The Devil's Love (41 page)

“Is something wrong?” he asked with genuine concern. The print began to swim,

and Abbey tried to focus on the shoulder of his black coat.

“I am not feeling well,” she murmured, concentrating on keeping her roiling stomach from worsening.

“Shall I get Lord Darfield for you?”

“No!” she all but shouted, then immediately brought a hand to her mouth.

It was

suddenly sweltering in the ballroom. “I mean, he is indisposed at the moment. I

think I shall step outside. I could use some air—”

“Let me help you,” Routier said, and moved hastily to lead her to the doors opening onto the balcony.

The cool night air rushed up from the garden and hit her face, and she immediately felt better. Gripping the railing, Abbey bent over the balcony and

took deep gulps of air.

“Are you quite all right, Lady Darfield? Perhaps I should send for Lord Darfield?” Routier asked anxiously.

Abbey shook her head and took a deliberately deep breath. Leaning backward, she

slowly exhaled. “I am really feeling much better, Mr. Routier.” The cool air was

helping considerably, and the queasiness was beginning to abate. She glanced at

her companion, who looked genuinely concerned.

“Thank you for helping me,” she said sheepishly. His yellow eyes flickered as he

nodded politely. “So you have been to Brussels?”

Surprised, he nodded. “Yes, have you?”

“Some years ago,” she said, taking a steadying breath. “I didn’t see much of it,

really. My father was quite protective.” A memory came to her, the first one she

had had in some time that did not pain her, and she smiled shyly.

“Was he indeed?” Routier asked softly.

“He certainly was. We spent an entire winter in Brussels with him constantly

threatening to lock me in the hull of his ship. I never understood why he was so

flustered; he would hardly let me leave the house,” she said, recalling a terrible row she had had with the captain one day when he would not let her

accompany two friends to a fashionable milliner’s shop. Absolutely not.

There

are pirates out there who would take one look at you and snatch you from the

street! he had said. Papa, you read too many novels! What a perfectly absurd

notion! Why on earth would they snatch me? she had shouted in frustration. He

had not responded, but had given her an obscure look and had pointed upstairs,

indicating she was to return to her room. I hate you! she had screamed as she

had run up the stairs, and had proceeded to lock herself in her room for the

rest of the day.

“Were you my daughter, I believe I should have been tempted to do the same.”

Routier chuckled.

Abbey smiled. “How long did you know my father?”

“Many years.”

“Were you friends?”

“We were business associates. I suppose we were friendly, but I never considered

us friends per se,” Routier said thoughtfully.

Abbey turned and settled her hips against the railing, watching the dancers

through a pane-glass window. “I still miss him dreadfully,” she said wistfully.

It was true—despite his betrayal, she missed him. Had missed him excessively in

the last four days, which she thought rather odd, given that he was the cause of

her misery.

“He was a big man, with a great crop of thick white hair and beard. I used to

tease him that his beard was scraggly. It always infuriated him. He was quite

proud of it,” Routier remarked.

“Very proud. He always said you could judge a man by the strength of his whiskers,” Abbey agreed.

“Then I would say he was a very strong man.” Routier laughed. He watched

admiringly as Abbey pushed away from the railing and walked slowly to a large

potted evergreen. “I suspect you are, too.”

Abbey flashed a smile over her shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t feel very strong

sometimes.”

“I think you are quite strong,” he said, straightening, and came to stand behind

her at the window.

Abbey absently surveyed the room through the mullioned window, unwillingly

compelled to find Michael. It was a stupid thing to have done, because she

spotted him, all right, with Rebecca Davenport. The blond goddess was smiling up

at him as if they shared a delicious secret. Michael’s face was obscured, but he

was standing close to her, and Abbey’s pulse quickened with anger. He had

betrayed her. Blatantly, easily, and very thoroughly. Seeing him so obviously

engaged with his lover was humiliating.

“Lady Davenport is persistent, is she not?” Routier sighed.

No, Abbey thought bitterly, Michael was persistent. In that moment, she hated

him.

“But then again, some liaisons are hard to sever.” Routier added, and turned

away, moving to the balcony railing.

Apparently. Anger coursed through Abbey’s veins; how dare he question her about

Galen when he was involved in his own, adulterous assignation? She raised her

chin.

“Were you ever in Rome, Mr. Routier? I think Mr. Green has fashioned his ballroom after the Coliseum there, don’t you think?” she asked.

Routier smiled at her transparent attempt to change the subject, but graciously

went along with it. He chatted about the great Roman ruins and then began to

enlighten her as to the Greek influence in the room. Abbey listened politely but

found herself trying to snatch glimpses of Michael. He had disappeared from

view, but Lady Davenport remained. The smug smile had faded from her lips, but

seeing her standing there, so very beautiful, caused Abbey’s head and stomach to

protest violently. She closed her eyes and concentrated on keeping the nausea at

bay. Tiny beads of perspiration erupted on her forehead and the color drained

rapidly from her face.

“Good Lord, Lady Darfield, you have grown quite pale. Are you ill?” Routier demanded in the middle of his oration on Greek architecture.

“It’s nothing, I am certain. Perhaps too much champagne,” she whispered thickly,

and swallowed hard past her nausea. Routier was quickly at her side, drawing her

away from the window. Abbey stumbled toward the railing, horrified at the nausea

that threatened to erupt. How embarrassing and absurd, she thought dumbly, that

vomiting on Mr. Routier’s shoes would be such a perfect end to a perfect evening. She inhaled sharply.

Routier placed his hand on the small of her back and leaned over to peer into

her face. “I am quite concerned. Lady Darfield—”

“No, please don’t be. I will be all right,” she whispered. Thankfully, her sudden rush of nausea was subsiding almost as quickly as it had come on her. She

drew another deep breath.

Routier’s hand moved up her back, resting between her shoulder blades.

“Shall I

fetch you some water?”

“No—I think if I stand still for a moment, I shall be quite all right,” she said shakily. She blinked several times against the sway of the garden until the shrubbery finally stilled.

Routier bowed over her, anxiously watching her face.

She turned slightly and gave him a weak, reassuring smile. “I am quite all right, truly.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever made a lady ill with my company,” he joked, “at least not

that I am aware.” Abbey laughed despite her nausea.

From the shadows of the balcony, Michael watched Routier and Abbey.

The sight of

Routier’s hand on her back made his pulse pound furiously in his neck.

With his

hands opening and closing at his sides, he ground his teeth when Abbey’s soft

laugh wafted over his head. She was actually enjoying the bloody scoundrel’s

company!

At that precise moment, he believed he would rather give in to Carrey’s fraudulent demands than allow Routier to touch his wife. He somehow

forced

himself further into the shadows and chided himself for losing control. He fought the desire to strangle Routier when Abbey’s tingling laugh once again

drifted upward. Of all the men she could have befriended, she had to choose

Routier. It was a goddammed slap in his face. They looked like two lovers standing out there in the moonlight, and by God, it should be him standing with

her. With anger spiraling out of control, Michael impulsively stepped from the

shadows.

“ Abbey!‘’ he barked, surprised at the strangled tenor of his voice.

Abbey whirled around, her face falling instantly.

“What in the hell do you think you are doing?” he bit out.

“Your wife was ill, Darfield. Since you were otherwise engaged, I escorted her

outside to take some air,” Routier offered blandly.

“She does not seem ill to me,” he said nastily. Abbey’s dark brows snapped

together in a scathing glare, and she actually turned her back on him.

Michael

clenched his fists.

“If you do not mind, Routier, I would like a word with my wife,” he ground out.

Routier did not step away from her, which Michael angrily considered was cause

enough to call the bastard out.

“I will not go unless Lady Darfield requests it of me,” Routier said behind a challenging smirk.

Abbey turned; her gaze locked with Michael’s. Her violet eyes were no longer

dull—they were filled with fury. “I am sorry my husband is behaving so rudely,

Mr. Routier, but he has been quite ill-humored as of late. If you would be so

kind to excuse us,” she said angrily.

Routier flicked a satisfied gaze to Michael. “As the lady wishes,” he said almost cheerfully. “I have enjoyed our conversation, Lady Darfield. When you are

feeling better, I shall look forward to the opportunity to stand up with you,”

he said with a bow.

“That would be lovely, Mr. Routier.” Abbey smiled. In a supreme act of

self-control, Michael managed to keep his expression neutral. Routier sneered

triumphantly and casually strolled past him, across the balcony, and disappeared

inside.

Michael’s fists found his waist, and with arms akimbo and feet braced apart, he

turned to glare at his beautiful wife. Astonishingly enough, his emotions warred

between wanting to give her a sound thrashing and to take her in his arms and

kiss any thought of Routier from her head. But all emotion quickly flew from his

mind when she raised her chin a notch and began impatiently tapping her foot

against the stone floor.

“Am I keeping you from your dance card?” he asked coldly.

“As a matter of fact, you are.”

“Is that so? I recall a few short days ago when you did not care to dance with

anyone else,” he said snidely.

Abbey’s eyes widened, then narrowed with anger. “That was before my faithless

husband assumed my duplicity in some horrible, but purely imagined, dastardly

deed,” she snapped.

Michael took several steps forward, glaring at her. “And now?”

“ Now? I would rather dance with everyone else but you!”

“I think you are well on your away to achieving just that,” Michael retorted.

Abbey glowered at him; her fingers drummed furiously against her upper arm. “You

have certainly shown yourself for what you truly are!” she grumbled.

“I have shown myself? Oh, madam, that is rich. The proverbial pot calls the

kettle black!”

“I have done nothing wrong, Michael Ingram! If you are so pig-headed to believe

that I have, that is your worry, not mine! I will not be locked away like some

convicted criminal because you are faithless!” she fairly shouted. Despite her

sure voice, her eyes gave her away, as they always did.

Michael swept in for the kill. “I don’t give a damn what you think, Abbey.

But

heed me—if you cuckold me, I will rip your black heart from your breast and feed

it to my dogs.”

Abbey gasped with shock; then something sparked deep in those violet eyes. “You

son of a bitch,” she breathed as he walked toward her.

He ignored her very unladylike curse. “I mean it, Abbey. Don’t you dare cuckold

me,” he said low.

“My God, how easily you speak from both sides of your mouth! While you share

your bed with Lady Davenport, you dare lecture me about fidelity?” she fairly

shrieked.

That took him slightly aback, but he was too angry to retreat. “I think you forget yourself, wife. It is hardly your concern what I do with Lady Davenport,

or any other woman, for that matter! I am the one who has been betrayed time and

time again, not you.”

That did it. Whatever Abbey may have felt when he first appeared at her side

this evening was plainly gone. He had never seen such outrage in anyone, and had

she been a man, he might have feared for his life. Abbey’s luscious lips clamped

firmly together, her brows formed a dark vee above her eyes, and her eyes, God

help him, her eyes said everything. She stepped forward and shoved forcefully

against his chest before marching toward the door, muttering another oath that

would have had the ton on its ear.

“Do not let me find you with Routier again, do you understand me?”

Michael

called after her. She stopped abruptly and, with her hands fisted at her sides,

turned slowly to face him. Michael casually clasped his hands behind his back

and stood nonchalantly, watching the fire sparkle in her eyes. She began to

march back to him. He waited patiently until she was only inches from

him.

The flash of her arm caught him by surprise as did the very strong punch in the

mouth. The force of her blow propelled her off her feet, and she leapt to the side, shrieking softly and waving her hand in the air. The impact staggered Michael into the railing. Stunned, he brought his fingers to the corner of his