Married to the Viscount (30 page)

Since Lord Surly Britches now had to find something else to vent his general grumpiness on, he turned to survey the grounds. “What in God’s name is all this mess anyway? Did a linen draper spill his goods atop Lady Brumley’s trees?”

Irritated by the man’s steady refusal to leave, Abby obliged him with a cursory look at their surroundings. Then she took another. What in the world—

Lengths of white gauze had been bunched and draped over branches of trees to resemble great puffs of cotton. Or maybe clouds?

Eyes narrowing, she surveyed the overburdened tables, each of which sported angels crafted of pastry, napkins folded
to resemble wings, and huge marzipan centerpieces that looked suspiciously like pearly gates. Awareness dawned.

“It’s paradise, Spencer,” Abby said.

He looked skeptical. “If this is paradise, I prefer purgatory.”

“No, no, I mean the decor. The gauze in the trees is meant to be clouds and the angels and things…It all represents paradise. Heaven.”

“Ah. That would explain the harpists.”

There were harpists? Abby glanced about in surprise to find nine of them in groups of three, playing in different parts of the garden. She didn’t think she’d ever seen more than two harpists in one place in her life.

“It’s because of Abby’s perfume, you know,” Clara explained. “Because of Heaven’s Scent.”

“That’s precisely why I didn’t want to be late,” Abby said coolly. “Lady Brumley is presenting my scent to all her friends today.”

“I realize that,” Spencer said. “I’m not entirely oblivious. I just thought you were cranky because I delayed us. I’m sure you haven’t eaten since breakfast, and it’s nearly three now.”

Abby finally admitted defeat. It was either that or lunge wildly for the food tables. “I haven’t eaten at all today, Spencer.”

“What?” Spencer exclaimed. “Whyever not?”

“Speaking of oblivious…” Clara muttered under her breath.

All the irritation building in Abby since she’d discovered her error now exploded. “This is a breakfast, remember? Nobody bothered to tell me that breakfast comes in the afternoon for the ‘fashionable.’ I thought it started at eleven. And by the time I figured out that it didn’t, I was already trapped into running errands with Lady Tyndale.”

“Good Lord, you must be starving,” Clara said.

Abby gave her friend a wan smile. “I’ve passed beyond starving into a state of delirium—those tables over there look more like paradise by the moment.”

“What are you waiting for, Lord Ravenswood?” Clara said as Spencer stood there agape. “Go fetch your poor wife some food, for pity’s sake.”

“I’m sorry, Abby, I didn’t realize…”

Clara gave Spencer a little shove. “
Now
. Before she expires on the spot.”

“Thank you,” Abby murmured as Spencer hurried off.

“You should have said something sooner. I would never have guessed from the way you were acting that you were starving.”

Good. At least she’d managed to maintain her viscountess manner to some extent. “I considered making a mad dash for the food myself,” she confided in her friend. “But I didn’t want Spencer to see.”

“Why not?”

“I was hoping to come out of this with my dignity.”

Clara laughed. “Who needs dignity when one can have a guilt-ridden husband catering to one’s every need?” She gestured to where Spencer prowled the tables, deflecting anybody who tried to engage him in conversation. “Look at him scurrying about. He knows you can hold this over his head forever.”

“Or at least until Parliament is out of session,” Abby said tightly.

Clara searched her face. “He might surprise you. Anyone can see that you two belong together. Even Morgan says so.”

Spencer was returning, so Abby stifled her retort, but she couldn’t stifle her irritation at Clara’s misguided matchmaking. Even if Spencer decided she was worthy of him after all, she would never accept such condescension. She wasn’t that desperate.

But it was hard to maintain her convictions when he was
being this sweet. He handed her a fork and a plate so overloaded with assorted dishes that she wondered how he’d managed to pile so much on there so quickly.

He hadn’t even filled a plate for himself. Then again, Lord Perfect had probably thought to eat before he left the house.

“Go on,” he said with a faint smile. “Don’t wait for me, for God’s sake.”

She took him at his word. Seizing on the one recognizable item—a meat pie—she ate a bite and sighed. Pure bliss. But then anything edible would taste like bliss just now.

“I brought you the
homards a gratin
, the
gelinotte, les épinards à l’essence
, and that
la veau en croute
you’re eating. I hope that’s all right.”

“It’s fine,” she mumbled between bites.

“You do know what all of that means, don’t you?” he persisted.

She had no clue, but she nodded as she swallowed the last bite of
la veau
. The Viscountess Ravenswood must be completely at home with the French language, after all. She devoured the green blob, then went to work on the bony, sauce-colored blob she was fairly certain was some kind of small fowl.

Spencer’s eyes narrowed on her. “I suppose the English penchant for all things French must seem strange to you.”

“Not at all,” she said between bites of the creamy, fishy-tasting stuff.

All right, so she did think Englishmen crazy for calling roast ham
le jambon à la broche
and pouring a lot of sauces over perfectly good joints of beef and mutton just to make them “French.” Abby Mercer would have voiced her opinion. The Viscountess Ravenswood, however, must take such fashionable idiocy in stride.

As if reading her mind, Spencer went on, watching her closely as he spoke. “Some might consider it odd that we English persist in glorifying French culture, when we just fin
ished fighting a war with France. Some might even say it appears that the French won the war after all.”

Simply because people in polite society used French phrases instead of good English ones? Or insisted upon patronizing French dressmakers and hiring French chefs instead of using the perfectly acceptable talents of their countrymen? No, indeed. Why would anyone say that?

With her intent gaze on Abby, Clara chimed in. “Then there’s the way fashionable ladies always insist on hiring French lady’s maids. And if strained finances force the ladies to hire English ones instead, the poor maids must agree to pretend to be French.”

“Don’t you find that a little silly, Abby?” Spencer prodded.

She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. Yes. She thought it was ridiculous. But she’d managed to go all week by keeping her real, undoubtedly vulgar, opinions to herself—she wasn’t about to ruin all her hard efforts now by voicing them. “French lady’s maids are more adept at dressing hair and such, that’s all,” she countered, trying to guess what a proper Englishwoman might say. “And why would one want to appear to hire the incompetent?”

“Why indeed?” Spencer looked fit to be tied as he glowered at nothing.

With a furtive glance at him, Clara said, “Lord Ravenswood, isn’t that the home secretary standing over there under that horse chestnut tree with Lord Liverpool?”

“Yes. And I’d best go speak to him.” Taking Abby’s empty plate, Spencer strode off, stopping only long enough to drop the plate on a nearby table and take a cup of punch offered by a passing footman.

The second he was out of earshot, Clara murmured, “You know, Abby, you can speak your mind and still be an elegant lady.”

“Not around Spencer, I can’t. I won’t have him looking down on me anymore.”

The footman with the punch had reached them, so Clara snagged two cups, handing one to Abby. “But I don’t think he does. Despite your husband’s seeming seriousness, he’s rather progressive for his class. He knows how to accept people for who they are and not what society says they should be.”

A lump stuck in her throat. “Except in the case of his pretend wife.”

“What do you mean?”

Lifting her cup to her lips, Abby took a quick swallow. “Come on, Clara. Why do you think he resorted to this farce in the first place? Because he didn’t want to stay permanently married to a woman like me, and this was the only way he could think of to extricate himself from the situation without a scandal.”

As if aware they were talking about him, Spencer glanced their way. When his gaze met hers, he lifted his cup in a silent toast, a faint smile touching his lips.

Deliberately, Abby turned her back on him. “Spencer has made it very clear that the socially inept Abigail Mercer is not the sort of wife he wants. She doesn’t have connections and polish and all those things a statesman needs in his mate.”

Clara looked startled. “He told you that?”

“He didn’t have to. He gave me some nonsense about how his career takes too much time for him to manage a wife at this point in his life. But I knew it was only words. He doesn’t want
me
, that’s all.”

Slanting a curious look at Abby, Clara sipped her punch. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, believe me, I’m as sure as a woman can be.” She hadn’t forgotten the painful lesson he’d taught her in the study. Whenever she found herself falling under his spell again, she reminded herself of it.

“I don’t know, Abby,” Clara mused aloud. “A man doesn’t
watch a woman as obsessively as Spencer is watching you now unless he desires her.”

Abby followed Clara’s gaze to where Spencer still stared after her, paying little attention to his companions. His smile had vanished, but his silvery gaze ate her alive, roaming down her body, touching on her lips, her breasts, her belly…

The arrogant wretch—he had no right to look at her as if he wanted her when he knew he would never act on it. She tipped up her chin. Fine, let him look. Because he’d never have the chance to touch her again, not after what he’d done to her in his study.

“Half the women here would kill to have their husbands look at them like that, you know,” Clara said. “It’s plain to see that he wants you.”

“Yes, he does. He wants my body—it’s the rest of me he’s not interested in.”

“I don’t think that’s true. I’ve known him a long time, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that. It’s more than desire, it’s…it’s yearning.”

Abby snorted. “Spencer hasn’t yearned for anything in his life. He has everything he could possibly want.”

“Men can’t always say what they yearn for. Oh, they know what they desire, but not what they need. And Lord Ravenswood needs you. I’d wager my life on it.”

“Then you’d lose it.” Abby wanted to hope, but she didn’t dare. Her hopes had been too cruelly dashed before.

“You can’t give up on him now.” Clara shot her a smile. “And if it truly is just your lack of polish worrying his lordship, you’ll overcome that deficiency. You’ve come so far already.”

Abby forced a smile. “Oh, of course. Now that I’ve learned the language of the fan and how to curtsy to a duke, I can be the perfect viscountess.”

“You know what I mean. You’re more confident than you were even a week ago. And you fit in. You really do.”

“That’s kind of you to say, Clara, but we both know I can never really fit in. I don’t have connections or wealth—”

“Lord Ravenswood has had ample opportunity to marry a woman with those things, and he hasn’t. In fact, you’re the first woman he’s shown any serious interest in.”

Abby opened her mouth to protest, but Clara quickly added, “And don’t tell me he had no choice. He could have claimed that you were his mistress or paid to have you packed off on a boat…he’s got a whole army of police at his command, you know. He could have done with you as he pleased. But he hasn’t.”

“Because for all his faults, he’s an honorable man.” Most of the time.

“And because he respects you. If he thought as little of you as you say, why would he have even suggested this pretend marriage?”

She wanted to ignore Clara’s remarks, but they gnawed at her as fiercely as her hunger earlier. Although Spencer had offered to make her his mistress in his study, she suspected it had been more of a threat than a real possibility. Why else had he refused to pursue that avenue earlier on?

Clara leaned close. “I know how you can determine if your background matters to him. Go over and join him while he’s talking to Sir Robert Peel and Lord Liverpool, men of supreme importance to his career. If Spencer really is ashamed of you, he’ll try to head you off when he sees you coming. Or he’ll allow you only a few words before he hustles you away. Then you can be certain how he feels about you.”

“Yes, and I could also leap in front of a galloping Thoroughbred to see if Spencer deigns to save me, but I’m not going to.”

“Coward.”

“Refraining from embarrassing myself in front of the prime minister and home secretary of England isn’t cowardice. It’s sensible.”

“Is it any worse than agreeing to meet the king?”

“That’s different. I’m being forced into that.”

“By your husband, who supposedly is ashamed of you.”

“He was forced into it, too. But he made it clear he wasn’t happy about the idea.”

“Then show him he’s wrong about you. Show him you can charm his lofty friends simply by being yourself, not some approximation of an elegant Englishwoman.” She eyed Abby speculatively over her cup. “Unless, of course, you don’t think you can.”

Abby scowled at her friend. Curse Clara for knowing her so well. Abby never could resist a challenge. “If I make a fool of myself, you’ll have to answer for it. When Spencer berates me, I’ll blame
you
.”

Clara smiled smugly. “Fine. I’m not afraid of his lordship. The question is, are you?”

No. But she was afraid of appearing the fool before him again. She was afraid of raising her hopes only to have them dashed once more. And she was terrified of finding out for certain that she was right, that he really held her in complete contempt.

Which meant there was only one thing to do. Meet her fears dead on.

Chapter 18

The more lofty the personage, the more circumspect you must be. You must wait until they initiate any familiarity before you respond in kind.