Married to the Viscount (14 page)

He could manage not to kiss her, couldn’t he? Tonight they’d be under intense scrutiny—that should make it easy.
They’d have to dance a waltz or two, which would be sheer hell, but he’d simply have to tamp down his lust. Thankfully, he and Abby need not dance more than that, since no husband danced every dance with his wife.

He settled back against the squabs. Yes, he must treat her the way most English lords treated their wives—with respectful indifference—if he was to survive the evening without a lapse. He must find a way to gird himself against her charms.

Think about your work
, he told himself.
Surely that will do the trick
.

Once he arrived home and set about preparing for the evening, he forced himself to think of Parliament, of the bills being proposed, of the troublesome resistance Sir Robert Peel was receiving to his ideas about a citywide police force. By the time he knocked at the adjoining door to Abby’s bedchamber, thinking to accompany her downstairs, he was proud of how he’d reestablished control over his vexing desires. She was just a pretty woman, after all. Nothing to lose his head over.

Then Mrs. Graham opened the door, and all his hard-won control crumbled to dust. His wife was a vision even lovelier than he’d remembered. Rich folds of jeweled green silk fell from the high waistband to the floor. Lines of embroidery ornamented the gown with spidery designs in a lighter green, and a number of silk scalloped flounces adorned the hem.

But the lower half of the gown didn’t worry him—it was the upper that sent his pulse into a frenzied pounding. Sweet God in heaven. With her hair loosely piled atop her head and her breasts partly exposed by the low-cut bodice, she looked delectable enough to shatter any man’s control. He would never survive the night without kissing her. He wouldn’t even survive the carriage ride. He’d have her in his arms so fast, it would knock the breath out of her.

“This will not do,” he choked out.

The French maid, who’d been waiting silently for his reaction, said, “Monsieur?”

He scrambled for some reason to explain his consternation without revealing his susceptibility, and could find only one. “She doesn’t look respectable.” Pleased to have hit on a logical explanation for his objections, he hurried on. “They will never believe she is my wife when she looks like…” He searched for the least offensive word. “A ladybird.” When the maid looked perplexed, he added in French, “
Une fille de joie
.”

Both Abby and the maid regarded him with horror.

“
Pardonez moi
, monsieur,” the maid protested, “but this is the height of fashion. A very beautiful gown for madame,
non
? She look like a queen, not a
fille de joie
.”

“Under other circumstances, I’d agree, but this is a delicate situation. She must show herself to be a proper matron tonight, and this gown reveals too much of her—” He forced himself to sound reasonable. “It simply will not do. The neckline is too low.”

“Spencer,” Abby pleaded, “there’s no time for anything else. The other gowns aren’t finished, and I can’t wear a day dress to a ball—that would insult your hostesses.”

“Then use a fichu to cover your bosom.” He glared at the wide-eyed maid. “I don’t care how you do it—just cover her up, understand?”

The maid bobbed her head furiously. “
Oui
, monsieur,
oui
.”

“And another thing,” he went on, “her hair should be pulled up tighter atop her head.” So he wasn’t tempted to let it down and run his fingers through it. He strode up to Abby, ignoring the way her face shone as red as ripe cherries. “I want ringlets here and here,” he said, indicating her temples. “That’s what all the young respectable women wear.”

“But monsieur,” the maid protested, “Madame’s hair is not…how do you say…not for the curling. It will not look so pretty the way you say.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “May I remind you, mademoiselle, that it is your job to make it look pretty. Because if you cannot provide me with what I require—”

“Marguerite,” Abby interrupted in a cold voice, “do as his lordship demands. The ringlets, the fichu, everything. He’s paying for this, so he should get what he wants.”

He stared at Abby, wary of her easy capitulation and vaguely uneasy about the way she’d worded her command. “Thank you.” He studied her flushed face, his unease sharpening. “You do understand, don’t you, my dear? You must look as unspoiled as the dew tonight if we’re to quell the gossip.”

“I understand perfectly, my lord. You want to turn me into an elegant English miss like Evelina.”

“Devil take it, Abby, this is for the best. Once you’re established as my wife, you can dress as you please, but for now you must let me guide you.”

“Certainly, my lord,” she said smoothly. “Whatever you think is appropriate.”

Was she mocking him with her “my lords” and her “whatever you think is appropriate”? Well, let her mock him if she liked—he could not go out with her looking like that, not if he was to keep his hands off her.

“Very good.” He ignored the sudden drop of temperature in the room and Mrs. Graham’s fierce scowl. “We can leave as late as an hour from now, Abby. I trust that you can be ready by then.”

Without another word he left, heading downstairs for the haven of his study and his cognac. Living with this sham marriage was proving a lot harder than he’d expected. He could only pray that the runners found his brother soon.

Chapter 9

Parties, dinners, and balls are the crucibles within which all important persons are tried, but not all emerge purified.

Suggestions for the Stoic Servant

T
orn between awe and fear, Abby surveyed Lady Tyndale’s modest ballroom. How had they crammed this many people in here? At least a hundred gaily bedecked ladies and gentlemen wandered in and out, intent on either dancing or examining her with all the subtle interest of wolves scenting fresh meat.

Even with Spencer beside her, she felt conspicuous. But now that he’d gone off to fetch her punch, she felt like the prime entertainment. Matrons rolled their eyes at her behind their fans. A cluster of young misses burst into giggles after every furtive glance at her hair. And some dandy—she thought that’s what those fancy men were called—lifted his glass to his eye and with a supercilious smile frankly surveyed her attire.

“Don’t mind them,” Evelina murmured from Abby’s side. “You’d think they’d never seen a viscount’s wife before.”

“That’s not why they’re laughing.” Abby’s chin trembled, partly from anger, partly from embarrassment. “They’re laughing at this silly fichu stuffed in a ball gown.”

Evelina lifted one perfectly plucked brow. “Why did you wear it if you knew it wasn’t fashionable?”

“Spencer said the gown wasn’t respectable without it. It’s nonsense, of course, but he gave me no choice.”

Evelina’s lips tightened into a line.

“I wouldn’t mind it so much,” Abby went on, “if it didn’t keep attempting an escape. The gown’s not designed for use with a fichu, so it has no fastenings for it, and the pins keep coming out.”

“Then just take it out and stuff it in your reticule,” Evelina retorted. “Never mind what Spence says.”

Absolutely not. He’d wanted a fichu, and she was going to give him one. Maybe after some of the gossip got back to him, his high-and-mighty lordship would finally acknowledge he didn’t know everything. “Don’t worry. After two trips to the ladies’ retiring room, I think I’ve got it secured.” Although if she relaxed her vigilance for a moment, the annoying scrap of lace would probably leap right out and attack somebody.

Another of her supposed “ringlets” drooped into her eye. She blew it out.

Evelina eyed her closely. “Was the coiffure his idea, too?”

“What do you think? He wouldn’t listen when we told him my hair doesn’t take a curl like yours does. I wish it did.”

“Bite your tongue,” Evelina said. “Last night every woman at the theater, including me, was envying your lovely thick hair so fetchingly arranged on top of your head. It looked ever so much more comfortable—and prettier—than our tight knots.”

Abby eyed her askance. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“No, I’m not. Even Mama liked your coiffure, and while she may seem rather…er…dim, she’s quite the arbiter of fashion. You may just start the next rage.”

Abby didn’t want to start the next rage. She wanted to be
inconspicuous. But that seemed impossible, no matter what she did with her hair. “Spencer said my coiffure made me look like a ladybird.”

“What? That’s ridiculous!”

“Is it? He might have been right.” She gazed at the women, all of whom wore ringlets exactly like Spencer had dictated. Only hers weren’t crisp and tight like theirs. Marguerite had done her best with the iron in such a short time, but it was a hopeless case. “He thinks he can make me look more refined, but you can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse.”

“Especially when it’s already a silk purse,” Evelina said stoutly. “Now see here—don’t you listen to Spence. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You’re perfectly adorable just as you are, and if he can’t see that, he’s blind.”

Abby flashed Evelina a grateful smile. “Nathaniel was right about you—you
are
the most generous woman in England. I see why Spencer says I should emulate you.”

“Does he really?” Evelina frowned. “Sometimes Spence is an ass.”

Abby’s jaw dropped. “What did you say?”

Evelina colored instantly. “Forgive me for my vulgarity, but that’s what Nathaniel always says. He’s right, too. Someone should instruct Spence on how to treat a wife.”

“Oh, he’s not so bad.” It wasn’t Spencer’s fault that his brother had thrust her into his lap. “He’s been very good to me. You should have seen the gowns he bought—I know they cost him a fortune. And the reticules and the shoes…”

“He bought you gowns and all that?” Evelina now wore an expression that on any other woman Abby would have called calculating. “And did he complain about having to spend so much on them? Some husbands do, or so I’m told.”

“Actually, he insisted upon sparing no expense, even when I wanted a more modest wardrobe.”

Evelina looked out across the ballroom floor, a slow smile playing over her angelic face. “Well, well…isn’t that interesting?”

“What?”

Evelina started. “Oh, nothing.” She tapped her fan against her hand. “Tell me, what do you think of our ball? Are balls this grand in Philadelphia?”

“Not by half. For one thing, nobody in Philadelphia actually has his own ballroom. We just roll up the carpets and push the furniture against the wall in the drawing room. Then somebody plays the pianoforte so we can dance.” She gestured at the ballroom. “Your mother outdid herself with all this.”

“You can thank your husband for that. He absorbed much of the cost. He even sent over his cook to prepare the food and loaned us his staff for things like polishing the ballroom floor. We could never have managed such grandness alone.”

That explained a great deal—Nathaniel had described his fiancée’s family as “often short of funds,” and Abby had wondered how they’d afforded such a fine affair. “Why did Spencer do that?”

Evelina shrugged. “Once it became
your
celebration, he thought it only fitting that it be a bit more extravagant an affair.”

“I wish he’d stop spending money like this over our…marriage.” Their
sham
marriage. It made her uneasy.

“Nonsense—Spence has pots of money. So why not let him spend it on a superb orchestra instead of the three musicians we’d hired? Or provide those bright new French globe lamps instead of candles? Except for his grand house, which he only built to further his political career, he never spends his funds on anything frivolous or even fun. Work is everything to him. It has always driven Nathaniel mad.”

Mention of the reckless man provoked Abby to defend
Spencer’s seriousness. “Yes, I gathered that ‘work’ is of little interest to Nathaniel.”

Too late, she realized she was speaking of Evelina’s fiancé, but Evelina didn’t appear insulted. Instead, she cast Abby a searching glance. “Things aren’t always as they seem.”

Abby blinked. Could Evelina know more about Nathaniel’s activities than she let on?

She had no time to ask, because Spencer’s bright globe lamps allowed her to be picked out even by undesirable guests. Like Lady Brumley, who now sailed toward them, a tiny golden ship perched impossibly atop her swirling coiffure.

Abby sighed. Spencer didn’t want her talking to the woman. But what was she supposed to do—be rude? Only rudeness would rebuff the likes of a Lady Brumley.

“My dear Lady Ravenswood,” the woman said, “I simply must talk to you about this Mead of yours. I don’t understand why your father sold it as a cure for indigestion. I’ve tried it several times and it never works.”

Abby stuck out her chin. “It always works fine for me, my lady. Did you try it with milk?”

“I tried it with milk, with honey, with tea—I tried it with everything but the dirty wash water, and it still did nothing.”

Abby winced. “I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe it’s not the right combination of herbs to suit your digestion, my lady.”

“Would you stop with all the ‘my lady’s’, if you please? Good Lord, you’d think you were a servant.”

Heat rose in Abby’s cheeks. Spencer had said something similar—about her not being his servant. But how was she supposed to know the proper way for addressing people with titles? Nobody had told her, and although she was trying to learn by observation, none of it made any sense.

“In any case,” Lady Brumley went on, “I think you’re go
ing about this Mead business all wrong. This shouldn’t be a tonic at all. It’s wonderful as a—”

“Good evening, Lady Brumley,” Spencer said coolly as he walked up with two glasses of punch. Handing one to Evelina, he held the other out to the marchioness. “Have some refreshment, madam. I believe I shall dance with my wife.”

Though Lady Brumley accepted the glass, she scowled at him. “Now see here, Lady Ravenswood and I were in the midst of a conversation. You can’t always be whisking her off whenever I have the chance to talk to her.”