The Devil's Love (40 page)

not yet denigrated her, at least not to the Delacortes.

“Shellfish. Quite so, I’m afraid,” she murmured.

“Oh, he is such a charming man! We met him at the buffet just moments ago—odd,

but he did not mention you had come.”

So he was here. There was no escaping it; the slim hope she had harbored that

she would not see him this evening had been dashed before she had barely stepped

foot into the house. Abbey forced a faint smile. “Ah, well, he does not know…”

“What my dear cousin means to say is that she thought she would be waiting at

home for my late arrival, madam. As I am a bit early, we had hoped to surprise

the marquis,” Galen said, bowing low.

“Yes, that’s it!” Abbey said nervously. “May I present my cousin, Mr.

Galen

Carrey?”

“What fun, a cousin!” a voice boomed behind them. A very rotund fellow dressed

in a peacock-blue satin coat moved unsteadily toward the small group.

“Lady Darfield, Mr. Harrison Green,” Lord Delacorte intoned. Green’s beady blue

eyes lit up, and he clumsily switched his glass of champagne to his left hand so

he could greet her properly. Abbey gently pulled her hand away from his thick,

wet lips.

“Mr. Green,” she said demurely.

“Lady Darfield, what a tremendous pleasure. Your reputation precedes you, indeed

it does, but it does not do you justice,” he said. Once again Abbey started.

What did he mean by that? Had he heard something about her?

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, fully expecting the slightly drunken man to say

Michael had accused her of lying.

“Forgive me, madam. They say you are a true beauty, but I think that does not

begin to describe—”

“Before you begin to describe, sir, please remember she is the wife of the Marquis of Darfield,” Galen bluntly interjected.

Green’s bushy brows rose in feigned affront. “Of course she is, my good fellow,

but can’t a man admire?” he asked, pausing to stifle a drunken belch.

“You need

not be so protective, for I can assure you, Darfield will not let me forget to whom she belongs!”

“Oh no, he is quite proud of his treasure,” Lady Delacorte agreed as Green slurped his champagne loudly. A slow blush crept into Abbey’s cheeks.

How would

she ever live through this charade? She glanced helplessly at Galen, who smiled

reassuringly.

“If you will excuse us, I promised to see Lady Darfield directly to her husband.”

“Of course. We’ll chat later, my dear,” Lady Delacorte said.

“Oh, yes, let’s do just that,” said Green, who then tottered off to replace his

empty glass. Abbey nodded graciously to the Delacortes and gratefully obeyed

Galen’s grip on her elbow.

“Don’t fret,” Galen muttered, pausing to acquire two glasses of

champagne.

“There must be five hundred people here. We can easily avoid him.” Abbey strongly doubted that. She followed Galen into the ballroom, wondering what had

possessed her to so brazenly risk Michael’s considerable wrath.

Her anxiety was only heightened in the ballroom. She could feel everyone’s eyes

upon her. Nervously she smoothed a strand of hair from her face and tried vainly

to keep her attention on her glass to avoid making eye contact with anyone. She

was incredibly self-conscious of her gown and hair; she felt as if she were in a

cage, on display for the entire ton to see. What were they thinking? Did they

know about the rift between her and Michael? Did they eye her with disdain or

mere curiosity?

She was studying the tips of her toes when her brain registered a conversation

occurring nearby. The silky voice of a woman was saying, “Michael never did care

much for the Season, you know. I had to practically drag him to Harrison’s rout

last fall.” Every muscle in Abbey’s body knotted. There were dozens, probably

hundreds of Michaels in England alone. It was a coincidence. “He certainly

prefers the quiet of the countryside. He emphasized as much to me a few weeks

ago at my country house near Blessing Park.”

Abbey jerked her head up and died a silent death. Lady Rebecca Davenport was

standing a few feet away with two other women, dressed in a shimmering pale-yellow gown. Silvery white curls graced her crown, and she was openly

looking at Abbey with a smile of superiority on her very pretty face.

Stunned,

Abbey realized she had been meant to overhear the exchange. But that was not

nearly as stunning as the realization Michael had gone to her when he had disappeared from Blessing Park. Her stomach sank—how dare he accuse her of

betrayal! A pain ripped through her that left her shaking. The Malevolent Marquis talked from both sides of his mouth! He had lain with that beautiful

blond goddess while she was dreaming of him!

That bastard!

Dismayed, Abbey turned her back to the blonde. God forgive her, but she would

have liked to strike the smug smile from that woman’s face.

“This was a horrible idea,” she muttered to Galen.

“Would you prefer another solitary supper in your rooms?” Galen responded.

“Smile. Try not to look so distressed.” He took the champagne from her hand. “I

will get you a fresh drink.” He slipped away. Abbey tried to do what he said.

Her smile was frozen; she was miserably self-conscious and was so engrossed in

her efforts to look perfectly normal that she did not hear him approach and had

to catch a colonnade for support when he spoke.

“Your judgment is grossly impaired, madam,” Michael said coolly.

Determination

suddenly failed her, and Abbey squeezed her eyes shut, summoning her strength.

She would very much liked to have run and avoid looking at those gray eyes, but

caught between him and the dance floor, she had no escape. With every ounce of

courage she had, she turned toward him. He was standing so close that she almost

collided with his brick wall of a chest.

The faint smell of his cologne drifted over her. She unthinkingly inhaled; dressed in black, he was undoubtedly the most handsome man in the entire room.

Her knees started to quiver, and she slowly lifted her gaze past the white satin

neckcloth, firm chin, the dark rose lips set in an implacable line, and his eyes. Beneath the dark curl that draped his forehead, he stared down at her with

eyes of cold, hard granite. Abbey’s stomach fluttered. It seemed as if she could

do nothing but stare dumbly.

His eyes narrowed; he took a step closer, almost touching her. “How dare

you

defy me. I should drag you from here and lock you away at Blessing Park for

disobeying me.” His voice was silky, contradicting the deadliness of his expression.

His arm came up, trapping her against the colonnade. Nothing had prepared her

for this. She had convinced herself she was angry with him and despised him for

his inconstancy. Lady Davenport’s contrived confession certainly had not endeared him to her. But the sight of him quite literally took her breath away.

There was no denying how much she loved him, nor how it destroyed her to see the

cold distance in his eyes. She stubbornly lifted her chin.

“You cannot keep me a prisoner, Michael. I have done nothing wrong.”

She sounded

terribly weak and unsure.

“I beg to differ. You lied to me. You disobeyed me. And now you push my patience

to its limits.” His gray eyes flashed with pure loathing. It was more than she

could bear, and she abruptly turned away.

Michael leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “What’s the matter, darling?

Can’t look me in the eye?”

Abbey folded her arms protectively across her middle and turned her head slightly, away from him. “I prefer not to. What I see there sickens me,” she answered softly.

“It sickens you?” he asked testily.

“If you had granted an audience when I requested, I would have been more than

happy to answer your unfounded accusations. And then, perhaps, you could have

answered a few of mine. But I hardly think this is the place, Michael. I would

ask that you just leave me be,‘’ she whispered hoarsely.

“Leave her, Darfield!” Galen’s voice shattered the tension between them.

Gripping two flutes of champagne, he glared at Michael. A muscle in Michael’s

jaw flinched and he slid his granite gaze back to Abbey, locking with hers, piercing through to her very soul, silently accusing her.

“I fully intend to,” he retorted caustically, and, with a scathing glance for

Galen, walked away. Abbey exhaled slowly. Why hadn’t she gone straight back to

America when she had first learned of her father’s lie? Why had she allowed

herself to fall so hopelessly in love with him?

She slowly became aware of Galen’s soft voice. “Little one,” he was saying,

“drink your champagne. He won’t bother you again, he will not risk a scene here.

Listen, I am going to the gaming room. It will be easier if I am not with you.

Come now, drink your champagne. Don’t let him ruin this evening for you.

Relax

and enjoy yourself.”

She nodded dumbly, unable to speak, her eyes riveted to the floor. Galen grabbed

her hand and squeezed it before disappearing into the crowd. Standing alone at

the edge of the dance floor with dozens of eyes on her, Abbey waged a battle

against a tide of emotion that threatened to sweep her under.

Across the room, Michael sipped his champagne, languidly gazing at his wife. He

should have left her alone, but he could not deny himself the chance to be near

her, to inhale her sweet scent. As much as he distrusted her at the moment, he

also missed her terribly. To him, it was nothing short of miraculous that a woman could affect him so, but he had no idea how much until he had seen her on

Galen’s arm. Bloody hell, she looked forlorn. And thin. But he had seen her look

that way before, and for all he knew, it was part of her act. She had disobeyed

him, had flouted his doubts in his face by coming here with Galen. God, but he

ached with uncertainty.

Daniel Strickland, a rake renowned for his attraction to married women and,

moreover, his success with them, strutted over to her and bowed very gallantly

over her hand. Michael tensed. Bloody hell, he had never known how excruciating

it could be to watch other men fawn over his wife. His chest tightened with jealousy as he watched Strickland lead her to the dance floor. Abbey glided on

Strickland’s arm, her dancing effortless. Good God, how long before his men

found Strait? Carrington’s solicitor was the one person who held the key to her

innocence.

Or her guilt.

Michael remained rooted to his post at the column as he watched man after man

escort Abbey onto the dance floor. He made polite but contrived conversation

with those who braved his dark look. No one who approached stayed at his side

long; it was clear that he was in no mood for light banter. After a while, the whispers about him grew to an almost fevered pitch as Harrison Green’s guests

watched the Devil of Darfield watch his wife. If the ton had not noticed the rift between them before, they certainly did now.

As he could not bear to see another man touch her, Michael had all but decided

to leave, when Routier’s tall, lanky figure stepped through the arched entry of

the ballroom. Spotting Abbey, the villain glanced furtively about the crowded

room. Michael suspected it was in search of him, and moved into the shadows.

After scanning the room for several moments, Routier, with a decided smirk on

his face, strolled casually to the far side of the room where Abbey was standing. Michael quietly finished off the glass of champagne he had been nursing for the last half hour.

Abbey was escorted from the dance floor by a man who smelled to high heaven

under his heavy coat. She made a polite excuse of needing the retiring room and,

moving quickly away from the dance floor, did not notice Malcolm Routier until

he spoke.

“Good evening, Lady Darfield.”

Startled, Abbey lurched, glancing up at Routier. “Mr. Routier,” she said coolly.

“I was hoping to find you…”

“I prefer not to dance, sir,” she said weakly.

Routier’s thin brow elevated slightly. “Forgive me, madam, but I think it is customary for a lady to bruise a man’s tender ego after she has been invited to

stand up.”

Abbey winced at her unforgivable gaffe. “Oh, dear God, how perfectly horrid of

me! Please accept my apology—I was not thinking,” she said lamely.

“I took no offense.” He smiled charmingly. The champagne she had been quaffing

all evening had dulled her senses. It was mildly alarming to forget words, but

the numbing effect it had on her was worth the discomfort. And in the fog that

surrounded her, she thought that Routier actually seemed a very nice man.

“I received the cut direct once before. A Belgian lass did the honors,” he was

saying.

Her tension soared, making her light-headed. She put a hand to her temple. “Does

that signify, sir?”

Routier smiled and bowed slightly. “I was making a jest. Apparently, not a very

good one,” he said gallantly.

Abbey silently scolded herself. He was being rather pleasant and did not deserve

her biting remarks. She forced herself to smile; Routier’s yellow eyes slipped

to her mouth.

“Madam,” he said roughly, “you are in the possession of a most extraordinary

smile ” His charm befuddled her, made her dizziness increase. The floral print

on the wall behind Routier seemed to shift.