grace. He was counting on that grace to get them both out of an awkward situation that was entirely of his making.

After taking a fortifying swallow from his glass, he said, “Barbara, this isn’t going to work. It’s not you, it’s me. I should have told you that there’s another woman involved. I think you must have guessed. I’m suggesting that we cut our losses and part as friends.”

The losses, he wryly reflected, were all on his side. The amount of money she’d spent on clothes this last week could have kept Abbie in style for a year. All he’d got out of it were a few glasses of whiskey and the pleasure of
squiring Barbara around town. But that wasn’t Barbara’s fault. Every time he kissed her or touched her, he’d sensed Abbie right there beside him, looking over his shoulder.

It played hell with a man’s love life.

Barbara must have known something was wrong. He’d dropped her off at her house every evening before taking off on a scouting expedition to find Abbie. She wasn’t hard to find. He knew whose parties the Vayles were likely to attend, and though sometimes he had to attend several, in the end he’d always found her.

It amazed him that he went to so much trouble. He didn’t know what in Hades he was playing at. Here he was, seeking her out, and she looked through him as if he were a plate-glass window. He must be out of his mind.

Suddenly conscious that Barbara was waiting for him to reply to something she’d said, he coughed into his hand, then said, “Beg pardon?”

“Are we talking about the girl in the park?”

His eyelids drooped. “I saw many ladies in the park when we were out driving.”

“Yes, but only one Abigail Vayle.”

He set his glass to his lips and took another healthy swallow.

When it was evident that he wasn’t going to respond, she said, “I realize that a man of your rank must eventually marry, but Hugh, you could do much better for yourself.”

“Could I?” he murmured.

Encouraged, she went on. “Her family has been trying to launch her for years, without success. She’s an eccentric, a confirmed old maid. She has no style; she doesn’t know how to dress. She’d be an embarrassment to a man in your position.”

His expression remained pleasant. “There’s more to Miss Vayle than you realize. She has many fine qualities I admire.”

“Like what, for instance?”

She was genuinely amused, and that annoyed him. “Would you believe,” he said, “her intelligence? Her curiosity? The scope of her interests? Her knowledge of books?”
Her warmth, her softness, her boundless passion for life, her passion
.

When he smiled to himself, her dark brows winged upward. “That won’t hold you, Hugh. Not for long.”

“And you know me so well?”

She rose in one fluid movement and crossed to the sideboard. After pouring herself a drink, she returned to the hearth and knelt at this feet. Her appeal really was staggering. Large, expressive blue eyes fringed by long dark lashes gazed invitingly into his. She was offering herself to him, and he might have been tempted if he could have convinced himself that there was some genuine feeling behind the offer.

After studying her for several moments, he said, “How do you see me, Barbara? I mean, what kind of man am I, in your opinion?”

A slow smile curved her generous mouth. The velvet in her voice turned to silk. “Dangerous. Easily provoked to violence or passion. A ruthless warrior. An insatiable lover. The kind of man a woman dreams of in her deepest, darkest fantasies.”

He was repelled, but not surprised. She wasn’t the first woman who had wanted to share his bed because she believed he was barely civilized. “And you think I’m that kind of man?”

“I know it.”

“What if I were to tell you that I’m not like that at all,
that I prefer books to people, that I’m never happier than when I’m digging around in the dirt, looking for broken pottery and old coins?”

“I’d say you were lying. Is that how Miss Vayle sees you? If she knew what you were really like, she’d be overcome with terror.”

They’d bandied about Abbie’s name too much for his comfort. He chuckled, and said easily, “The man you describe fills me with terror as well. I have something for you.”

He reached in his pocket and produced a black velvet box. She took it from him, opened it, and stared down at the diamond bracelet inside. It was a parting gift, and they both knew it.

She looked at him curiously. “Is this really necessary? So marry Miss Vayle. Your marriage need not affect our arrangement.”

“And you wouldn’t mind?”

“Why should I? It’s the way of our world.”

His answering smile was touched with cynicism. “So it is. But it’s not the way of Miss Vayle’s world. My dear, she would kill me. Anyway, this conversation is pointless. I’m not marrying Miss Vayle.”

“I see.”

She rose and went to stand at the window, with her back to him. In a voice he’d never heard before, she said, “If you are so besotted with the chit, why did you take up with me again?”

“Besotted?” He looked at her with a pained expression, as though she’d just said a four-lettered Anglo-Saxon word. “I don’t know where you got that idea. The truth is, I’d like to wring her neck.”

She had turned to face him, and because he felt he had treated her badly and owed her an explanation, he
elaborated. “We had a difference of opinion, a serious difference of opinion on a matter of principle. She was in the wrong. There’s no doubt about that.”

“So you decided to—how did you put it?—cut your losses?”

“That’s it exactly.”

It was only when he was making for home in his curricle that it occurred to him that he didn’t give a damn anymore who was in the wrong.

Abbie stormed into the house and stopped in the hallway to pick up the post. She quickly riffled through the letters, but there was nothing addressed to her, and nothing that looked interesting or out of the ordinary. She flung the letters down on the hall table and went tearing up the stairs.

She heard Harriet calling her name as she pushed into her chamber, but she was beside herself and could hardly breathe, much less answer anyone. As she crossed the threshold, she began to tear off her clothes.
Harriet’s clothes
, she mechanically corrected herself. She was all dolled up in her sister’s finery. What was the point?
What was the point?

A few moments later, Harriet burst into her room. She looked as wild as Abbie. Her hair was undone, her bonnet listed perilously to one side of her head, and her eyes were red with crying. “Abbie, what’s wrong?” she cried. “What’s wrong with you?”

Abbie pointed to the riding habit she’d just pulled over her head and flung on the bed. Through great wrenching gasps, she got out, “I … hate … puce.”

“Puce? You mean the color?”

Abbie nodded.

“But you chose it yourself. And the color suits you.”

Abbie stamped her foot.

Harriet put out both hands in a placating gesture. “Don’t move. Just stay as you are. I’m going to get you a large glass of brandy. All right?”

When she rushed from the room, Abbie sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. She couldn’t breathe. She was going to suffocate. Why couldn’t she breathe?

Then Harriet was there, pushing away her hands, forcing brandy past her lips. Abbie gagged, then swallowed.

“More,” said Harriet, and tipped up the glass.

The brandy burned her throat. She didn’t like it. But it worked. When she pushed Harriet’s hand away, she could breathe again.