The Devil's Love (19 page)

stud, then announce this is the end!” she shrieked.

“No, it was not particularly satisfying, was it?” He sighed and shoved his hands

in his pockets. Michael had not thought himself as heartless as she accused him

of being, but at the moment, he felt… nothing. It was the end of another series

of assignations, an event almost as routine as his business deals.

Granted, his

liaison with Rebecca had lasted a little longer than most, but in the end, they

all ended. Always. He was mildly surprised she could evoke any emotion in him.

From the moment he had arrived, he had realized he could not summon a true

desire for her anymore. It was simply over. Irretrievably over. He suspected she

had realized it, too, as they had gone through the motions rather

mechanically.

“Rebecca, darling—”

“Don’t call me that!” she spat, her eyes welling again.

“Stop acting like a child, love. You know there has been little to bind us to one another, except, perhaps, a shared physical attraction.”

“That’s not true!” She sobbed.

Michael frowned disapprovingly. “Isn’t it? You do not like the country, or have

you forgotten? I do not like town. You do not like that I engage in shipping—the

Merchant of Darfield, I believe you called me. And I do not like lolling about tearooms, feeding on the latest on dits you so rabidly follow. Come now, love,

you knew there would be an end.”

Rebecca sank wearily to the bed, grabbed a satin pillow, and clutched it woefully to her breast in genuine sorrow. “I knew there would be an end for you,” she murmured. “But not for me.”

Michael felt a small twinge of pity. He walked slowly to the bed and placed his

hand on her smooth shoulder. “Rebecca. .We always knew it would end. It was only

a matter of which of us would end it first,” he said softly.

“No,” she insisted, shaking her head. “I didn’t. I never—‘’

“I am sorry, love,” he interjected before she could finish. “Apparently it is better it ended sooner rather than later.”

Pain glanced Rebecca’s features at that remark, and she reached up and covered

his hand with hers before he removed it from her skin forever. “Do you…

love

her?‘’ she whispered. Michael did not immediately answer. He had told Rebecca he

had married, but nothing more. He certainly had not suggested his marriage was

the reason for ending their affair. Because it wasn’t. He simply did not desire

her anymore.

“Do you?” she whispered. Michael looked down at Rebecca and pondered her

question. He did not love Abbey. But there was something there, something that

had held his interest even when Rebecca had tried every feminine trick she knew

to lay claim to his body. Something that made him feel a faint but definite

twinge of guilt for being here. Something different, something he could not quite name, and something Rebecca did not have. She lifted her lashes and looked

at him with wet green eyes.

“No,” he said kindly.

“But you want her.” She sniffed miserably.

Michael sighed impatiently and withdrew his hand. ‘ “There is no her, Rebecca.

Try and understand. It’s just… over.” Without another word, he turned and walked

out of her bedroom and her life.

Two grooms met Michael that afternoon when he arrived home and, as usual, Jones

stood at the door. Michael strode up the stone steps, mildly perturbed that he

had wanted to see Abbey standing where Jones was now.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Jones said blandly, and extended his hands to receive

Michael’s hat and gloves.

“Thank you, Jones. Have a bath readied, will you? I seem to have found the

muddiest road in all of Southampton,” he said as he moved past the butler toward

the grand staircase. He jogged up the marble stairs to the first floor and turned down the corridor, hoping Abbey would appear before him. For reasons he

did not fully understand, or care to understand, he wanted to see her.

He did not see her, but he heard her. A bright, rapid piece of music drifted through the upper chambers; if he had to guess, he would say Bach. He smiled to

himself as he walked casually to his rooms. The notes from her violin immediately answered two questions for him. She was nearby, and she was in good

spirits.

Michael entered his chamber and nodded to Damon, his valet, who was putting away

some freshly laundered shirts. He went directly to a small writing desk, shaking

his head at Damon as he immediately started for him, his eyes on Michael’s

boots. “As I am quite sure I can remove these boots myself, I will not be in need of your assistance.” He smiled at the stoic valet, who bowed and

made to

quit the room as Michael pulled open a drawer and found some paper.

“One moment. I would have you deliver a note.” Michael sat on an upholstered

maple chair and dipped a quill in the inkwell. He quickly dashed off a note to

Abbey, informing her of his return and requesting she dine with him that evening. By the time her reply was delivered, he was up to his neck in steaming

hot water. Michael motioned for Damon to bring him the missive, and careful not

to smear the ink, he quickly scanned her note.

Thank you. That would be lovely. That was it, the extent of her note, but Michael realized he was grinning.

Ten minutes after the supper hour he was pacing impatiently in front of the long

windows of the gold drawing room, the wait for Abbey becoming interminable. He

was famished; his stomach growled in protest as he paced, and he was infuriatingly anxious. When at last Jones entered the room carrying a tray of

crystal glasses, Michael demanded, “Where is Lady Darfield?”

“Here,” Abbey said quietly as she glided in behind Jones. She was wearing a gown

of silver brocade trimmed in tiny seed pearls. Above the square-cut bodice, a

strand of pearls rested against the voluptuous flesh of her breasts. Her hair was pulled back from her forehead and fell down her back in a curtain of dark

silk curls; one silken strand brushed against her cheek. Beneath long, black

lashes, her violet eyes sparkled. “Welcome home.” She smiled.

“Thank you.” Michael slowly inhaled, marveling at how he could have managed to

marry such a beautiful woman without even trying. “I was beginning to think you

were not coming,” he said, crossing the room to her.

Abbey smiled a little timidly. He looked glad to see her, which seemed very

strange, given that he had felt it necessary to escape to Brighton again just to

get away from her.

“What will you be drinking this evening? Rum? Whiskey?” He smiled as

his gray

eyes probed her face. His nearness was making her skin tingle.

“I think I would try the port,” she finally answered, trying her best to ignore the soft look in his eyes. Michael motioned to the footman, then took her hand

and slipped it through the crook of his arm to lead her to a settee. Abbey forced herself to draw a slow, steadying breath; in his black dinner jacket and

gray waistcoat, he looked every inch the swashbuckling hero about whom she had

once dreamed. Just walking with him, she could feel the power of his muscular

body, and blast it all, she was trembling by the time she sat. She flushed, hoping to high heaven he would not notice what his touch did to her. His masculine attempt to be as charming as he knew how—out of pity, or relief, no

doubt—did not help her. It only made her task all the more difficult. And her

task had not changed. She was determined to release him and go home.

“I was not aware you played the violin,” he remarked with a lopsided smile as he

settled into a chair across from her.

Abbey blanched. Until two days ago, she had believed he had sent her the violin

in hopes she would learn to play for him. “I took it up when I was a girl, in Rome,” she managed to say without choking on her words.

“You play beautifully. I heard you earlier—Bach, was it?”

Pleasantly surprised, she nodded.

“I am a great lover of music, too,” he added with a warm smile.

“I know—well, I have heard—” Abbey stammered.

Michael said nothing, politely ignoring her nervousness. He wanted to say her

musical talent was brilliant. He wanted to tell her she was the most beautiful

creature he had ever seen, stunning him in yet another celestial gown.

Instead,

he sipped his whiskey and watched Abbey’s long fingers drum rapidly against her

thigh.

“How else do you occupy your time, I wonder? I know you play darts, but what of

other games? Chess, perhaps?”

“Chess? No, I never learned. I know a variety of card games, and billiards,

of

course…”

“Billiards?” he asked with some surprise.

“Brussels,” she admitted by way of explanation.

Michael chuckled and shook his head. “Brussels, of course,” he said agreeably.

“And where did you learn to play cards?” he asked, standing to refresh his drink.

“Aboard Papa’s ship, I suppose. But I learned to cheat in Cairo,” she added

absently.

Michael grinned as he returned and took a seat next to her on the settee.

Abbey’s eyes widened slightly with guileless consternation. “Cheating, indeed?

That is quite scandalous, Lady Darfield.”

“I do not cheat as a rule, only when circumstances dictate,” she said softly.

She was staring at his mouth, an innocent act that made Michael’s blood boil.

He placed his untouched drink on a table and moved closer to Abbey.

“Exactly

when, may I ask, do circumstances dictate?”

Abbey’s mouth parted slightly as if to respond. Michael leaned toward her and

caught the lilac scent of her hair.

“When I am losing badly.”

“Hmm?”

“Wh-when I am losing. Badly,” she stammered. He was so close, she could smell

his mild cologne. He was touching her hair, his fingers brushing lightly against

her temple, sending a thousand tingling jolts down her spine. It was suddenly

very hot in the room. Very hot. What on earth was he doing? Did he hope to

frighten her off? If so, he was succeeding admirably.

Michael was reaching for the glass of port she held in a vice-like grip when Jones entered the room and announced supper. Michael glared at the butler, who

pointedly ignored his lord as he opened the door wide, ready to attend them.

With a heavy sigh of frustration, Michael rose slowly and helped Abbey to her

feet. Grateful that her wobbling knees managed to hold her, she walked woodenly

next to Michael to the dining room. It seemed so unfair that a simple touch from

him could turn her mind—and her resolve—to little more than mush.

Seated at the end of the long, mahogany dining table, Michael glanced surreptiously at Abbey, on his right. As the servants bustled about them, he

could tell she was extremely nervous, and tried to think of inane topics that

would put her at ease. He did not have to think long. As soon as the first course was served, Abbey suddenly began chattering like a magpie.

She started with a report of the two weeks she had been in Blessing Park while

he was away, as if it were perfectly natural that she should have been abandoned

on her honeymoon. She admitted to him that she had made some small changes in

the house, including rearranging the main study, and then, of course, switching

the sitting room and library upstairs. When she had fully recounted each and

every activity of those two weeks, she artfully skipped any reference to his latest absence and segued effortlessly into tales of America.

She talked of her cousins, Virginia and Victoria, and her Aunt Nan at length. It

sounded as if the two sisters argued with one another all day while Abbey cheerfully played the arbiter. After the soup bowls were cleared and the main

course of trout was served, Abbey chattered endlessly about the places she and

Harry had explored. That, naturally, led her to thoughts on various chapters of

history, and one by one, every single thought that popped into her brain spilled

out of her mouth. She talked about Roman history, then Egyptian history—with

several references to Persian history—then European history, then American

history. She peppered her recital with interesting, lesser-known facts she had

gleaned during her travels. She lamented she did not know as much as she would

like about the Orient, but vowed she would learn it, as if it were all at once the most important thing in the world. All the while, Michael quietly ate his food, listening politely to her stream of unending commentary, making suitable,

monosyllabic comments as necessary, and resisting her enchantment.

He had no idea what made Abbey so extremely nervous, but she was. Her cheeks

flushed prettily, and she looked everywhere about the room but never at him. She

hardly ate a thing, and instead pushed the food around her plate as she talked.

She was, he admitted to himself, a beguiling creature.

With a quiet smile on his lips, Michael finally leaned over and covered her hand

with his. “Abbey. You can stop now,” he said simply. He fully expected her to

deny she was rattled, but the look of relief that washed over her was enough to

make him chuckle.

“I suppose I should meet it straight on,” she said wearily as she slumped back

in her chair. She withdrew her hand from his and folded it demurely in her lap.

Her long, sooty lashes just brushed her cheeks as she cast her gaze to her

hands.

“What would you meet straight on?” Michael asked.