The Devil's Love (28 page)

“Michael!” she whispered, wildly anxious. She gripped his shoulders with fierce

strength, her nails digging into his back, and lifted herself, meeting his hard

strokes. “Michael!” she all but shrieked, demanding… what?

Until it happened. Suddenly wave after wave of pleasure erupted within her, carrying her swiftly away from all reality but the magic of Michael inside her.

She threw her head back and arched her neck as the release flooded from every

pore, then collapsed backward.

‘ ’Oh, Michael.‘’ She gasped. Not able to control himself another moment, he

cupped her bottom and lifted her from the bed. She heard Michael’s breathing

quicken, heard him whisper “Sweet darling,” as his strokes plunged and intensified. Abbey was only dimly aware of his own powerful need as pure rapture

continued to sweep over her. She tightened around him, never wanting the incredible experience to end. He moaned and, with a final, powerful thrust, filled her completely. His seed poured deep inside her as he softly called her

name, arousing an emotion so deep it could only be love. She slowly opened her

eyes. Michael was staring down at her, an unfathomable look in his gray eyes. He

lowered himself onto his elbows and cupped her face in his hands.

“God, Abbey.”

She brushed the lock of damp hair from his forehead, traced his jaw with the

back of her hand, and caressed the steely muscles bunched across his shoulders.

“That was more than just kisses,” she remarked solemnly.

He smiled faintly. “I confess, I didn’t tell you everything.”

“I didn’t know this could be so… so… exquisite! she blurted.

“Neither did I,” he responded in all seriousness, thinking how she had pleased

him beyond his wildest expectations. Her inexperience was completely overshadowed by her natural and incredible response. He realized, a little uncomfortably, that he had never experienced such profound lovemaking in his

life. He stood in awe of his complete sense of fulfillment, something he had

never experienced with a woman. Not like this.

Abbey propped herself on her elbows to kiss his neck, then brought her swollen

lips to his, kissing him passionately. He quickly began to grow hard again, and

reluctantly lifted his head. Somewhat daunted by the depth of raw emotion he

felt, he was also sensitive to the painful invasion of her body. He kissed her

once more and withdrew, then rolled onto his back, propping one arm under his

head while encircling her shoulders with the other. She sighed contentedly and

rested her head upon his chest, one hand tucked securely under her cheek.

He looked down at the figure that rested against his chest, the dark crescents

of her lashes contrasting sharply with her creamy skin and her luscious lips,

still swollen from the passion they had shared. This beautiful, amazing creature

lying silently in his arms was his wife, whose natural, incredible passion

had

been reserved for him and him alone. What they had just shared thrilled him, but

it also disturbed him. He was in no way prepared for such strong emotions. He

was, for the first time in his life, at a loss. He carefully lifted a strand of hair that draped her eye and tightened his grip on her.

His wife. His beautiful, passionate, extraordinary wife.

Dear God.

When Michael emerged from his chamber the next morning, he almost collided with

Sarah, who hurried down the hall with her arms loaded with fresh linens.

“Goodness, my lord, I didn’t see you!” she exclaimed, and attempted to curtsey

under her burden. Michael nodded and turned away, but suddenly glanced back at

Sarah. Her eyes widened at his dark scowl. He took a step closer to her and

peered intently at her ears.

“What’s that dangling from your ears?”

Sarah beamed. “They are a gift from the mistress, my lord. Aren’t they lovely?”

Michael blinked. “Yes, they are,” he said quietly, and turning on his heel, moved swiftly down the corridor.

Sebastian was the first to notice Michael’s jaunty walk when he entered the

breakfast room. He was also whistling a gay little tune—something Sebastian had

never heard him do, not once, in all the twenty years of their association.

“Sleep well, my lord?” he asked dryly.

Michael grinned mischievously. “I slept very well indeed, Benjamin.”

Startled, Sebastian could not recall a single time the marquis had ever used his

given name. Or anyone at Blessing Park, for that matter, and Lord knew how many

lonely months he and the staff had spent together there when the marquis was at

sea.

Jones obviously shared his great surprise, judging by his look from the sideboard. “The usual porridge today, my lord?”

Michael smiled, as if remembering some forgotten joke. “Don’t think Cook has any

raspberry tarts today, do you?” he asked cheerfully.

Much to Jones’s credit, his expression did not change. “I shall certainly inquire, my lord,” he said, and disappeared through the side door.

‘ “Better yet, Sebastian, have Jones bring coffee and tarts to my library. I need to get some work done this morning as I intend to teach my wife how to ride

this afternoon.” Blatantly ignoring Sebastian’s curious look, he thrust his hands in his pockets and left the breakfast room, whistling again. Jones appeared through the side door with a plate of warm tarts in time to hear Michael’s whistle echoing down the corridor. He frowned at Sebastian.

Sebastian sighed. “Bring them round to the library, Jones. The master is eager

to get his work done so he can teach Lady Darfield how to ride,” he said as he

tossed his napkin on the table, preparing to follow Michael.

As he approached the door, Jones drawled, “Oh, Benjamin, there is the small

matter of five crowns I believe you owe me.”

Sebastian stopped. “I do not believe we can be exactly sure,” he protested.

Jones raised an impertinent brow. “Indeed? If I am not mistaken, only one thing

can put a hitch in a man’s step like that.”

With a sigh of great exasperation, Sebastian pulled a small leather pouch from

his coat pocket and counted out five crowns. “If only he had waited one more

week,” he grumbled irritably as he slapped the coins into Jones’s outstretched

palm.

Over the days that followed, Michael spent less time tending to his work and

more time with Abbey. It was highly unusual for him not to oversee every detail

of his expanding business. Typically he would work long hours, poring over his

accounts. Michael had suffered so long for sins that were not his that his whole

staff was thrilled that he finally had found some happiness. Not that Michael

would admit it, of course, but his actions spoke for him.

One day Michael stood at the French doors of the working study, staring out into

the garden. He dutifully but absently answered every question Sam or

Sebastian

put to him. But when Sam asked for his thoughts on replacing two cannons on one

of their ships, he did not immediately respond.

“Who is that? Milton, I think,” he answered himself. “He shouldn’t stand so…

bloody hell! She just winged him in the knee. Excuse me, gentlemen, while I

instruct my wife on the proper use of a croquet mallet,” he drawled, and, without so much as a glance backward, disappeared through the open door.

“Extraordinary,” Sebastian mused.

“It is.” Sam chuckled. “I never thought I would see the day when the Devil of

Darfield was smitten.”

“Oh, that,” Sebastian said. “I was remarking upon the fact that she can’t master

croquet.”

In truth, to the residents of Blessing Park it seemed there was little the marchioness was incapable of doing well. But Michael had discovered at least

three things for which she had no talent.

The first was needlework. She was working diligently on a rather large piece of

linen, and one night he had asked to see over what she toiled so intently.

Her

face beaming with pride, she had proudly held up the creation for him to see. He

studied it for a long moment, then turned it around.

“Oh, no! That’s upside down!” she had exclaimed.

“Is it? I can’t seem to make it out.”

Her pretty face had fallen. “Why, it’s Blessing Park.”

“Blessing Park?” he had echoed incredulously, and peered closely. Out of the

corner of his eye, he could see her hopeful look, and finally nodded.

“Blessing

Park, of course,” he had said, then abruptly handed it to her before she could

see the lie on his face. For the life of him, every time he looked at that fabric, he could not any more make out Blessing Park than he could the moon.

The second thing Abbey could not master was croquet. As the months turned warm,

several of the staff would gather in Withers’s gardens—much to Michael’s considerable amazement—and play croquet. Invariably, someone was injured by a

flying ball or Abbey’s mallet. Michael had tried repeatedly to show her how to

play, but she was much better suited to the game of golf they played in Scotland. She swung the mallet with such ferocity that the servants would scatter each time it was her turn. As the weeks passed, Abbey would be seen more

and more often sitting on one of the wrought-iron benches during the matches,

whittling. Withers was determined she would finish the wooden flute she had

started, and had insisted she do it during the matches so he could oversee her

progress. To the collective relief of the players, the former sailor would sit next to her with his great arms folded tightly across his chest as small wood

chips flew in every direction. From his study, Michael would watch Abbey, frequently leaping from her bench to cheer a particularly good shot or to argue

the finer points of the game.

The third thing his wife could not master was horseback riding. Initially, Michael insisted on taking her riding on the tamest mounts he could find.

When

Abbey refused Desdemona—citing irreconcilable differences—he even had gone so

far as to purchase an old workhorse from a tenant farmer. They discarded the

sidesaddle early on, but even astride she could not find her rhythm with the

horse. The few times he actually could coax her onto a horse’s back, she inevitably returned from their ventures battered from the constant jarring and

the tension. As the number of lessons increased, Michael realized he more often

than not pulled her across to his saddle and led her horse back to the stables.

She never resisted, sagging against him as the tension poured from her body and

apologizing profusely for her ineptitude. He tried every trick he knew, but Abbey was exceedingly wary of any horse, despite her adamant claims to the

contrary.

Beyond that, there was little she could or would not do. His surprise had been

great the day he found her, quite by accident, shearing sheep. He glared angrily

at his men, who astutely avoided any eye contact with him, for each of them knew

without a doubt it was something she should not have been doing. Abbey patiently

tried to explain to a flustered Michael that it could very well be a handy skill

to have one day. Michael had nonetheless hauled her away, insisting that a

marchioness did not engage in such activities. She responded that she preferred

not to be a marchioness if it was going to limit her activities. Despite his best efforts not to, Michael could not help smiling at that. She had to be the

only woman in all of England who would see the title as limiting her activities.

When Sarah’s brother married in the garden, Abbey entertained the guests playing

old Gaelic music she had learned from listening to Sarah and Cook hum the tunes.

Michael thought she bordered on genius where music was concerned.

One only had to hum a tune and she could translate it into a flowing melody on

the strings of her violin.

With curious pride, Michael watched her interact with the estate tenants and

employees. She was so vibrant, it was difficult for anyone at the small wedding

to resist her. She danced with them all, her interpretation of the Scottish dances both elegant and lively.

What Michael most enjoyed was the lazy afternoons they would spend exploring

Blessing Park. With Harry along, they often found themselves at the ruins, where

Abbey would regale him with some fantastic tale straight from British history.

One afternoon she was reliving the fall of Simon de Montfort, and he had watched, fascinated, as she had slowly twirled around, her arms extended,

weaving the tale of Simon’s quest against despotism and his tragic end.

When she

had finished, she turned to him with genuine sorrow in her eyes and had walked

straight into his arms. He had stroked her hair while she stood silently, her

face buried in his chest.

“Poor Simon de Montfort,” she had murmured at last. “His vision was extraordinary, but he was on this earth too soon.”

“When did you take such an interest in history?” he had asked.

She had smiled sheepishly and answered, “When you asked it of me.”

As they had strolled back to the house, he had glanced surreptitiously at her

several times, marveling at how she had lived all those years, pursuing interests because she had believed he desired it of her. He could not fathom

such unquestioning devotion.

In the evenings, they often sat together in the newly decorated green drawing

room, she working diligently on her monstrosity of a needlework, he reading in

quiet, comfortable companionship. She used their evenings to experiment with