The Devil's Love (14 page)

“Not rules exactly.”

“Then how should one know what a marchioness must do?”

Michael rolled his eyes and glared at the ornately plastered ceiling. He had the

distinct impression he was being trifled with, or the girl was too artless for her own good. “There are certain dictates, societal norms, if you will.

Standards that members of polite society are expected to follow,” he tried again.

“Are you expected to follow them, as well?”

“Of course.”

“Hmm… you mean something like a card game. There are certain rules, and if one

does not follow them, one loses.” She nodded helpfully, then turned a beguiling

grin to Jones. “Unless one cheats, of course!” she added. Jones chuckled but

stopped abruptly when Michael glared at him.

“I wasn’t exactly speaking of cards, Abbey. No one dictates what members of the

ton will do, but there are expectations.” She looked puzzled. He began to rub

his temples.

‘ “Then perhaps you mean rules that govern a solicitor? Like the law?” she asked.

“No, I do not mean that, either,” he said behind clenched teeth.

Abbey frowned slightly and tapped a manicured nail against her bottom lip. ‘

“Then are you referring to procedures that govern the working of something, like

a ship? There may not be exact rules to guide a ship, but one must certainly

guide a ship in such a manner that one does not sink it,” she said, as if playing a game.

At the sideboard, Jones nodded enthusiastically and looked hopefully at Michael,

who drew a long, tortured breath.

“I hardly mean guiding a ship, Abbey,” he said impatiently, despite his best

effort to remain calm.

“Then how does a marchioness know what is expected if there are no rules or

procedures?” she asked again.

“There are no rules, Abbey. No rules!” he snapped irritably, helpless to explain

himself.

Abbey was silent for a brief moment. “I see,” she said cheerfully.

He certainly hoped she did. He returned to rubbing his temples.

“Then the ton can really do whatever they please?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes!” he ground out.

“Thank you, this has been very useful,” she said amicably, and stood to go.

Michael, quite unaccustomed to having to explain himself to anyone, was speechless at how she had twisted his words against him. The scent of lilac

drifted over him as she swept by and suddenly, he could not let her get away so

easily. “Just a moment, Abbey.”

She paused at the door. “Yes?”

“I forbid you to play darts, birth cows, or change wagon wheels. Those are my

rules. You will behave in a manner befitting your station, do I make myself clear?‘’

“You mean my station as a marchioness?” she asked carefully.

“Yes, that of a marchioness,” he said, his patience wearing thin.

Abbey cocked her head prettily to one side. “You make yourself quite clear.”

“Now, what have you planned for today?”

“Oh. Embroidery, the pianoforte. Nothing remarkable,” she replied sweetly.

“You will remain at Blessing Park. Do not visit the Havershams and do not go to

Pemberheath,” he snapped. An unmistakable cloud of disappointment covered her

violet eyes, and Michael instantly regretted being so churlish.

“As you wish. Good day, my lord.” She closed the door softly behind her.

Jones immediately turned from the sideboard and uncharacteristically bestowed a

hateful glare on Michael. “If I may be so bold, sir—”

Michael still had not recovered from his decided inability to explain himself and was very much taken aback by the remarkable utterance from Jones.

“You may

not!”

“A little kindness would not be too much to ask, I should think. She is deserving of it.”

“My God, Jones, I think you should fetch a physician. For a moment I was certain

I heard you instruct me on how to treat a woman!” Michael said incredulously.

“My humblest apologies, my lord, I would never instruct you on how to treat a

woman,” Jones said smoothly. Michael nodded smugly and turned back to his

porridge. “I was referring to your wife.”

The spoon froze midway between Michael’s bowl and his mouth. “ Jones!”

But Jones was already out the door, leaving Michael to stare into his coagulated

porridge. In frustration, he dropped his spoon and stared at the door to the breakfast room, silently willing her to come back and chiding himself for being

weak.

Michael eventually made his way to the library to look for the correspondence

the silly chit had mentioned. It was not in there as he expected, so he went to

the main sitting room. He opened the door and faltered. The room had been

completely transformed. The furniture had been moved to the middle of the room,

forming cozy circles around tables heaped with books. Gone were several of the

old portraits that had hung on the wall, and those that remained had been

rearranged. He was not sure, but he thought several smaller objets d’art were

missing, as well. The French doors that led onto the terrace were open, and a

soft breeze, unusually warm for late winter, lifted a sheet of paper on one table. Those doors, to the best of his recollection, had never been open.

The

room, now airy and bright, was a stark contrast to the dark, solemn room to

which he was accustomed. A maid paused in her dusting and dropped a polite

curtsey as he slowly came across the threshold.

“What happened to this room, Ann?”

“Lady Darfield rearranged it, my lord. She thought it too formal.”

“I see,” he muttered. He walked slowly to the mantel, where a silver tray stacked high with letters sat next to a vase of fresh-cut flowers. He took the

bundle and absently began to sift through them. Invitations, business letters,

more invitations. He suspected the whole Southampton region was eager for a look

at the new Lady Darfield, assuming, naturally, that Lady Haversham had been her

usual loquacious self with a piece of news. Yes, his neighbors were probably in

a frenzy by now, what with his quick and unplanned marriage. No doubt flagrant

rumors of inappropriate behavior on his part were circulating freely.

The sound of laughter coming from the gardens snapped him back to the present.

Unless Withers had completely lost his mind, someone was in the gardens who

should not be, and he had a good idea who.

He dropped the papers on the tray and marched through the open doors onto the

terrace.

Abbey was below him on a grassy lawn. She had changed into a plain black skirt

and white blouse. Her mahogany hair was knotted simply at the nape of her neck,

and soft curls drifted down her back. Atop her head she wore a strange, floppy

straw hat that looked like a giant fruit basket. A dog, one that looked to be

from his kennels, was chasing a ball Abbey tossed for him. Withers was there,

too, working in the garden. He seemed oblivious to her presence until Abbey said

something that made the big man throw back his head with laughter.

Michael would

not have believed it had he not heard it himself. What was it about her that had

his normally humorless staff swooning?

He stood silently watching the scene below him for several minutes.

Abbey tossed

the ball and in a lilting voice urged the dog to bring it to her. Once the dog had returned the ball, she gathered her skirts in one hand, revealing a very shapely calf, and skipped about the lawn, keeping the ball from the dog before

throwing it again. Michael inhaled a slow, deliberate breath before moving toward the stone steps leading to the garden.

Abbey and Withers did not notice him approaching down the main path.

By the time

he reached them, Abbey was breathless, her cheeks stained the color of Withers’s

roses. A familiar and unwelcome longing tugged at Michael as he sauntered toward

them.

She still had not seen him when she sent the ball sailing. It ricocheted off a

tree and knocked squarely into Michael’s leg. In a whirl of skirt and satin hair, Abbey turned to retrieve it, laughing, but drew up short when she saw him.

He was aware his expression was one of stone. He clasped his hands behind his

back and shifted his weight to one leg as he regarded her behind cool gray eyes.

She glanced anxiously at Withers, who grunted as if he were afraid Michael might

touch one of his precious roses. She approached him slowly to retrieve the ball.

“Would you like to join us in a game? You will find it’s quite invigorating, particularly on such a glorious morning.”

“I think not,” he responded coolly. He picked up the leather ball and tossed it

to her. She caught it deftly in one hand, tossed it carelessly in the air, and caught it again.

“Is there something you wanted?” she asked, and nervously flipped the long tail

of silky hair over her shoulder.

“No,” he managed. He might have thought of something more profound to say, but

he was mesmerized. He realized he was staring and abruptly shifted his weight to

the other leg and glanced upward. “Fetching hat,” he remarked dryly.

Abbey wrinkled her nose. “Do you really think so? I think it rather hideous,”

she said as she pulled the hat off her head and examined the outrageous fruit

decoration.

Michael raised one brow in silent question as to why she would wear a hat she

thought was hideous but said nothing.

The dog, having wandered over in search of his ball, began sniffing Michael’s

boots with abandon.

“That dog should be in the kennels,” he remarked, for wont of anything better.

“Harry? Unfortunately, he has been expelled from your kennels.”

“I beg your pardon?” Michael asked, shifting his gaze to her.

“Do you see his paw? He was injured in a steel trap. The kennelmaster was set to

put him down, but I couldn’t bear it. He’s rather a cheerful hound, and but for

his mangled foot, he does quite nicely.” She patted her thigh and the dog wobbled across the lawn in a half lope, half walk, blissfully unaware that one

front paw was permanently disfigured and faced the other at a right angle.

Abbey

squatted down to pet the dog, and Michael could see the voluptuous line of her

thigh against her skirt and her breasts straining against her blouse. He forced

himself to look at the ground. He was mad, quite raving mad. He was standing

there admiring the pirate girl, for chrissakes!

“He is useless,” he muttered impassionately.

Abbey peered up at him with one hand across her eyes to shade the sun.

“He may

well be useless for the hunt, sir, but he is quite a good companion.” She

stood

up and brushed her hands lightly against her skirt while his gaze swiftly swept

her figure. His jaw clenched tightly, and for some inexplicable reason, he could

not summon his tongue. She waited patiently, looking about, anywhere but at him.

After several, long, painful moments, she nodded politely and started to turn

from him.

“Shall I expect you at supper?” Those were definitely not the words he was trying to summon; it was as if his tongue had a mind of its own. He did not want

to be with her, a small fact his tongue apparently had forgotten.

Abbey’s cheerful smile faded. God, he could be a dolt at times. He added softly,

“I do not intend to interview you if you choose to dine with me.” She smiled shyly but did not answer him. Michael stood, regarding her without expression,

waiting for her to agree. When it became apparent she had no intention of responding, he began to feel like an awkward schoolboy. He did not want to be

with her. He did not want anything to do with her. Good God, he could call on

Rebecca if he was suddenly so desperate for companionship! He turned abruptly on

his heel and strode purposefully toward the house.

Withers slowly shook his head as he watched him march away from the corner of

his eye.

“Oh, God, Withers, he despises me!” Abbey moaned.

Withers snorted irritably. “You are naive and apparently blind. That man doesn’t

despise you, gel, he wants you in his bed.”

Abbey blushed furiously. “He wants nothing of the sort,” she said, and stooped

to pet Harry. Not that she wouldn’t have given anything for Michael to want in

her some small way, but not just to bed. She was now convinced he did not want

her even there. She had every intention of telling him this morning she would

abide by whatever rules he laid down, but he had been so devastatingly

handsome

and so predictably cold that she could not bring herself to do it.

“I am not so much as allowed to leave Blessing Park, you know, or to visit the

Havershams. That is hardly because he holds me in great esteem.”

Withers chuckled. “I reckon it has more to do with his esteem for the Havershams.”

“But it’s so unfair! Galen is coming all this way to visit me, and I suppose I will not be allowed to see him, either,” she sniffed.

Withers stopped what he was doing and glanced over his shoulder.

“Galen? Who in

the devil is Galen?”

Surprised, Abbey smiled at Withers. “My cousin Galen. Do you not recall him? He

was aboard the Dancing Maiden the year we sailed to Africa. He wrote me and said

he is coming to visit, very soon. That is, if he will allow it.”

Withers’s fleshy face darkened noticeably, and he turned slowly back to his

roses. “If he don’t, it’s for your own good, silly gel,” he muttered.

Puzzled by his reaction, Abbey straightened and stared the gardener’s broad