Secrets of a Perfect Night (11 page)

Once he’d filled her again, he withdrew, then returned, a fraction faster but still with the same languid authority that stated very clearly he intended to enjoy her and saw no reason to rush. Her senses heightened, her nerves tightened. The dance as she remembered it began.

A stately measure that steadily escalated as their wildness rose and insinuated itself into the score. She could almost hear the music—her body felt the beat. His controlled, compulsive movement over her, within
her, grew increasingly primitive, primally possessive, yet he made it seem graceful, elegant, inspired. Beautiful. The word resonated in her mind as her body matched his, searching for glory on the sea of sensual rapture he created. They created.

She caught his driving rhythm, his urgency; as the symphony of delight approached its crescendo, she realized how skillfully it was orchestrated. Written and executed for her delight, for her entrapment. Her lips curved. With a soundless gasp, she gave herself up to the silent music, to the pleasure—to her dreams. To the man in her arms.

Adrian was watching her; he knew when she surrendered to the moment, to him. To his expertise. Triumph welled—he held it in check, closed his eyes, and concentrated on appreciating all his senses could seize.

She was liquid silk in his arms, hot and heated, smooth, sleek and vibrantly alive. Her limbs twined with his; her body arched beneath his, enclosing him in a satin embrace. Her tightness nearly unmanned him—a wet dream indeed. But it was her wildness that tamed him, captured him, and held him, that abandonment to the moment that was so integral a part of her—and him.

They were together as they crested each peak, deliriously seizing each precious moment, giddily, hungrily, wanting more. And more. She asked more of him, demanded more of him, than any more experienced lover. She was willful and passionate and elementally free.

He gloried in her, steeped his soul in her passion, in her openhearted desire. She was absolution and wel
come, promise and fulfillment—she was all he’d ever need. He was with her when they tumbled headlong into ecstasy, when their bodies tightened, clutched, and held. Fused. Elemental triumph seared him; he gasped her name and sensed her joy as her womb contracted powerfully.

Slowly the glory faded and still they clung, neither willing to let go.

They adjusted here and there, but neither made any move to part. Their lips brushed, touched, parted again.

The candle guttered and darkness enclosed them. Sleep came silently, and they surrendered, wrapped together, limbs entwined, hearts as one.

He slipped into her as dawn was staining the sky with banners of pure gold. With no words, they loved, each reaching for and finding that joy neither had found with any other.

The power was frightening.

Abby tried to hold it back, to hold it at bay. Tried to deny it when it would sweep her away.

Adrian’s hand tightened across her stomach; he nuzzled her ear. “Let go, sweetheart. Be mine.”

She did, she was—as the tempest tore through her, through him, and took them both, Abby acknowledged that truth.

It changed nothing.

Later, when they were both awake, lying snug in her bed but aware they would have to soon rise, Abby took the bull by the horns. “I’m not going to marry you.”

She felt Adrian’s sidelong glance.

“You will.”

Tossing back the covers, she sat up and reached for her discarded chemise. “I won’t.”

Adrian was too wise to argue, not directly. The day dawned fine; the sun shone. By midmorning the road to the village was clear enough to return. All through breakfast, all through the drive home, he made not one reference to their difference of opinion, nor to the fact that Abby had shared her bed and her body with him throughout the night.

By the time the gig was back in the cottage’s stable, and Esme, Agnes, and Bolt reassured of their health, Abby was casting him suspicious glances. He ignored them and continued in even-tempered vein.

Exceedingly suspicious, as Abby well knew.

After dinner, as was his habit, he followed Esme and Abby to the parlor. Once they’d settled in the armchair and on the chaise respectively, he took up a stance by the mantelpiece and fixed his gaze on Esme. “Aunt Esme”—she had insisted he call her that—“I would like to ask you and Abby to accompany me to London in a few days’ time.”

Esme glanced up from her crochet and smiled. “Why, of course, dear. When would you like to leave?”

“No!” Abby sat bolt upright and stared at her aunt. “I mean”—she flicked a violent glance at Adrian—“we can’t just up and go off to London purely because Dere asks us.”

“Can’t we?” Esme frowned. “I really don’t see why not, dear. It’s not as if we have any pressing engage
ments to keep us here. In fact, we don’t have
any
engagements at all.”

“But…but…think of the propriety.”

Esme stared at her. “At my age?”

“No—at mine!”

“But, dear, I’ll be there, too—under Dere’s roof, I mean.” She smiled up at Adrian. “I presume that’s where we’ll stay?”

“Indeed. Hawsley House is large and fully staffed.”

Lips compressed, Abby turned her sights on him. “And just what are your plans?” she inquired.

Adrian smiled at her—for the first time that day, he let his intent light his eyes. “I’d thought to ask your advice on refurbishing Bellevere. God knows, no gentleman should ever have to undertake such a task on his own.”

“Gracious heavens, no!” Esme declared. “Just imagine—nothing would match.”

Adrian inclined his head, but kept his gaze on Abby’s upturned face. “And, of course, I’m keen to get the house fully livable again, and I’m afraid it won’t meet my standards until the refurbishing’s complete.”

Abby wondered if she was interpreting him correctly. “So you won’t reopen the house, and hire more staff, until the refurbishing’s done?”

“Precisely.”

His lips curved just a little; Abby tensed.

“Until the refurbishing’s completed to my satisfaction and
all
is in place, as it should be, at Bellevere, I really can’t see any point in returning to the moor.”

Abby returned his steady gaze with a narrow-eyed look, but her heart had sunk. Adrian knew her far too
well—he knew she could never bear to be the reason he didn’t come home. Why London, she had no idea, but she couldn’t see how it would change things. Leaning back, she returned his cool smile. “I see. So—when do you wish to leave?”

As soon as humanly possible was the real answer; although Adrian disguised that admirably, Abby sensed his impatience. She still couldn’t see the reason for it, so remained constantly on guard.

They arrived at Hawsley House in Curzon Street late one afternoon after three days on the road. Although Abby had visited the capital and the gardens at Kew on a number of occasions, this was her first excursion into the heart of the ton. As Adrian handed her from the carriage and they followed Esme up the front steps of his town house, she inwardly approved the relative quiet and cleanliness of the fashionable quarter.

Once past the imposing front door, she discovered she also approved the clean, almost austere lines of Adrian’s house—there was no gilt and nothing fussy in sight. Except for the spray of flowers on a side table, and indeed, they provided a nice splash of color against the otherwise severe decor.

Adrian’s gaze alighted on the flowers, and he gave his characteristic almost-smile. “Ah—how fortunate. Mama is here.”

Janet, Vicountess Dere, was delighted to see them; she greeted Abby like a long-lost daughter. “My dear, it’s been too long!” Releasing her from a scented embrace, she added, “I’ve heard of your success with
your paintings and often wondered.” She beamed at Adrian and offered her cheek, which he dutifully kissed. “Visitors in January—darling, you are so thoughtful.”

Esme and Janet knew each other of old; Abby was not surprised when, next morning over the breakfast table, she discovered Adrian now had two allies instead of one.

“Your aunt and I are going visiting old friends, dear—you must let Dere entertain you.”

Abby smiled sweetly, and risked not a glance at he who, she knew, would be only too happy to entertain her. To her surprise, he took her to a fabric warehouse, where they spent the morning examining swatches, then repaired with a selection to his library to match possibilities against Bellevere’s needs.

Helping him refurbish Bellevere—ostensibly the reason she was there—was, Abby decided, a safe enough “entertainment.” When it came to Bellevere, Adrian was all business; while focused on his plans for the house, he was relatively single-minded. Reasonably safe.

The next day he whisked her off to a carpet showroom, and then to a furniture maker. The day after that, it was wallpapers, paints, and mirrors. The next day was rainy and miserable; they spent the morning in his library arguing over color schemes, then after lunch, Adrian drew out a sketch of the floor plan of Bellevere and they started marking in all they’d agreed to order.

It was then, with the sun breaking through the clouds to shine palely through the library window,
slanting across the pad Abby held on her lap as she sketched a study of the formal drawing room as it now existed in her mind, that she realized how deeply enmeshed in the rejuvenation of Adrian’s home she’d become.

She glanced across the room to where he sat behind his desk, marking items on the plan. His devotion to the house wasn’t feigned; their present activity wasn’t something he’d devised purely to tempt her to him. As she studied his concentration, her lips twisted, lifted; she looked down at her sketch. He might have used the need to refurbish Bellevere to bring her to London, but…she doubted he had any idea how much the activity appealed to her, much less how his devotion to that cause endeared him to her. Persistence and dedication were not attributes she’d previously seen in him; they were abundantly plain now.

Indeed, she was seeing a different Adrian, one considerably changed from the young man she’d known. In his hellion days, his gambling, drinking, and womanizing had scandalized the ton; now he seemed a pattern card of the gentlemanly virtues—a devoted son, a caring master, a man who valued his home. She had yet to see him even mildly intoxicated, other than on the night of the blizzard, and that had been more her fault than his. After dinner every night, he did not go out to carouse or game as many gentlemen of his station would; instead, he repaired to his library. She’d looked in and found him reading—reading books she wanted to read.

From chance remarks and Agnes’s reports, she’d
learned that that was his general habit; he wasn’t donning any sheep’s fleece for her benefit.

She glanced at him again, at the silky brown hair shining in the weak sunlight. It was sometime before she returned to her sketch.

The following day dawned fine; Adrian offered to drive her to Kew so she could look around and catch up with the curators. She agreed with alacrity, but as they rolled along in his new curricle, she wondered if he’d be bored. He wasn’t, neither did he hover beside her, as any other gentleman of her acquaintance would have, much to her irritation. Instead, while she talked to the curators and two of her fellow artists, Adrian wandered off; when she was ready to leave she had to go and find him, and drag him away from an exhibition of cacti.

To her considerable surprise, Abby found herself enjoying her stay in the capital.

As this was January, the ton was essentially “not in residence.” Those with country estates had yet to return and would not for some weeks. The town was largely devoid of fashionable matrons and gimlet-eyed dowagers; parties were few and balls rare. Those who remained enjoyed a more relaxed ambience, a less structured existence. With the demands of society absent, it was easy to live much as one pleased.

That freedom suited Abby—she inveigled Adrian to drive her around town and stop here and there so she could sketch. She rarely had the opportunity to sketch buildings; it would be a shame to pass up the chance.

One morning as she busily sketched Horse Guards,
she realized Adrian, seated beside her in the curricle, had become very still. She glanced his way. He was holding one of her sketch books, staring at a page. His expression was unreadable. Then he looked up, and his eyes met hers.

A moment passed, then he asked, his voice low, “Can I have this one?”

Puzzled, Abby shifted to look at which one he meant.

It was a sketch she’d done of Bellevere—a series of sketches of elevations, different faces of the old house. She’d done them when she’d first thought of sketching the buildings in London as an exercise to prime her hand.

She had done the sketches from memory, which meant he was looking at Bellevere as it had been, not as it was.

Her impulse was to say, “Yes, of course”—her inner artist prompted her to lean closer and check over the work, then she nodded. “If you like.”

He looked at the sketch again, then handed her the book. “Sign it.”

Placing it atop the book she was working on, she did, then closed the sketchbook and handed it to him. “Keep it shut until we get back to the house. I’ll cut it out for you.”

They returned to Hawsley House to find Janet and Esme bubbling. “There’s to be a dinner party tonight at the Coombe-Martins’,” Janet informed them. “We’re all invited.”

Abby gazed at her. “Oh.” She’d packed her best gowns; until she’d seen the toilettes of the London
ladies, she’d thought them quite good enough. But now, with a dinner party to face…She blinked. “I really don’t think—”

“Dere—you must take us to Madame Folliot’s this afternoon. Esme wishes to look at the latest fashions.” Janet switched her gaze to Abby. “You must come, too, dear. Bruton Street is one place not to be missed on a visit to the capital.”

Suspicious though she was, Abby could not decline the viscountess’s invitation. So she went—only to find herself bullied into trying on, and then presented with, a day dress, two evening gowns, and an absolutely sinful ball gown of aquamarine silk with a gauze overdress. It did not escape her notice that Janet looked to her son for approval for each dress.