Julia London (8 page)

But he would make do with the situation. He would live in his spacious Brighton town house, keeping to the seas, and leave her to rot at Blessing Park. Rebecca would not like it, but then again, there was little she liked these days. The woman was simply never satisfied, and Michael suspected until she had his name and a town house in Mayfair, she would never be. He had not as yet deemed it necessary to inform Rebecca that he had no intention of marrying her, a conclusion he had reached long before the documents came informing him he would wed the little hellion. No doubt Abbey would be relieved to marry a marquis. Her gratitude for being lifted from the bonds of obscurity and given the protection of his name likely would be so acute that she would undoubtedly pledge to make him a good wife and bear him many sons.

He would take the sons, but he wanted nothing else to do with her.

He poured another whiskey and began to pace. Despite what he told himself, he could not erase the memory of her remarkable eyes clouded with confusion. What in the devil was wrong with him? How had he expected her to look, happy? It was part of her punishment, was it not, her payment for her roll in this sham? Yet regardless of how much she deserved his disdain, he could not, at the moment, reconcile the image of her with it. He walked to the windows and angrily yanked the heavy velvet drapes apart and peered outside, unseeing. He did not turn when the door opened and closed softly.

“I would wager your reunion did not go well,” Sam remarked casually. His steps fell silently on the thick Aubusson carpet as he strolled to the sideboard.

“What did you expect?” Michael asked coolly.

Sam wisely did not answer as he helped himself to a brandy. He took a drink and eyed Michael’s back over the rim of his glass. “Now what?”

Michael shrugged. “I will go to Brighton and summon Rebecca,” he said indifferently as he propped a booted foot on the window seat.

“I think there is something you should know, Darfield. That girl has no notion of the agreement. Thanks to Carrington, she believes you sought this marriage,” Sam announced.

Michael grunted his skepticism. “That little hellion knows too well what her father did, Sam. Don’t underestimate her ability to deceive.”

“Don’t underestimate Carrington’s ability, either, for I am telling you, he greatly deceived her. That girl is in love with an image of a man her father created from thin air. Do you know that she believes you sent her gifts over the last years? That you wrote letters to her father reconfirming your devotion and desire to wed?”

“Really, Hunt, you do not honestly think she could believe such nonsense,” Michael snapped.

“On my word, I think she does believe it. You should at least give her the benefit of the doubt,” Sam responded quietly.

Michael glowered over his shoulder at his friend. “I wonder, if you found yourself in similar circumstance, what
your
reaction might be.”

“I would hope that I would remember the young woman has traveled thousands of miles to marry a man she has not seen since she was a child. She believes—or
believed
—that man loves her and has romanticized that notion to her great satisfaction.” He took a sip of brandy. Michael, saying nothing, turned his broad back again.

Sam sighed heavily. “Well, at the very least she seems to be a rather pleasant sort. There is no need to treat her ill.”

Michael shook his head and pushed away from the window seat. He strolled toward the fireplace, absently swirling the whiskey in his glass. “There is no need to treat her in
any
fashion,” he said after a moment. “She shall be well attended here while I am in Brighton.”

“You might at least try to acquaint yourself with her. She’s not the hellion you described. And after all, she may one day be the mother of your heir.”

Michael threw the whiskey down his throat, slammed his empty glass on the mantel, and turned to glare at Sam. “You need not remind me of
that,
” he said, yanking impatiently at his neckcloth. Suddenly the study was stifling.

“It is not wholly inconceivable that she is as much a victim in all this as you are,” Sam continued, unperturbed, as he placed his snifter down.

Michael snorted scornfully. “If she would but listen to reason, she would not be the helpless victim in your eyes now,” he muttered angrily before stalking to the comer of the room and yanking hard on the bell pull.

“It’s really none of my affair—”

“You are right.”

Jones appeared before Sam could respond.

“Jones, get the vicar here. Today. Straightaway,” Michael barked. Jones bowed and left immediately.

“What are you about?” Sam asked, startled.

“About? I am going to marry her. Or at least make her think I am,” Michael growled and plopped unceremoniously into a leather chair. Sam gave him such a disapproving frown that he could not help wondering what feminine charms had swayed his friend so quickly. Good God, not two days ago the two had shared in his misery. Well, in a matter of a few hours Sam could join him at his wedding—or at least what he hoped would be enough of a wedding to frighten the little hellion away for good.

Alone in the room Jones had shown her to, Abbey grew increasingly inconsolate. She longed for the comfort of her aunt and her cousins and felt a pang of homesickness so deep that it doubled her over.

Her aunt had made her come here. She had reminded Abbey
she had a fortune to collect and a man who loved her impatiently awaiting her arrival. Aunt Nan had put her on the first ship out of Newport after the papers and news of her father’s death had arrived from the West Indies. But had Aunt Nan known what awaited Abbey, she would never have sent her. Aunt Nan believed Michael loved her.

With tears burning in her eyes, she cursed the memory of the man she held dear. The summer she had spent on her father’s vessel had been one of the happiest of her life. Michael had been kind to her and, in her recollection, had indulged her childish fantasies. Of course, there was the one exception of the unfortunate doll incident, but the Michael she remembered with vivid clarity and admiration was
not
the Michael she had met today.

Abbey fought to keep the tears from falling, but failed. When had Michael’s heart turned from her? Why hadn’t he told her father? Alone in the large, unfamiliar room, she bitterly swallowed the fantasy. Not only had he made it clear he did not want her, he also made it clear that he resented her. She felt physically ill, and as she lay despondently on the bed, fighting down waves of nausea, she grudgingly recognized it was her own naïveté that was to blame.

At last she pulled herself off the bed and moved to the gilt-edged vanity.

She sank onto a silk-covered bench and began brushing her hair with a vengeance. “I shall return to America. There is no other answer,” she stated firmly. It was the best thing to do. He could have her bloody fortune, or her father’s creditors, or whoever wanted it, she thought bitterly as she regarded her pale reflection in the mirror. She should have agreed it was a ludicrous situation, thanked him for his candor, and gone on with her life. But no, she had to get angry and stubbornly refuse to give ground. At this more rational moment she realized she would not wed a man who so obviously resented her presence, not even for her own father, God rest his soul.

A rapid staccato of knocks on her door startled her. The brush stilled in her hand as she debated opening it, but before
she could react, the door flung open and the devil himself strode through.

Abbey surged to her feet, dropping the brush. “I beg your pardon!”

“Pardon granted,” he drawled as he crossed the room and picked up her brush.

Abbey’s heart was pounding erratically, and for one insane moment, she could not decide if it was from his ungentlemanly behavior or his sheer magnetism. “What … just who do you think you are, barging in here like that!” she fairly shrieked.

“I think I am the master of this house. No door will be barred to me.”

“The door was not
barred
! It was
shut
. I should hope you would have the common decency—”

“Decency”—he grinned devilishly—“is not something I concern myself with. This is my house. My room. My door. If I want, I shall enter.” With that, he tossed the brush onto the vanity and put his hands on his waist, regarding her closely. Her dark hair, which seemed to be all curl, tumbled about her shoulders, providing a stark contrast to her pale face and the telltale sign of tears. It was exactly what he wanted. He was moving in for the kill and ignored the thought that his kill was a kitten.

“Well? Have you thought about what I said?”

Abbey folded her arms defensively across her middle. Of course she had thought about it, the fool. “No,” she said hoarsely.

Michael arched a skeptical brow as he strolled casually to one of her trunks and peered inside. “How much longer do you need? An hour?”

All of Abbey’s best intentions flew out of her mind at that moment. He was bullying her, trying to force her hand, and he had aroused a stubborn streak in her unlike anything she had ever experienced. Her eyes narrowed.

“Five minutes is more likely.” She strolled to the trunk he was standing over and, with her foot, kicked the lid shut.

Michael lifted his gaze and frowned. So far, his reign of
terror was not having the desired impact on the kitten. “Then your time is up. Either you agree to end this abomination now, or you will marry me. Tonight.”

Abbey merely shrugged.

“Well?” he demanded, his irritation mounting.

“I will not cry off.”

Michael’s heart skipped a beat. “Then come along. The vicar is waiting,” he said with a snarl, and almost smiled in triumph when she paled.

The
vicar
? Abbey wanted to kick herself for being so incredibly stubborn. “No … not yet—”

“Yes, right now. Come along,” he said, reaching for her hand.

Abbey took a quick step backward, shaking her head. “No, you see . . I must change. I must change! I cannot be married in this gown.” Her eyes flicked nervously about the room.

Michael could not suppress his smile. Just as he had hoped, the threat of a real ceremony was scaring her.

“Fifteen minutes. I don’t care if you are wearing the same thing in which you entered this world, you are coming to the chapel in fifteen minutes, understood?” Abbey’s wide eyes fixed on him and she nodded slowly. Michael walked out of the room, shutting the door rather loudly behind him. Smiling to himself, he strolled down the hall to his rooms. It would be the crowning glory, he thought, to show up at her door in fifteen minutes in all of
his
finery. If he was not mistaken, he would be putting the little hellion on a coach first thing in the morning.

As Michael changed, Abbey stared at the ice-blue gown she had extracted from a trunk. It was wrinkled and several of the small pearl beads were missing. But it was the wedding dress Victoria had made for her, and by God, she was going to wear it. That man, that
devil
did not want to marry her, and at the moment, she would bet just about anything she had he would not go through with it. He was trying to scare her, and although he was succeeding—admirably—she was going to call his rotten bluff.

But God in heaven, what if she was wrong?

She was not wrong, she was certain. She quickly disrobed and slipped into the dress. It would have been a stunning wedding gown. A low-cut bodice decorated with tiny seed pearls was fitted tightly to her, the skirt pleated in the back. Abbey struggled with the buttons and realized, too late, that she could not fasten them all herself. She shrugged as she searched for the slippers dyed to match her gown. It did not matter. She was not getting married in this or any other dress. That horrid man would not marry her. He
despised
her.

She had not had time to do anything with her hair when the rapid staccato fell on her door again, and it swung open. Not only was he an ogre, but he was exceedingly rude, she thought, snapping to attention. She was hardly prepared for the sight of him. Dressed in formal attire of midnight black with a snowy white satin waistcoat, he looked even more impossibly handsome than before. A swath of regret cut across her as she stared at his magnificent features. The only thing she and her cousins had been right about was his looks. He was, quite certainly, the most handsome man she had ever clapped eyes on.

At the same moment, Michael thought she would have made a stunning bride even as he eyed her wrinkled gown. But not his, and not tonight. He leaned negligently against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest, and let his gaze wander her svelte figure. She was a gorgeous woman, that much he could not deny. It was a pity; in any other time or place, he would have greatly appreciated her beauty. But the only thing he would appreciate now was her refusal of the agreement. “Well? The vicar is waiting.”

“All right,” she said smoothly, and marched out of the room, passing him in a cloud of pale blue and lilac scent. A laugh caught in his throat as she passed him and he realized her gown was buttoned only halfway up her back.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. She whirled around, a look of wild panic in her eyes. Michael quickly held up his hands.

“Your gown,” he said quickly.

Abbey’s brows snapped to a frown. “I am sorry, but I did not come with a lady’s maid. Surely if I had, you would have sent her back at once. Not responsible for a bevy of relatives or favorites, isn’t that right?”

Michael chuckled and motioned for her to turn around. Abbey was having none of that and violently shook her head. He ignored her, put his hands on her shoulders, and forced her to turn. “Do not worry about your good name, Miss Carrington. I intend to button up this gown of yours as opposed to unbutton it. I rather doubt your bevy of relatives in America will hear of this little episode,” he said as he quickly fastened her gown.

The light touch of his fingers on her back sent a queer, tingling shiver down her spine, but Abbey bit her lower lip and endured it. He was right; she could hardly appear in front of a vicar or anyone else with her gown undone, and as she had no cousins to help her, she was going to have to allow him this one indiscretion. She was amazed at how deftly he fastened the tiny row of buttons, and wondered madly how many times he had sent his fingers flying in the opposite direction on a woman’s back. As soon as he finished, she jumped away from him, practically to the other side of the corridor. When Michael motioned toward the grand staircase, Abbey walked quickly to avoid any further contact, even though Michael was right on her heels.