The Devil's Love (13 page)

The room itself had been transformed from a library into a sitting room, and

looked as if it had been hit by a cyclone. Papers, books, and magazines were

strewn across every conceivable surface. A basket of sewing articles on the

floor next to the green settee was open, and its contents spilling carelessly

over the sides. Cushions were tossed about the floor and a dozen or more candles

flickered light about the room. Two vases stuffed full of hothouse flowers graced a low table between the chairs. There was something so utterly feminine

about the room that he did not want to enter; it seemed almost sacrosanct.

Instead he nodded curtly to Lady Haversham.

“Lord Darfield! I daresay I was beginning to despair that you would ever return

to your lovely wife!” she called, and waved a handkerchief at him in greeting.

“As you can see, madam, I have returned,” he said abruptly, then looked down at

Abbey. Her violet eyes were sparkling as if she harbored some happy secret.

“I shall expect a word with you directly after breakfast,” he said stiffly.

“Yes, that’s what I understood you to say,” she said agreeably.

He glanced one more time about the room, then gave her a curt nod and

stepped

back. In a moment’s hesitation, he quickly changed his mind and stepped forward

again, intent on telling her at exactly what time he would see her. But she closed the door so quickly that it collided with his forehead.

“ Damnation!” he muttered angrily, rubbing his forehead.

A burst of laughter on the other side of the door brought his head up, and irrationally he believed that those women were laughing at his expense.

“Damnation!” he muttered again as he marched down the hall to his rooms.

Abbey was not ready for another one of Lord Boorfield’s interviews. She had

really begun to enjoy herself at Blessing Park, but his return had cast a gray

pall over everything. She believed she had come to terms with his callous indifference and did not want to see him. But when she had opened the sitting

room door last night, she was dismayed to discover the small kernel of desire

that had taken root so many years ago and sprouted within her had not diminished

in the least.

Especially after His Insufferable Arrogance had kissed her two weeks ago.

As she dressed, she mulled over what she would say. She had heard enough gossip

from Lady Haversham to know that he was very much sought after among the ladies,

a tidbit she found terribly disquieting. Lady Haversham had even suggested that

the widow, Lady Davenport, was his lover. That had not surprised her; he had

said as much himself. In fact, Abbey had deduced that Lady Davenport must be the

reason for his aversion to this marriage—perhaps he felt love for the widow.

Lady Haversham said she was a celebrated beauty, a petite blonde and closer to

Michael’s own age. Abbey, on the other hand, was too tall, her eyes too wide for

her face, and her unruly hair unfashionably dark. It was no wonder that Michael

preferred the beautiful Lady Davenport to her.

She finished dressing and paced in front of the cavernous fireplace to avoid

the

inevitable. She had to be logical about this. If she returned to America now, it

would be in disgrace. Michael loved another, but had honored his commitment to

marry her. She apparently had landed at an inopportune time; Michael probably

had thought to end his liaison before he married. Perhaps he had not considered

he would be married so soon.

Perhaps he needed time to resolve the matter of Lady Davenport before he could

give himself to her. It certainly explained his desire to lead separate lives.

However, if there was any hope that he could love her again, she would gladly

give him the time and space he needed.

She resolved to abide by his terms. He had said she must ask his permission for

all purchases. She would certainly agree to that. She really did not care much

for fashion, and she could not possibly imagine anything she might need.

If he

needed to control her allowance as was the practice, then so be it.

He had said he wanted an heir. Now, that was a little stickier. She could not

bear the thought of carrying his child when he loved another. She would suggest

at least a year should pass so that he would have ample time to finish with Lady

Davenport. Besides, she hardly knew him. Shouldn’t they find some middle ground

on which they could coexist peacefully before parenting children? Not to mention

that the thought of his powerful body coupled with hers almost sent her to her

knees with fear.

And if he wanted, she would go and not look back, even it was the least desirable option for her and would mean her disgrace. Even so, she refused to

listen to the part of her that argued she was not ready to give up on the man

she had loved all her life, even if it meant a battered pride.

She was ready to give him everything he wanted—no, demanded. In the

meantime,

she would live as she had the last two weeks, enjoying the wealth of diversion

Blessing Park offered, staying well out of his way, and striving to increase her

indifference to him. He, on the other hand, could take the time he needed to end

his relationship with Lady Davenport.

Pleased and admiring of her ability to muddle through to a workable plan, Abbey

went to the breakfast room.

She appeared in the doorway wearing a beguiling smile and a cream day dress

covered with a pattern of tiny violets. She felt remarkably fresh despite the early hour and even a little giddy when she saw Michael sitting at the table. He

was clad in a dark-blue coat and dove-gray pants that matched the color of his

eyes. He looked extremely beautiful this morning, but she was strong enough to

ignore that.

“Good morning, Michael!” she said cheerfully.

Good God, Michael thought, she actually looked happy to see him as she rocked

gently back and forth with her hands clasped demurely behind her back.

Lord, but

she had a strong effect on him. His gaze swept over her. He had been with many

pretty women in his time, but something about her eyes, something about the way

she looked at him made him weak. He was not weak, he reminded himself angrily.

“May I join you?” she asked politely. He barely nodded his consent and surreptitiously eyed her feminine figure as she settled into a chair. Her breasts strained against the muslin cloth as she reached across the table for

sugar. A vision of those breasts—bared—danced uninvited in his mind’s eye.

All right, perhaps he was a little weak.

Jones entered through a side door and looked genuinely pleased to see her, an

occurrence, Michael thought as he buried his head behind his paper, that was

highly unusual.

“Good morning, Lady Darfield! Shall I bring you the usual?” Jones asked in a

too-cheerful, singsong voice.

“That would be wonderful. And please, Jones, tell Cook that yesterday’s pastries

were her best yet! Simply divine!”

“I will relay your compliment, madam. Cook will be pleased.”

Behind his paper, Michael raised a brow. Since when did anyone dare speak to

Cook this early in the morning? And since when did Jones have more than two

words to say?

Uncharacteristically, Jones tapped a finger on the other side of Michael’s paper. “And for you, my lord?” he asked in a cool tone.

Surprised, Michael lowered the paper. “Porridge.”

“Porridge,” Jones repeated irritably, and disappeared through the side door.

Michael scowled and buried his head behind the weekly again. He tried to ignore

Abbey. He tried to absolve Jones for being smitten with her. He tried to pretend

he did not smell the enticing scent of lilac and tried not to count the number

of sugar cubes she dropped into her tea. He had much more important things about

which to speak with her.

After a rather sleepless night, he had decided that some of his displeasure was

his own doing. She did not know all the social dictates of this country, and he

certainly had not bothered to explain them to her. He suspected some of her

outrageous behavior during his absence had been directed at him for leaving. The

most logical course was to have a firm discussion with her, brooking no argument, and give her a fair chance to behave properly. He would magnanimously

forestall throttling her for the time being. He thought, given the circumstances, that he was being a model of charitable behavior.

“No more than two, Abbey. Five cubes is quite excessive,” he heard himself

say—much to his own surprise. There was a moment of silence, and he waited for

the barrage to begin behind the cover of his paper.

Instead, she began to hum softly.

Against his better judgment, he lowered his paper so he could see over the edge.

She was still smiling. Damn that smile! He jerked the paper up again.

Several

moments passed. He sat rigidly, not comprehending what he was reading, and

wondering what in the hell she was doing.

“Michael?”

Her pleasant voice startled him. Slowly he brought the paper down an inch. He

would have sworn by the way her eyes sparkled that she was laughing at him.

Bloody hell, she was beautiful when her eyes sparkled like that.

“I trust your business was taken care of?” When he did not answer, she spoke

again. “There is quite a lot of correspondence that has arrived in the last several days. If you would like, I would be happy to respond to those you think

appropriate.” His eyes narrowed. At last, here it was. Whatever she had up her

sleeve, it was about to unfold.

“Oh no, madam, oh no. No!” he said emphatically, shaking his head. He put the

paper in his lap and stared at her in a silent challenge to continue.

“As you wish,” she said with an agreeable smile.

Surprised again, something that so rarely happened to him, he had to concentrate

on keeping his expression bland. He was about to ask her what she was up to when

Jones bustled into the room.

“Cook is happy you are pleased with the pastries,” he announced joyfully.

“She

has made you a special treat this morning. Raspberry tarts!” He proudly held up

a plate piled precariously high with pastries for her to see. Delighted, Abbey

gasped and gleefully clasped her hands together.

Michael’s eyes darted first to Abbey, then to Jones. “Cook made raspberry tarts

before dawn?” he demanded.

Jones answered with a scowl and plopped a bowl in front of him without

ceremony.

“Porridge,” he drawled disapprovingly.

“Oh, these are delicious! Would you care for one?” Abbey purred.

Vaguely irritated and unsure as to why, he muttered, “No. Thank you.”

Abbey made

a little sound as if she were perplexed by his response, then devoured her tart.

Ignoring his porridge, Michael watched her blissfully reach for another tart and

devour it, too, smiling at him all the while. After daintily dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin, she carefully put aside her teacup,

stood, and reached for the plate of tarts.

“Just where do you think you are going?” Michael demanded. Her eyes widened in

innocence.

“If you will excuse me, I have rather a full day in front of me. Oh! You mean the tarts. Sarah is quite fond of them, so I thought to take some to her.

Unless, of course, you would prefer them.”

“I do not want any tarts,” he said with a growl.

Abbey shrugged indifferently. “Very well then. Good day.”

Michael could not think of what to say as she turned from the table and stopped

to examine some fresh-cut flowers before starting for the door.

“Wait!” he barked. Abbey glanced over her shoulder at him. “Did you not understand that I wanted a discussion with you?” he snapped.

Abbey smiled cheerfully. “I quite understood. I suppose I thought we just had

it.”

“No, we did not. Sit down,” he commanded, trying gamely to ignore the unnerving

sparkle in her eye and forcibly reminding himself of the role she had played in

the agreement.

Abbey placed the tarts on the table, then dutifully sat and folded her hands

demurely in her lap. Her lovely face watched him expectantly.

Michael’s pulse began to quicken. “Abigail—”

“Abbey.”

“Abbey,” he conceded. “Pay close attention to what I say. I have been remiss in

not explaining certain things to you. There are… activities… a marchioness does

not engage in, no matter what the circumstance.”

“Indeed? I had no idea!” she said with genuine surprise, then frowned slightly

at Jones, as if he had also been remiss in not explaining to her.

“To begin with, a marchioness does not‘’—he could hardly say the words— ”play

darts at the local inn, no matter how skilled she may be.“ Abbey blinked.

“Or change wagon wheels. Or birth calves,” he continued evenly.

Abbey’s brilliant violet eyes began to darken. There was no hiding a single emotion in those eyes; they were a window to her very soul. And at the moment,

her soul was clearly irritated.

“Pray tell, what does a marchioness do?” she asked coolly.

“She amuses herself with gentle activities. Embroidery, the pianoforte, riding,

etcetera. Not manual labor, and most certainly not barroom games.”

She considered that for a moment, then asked with feigned innocence,

“Do you

mean to say there are rules a marchioness must follow?”