The Devil's Love (31 page)

“I only won one hundred pounds, not a thousand,” she said sweetly.

Michael threw back his head and roared with laughter.

London Abbey tapped the dry quill against the desktop and stared through the

window at a branch dancing in the spring breeze. It was hard for her to believe

she was actually in London; harder still to believe the town no longer held the

same attraction for her as it had once. When Michael had first announced they

were to go, she had told him she never wanted to leave Blessing Park.

The time

they had spent there had been idyllic; the most fulfilling, blissful days she had ever known. He had argued it was impractical to remain forever there, and

the sooner she was introduced to the ton, the sooner the interest in her would

ebb. She did not care a whit about being presented to the ton, but it was obvious he did, and Sam had not helped matters by agreeing with Michael. She

smiled inwardly as she recalled how he had once threatened to leave her at

Blessing Park. Sitting in the huge study at his London town house and going

through the hundreds of invitations they had received, she wished that she had

demanded those words in writing.

She had not yet really ventured out, other than to go to the exclusive modiste

where Michael had insisted-—no, demanded—on paying a small fortune to have her

outfitted in the finest haute couture. Her cousin Victoria would have been awed

by the fabrics and styles, just as she was. Her only other outing had been to

accompany Michael’s elderly great aunt to a tearoom one afternoon.

That outing had caused quite a stir. Her tea with the slightly senile Aunt Neva

had begun uneventfully, but when other patrons realized she was the wife of the

mysterious Marquis of Darfield, there had begun a steady stream of visitors to

their table, all wishing for introductions. They were stifled in the corner of the tearoom, and Aunt Neva looked positively peaked. Abbey had been forced to

speak with practically the entire room before she could get the older woman

safely through the crush and to the awaiting carriage.

She thought the interest in her was peculiar, though, granted, Michael was something of a celebrity. She had heard enough gossip to know that the ton

believed he had almost risen from the dead, but there was nothing particularly

remarkable about her. Nonetheless, if the afternoon in the tearoom or the mound

of invitations was any indication, the ton was very interested. And tonight, she

thought with sickening dread, was the Delacorte Ball. Sebastian had told her it

was the event of the season; everyone who was anyone would be in attendance.

“Lady Darfield, have you decided if you will accept the invitation from the Duchess of Kent?” Sebastian reminded her. Abbey dragged her gaze from the window

to the secretary.

“Oh! I don’t know, Sebastian, what do you think?” she asked apathetically.

“I think one does not refuse the Duchess of Kent unless one is on one’s deathbed,” he sniffed.

Abbey moaned and tossed the quill down and stood abruptly. “I can’t seem to

think today! Sebastian, please excuse me. I think I should like a short walk.”

“But, my lady!” Sebastian protested as Abbey paused to smooth her skirts. “There

is quite a lot of correspondence that should be answered!”

Abbey smiled and patted Sebastian on the arm. “I am quite certain you will

manage it nicely,” she said brightly, and disappeared through the door, in spite

of the man’s protestations. She stopped only long enough to retrieve a bonnet

and a pair of gloves, then walked briskly into the bustling street, headed for

Hyde Park.

It was a glorious day, and in the park, she began to gain some serenity.

She

convinced herself she was being ridiculous. She had nothing to fear tonight; she

was not going to do anything calamitous, like careen off the dance floor and

into a tray of drinks. Giggling to herself at that visual image, she noticed a group of elderly women calling to her and furiously waving white handkerchiefs

from across the green. Abbey groaned, smiled and waved, and began walking as

quickly as she could without appearing to run. They started toward her.

For elderly women, the trio gave her quite a race, finally catching her as the

path turned toward the middle of the green. Abbey sighed and slowed when it

became apparent they would chase her all the way to her front door if necessary,

then turned reluctantly, pasting a thin smile on her face.

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but I should very much like to introduce myself! I

am Lady Thistlecourt, your neighbor!” the slightly plump woman said in a raspy

voice as she caught her breath. She beat a gloved hand at her red face in such

furious fashion that Abbey was reminded of a hummingbird.

“A pleasure, Lady Thistlecourt, I am sure,” Abbey murmured. “You are a neighbor

of Blessing Park?”

“Oh, no! I meant your Audley Street residence! We are just across the park, near

Belgrave Square.” She panted, pointing in the very opposite direction of Audley

Street.

“We have been so eager to meet you and welcome you to our country.”

She smiled

and glanced at her two companions, who, peering closely at her, nodded in

enthusiastic agreement. “May I introduce Lady Billingsly,” she said, pointing to

the thin woman on her right, “and Lady Fitzgerald.” The short woman on her left

curtsied in perfect unison with Lady Billingsly.

“Good day, ladies. It’s a pleasure”—Abbey smiled, taking a tentative step backward—“but I should not want to interrupt your turn about the park—”

“Nonsense! You shall walk with us!” Lady Thistlecourt declared, and reached up

to adjust her slipping bonnet, knocked loose, no doubt, from her sprint down the

path.

“Oh, thank you, but really, I have a rather pressing engagement this afternoon

and just stepped out to take some air. Very briefly. For only a minute or two.”

Abbey took another small step backward.

But Lady Thistlecourt, who had not ran since she was a girl, did not intend to

lose the Season’s elusive prize. “Lady Darfield, if you are not familiar with our park, it is quite possible to become lost. You would do well to stay with

us,” she insisted.

“Yes, have you been here very long? That is, long enough to learn your way about

the park? Or did you only come recently to London?” Lady Fitzgerald asked,

squinting intently at Abbey’s gown. Abbey self-consciously looked down at the

gold day dress she wore, realizing, in a moment of polite Horror, that she was

not wearing the obligatory walking dress.

“I just came out for a moment. Why, I am not even dressed for strolling,”

she

said nervously, plucking a piece of imaginary lint from her lap. “I will not go very far,” she promised hopelessly.

“That’s a highly unusual color, isn’t it dear?” Lady Billingsley observed.

Abbey bit her lower lip and told herself to ignore their frank perusal. Their reaction was not a portent of things to come tonight at the Delacorte Ball.

They

were simply three elderly women who wanted to meet her. And peer curiously at

her gown. She unconsciously took another step backward, prepared to flee if she

had to, and racking her brain for a polite excuse.

“She probably has a modiste from the continent,” Lady Billingsly declared to her

companions, then frowned at Abbey and demanded, “Do you? Have a modiste from the

continent, that is?”

“Oh, dear, the time!” Abbey gasped. “Ladies, if you will excuse me, I really must be going.”

“So should we. We shall escort you back Audley Street, madam. We would not rest

if we thought you undertook that walk alone! Lord only knows what danger may

lurk in these trees!” Lady Thistlecourt declared, and, with a conspiratorial look at her companions, shifted her weight to one leg and waited for Abbey to

come forward.

Abbey sighed and cast her gaze to the ground. It was useless to point out they

could almost see her home on Audley Street from here, so she resigned herself to

the fact these women were going to escort her. No doubt they would expect to be

invited in for tea.

Lady Billingsly made a strange sound. Abbey looked up; the trio were looking

past her shoulder, staring very intently. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled with relief. The Duke of Southerland was walking toward them, on his arm

an elderly woman with curls as fat as sausages dangling about her plump face. He

was truly her neighbor, owning the grand town house just next door, and he and

Abbey had exchanged polite greetings on a couple of occasions.

“Dear God, I can’t believe it! It’s the duke? one of the women whispered in awe.

”He never comes to London in the Season! Dear God, it can only mean he intends

to offer for Miss Reese!“

“Miss Reese? Have you lost your mind, Rose?” another whispered just as frantically.

Abbey smiled gratefully as the duke approached; she could not have been happier

if it had been Michael himself. He responded with an exceedingly charming smile

that made the corners of his green eyes crinkle.

“Lady Darfield,” he said, bowing low when he reached her. “May I introduce my

aunt, Lady Paddington?”

Abbey curtsied and nodded politely at the woman, whose eyes grew wide.

“Oh, what

a pleasure!” Lady Paddington gushed. “I have so wanted to meet you! I

could

scarcely believe it when Alex told me Darfield had married! I thought he was

trifling with me until I saw the announcement in the Times with my own two eyes. The Times would not fabricate such a story!“ she

blustered, smiling broadly.

“Apparently I would.” Alex chuckled and smiled fondly at his aunt.

She responded by slapping his arm with a pair of gloves, her little eyes never

leaving Abbey’s face as the duke greeted her new-sprung companions.

“Oh, my!

It’s true what they say, isn’t it Alex? She is really quite lovely,” Lady Paddington remarked. She then slid her gaze to the three women standing behind

Abbey, and frowned. “Good day, Hortense,” she sniffed, her tone cool.

“Oh, Clara, for heaven’s sake! You’re not still angry about that silly game, are

you?” Lady Thistlecourt exclaimed.

“No, Hortense. I do not get angry over something as silly as a card game, thank

you!” Lady Paddington shot back, and, releasing Alex’s arm, waddled toward the

three women, immediately engaging Lady Thistlecourt in an argument about said

card game.

Alex smiled down at Abbey, his green eyes dancing merrily. “Someone should have

warned you about the prowlers in this park,” he said, and shifted his gaze meaningfully to the women, whose conversation was growing more animated as their

collective voices became louder.

Abbey chuckled as they watched the women argue. “I did not think I would be

accosted,” she muttered.

He laughed and whispered, “Shall I see if I can rescue you from these prowlers?‘’ When Abbey nodded, he winked slyly and straightened. ”Aunt Paddy?“

All four women stopped immediately and turned puzzled looks, as one, to the

duke. ”I would escort Lady Darfield home. Shall I retrieve you in a quarter of

an hour?“

The ladies nodded in agreement. Alex offered Abbey his arm and after exchanging

farewells, they began to stroll away.

Alex laughed. “Would you believe that there is a pack of those prowlers, numbering around a dozen or so, that roam the best homes of London? I have

encountered them on more than one occasion in my aunt’s salon. They quite enjoy

their card games; in fact, one might say they are obsessed.”

“No!” Abbey pretended shock. “I shall have to talk with Jones. He is usually

quite good about warning me of danger!” Alex grinned, but Abbey quickly sobered.

“I must confess, I cannot for the life of me understand why they seem so terribly interested in me.”

“That’s simple. You are a beautiful woman, new to London and the peerage.” He

flashed a row of even white teeth at her self-conscious flush. “But most important, you have married the scandalous Devil of Darfield,” he said dramatically. “Naturally, the prowlers, having too much time on their hands, are

overly curious.”

Abbey rolled her eyes heavenward. “Naturally.” She sighed. “It’s so unfair they

should call him that! There is not a devilish bone in his body.”

“They remember the rumors.”

Abbey dragged her gaze from the path to him. “You mean about the scandals

surrounding his father? Surely that is all behind him now.”

Alex considered her closely for a moment. “Lady Darfield, if I may be so bold as

to offer some insight?” he asked after a moment.

“ Please.‘’

“It’s quite difficult to explain, really. The ton is like a parasite, one that feeds off ill fortune. Darfield—Michael—in my humble estimation, has never done

anything to deserve the vile gossip that has been spread about him,” Alex started.

Abbey was momentarily reminded of Mrs. Petty and the despicable things she had

uttered. “What were the scandals? I have heard he is quite popular with the

ladies; is that what you mean?”

With an amused smile, Alex shook his head. “Who told you that? I am quite

certain Michael would not approve of your being bothered by such ugly tales—”

“Then how am I to understand if no one tells me?” she asked, her exasperation

showing.

Alex considered it, looking at her curiously. “If I have your word you will not