The Outcast Earl (16 page)

“Right now, I just need to sleep,” Abigail mumbled, and rolled into him a bit as her breathing noticeably slowed and deepened. Clearly, either she didn’t believe he would actually harm her or she was exhausted. Given the last week of her life, plus her first experience with bliss, both possibilities were likely. With a tired sigh, he contemplated the long trudge down the corridor and the inevitable discovery that her slippers were missing. Then he reconsidered the relative closeness of his bed, and the luxury of waking up with her in his arms.

It was early Wednesday morning, and the wedding was scheduled for next Tuesday morning. The banns would be read for the third time in five days.

Her Aunt Betsy would not be haunting Abigail’s door—she had not yet left her bed.

Why shouldn’t Abigail sleep in his bed, anyway?

Chapter Seven

“The servants aren’t going to gossip,” Meriden assured her sleepily, dragging her closer, wrapping his arm firmly around her waist.

Abigail was not convinced, and in any event, felt it awfully awkward to be calling for one’s maid from a man’s room—particularly a man to whom she was not married, and who occupied the very large bed. “We’re not married, how many times must I say it? You can’t disregard society, morals and custom just because they inconvenience you!” she fumed, pushing futilely at the heavy hand cupping her breast.

Meriden groaned, disturbed by her struggling. “I can,” he grunted. “I’m an earl.”

Gasping, Abigail paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. She was frantic. The sun was beginning to brighten the sky, as evidenced by the window beyond the bed. The drapes had been left ajar, and she’d woken with a start a few minutes earlier. The bed, after all, was unfamiliar. A few seconds had sufficed for realisation—and panic—to set in.

How to convince him to release her? There was no question Abigail must return to her own room. The servants would be about momentarily, if they weren’t already. Surely Meriden didn’t truly want to humiliate her?

Glancing at him again, she drew a deep breath. He wasn’t being obtuse—she would lay odds he was actually asleep. She’d begun wondering if he ever did—and here was her answer. In his sleep, he’d confessed to disregarding society’s mores because he was titled. Perhaps she would do better to trick him?

After all, he’d promised her a spanking the next time they were in private. She had no reason to stay and wait for him to wake up.

She paused, looking at his fingers. They were long, full digits, and had worked hard during his lifetime. The worn edges of skin were probably from his years in the cavalry, long years in the saddle and a lifetime of preparing for it. Unlike most London men, he didn’t pamper his hands, but the rough skin had stimulated her to heights she could never have imagined beforehand.

How—and why—he’d refrained from ravishing her on the spot was still a mystery. She’d felt his arousal against her thighs, insistent, then later against her bottom when he’d held her. He’d had ample time and space and privacy. And yet she remained a virgin.

Did he have a sense of honour, after all, or was it simply his exhaustion?

Frowning, Abigail squirmed. Meriden grunted again and dragged her up against his hard body. She was, at least, garbed in her long chemise, but the bodice was open. Startled, Abigail lifted her head and turned to see what she could of him.

He wasn’t dressed and, unless she was completely mistaken, his body had not yet forgotten the excitement of the night before.

Abigail’s cheeks burned and she looked away quickly.

Desperately, she held herself fiercely still. Behind her, Meriden continued to breathe deeply. Experimentally, she tried turning, and found that she could, indeed. His hand slipped from over her breasts as she came to rest on her stomach, and moved comfortingly over her side in a gentle rubbing motion.

How to get him to move his hand off her back?

Gulping, wondering if he was asleep, she whispered, “Please, would you—would you rub lower?”

He made a noise that seemed caught between a snore and a sigh, but moved said hand down to her hip, stroking up and down through the thin silk of her chemise.

So she could suggest. How, then, could she get his hand off her—without waking him?

If he was asleep, she finally decided, he would not remember. She could say anything. Hurriedly, trying not to think of it too much, she blurted out in a shy whisper, “My bottom. Please rub my bottom.”

He snorted again, mumbling into the pillow. She couldn’t understand much of it except the words pleasure and anytime, but his hand was sliding over her hip and caressing the firm rump through the silk. Instinctively, it appeared, he found the very sweet spot between her thighs and bottom and nudged there until his palm returned to rub.

Trying not to think of how warm and lulling his ministrations actually were, Abigail slipped an inch at a time closer to the edge of the bed, until his palm was rubbing the edge of the hip closest to him.

He didn’t object at all when she slid from his touch. After a motionless moment, she watched Meriden give an indignant humph and roll over, facing the opposite direction. Hardly daring to breathe, she looked around, sliding her feet into the slippers lying beside the bed.

Her dressing gown was hung at the end. Clearly, he’d put her in his bed quite deliberately. The last thing Abigail remembered was sitting by the fire, curled on his lap—a pleasant enough experience, until he’d bent down to her ear and had told her what he intended to do when next they were alone. For her part, Abigail thought it was best to feign sleep after that.

In all likelihood, her pretence of sleep had become real easily enough.

She hurried to the door, then remembered he’d locked it. The key was not waiting and his coat seemed absent. She looked around and frowned. There were two other doors, presumably not locked. One probably led to his sitting room or closet. The other presumably led to her own private rooms.

Taking a deep breath, she went to the left and found the panels unlocked. His sitting room was beyond, cold and dark. She knew it by the thin shafts of light beginning to shine past the edges of the drapes. Carefully, she closed the door behind her and made for the door to the corridor.

Getting to her room was not as traumatic as she’d feared. Once inside, she dropped her slippers to the floor, slid back into her now chilly bed and looked around.

The main problem remained. Meriden’s attitude towards her could no longer be ignored. From the beginning, he had persistently treated her as—and expected her to enact the role of—his wife, rather than his fiancée. Pointing out the inaccuracy had only confirmed it. He saw nothing wrong with his approach. Indeed, he was rather insistent on it.

Unfortunately, the rest of the world, including her aunt, the household and his friends, did not yet recognise her as his countess. They would be scandalised if she slept even secretively in his bed. And they would be scandalised by her behaviour, should it be discovered. Abigail was sure of it.

Danvers was the rector, after all, and the banns had to be read a third time before the wedding.

She had to avoid Meriden, especially those intimate late-night encounters she had no hope of controlling. It would be easier to do so if her father did come to reassure Aunt Betsy, but such an event was unlikely, in Abigail’s mind. What other choice did she have?

As Abigail pondered it, the maid, Annie, came in. Abigail had not completely pulled the bed curtains closed, so she watched Annie carry in the washing water. The hot water from the day before had presumably gone to waste after Abigail had been discovered sound asleep. Doubtless Annie deserved an apology, at the very least.

Blinking, she sat up. Disruptive or not, Abigail now needed a bath, and before she saw her aunt. The unfamiliar and disconcerting moistness between her legs would have been enough reason, but Abigail was sure Meriden’s scent remained on her skin.

* * * *

After the tea tray had been taken away, Abigail and Dr Franklin helped her aunt walk in a circle around the far end of the bedchamber. It was an excruciating exercise, though Lady Arlington endured it courageously and with fewer complaints than she might have uttered. The wound on her head had clotted but Aunt Betsy was predictably sore, stiff, bruised and nauseous.

Meriden entered the sickroom just as Aunt Betsy was lurching the last two steps to the bed, and Dr Franklin helped her gingerly turn to sit on the nearby chair. The elderly woman held herself proudly and looked Meriden over as critically as she could, the angle of her face haughty, despite the dark eyes already hazy with pain and exhaustion.

Observing her fragility, he nevertheless approached and bowed smoothly. Abigail knew instinctively that he had especially prepared for the event. He was flawlessly attired in tailored breeches, Hoby boots and a distinctive Weston jacket. The white linen around his neck was tied perfectly. His hair was swept elegantly to one side and the shoulder-length locks tightly confined to a tight knob above his collar.

Dr Franklin, to her relief, performed the introductions. Aunt Betsy looked Meriden up and down again and paused dramatically, a natural action for her that gave her adversaries just enough time to quake in their dancing slippers.

Then she said abruptly, “I can’t say as I’m delighted to meet you, Meriden, as I’ve heard from everyone in the house that you have expectations of marrying my Abigail next week. But I don’t suppose you have an explanation for this foolishness that is more forthcoming than my niece has been?”

Abigail watched Meriden’s lower lip curl. She waited anxiously for him to say something cutting, but to her surprise and relief he spoke compassionately. “All of these developments must have been quite a shock, my lady. I am greatly relieved to see you beginning to recover. I must say, seeing you seated in the chair is a remarkable improvement over the last time I saw you—as you were unconscious then. Despite this, to be so concerned about Lady Abigail while in your own pain is truly a testament to your care for her.”

Aunt Betsy’s lips softened a bit, although Abigail knew such pleasantries would not distract her aunt. “I confess I did believe Abigail had made up the entire event from whole cloth, but it hardly seems likely, as we’re even here in the middle of England instead of town. Even your waterman assures me the servants have been expecting us for at least a week, and my own John knew of the business, too. So explain it, please, including any scandalous reasons I will find out anyway.” She waved a hand imperiously, as only she could do, and added curtly, “And without any further unnecessary compliments.”

From her position to the side, Abigail nearly laughed as Meriden straightened his posture at her aunt’s directive, clearly debating the value of compliance. He lifted his eyebrows, but was clearly not to be intimidated. Across the room, Franklin looked up, openly interested, and the maid fled before Meriden could even look in her direction.

Still, Abigail was glad to see that Betsy’s words had neither terrified him nor openly amused him. She needed Betsy’s support to manage through the wedding and her aunt’s necessary ongoing presence as she recovered. In any event, Betsy would be invaluable to surviving the social aftermath caused by the marriage. Abigail hoped earnestly that Meriden understood that satisfying her aunt would ultimately make Abigail’s life much simpler, and was almost ready to speak in favour of Betsy’s demands when Grady materialised at the door.

All three turned to look at him, Abigail frowning in frustration and disapproval.

“My lord.” Grady glanced around briefly, but addressed his master smoothly. “The carters have arrived with Lady Abigail’s boxes from London. With her maid still in a sickbed, we have no idea how to organise them or which belongings she shall desire before the wedding.”

A spasm of pain and frustration swept over Betsy’s face, and Abigail suddenly realised that her aunt must need to lie down after the exhausting exercise prior to Meriden’s arrival. Still, it seemed apparent that the stubborn woman would not succumb to the pain while Meriden was under her sharp eye. Abigail stepped towards her instinctively, and it was Meriden who sighed audibly but spoke with his usual authority. “Grady, have the maid come back in to assist the doctor. Her ladyship needs to return to her bed. Lady Arlington, your request is not unimportant and I would beg your patience with this interruption. Perhaps we could agree that, after dinner, Lady Abigail and I will join you here instead of rattling around by ourselves in the drawing room? And on that thought, my dear,” he finished, turning to Abigail and appropriating her arm, “I’m afraid you are about to be plunged into some drudgery, as I have not been educated on how to arrange your parasols and dancing shoes. I trust it will be finished in time for the dinner bell, though, given Grady’s usual efficiency.”

Abigail smiled tremulously, her mind still on Aunt Betsy, and turned to look at the lady even as Meriden was guiding her from the room. But Dr Franklin was already beside the elderly woman and the maid was waiting to pass through the doorway, so Abigail let herself be drawn past the doorframe and into the corridor.

So much for avoiding him, she thought, then sighed. “Really, I don’t need any of it for now,” she tried to explain, but Meriden shook his head. “I suspected as much, but you won’t want the boxes stacked in your boudoir after the wedding, either. If you’ll look at the rooms and give the staff some direction, they’ll be able to organise it for you. In any event, your aunt could not have managed, at this moment, the difficult discussion she is demanding.” He looked at her critically and drew her arm fractionally tighter against him. “And you look exhausted, my dear. Barring any difficulties with your belongings, I think you should rest before dinner.” He raised an eyebrow. “Obviously you should have stayed abed longer this morning.”

Unable to help it, Abigail flushed. Even as the blood rose in her cheeks, she watched Meriden’s face react to her response, and her breath caught. “If you’d let me go back to my own bed, I would have,” she muttered.