For the Earl's Pleasure (6 page)

“This dress is from Madame Manfried’s, Mrs. Browning. You thought it fashionable just last week.”

“Don’t get snippy with me, child.” Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, I do remember this dress. It is obvious that it looked better on paper than it does on you,” she mused.

“How do you put up with this witch, even in my dream?” Rainewood asked, coming over to inspect Mrs. Browning in much the same way Abigail was being inspected. “No, better question is,
why
do you put up with this? Abigail Smart cowed by a couple of harpies, I’d never have dreamed it. I refuse to think I’ve started.”

“And what would you have me do?” She allowed some sarcasm to filter into her voice.

“Pardon me?” Mrs. Browning snapped, thinking that she was being addressed.

“Er, should I change? I don’t want to displease.”

Mrs. Browning waved a hand. “No, it will be dire, I’m sure, but it is far too late and Mr. Sourting shouldn’t be kept waiting past the standard delay. Gentlemen like a lady to be punctually late. Even you can manage that.” She sailed through the door, taking her mother with her.

Thinking unkind thoughts wouldn’t help her jettison the harpy any more quickly. Making a successful marriage would. She had to keep her thoughts focused on what she needed to do, and ignore Mrs. Browning, no matter how helpful and hindering her presence had come to be.

Rainewood lifted a brow as the matron disappeared into the hall. “Is she always so charming?”

Abigail shrugged. The routine was standard. Mrs. Browning always found something wrong. She’d learned to live with it—from her mother as well—and retreat into her own world when it became too hurtful. “She is not so terrible. She does secure the best invitations.”

Her mother had somehow found the woman and engaged her services at the beginning of the season. Many times Abigail regarded their money more as a curse than a blessing. It had gotten them into this situation, given her mother ideas and plans. Opportunity.

He stared at her. “And?”

“And nothing. You are hardly unaware that the correct invitations are everything.”

“Remove her.”

She perched on her dressing seat, suddenly finding the whole situation absurd. “Remove her? And do what exactly afterward? I have no clout of my own and few prospects, in case you haven’t noticed. Which I know you have.” She crossed her arms.

He shrugged and continued his infernal tapping against the dressing table—sound that only those who were the most sensitive would be able to hear. “So? Banish her from my dream. Tell everyone to go to hell. I would expect it of you. Go see the world. Make your fortune or spend time chasing dreams—fantasies.” There was a dark look in his eye, as if his own suggestion irritated him.

Dreams? Her eyes pinched. “Tour the continent and beyond with no clothes, no money, no protection? A woman alone?”

He stopped tapping for a second. He cocked his head and a strange expression crossed his face, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

“Yes? You were saying?” she asked sarcastically, unnerved by his changing gaze.

He started tapping again. “You could dress like a boy. Get work and go adventuring. Not be a woman on your own.”

She closed her eyes. “How enlightening. I see that you have a plan for my complete destruction well in hand.” A sigh worked its way up from deep within her chest. “You are a penance of some sort, aren’t you? I finally proved them right and did something unforgivable and was saddled with you.”

“That is hardly charitable, Smart.”

“I feel little need to be charitable to you, Rainewood, even in death.” She felt a twinge at saying that, but refused to linger on the feeling. She looked at the mantel clock. “I must meet Mr. Sourting. The requisite time has passed since he entered.”

“Let us go then and see what witty conversation Mr. Sourting brings to my head.”

She held out a hand. “No. You stay here.”

“I want to see how you deal with your lackluster suitor.”

“Lovely. No.”

He raised a brow and she interpreted all of the ways in which he was going to ruin her chances. Her day. Her life.

“If you stay here, perhaps we can work on your quest later,” she said, dangling a carrot.

“I would rather work on it now.”

“Then stay here and think about it.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know what you are up to, and what I need to do to ruin it, so you will do my bidding instead.”

She simply stared at him slack-jawed for a moment. “I never need worry that you will hide your selfish motivations behind coy assertions.”

“Thank you.”

“That was hardly a compliment.”

“I think you just called me honest. From you that is about the best compliment I am likely to receive.”

Her patience was eroding as fast as the morning shadows were giving way to the hot rising sun.

“Stay. Here.”

“No.” He proceeded to stick a hand through the wall. “And furthermore, I’d like to know how you are going to contain me? This
death
thing, as you deem it, has advantages.”

She gripped her fingers into tight fists. Why did she always feel she lost when it came to him? “I won’t help you, if you continue to be such an ass.”

“I’ll just haunt you forever, then.” He seemed quite pleased with himself, despite the note of unease running beneath.

She knew with everything in her that he would do exactly that. A lifetime of Rainewood at her elbow, incorporeal and irritating. Driving her to Bedlam. Or someplace even worse.

She swallowed. “I can’t speak to you while I’m with someone else. People eventually notice the oddity.”

Something flashed through his eyes, but then he smiled broadly. “Then perhaps you should cancel the appointment.”

“No.” She rubbed a hand under her elbow. “Come along, then. I can’t stop you.”

He gave her a dark, weighted look. “I will say nothing…
if
you take me to the east side afterward.”

“No.”

“But—”

“Absolutely not!”

“Then I won’t stay quiet.” He started humming loudly, looking quite pleased with himself as he leaned back against the wall. He only slipped through the wood an inch before regaining his insouciant position.

“Miss?” Telly’s head appeared around the door. “Your mother is becoming agitated.”

“I’ll be right there, Telly.”

“Yes, Miss.” She disappeared.

Her mother. She’d
know
.

“You must be quiet, Rainewood.” Abigail looked away. “If I slip and talk to you…they’ll lock me up.” She bit her lip. “I do not say that in jest. You of all people should know what the reaction would be.”

She remained facing away from him, not wanting to hear the echo of his thoughts that she deserved to be locked up. The silence stretched further than the shadows on the mantel.

“We will see how things go.”

His tone was unreadable. Abigail nodded. It was a better response than she thought he would give. She smoothed her dress and gave the escaped wisp on her forehead one last tuck before striding from the room and down the stairs to face her fate.

Mr. Sourting rose upon seeing her. “Miss Smart, you are looking well.” There was obvious relief in his voice, and she wondered how such a man would deal with having a woman like Mrs. Gerald Smart in his life. It looked as if her mother had been sweetly grilling him in Abigail’s absence with the help of Mrs. Browning.

“Thank you, Mr. Sourting.” Abigail nodded and perched on the edge of the seat nearest him, watching Rainewood settle into a lazy position against the wall. “How are you this morning?”

“Rather well.” He retook his seat. “We were just discussing the weather. A nice time for a walk through the park.”

She inclined her head, waiting for the cue from her mother as to whether to accept or politely decline. Accepting would provide an opportunity to get out of the house and away from Rainewood.

“Abigail would be delighted to walk tomorrow, Mr. Sourting. We have a rather full schedule today, unfortunately. Mr. Farnswourth already asked for her accompaniment in the park for this evening’s ride.” Ah, so that was her mother’s game. A little competition to up the stakes. “However, if you are free on the morrow…?”

“Yes, of course.” He pulled himself upright. “I would be honored to walk with Miss Smart in the park tomorrow.”

There were a number of volleys that had just been lobbed. Mr. Farnswourth was in possession of an open carriage for a tour around the park—a decided bonus in the marriage hunt. Mr. Sourting would have to bring himself up to scratch to compete. But there was enough hope with her mother’s phrasing to make him rise to the bait—which he had.

“You can’t tell me you want this namby ponce courting you? My God, I think he is even worse in my dream than in reality.” Rainewood’s low voice issued from the wall.

Abigail kept her smile in place and her eyes fixed firmly on Mr. Sourting. He would make a steadfast, respectable husband. His uninspired responses, his matte brown hair and watery eyes—were they blue, green, gray?—weren’t things on which to refuse a suit.

Steadfast, respectable, kind. Those were the qualities that mattered. She had all the excitement she needed in her life from right inside her head.

She watched Rainewood from the corner of her eye as he went to the window and tried unsuccessfully to poke a finger through, the digit bouncing off of an invisible barrier.

“Miss Smart, what did you think of the play the other night?” Mr. Sourting asked. The conversation washed over her, as she automatically took part.

“This is worse than tending a sick horse,” Rainewood muttered in disgust. “I thought I had gotten rid of this one a few weeks ago. Why are my thoughts bringing him back up?”

Abigail’s mouth dropped. So that was why Mr. Sourting had dropped his suit and then reappeared after Rainewood’s disappearance from the circuit.

And quite possibly, that was why
all
of her past mercurial suitors had acted in such ways. Maybe it
hadn’t
been her after all.

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, trying to figure out how to respond.

“Easy enough to threaten the man again with your acid tongue though,” he continued to mutter. “You display it often enough.”

Something in the very thought that she wasn’t the sole reason for her suitors’ abandonment had her back straightening. And her ire at Rainewood increasing. The man couldn’t just ignore her in public or berate her in private, no, he was actively ruining her marriage chances behind the scenes. Or had been.

She curled her hands into fists. He smugly looked back, one brow raised as he played with a button on his expensive evening jacket.

“Why would you want such weak-kneed specimens anyway? I’m doing you a favor really.”

He offered similar opinions several more times over the course of the afternoon. He seemed to have no notion or care that he was spilling all sorts of things to her that she had never realized.

At a visit with a potential suitor—“Just like that idiot Banning. Easy to dispatch.”

And at an afternoon musicale where the son of the house sat next to her, with Rainewood tweaking him in the head mindlessly—“Desperate. Too in hock to even know what to do should he find money lying on the side of the road. One good threat will do it.”

And at the last visit before promenade—“Sister compromised by Campbell, and he didn’t have the ballocks to defend her. Weak.”

Every time they would have a caller or go on a call, Rainewood would tag along, somehow adhering himself to her as she left and entered each building. By the time she returned to the house, she had only a brief period to collect herself before her appointment with Mr. Farnswourth. Frankly, she was exhausted and she could see Rainewood was beyond irritated. He had taken up pacing across her floor as she laid down for a brief nap. She closed her eyes trying to pretend to sleep—anything to save her sanity from the endless torment of her new
companion
.

“I don’t understand you. You don’t enjoy any of this. You aren’t any good at it either. Bored stiff,” he said ungraciously. “And I need you to help me wake.”

“This is
my
life. You are dead, not asleep. I’m quite good at conversation, should I wish to be. And right now I’d be willing to help
anyone
other than you.”

Her maid’s cap peeped around the door. “Miss Smart, Mr. Farnswourth will be here in ten minutes.”

She sighed and closed her eyes briefly again, a headache pressing against the edges of her skull. “Thank you, Telly.”

“Another damn outing,” said a voice that definitely did not belong to her maid. “We’ll see how this one holds up. I’m coming along,” he said almost defensively.

She gave him a dark look. “As if I could stop you.”

He frowned at her weary tone and something inside him twinged, even in his dream state, before he pushed it away. He needed to have her help going to the gaming hell. He felt it—that is where he needed to be. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t force her to go. Damn nightmare. Even more annoying than the standard fare where his legs wouldn’t run or his arms wouldn’t move. If she would only go with him, maybe then he could remember what he’d seen and finally awaken.

The memory of what happened lit, then slipped away, right there on the edge of his consciousness, eluding him once more. He whacked his fist on the table with enough force to move it. Of course, it didn’t budge.

And he had annoyingly discovered that only Abigail could hear the sounds he tried so hard to make.

If he could find a way to detach himself from her without getting stuck inside something else…. He had stayed in her family’s carriage during one such trial and been stuck there until her return from the call. He hadn’t been able to budge from the carriage and had nearly gone out of his mind with boredom verging on panic that he’d be stuck there for his dream’s eternity. He didn’t plan to do that again. He didn’t understand the boundary situation at all. Abigail had said that she’d seen spirits—
dreamers
, his mind forcefully inserted—wandering the streets. Surely he should be able to do that too?