Julia London (27 page)

“Poor Simon de Montfort,” she had murmured at last. “His vision was extraordinary, but he was on this earth too soon.”

“When did you take such an interest in history?” he had asked.

She had smiled sheepishly and answered, “When you asked it of me.”

As they had strolled back to the house, he had glanced surreptitiously at her several times, marveling at how she had lived all those years, pursuing interests because she had believed he desired it of her. He could not fathom such unquestioning devotion.

In the evenings, they often sat together in the newly decorated green drawing room, she working diligently on her monstrosity of a needlework, he reading in quiet, comfortable companionship. She used their evenings to experiment with liquors, announcing one day that she had determined ale was her preference. He, of course, made sure that ale was always available, just as he made sure sheet music came from London on a regular basis. Anything Abbey wanted, he provided, telling
himself it was his obligation. His reward was her company, her smile. And her music.

Sometimes, late at night, she would play for him as she did that night so many weeks ago, and each time Michael was swept away with the passion and richness of the sound that filled his chamber. And as he did almost every night, he made passionate love to her. Sometimes he would delay her climax until she begged him; other times he took her with abandon, bringing them both to fulfillment quickly. She was an avid student, guilelessly warm and open in his bed. She exuded quiet sensuality and pure adoration for him, and he unwillingly discovered she held a certain power over him. He felt uncharacteristically helpless when she looked at him, ready to do anything for her or to her, intent on pleasuring her beyond her wildest expectations. Yet somehow it was his satisfaction and pleasure that was exceeded each time.

But there were times when Michael was plagued with lingering doubts about the agreement and a gnawing bitterness with his own father for having pushed her on him. That alone was enough to give him pause. In many ways, she epitomized the burden his father had been to him, a burden he had carried all his life and a burden from which he had thought he was finally free. He feared that when Abbey’s star faded for him, and it would eventually—they all did, he was sure, just as Rebecca’s had—she would remain his unwanted obligation.

Abbey was blissfully unaware of his doubts. For her, the weeks she spent with Michael were pure heaven, every bit the fantasy she had dreamed of all those years, and more, much more. He was incredibly tender and attentive, and could hardly be in the same room with her without touching her in some small, intimate way. She secretly delighted in the way he impassively indulged her every whim. She often wondered who could possibly have thought that magnanimous, handsome man the Devil of Darfield, conveniently forgetting she herself had called him that at one time.

He was terribly kind, too, although he denied it. He was
unusually considerate of his many servants and made sure they wanted for nothing. The young children of the estate adored him. More than once Abbey found him on the lawn with them, his coat slung haphazardly across the shrubbery and his neckcloth untied as he taught them how to fence, or played ball with them. She loved the time they spent together, strolling through the softly rolling hills, wandering through Withers’s magnificent gardens, or taking the coach to Pemberheath.

Despite his gruff exterior, Michael even grew accustomed to Harry. One day he had come into her room and found her sitting on the green silk settee with the hound curled next to her. She had jumped up and attempted to hide the dog behind her skirts, but Harry’s loudly thumping tail had given him away. Michael had frowned and crooked his finger, beckoning Abbey to him. She had come reluctantly, fully expecting the tongue-lashing she deserved. But Michael had surprised her by saying “Madam, how do you expect me to compete?” She had laughed gaily and had kissed him ardently, and after a few minutes of that, Michael had dragged her into his room, calling his apology to the dog when he shut the door behind them.

And, of course, their nights were pure bliss, a world of sensual delight she never knew existed. He made her feel beautiful, praising her body and her response to him. He brought her to shattering fulfillment each and every time, and she never tired of trying new things with him. It had not taken her long to begin to experiment; she tried touching him in different places, or moving in different ways, and his reaction was always one of pure pleasure and gratitude. She told him she loved him when they made love, and he would whisper, “I know, sweet,” or just smile.

But he never said the same to her.

Abbey knew he did not love her; he had never loved her. But as time passed and the magic between them seemed to intensify, she wondered how he could not have some small regard for her. She sensed that he held back from her, did not show her everything. But how could he not feel the power of emotion when their bodies joined, or the depth of tenderness a
simple caress could bring? How could he not share her feeling of being one with him?

Regardless of her curiosity, she would not ask it of him. She had decided, as the three months drew to a close, that she did not care if he ever loved her, because she loved him too much to live without him.

Unaware one morning that it was three months to the day she had promised to wait, Abbey woke up to find Michael gone and a single red rose on the pillow next to her. She sat up, laughing as she brought the fragrant petals to her face. Withers likely would throw his spade and toss his beefy hands into the air in defeat if he knew Michael was now pilfering from his gardens.

She got up and wandered to her room, washed and combed her hair, then slipped into a simple black skirt and pale-blue blouse. She braided her hair, let it hang down her back, and donned her ridiculous gardening hat. Then she made her way down to the gardens and hothouse by way of the kennels. She could see Withers already at work with Hans and Bailey, trimming the hedges.

“Abbey!”

Abbey turned and gasped lightly with surprise. Galen was standing in the shadows of an arbor, which struck her as odd. But she was too exuberant at seeing him to wonder about it.

“Galen!” She smiled, hurrying toward him. “I wasn’t expecting you! Oh, but I am so glad you have come! I don’t know where Michael is, but he’ll want to meet you, I am certain. Wait here and I’ll fetch a footman—”

“No,” Galen quickly interjected, then smiled as he encircled her in his arms and kissed her fondly on the cheek. “I can’t stay long, little one, but I wanted to see you. How are you? Are you well?”

“I’m perfectly fine! Won’t you come in for just a little while? I would so like you to meet Michael.”

Galen dropped his arms and peered over her shoulder toward the front drive, his brown eyes dark. “I can’t, really. I’m expected in Dellwood this afternoon. Abbey, there is
something I must ask you.” He shifted his weight to one leg, moving deeper into the cover of the arbor.

“Yes?”

“As I explained to you, I am expecting some important news, news that will enable me to return to the seas in my rightful position as captain of a merchant vessel.”

Abbey grinned and unthinkingly touched his arm. “That’s wonderful! Is it a commission of some sort?”

“No, it’s … well, really, I am not at liberty to say. The final arrangements have not been made as of yet, you see,” he offered, and looked at her hopefully. He seemed oddly nervous; she wondered what sort of deal he was making that required such secrecy. A fleeting memory of Galen and her father arguing loudly in the captain’s cabin about his irresponsibility raced across her mind’s eye.

“It must sound odd, I know, but I am too hopeful. I prefer not to say anything until I am quite certain of the facts. I would not want to invite bad luck.” He laughed tautly.

Abbey opened her mouth to tell him she would give him what she had, but he quickly rushed to speak.

“You can’t imagine how it burns me to have to come to my little cousin and ask for money. I have no one to blame but myself, but I could not have anticipated these delays, I swear to you, and once everything is arranged, I shall repay your generosity with interest,” he pleaded earnestly.

Abbey did not care a whit about interest or if he ever repaid her. “Galen! You are welcome to what I have. I shall have to ask Michael—”

“No!”
He glanced behind her again then grabbed her hand, holding it between his two gloved ones and pulling her under the cover of the arbor. “Abbey, listen to me. Let’s agree to keep this our secret, just for a time. I would die of shame if you had to ask your husband on my behalf. He would think me a debtor, and as I am your cousin, it would not look well for you. I will not have him thinking ill of you because of some poor relation. I need only a little, just enough to see me through the next few weeks. Surely he gives you an allowance?”

Abbey’s brow wrinkled. Galen was right; Michael had very clearly told her he would not entertain requests from her family. Granted, the relationship between them had blossomed since then, but she did not feel so secure with him that she was willing to risk his displeasure. She had no idea how he would react to Galen, particularly without a proper situation. Yes, Galen was right. It would go much better with Michael when he had a post.

But she had no money, other than the thousand pounds she had won from Michael at billiards. Beyond that, she had given Galen all that she had that afternoon in Pemberheath. “I don’t think I receive an allowance,” she said slowly, “but I’ve a thousand pounds.”

“Ah, little one, your trust and generosity mean so much to me. I am quite ashamed that I must come to you, but—”

“Oh, Galen.” Abbey moaned sympathetically. “You can
always
come to me. You are my cousin!”

He started to speak but something behind her caught his attention, and he immediately dropped her hand and moved forward. Abbey turned; Bailey, the simpleton, was making his way toward them, a curious look on his face. Galen quickly extended his hand, stepping forward to greet the old deckhand.

“Bailey, you old scoundrel. How are you?” He laughed.

Bailey looked confused as he peered closely at Galen.

“Bailey, you remember my cousin Galen Carrey, don’t you?” Abbey smiled. “He was aboard the
Dancing Maiden
the summer we sailed to Africa, do you recall?

Recognition slowly dawned on his weathered face. “Mr. Carrey?” he said slowly.

Galen smiled, flashing a row of white teeth. “I’ve come to say hello to my little cousin. Abbey, darling, do you think you could fetch what we talked about?” he asked sweetly. “I’m in something of a rush for Dellwood.”

“Of course! I shall be back in a moment,” she said, and turned for the house.

Michael strolled to a bank of windows and looked out over the gardens, his thoughts on news he had received from Calais concerning a cargo from the Orient. He saw Abbey heading for the gardens and smiled warmly. He started to turn but his eye caught a movement near the arbor. Slowly he turned toward the window as a man embraced Abbey, kissing her. Surprise rocked him as the man dropped his arms and began to speak earnestly. As Abbey reached out to touch him, the man pulled her deeper into the shadows.

Michael’s mind went numb; another movement registered, and his eyes flicked to Bailey, who was marching with a look of determination Michael thought curious. The simpleton rounded the path and made straight for the arbor. The stranger reappeared, smiling broadly, and extended his hand. Something about the exchange did not seem right to Michael, and as he puzzled over it, Abbey disappeared from view, heading toward the house.

Michael turned from the window and walked slowly to his desk. It was probably someone from Pemberheath. Bailey seemed to know him. It could not be more than a friendly greeting, not for all of Blessing Park to see. He would ask Abbey later, but it was hardly anything over which he should be concerned. He sat down and stared at a bill of sale, trying very hard to push the doubt from his mind.

An hour later, Michael rose to fetch an account book, and through the window, saw Abbey flying across the lawn with the giant azalea in her hands, her straw hat flopping furiously around her face. He couldn’t help smiling; if he had to guess, he would say that azalea was coming to his study.

He strolled to the desk and perched his hip on the edge, his arms folded casually across his chest. Dressed in buff riding breeches, a white lawn shirt, and polished Hessians gleaming below his knee, Michael had every intention of taking his wife on a picnic that day. Today was the three-month mark they had agreed upon, and he would have her answer.

The corners of his mouth turned up as he thought how he would wrest the answer from her.

The barking in the hallway announced Abbey’s arrival, and she fairly burst through the door holding the big potted plant with Harry nipping at her skirt.

“Michael! I thought you had gone out!” she said with surprise.

“I am waiting for you.” She looked very pleased and stood smiling at him.

“Don’t you want to put that down?”

“What? Oh!” she exclaimed, remembering the plant. She glanced about the room and finally decided it would do quite nicely in front of the door opened onto the terrace. She struggled to put it down, but Michael did not raise a finger to help, not when he could enjoy watching her derriere wriggle beneath the plant’s weight. She stood up and brushed her hands together.

“Is that one of yours?” he asked as she admired the shrub.

“Indeed it is. Withers is rather stingy with his roses this morning. Do you like it? Withers said it would never grow, because I started it when it was too cold. I told him it would, it just needed some love and attention.”

“Is that all it takes?” he asked softly.

Abbey nodded eagerly. “I think so. That old sailor is much more practical. He says water and sunshine are all these plants need.”

Michael smiled enigmatically. “I have a surprise for you, sweetheart. Cook is preparing a basket for us—I’d like to take you for a ride in the coach.”