The Devil's Love (49 page)

the blanket covering her. “I do care, very much, Abbey! You’ve no idea how much!

But unless you remember, we can never rebuild what we had.”

Abbey closed her eyes against the pounding in her head. Oh, God, it was so

confusing. She wanted to believe him, but she remembered that he despised her.

He had refused to believe her, had chosen to believe she had intentionally lied

to him. As the memories continued to stream in, she recalled how she had loved

him and how he had hurt her, had gone to Lady Davenport. God, how she hated him.

How she loved him. It was more than she could bear. “Please leave me,”

she

muttered through clenched teeth.

“Abbey, darling, don’t send me away! We should talk about this!”

“You didn’t want to talk before, Michael. Please go!” she cried, and rolled away

from him, squeezing her eyes tightly against an onslaught of tears.

Michael stood unsteadily. He was not surprised. He instinctively understood that

her recovery would not be complete unless it was both physical and emotional. He

stood solemnly, his heart aching as sobs racked her emaciated frame. He leaned

over and touched her shoulder, but she recoiled from him.

His heart leapt to his throat. He would win her back. Maybe not today, but by

God, he would win her back. With a heavy sigh, he turned and walked slowly to

the door, fervently hoping she would call him back and closing the door quietly

when she did not.

“She is remarkably well, Darfield. It seems she has completely regained her

memory and her wound has healed nicely.” Dr. Stephens and Michael stood on the

back terrace of Blessing Park overlooking the gardens. Below them, in a circle

of rosebushes, Abbey was seated on a wrought-iron bench with Harry at her feet,

quietly reading. Her garish gardening hat obscured her view of them.

“I am pleased to see that she’s put on some weight,” Stephens continued.

“Cook’s tarts,” Michael replied.

Dr. Stephens chuckled. “Yet she still suffers from melancholy. I would be more

encouraged if her spirits were brighter. If it’s the miscarriage that has her down, then you should set the matter to rights, Darfield,” the doctor said gruffly.

If only he could get close enough to her to set the matter to rights. “I do not

think it’s that, Joseph.” Michael sighed wearily.

Stephens peered over the rim of his spectacles at Michael. “Indeed?” he drawled.

Michael ignored the doctor’s pointed question. It was no secret at Blessing Park

that the Darfields were estranged, and Michael could hardly defer to her physical condition as the excuse any longer. In truth, Abbey looked very well.

Her color was back, and although she was still a little on the thin side, she

was well on her way to fully recovering her health.

But her heart had most definitely not healed. In the six weeks since she recalled the accident and the events surrounding it, Michael had tried to talk

to her about it. But she avoided him, making feeble excuses. He had done everything he knew to do, including sending armfuls of roses as a peace offering, although it had cost him any hope of peace with Withers. What she

thought about them, he never knew. She steadfastly refused to accept his invitation to walk with him, to dine with him, to be with him at all. He had to

appreciate the irony; four short months ago, he would have been grateful for her

indifference. But that was before he had fallen in love with her, and nothing that had ever happened to him, not war, not his father’s betrayal, nothing hurt

as badly as her indifference.

He knew instinctively why she was hurting. She believed he had wronged her, had

not trusted her when he should have. On one level, he understood it. He should

have believed her. But on another level, it angered him, and he could not understand it. He loved her. Yet she had lied to him. For Galen. Even after everything that bastard had done, she still asked Sarah about him, wondering

where he was, if he was all right, if he had tried to see her. It angered him and he could not reconcile it, but he was willing to put it behind them. He was

willing to do anything to have her back.

Abbey, apparently, was not.

The six weeks of her recovery had been agony for him. He missed her terribly,

their conversations, the quiet evenings they had once spent together. He missed

the sound of her violin and her light, lilting laugh. He missed her brilliant smile. His need for her was too great; when she was nearby his body turned to

marble from sheer longing. During days that seemed endless, he was drawn to

wherever she was. He could not stay away from her any more than he could stop

torturing himself by gazing at her and thinking of burying himself deep within

her.

“Do you think she can withstand the stress of a surprise now?” Michael asked Dr.

Stephens.

“Of course. Have a good one in mind, do you?”

“A visit from her family. Sebastian should be returning any day now from America

with one aunt and two cousins in tow.”

“She should be fine. But do not overtax her, is that clear?”

Michael nodded. He, of course, would not know if she was overtaxed, since he

could barely draw more than monosyllabic answers from her about anything.

According to Sarah, she was fine. At least on the surface, she seemed alive and

well, he thought grimly as he looked down at her from the terrace and swallowed

past a lump in his throat. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough, Joseph. I was sure I had lost her. If it weren’t for you…”

“Really, Darfield, it is my duty as a physician,” the doctor said self-consciously, his cheeks coloring. “Well, I suppose I had best be on my way.

I shall come again next week. Mind you treat her well, old boy,” he said, and

with a curt nod, turned to leave.

Michael saw the family doctor out and returned to the terrace. Withers had joined Abbey and was relating some animated tale, waving his hamlike fists in

the morning sun. Abbey was laughing. God, would she ever bestow that dazzling

smile on him again? He settled his hip against the stone wall and watched as

Withers motioned toward the hothouse. Abbey placed her book on the bench and

walked slowly alongside the gardener, her hips swinging softly beneath the

pleats of her skirt as they strolled casually through the garden. As Michael

watched her pause to examine some new buds on a rosebush, he decided if he was

ever going to have the chance to stroll in the gardens with her again, he had to

talk and she had to listen. She could not avoid it any longer.

Neither could he.

Abbey had taken to having her meals in her sitting room, but Michael sent word

that he expected her in the dining room at eight-thirty that evening. When she

had sent a terse, handwritten note replying she preferred to dine alone, Michael

had smiled wryly and penned a note to her saying he would brook no argument. If

she was not in the dining room at precisely eight-thirty, he would physically

retrieve her.

He prowled the room like a caged animal past two nervous footmen standing at the

sideboard. When the mantel clock chimed eight-thirty, Michael looked expectantly

at the oak door. She was a fool if she thought he would not carry through on his

threat. At eight-thirty-two, she pushed the heavy oak door open and marched into

the room, planted her fists on her hips, and glared angrily at him.

“May I ask why I have been summoned?” she snapped.

Michael silently sucked in his breath. She looked ravishing. She had not bothered to dress her hair, and it flowed freely down her back. Her dark-gold

gown, free of petticoats, flowed to the floor in gentle folds.

Best of all, her violet eyes were sparkling with complete irritation.

“I want your company, my dear.”

“My company? That’s quite surprising. You have never wanted it before!”

“That is hardly true, Abbey, and you know it. Please be seated. We can argue

over supper,” he said cheerfully, and pulled out a chair for her. She glanced

suspiciously at the chair, then at him. He lifted one dark brow in question.

With a sigh of exasperation, she marched over and plopped down without ceremony,

giving him almost no time to slide the chair beneath her. He could not help grinning as he took his seat at the head of the table. Abbey glared at the footman when he set a bowl of soup in front of her, causing the poor man practically to sprint back to the sideboard.

Michael was unaffected by her anger. At the moment, he did not care what she

did. He was so delighted to have her sitting at his right where she

belonged

that little else mattered. He stole a glance at her; she stared at her bowl, making no move to eat it. He shrugged indifferently and began to eat.

For several moments, there was no sound but the clink of Michael’s spoon against

fine china. Abbey abruptly pushed her soup aside. “What do you want?”

“I miss dining with you. Won’t you try the soup?”

“I am not the least bit hungry.”

“Aren’t you indeed? Perhaps you would like a drink?”

“No!” she replied without hesitation.

“What, no ale? We have plenty in stock,” he said dryly.

Abbey frowned. “What do you want?” she demanded again.

Michael leaned back, pressing his splayed fingertips together. “I told you. I miss dining with you,” he said genuinely. Abbey rolled her eyes and looked away.

“You are quite recovered and well enough to begin to take your meals in here,

don’t you think?”

“My health is not the issue, my lord. I prefer dining alone,” she said coldly.

Michael did not intend to let her new habit of addressing him formally or her

acerbic tongue deter him. “Nevertheless, I do not prefer to dine alone.

Scintillating conversation aids my digestion.” The footman set a plate in front

of him. “Ah, the veal looks very good this evening,” he said casually, and knifed a portion. Abbey ignored her plate. Apparently she preferred to starve

than dine with him.

“You should really eat something, Abbey. You’re rather thin—”

“I shall be well enough to sail for America in a fortnight or so,” she said flippantly.

“Indeed?” Michael asked impassively, then looked to one of the footmen.

“My

compliments to Cook. This is really quite delicious.” He fit another bite into

his mouth.

Abbey frowned. “Is there nothing you would say, then?” she demanded.

“I have remarked on the veal. What else is there?”

“That is not what I meant!”

“I beg your pardon. What exactly did you mean?” he asked calmly.

Abbey leaned forward and glared at him. “I mean, my lord, is there nothing you

would say about my imminent return to America?”

Michael leaned back and turned his gaze to the candelabra above them, pretending

to contemplate her declaration. “No, I don’t suppose there is,” he responded

cheerfully after a long moment.

Abbey exhaled loudly. “What did you expect?” he smiled. She picked up a fork and

began to push peas around her plate.

“I expected you would be pleased, or angry… I don’t know! I suppose I thought

you would at least acknowledge it!”

“I see no point in acknowledging something that is not about to happen,”

he

remarked.

Abbey’s brows snapped together in an angry line. “I should have done it months

ago!”

“Ah, it was no more likely then than it is now. What about some pudding?”

he

asked, nodding to a footman. “At least eat something, sweetheart.”

“I don’t want any pudding! Stop trying to change the subject.”

Michael nodded to the two footmen then and they quietly vacated the room. When

the door closed behind them, he poured a small glass of port and held it out in

the gesture of a toast.

“Abbey, I hope you will hear me with an open heart and mind,” he started.

Abbey’s swinging foot slowly stopped. Now, that was the Abbey he knew and loved.

Not one emotion would pass through her that he would not see. She glanced at him

from the corner of her eye.

“Hear what?” she asked suspiciously.

“Hear what I have to say about London, about the accident and the events surrounding it.”

“You’ve said quite enough in the past few months, my lord. I am not sure I want

to hear any more,” she responded quietly. She sounded sadly sincere.

Michael set his port on the table. “I will grant you that I have said quite a lot, but is there no common ground on which we may converse?”

“Common ground?” She laughed. “How rich. We have never stood on common ground,”

she scoffed. “You made that perfectly clear the day I came here.”

“We did. Until the day you lied to me about Galen,” he said solemnly.

That stopped her cold. Like a dozen afternoon clouds, a range of emotions skirted across her face. Disbelief, anger, hurt; they were all there.

Michael reached for her hand, but she yanked it from his reach. “I am not finding fault, I am stating a fact. I don’t blame you, Abbey. I understand why

you did it, but at least try to understand my perspective.”

“And what perspective would that be? That I would betray you? That I would

scheme against you? That everything I ever said to you was a lie? That perspective?” she shot back.

Michael sighed. “This is not easy for either of us, darling. But please understand me. I want you back. I love you will all my heart, and I always will.”

‘ ’Don’t!‘’ Abbey choked, and flung her hands up in front of her face, shielding

herself. “How dare you? How dare you say that to me now?” She gasped painfully.