The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) (5 page)

Reluctantly, Michael pulled back but wasn’t ready to let her go entirely. He kissed her cheek, the delicate shell of her ear, and once again, pressed a sweet on her lips. “You should go to bed,” he said, “Quickly.”

Abbi surveyed him quizzically, “I don’t understand you, at all. You are reputed to be the worst sort of rogue, and yet you have behaved very honorably with me… You spurned Lavinia and the grossly improper entertainments she offered, which, based on your reputation, should have been precisely to your order. You appear to wear two very different masks, and I can’t help but wonder, who are you really?”

It was a more astute observation than he was comfortable with. Retreating behind a mask of sardonic wit, he replied, “Whoever it suits me to be at the moment.”

Abbi shook her head and moved away from him. “That is a poor answer, my lord.”

Michael watched her walk away. He could go after her. With a few more drugging kisses, he could spend the night making love to her and ignoring such pointed questions. It was tempting, but he found that for once in his life, he wished to do things the proper way. A kiss was one thing, but he intended for her to remain chaste until they were wed. For a notorious rake, he was discovering that he had an alarmingly traditional streak. It was damned inconvenient.

In his own room, a short time later, the kiss still haunted him. He attributed his restlessness to unquenched desire. There was more than that, of course, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

When sleep finally claimed him, he was beset by violent dreams. Abbi was running through the woods, and the torch bearers were closing in on her. Her clothing was torn and bloodied. Those visions gave way to older ones, and took him back to the war and the atrocities he had seen there. Then, in his dream, he was a boy again and Melisande, his first love, was lying broken and bloodied on the forest floor, abused in the most foul of ways.

Beside the bed, the Gray Lady stood watch. Her eyes were filled with sadness, shimmering with phantom tears she could not shed. She reached out her hand, and it hovered above his brow for a moment, before she withdrew. Her touch was incapable of providing comfort to anyone, a fact that accounted for some of her weeping. She gave one last look to the man on the bed, a man who carried a wealth of pain inside him, before fading into the surrounding darkness.

~*~*~

At Whitby Hall, Lavinia was in a foul mood. She had been a harridan since the night before and Lord Ellersleigh’s blatant rejection of her. The jealousy she felt for Abigail had always been unreasonable, but now, with Lord Ellersleigh choosing her sister over her, she was unbearable. A servant ducked out of the room, clutching her bruised forearm. Lavinia had hurled a tray at the girl for having the temerity to interrupt her.

“Lavinia, you mustn’t overset yourself so!” Rupert said. He was distracted, staring up at the naughty mural painted above their bed, and only half listening to her.

Predictably, she turned on him, her eyes blazing and her magnificent breasts heaving as she ranted. She threw her hairbrush at him; the silver backed tool clattering against the wall behind him. “This is your fault!” she shrieked. “If you hadn’t been panting after my stepsister, this never would have happened!”

Rupert rose from the bed, clutching the brush in his hand. He eyed her coolly; his full lips firmed into a cruel line. The cutting words were spoken with a twisted glee. “Ellersleigh turned you down before he even knew that I was in Abigail’s room...You, my darling wife, are no longer in the first stare of beauty. The bloom is off that particular rose. Ellersleigh is a rake by any account, but he prefers respectable widows and discreet wives—not jaded harlots like you.”

Rupert advanced on her then, moving closer until he could grip her face between his hands, pinching painfully. He continued, “You were too bold for him. A man like that wants to feel like he's a hunter... not the hunted. Think back to how it was in the beginning my love. Our secret meetings in the woods, away from your family's prying eyes. You would protest, and I would convince you to go just a bit further.... A real man wants to believe he has taken something, not that it was given.” The truth was, he hadn't the ability to satisfy his wife any longer regardless of what was taken or given. It had been ages since they'd made love. She required more vigor than his diseased body was capable of producing. Perhaps that was Abigail's allure. She would not be comparing the shell he'd become to the man he'd once been. A hint of his bitterness crept out then, and he spoke to her more cruelly. “You could learn a thing or two from your stepsister in that regard.”

Lavinia smiled up at himAny hint of jealousy would not be well received, and she knew it. Lavinia’s lips turned out in a pout; one more suited to a small child than a woman grown. She needed his attention; she craved it, even if it was attention of the unpleasant sort. Placing her hands on his chest, rubbing against him suggestively, she said in a small, childish voice, “But, I wanted him, and you told me I could have anything I wanted.”

Rupert tested the weight of the brush, slapping it against his palm. “You will, one way or another! You will have him, but first you've been very naughty, Lavinia. A spoiled brat who needs to learn her place.”

Lavinia shivered, but it wasn’t fear. She had known when she hurled the brush at him that he would make her pay for it. That had been her primary reason for doing it. She needed the release he could provide; the mingled pain and pleasure of punishment excited her, and the idea that he would be completely attuned to her in those moments. “What will you do, my lord?”

Rupert smiled, his full lips twisting cruelly. She only ever called him that when she wished to submit, when she craved the violence. “We shall issue an apology to both of them, and blame your bad behavior on being upset about poor, dear Allerton. Then we shall invite them to a party.”

Impatience tugged at her, and she snapped back at him. “We’ve done most of that already, barring the apology, and it got us nowhere!”

He grabbed the back of her head, his hand fisting tightly in her hair, yanking her head back and pushing her breasts upward. He hadn't the strength he'd once possessed, but he was still capable of controlling her, at least for a moment or two. “We will also invite Lady Westerbrook… The best way to drive a wedge between Ellersleigh and Abigail is to throw his most recent conquest into the mix. And as for you, do not question me! Do not think to speak to me in such a way! You forget that I am not just your husband, I am also your master... I rule you. Your pleasure and your pain are mine to give and withhold as I see fit!”

The words were cold and cruel, hissed between clenched teeth while his hand still tugged roughly at her hair. Heat rushed through her veins, pooling in her belly. As always the slight tinge of fear and the perfect amount of pain sparked her desire. The brush was still clasped in his other hand, and she knew what was to come.  This was the Rupert she'd fallen in love with, the man she'd offered to do anything, become anything for. Those moments of vitality were becoming fewer and further between, but she lived for them. With a meekness they both knew to be a lie, but one that made their games sweeter for it, she said, “Yes, my lord. Forgive me, please.”

He smiled again, stroking the hard bristles of the brush over the delicate skin of her collarbone. They scraped painfully, but the sensation was titillating nonetheless. “I will always forgive you, my pet. But I must punish you anyway. That is the only way you will learn…Take off your clothes and kneel on the bed.”

Lavinia rushed to obey his commands, as eager for the punishment as for the reward that would follow.

Chapter Six

The wedding was small. Very small. Only the vicar was present, with Squire Blevins and his thoroughly scandalized wife there to act as witnesses. Abbi wore the same simple gown she had worn for dinner at the Whitby's. Mrs. Wolcot had insisted on weaving flowers into the tight coronet of braids that she wore. It was her only concession to her role as a bride. And her nerves, he thought ruefully. She'd been jumpy as a cat all morning, and it had only become worse after their return home.

Home, he thought somewhat bewildered. When had he come to think of the crumbling heap of Blagdon Hall as home? Perhaps it wasn't the hall, he conceded. Perhaps it was the woman who resided within it. That in mind, he watched her beneath half-lowered lashes as she moved the food around on her plate and managed to not take a single bite of it.

The servants, the pair of crotchety old miscreants that were more hindrance than help for the most part, had made themselves scarce. There was no wedding celebration as there was no one to invite, or at least not within a distance that would make their attendance a possibility. Mrs. Wolcot had at least produced a fine meal for them before scurrying off to whatever corner she typically occupied, leaving them alone in the small dining room.

The silence stretched between them, only the sound of their cutlery moving on china broke the deadened air of the room. The tension between them was palpable. Michael elected to simply wait out his new bride and see what thoughts were burning in her particularly hard skull.

Finally, after what seemed an interminable silence, Abbi spoke. She sat her fork down, and it clattered against the plate. The noise was nearly deafening in the too-quiet room.

She inhaled deeply and then on a shuddering breath; the words escaped her in a rush. “I’ve given it a significant amount of thought, my lord, and I’ve decided that we should wait to consummate our union.”

Michael didn't respond immediately. He took in her posture, stiffened spine, clenched jaw, the white-knuckled grip she had on the fork that appeared to be bending under the strain. Fear was pushing her, and Abigail knew only one response. To push back. Electing to neither agree nor disagree,  his voice was companionable as he queried, “Wait for what, Abigail?”

That she hadn't thought that far ahead was obvious by the slightly stunned expression on her face. She gaped at him for a moment, blinking owlishly before stammering. “Well, it’s simply—it’s simply that we are not well acquainted with one another, my lord. To avoid any awkwardness or offended modesty, I feel that we should wait.”

He nodded sagely, and then said, “I have no modesty for you to offend, and if it is your own modesty that concerns you, I will not insist upon leaving the candles burning.”

Abbi turned away from him, staring at the unappetizing food on her plate with consternation. She hadn't anticipated his response correctly. That was glaringly apparent. The conversation was not proceeding as she had hoped, not at all. “That is most considerate of you, my lord, but does not address the fact that we still do not know one another—“

“And if I let you have your way, we never will,” he said bluntly.

There was an edge to his voice that she had never heard before. Steel lurked beneath the easy charm and sardonic humor.

Huffing out a breath in irritation, she glared at him. “I am not referring to biblical knowledge., my lord!”

He shrugged; his ridiculously handsome face torn between amusement and annoyance. “Neither am I, at least, not entirely. And I thought we had addressed the fact that you are to use my given name?”

Hoping that conceding to that intimacy would perhaps spare her the others that loomed so terrifyingly in her mind, she replied, “Very well, Michael. I am asking you to give me time to become more accustomed to the idea of things, of our marriage—.’

“Enough,” he said, and though it wasn’t a shout, it carried a wealth of command.

Convulsively, she swallowed. Had she pushed him too far? Was this the point where the gentleman disappeared, and the monster like Rupert showed himself? “Very well, my lord, if you insist.”

Michael sighed, the weary sound traveling through the near silent dining room.. His eyes bored into her as he contemplated the situation. When he did speak, his tone was measured and even, despite his clear irritation.

“I will offer you a bargain, Abigail. I will not make love to you, will not consummate our marriage until you desire for me to do so…But with that, you must come to my bed. You will give me one-quarter of an hour each night to attempt to sway you.”

Abbi felt the ferocity of the blush stealing over her face. Her cheeks bloomed with heat that he could speak so casually of the intimacies of the marriage bed. Of course, there was another issue. His skill as a lover was infamous. He'd left her all but senseless in the kitchen, and he hadn't even been trying.

“One-quarter of an hour is too much,” she said, thinking of the soul-searing kiss he’d given her the day before. “Five minutes,” she countered.

His lips quirked upward as if he were enjoying their negotiations immensely, or worse, as if he were amused by her attempts to delay the inevitable. “Ten.”

“Seven?” she shot back, refusing to back down.

He smiled, wickedly. “Ten or nothing and we’ll consummate our marriage here in the drawing room in the bright light of day.”

“Ten,” she agreed readily, horrified that he would actually carry through on the threat.

He rose from the table, stalking towards her with intent. It was plainly evident in the predatory grace with which he moved. He paused next to her chair, leaning forward and bracing his hands, one on the table and one of the back of her chair, his strong arms bracketing her.  “Then we have a bargain,” he said, “Shall we seal it with a kiss?”

“Any kisses or other gestures of physical intimacy prior to retirement will be deducted from your ten minutes,” she replied primly. It was a smarter strategy to allow his kisses in the relative safety of the dining room than within the dangerous confines of a bedchamber.

A smile coasted across his firm lips, before being replaced by a look that could only be described as hungry. He leaned in, his mouth hovering over his. His voice was soft, the merest whisper, but it shivered over her skin, dark and wicked. “I can afford the loss…It won’t take ten minutes to convince you to stay.”

As her lips parted on a protest, he swooped in. His lips covered her, plying, teasing. They molded to hers, infusing her with heat and something else she couldn't quite name. It was if her body simply melted; her limbs became heavy and languid, but deep within her, tension coiled. Then he was sliding his tongue over her lips, into her mouth until it tangled sensually with her own.

It should have shocked her, should have offended her maidenly sensibilities. She knew that. It didn't. Instead, it inflamed her. Left her yearning for more. She wanted to feel the hardness of his body pressed against hers, the weight of his hands on her flesh. Yet, only his lips touched hers. Even as she burned for him, she knew that he was in complete control of his desires, that what set her ablaze and left her reeling was commonplace to him.

He broke the kiss, his lips drawing slowly from hers as he met her gaze. There was triumph there, lurking in the depths of his dancing eyes.

He'd kissed her senseless, but she wouldn't concede the field so easily. Though it cost her, and it was only bravado in the face of his arrogance, she replied, “You only have eight and a half minutes now.”

He smiled, “We’ll set a clock beside the bed. You might lose count otherwise.”

~*~*~

As evening fell, his bride was nowhere to be seen. It was a strategic retreat for her; he knew. He'd overplayed his hand that morning. Her reluctance had piqued his pride, and that had prodded him to behave like an ass. Of course, given the sweetness of that kiss, the thrill of seeing her eyes clouded with desire in the wake of it, his regrets were, if not absent, at least limited.

After a lonely dinner, Michael decided that he had allowed her to hide for long enough. He left the dining room and made his way up the narrow stairs. The Gray Lady was notably absent, a fact that left him unaccountably relieved. He’d only seen her the one time, but he’d felt the weight of her presence. It was just as well; he thought. One lady of the manor was quite enough to deal with.

He knocked on Abbi’s door, the sound muffled by the heaviness of the ancient wood. Still, he had little doubt she'd heard him. “I am retiring, dear wife…I will expect you in my chamber in ten minutes.”

In her room, Abbi had been fighting her nerves all evening. It wasn't even fear of the unknown. In terms of the act itself, she wasn't entirely ignorant. No, it wasn't that. It was him. The power that he wielded so easily over her body, the way he made her blood race and her heart pound. Any man who could elicit such a visceral response with so little effort was a threat.

With that in mind, Abbi had elected not to dress for bed. She felt that meeting him as fully armored as possible was to her advantage. Waiting a full nine minutes before opening the door, she made the seemingly endless trek down the narrow hall to the master chamber. She didn’t have to knock for he had left the door open.

He was sitting up in bed, propped against the pillows with his hands folded behind his head. The covers fell to his waist, revealing his muscled chest, lightly covered with crisp dark hair. The hair narrowed to a thin line that bisected the firm ridges of his abdomen before disappearing beneath the bed linens.

Blushing furiously, Abbi averted her gaze while trying valiantly not to think of what he might or might not be wearing beneath those bedclothes. Still, there was no denying his masculine beauty. With his chiseled features and perfectly sculpted form, he reminded her of the statues she’d seen in the books she wasn’t supposed to look at.

Of course, he was physically without flaw, she thought somewhat bitterly. What had she expected? That he would suddenly develop a hunchback that would render him undesirable? Stifling an irritated sigh, she moved forward into the room. It was time to meet her fate.

“Good evening, my lord.”

“Good evening, wife,” he replied. His tone was low and intimate, his deep voice rumbling in the silence of the room. Each word was like a caress, and his knowing glance was a weight on her.

She stepped deeper into the room, her hands shaking as she closed the door behind her. She could only hope that he wouldn’t notice. As it was, she could feel his gaze traveling over her, no doubt taking note of the fact that she was still fully clothed.

“Won't you join me?” The question was asked innocently enough, or as innocently as a man like her husband could manage.

Turning back toward the bed on a deep breath, she was once again taken aback by his naked torso. A thought crept into her mind, a very disturbing one. “What are you wearing?”

“Nothing… If you prefer, I can come to you,” he said and began lifting the covers.

“No!” she said hastily and moved toward the bed. “But do not think for one minute that I will be climbing beneath the bedclothes with you.”

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “I’ll just have to do my very best to sway you.”

Uncertain of how to proceed and feeling incredibly awkward about the entire ordeal, Abbi sat down on the bed, and then reclined against the pillows. She kept her hands folded neatly overly her ribs so that not even her elbow touched him. Her lips were pinched into a thin, grim line, and her jaw was set with stubborn determination.

Michael turned onto his side, the bedclothes dipping dangerously low over his lean hips. He trailed the tips of his fingers over the backs of her clenched hands and her forearms. “I’ve married an angry corpse,” he said

She turned her head, glancing at the clock, and then back at him. Her lips were compressed into a thin line as she said grimly, “You have eight minutes, my lord.”

Michael chuckled. She looked as if she was going to the gallows. He was still smiling when he kissed the stubborn curve her jaw and when he dipped his head to lick the delicate shell of her ear. By the time he closed his teeth gently on her earlobe, the smile had faded and was replaced with determination.

He wasn’t so arrogant that he didn’t acknowledge the very real chance he might not succeed in seducing his new bride. Never had he encountered a woman with such remarkable pride and fortitude. For that matter, he'd never met a woman so resistant to the idea of being seduced by him. It dawned on Michael that he was perhaps a bit spoiled to the fairer sex succumbing easily to his charms. Could he actually seduce a woman who wasn't already eager for seduction? It was a lowering thought.

It wasn't all pride and reluctance; he rationalized. Fear was certainly playing a part in her resistance. No fear was greater than the fear of the unknown. Knowledge of the intimacies of married life were notoriously shielded from young women, sometimes much to their detriment. Coupled with the fact that the men in her life had, to date, been grossly irresponsible or lecherous oafs, she had little enough reason to trust his intentions. With those doubts plaguing him, taunting him with the knowledge that he might not succeed, he set himself to the task of introducing her to desire.

He made a careful study of her, noting the pinkness of her cheeks, the slight hitching of her breath. Yes, she was reluctant, but she was far from unaffected. With determination, Michael employed all of his considerable skill in the task of seducing his wife.