by Olivia Drake
With that, he ushered her into a room rendered dim by the unnatural darkness of the late afternoon sky. Abby had only a glimpse of Lord Ambrose’s interested expression before Rothwell promptly shut the door on his friend.
In the short time that it had taken to navigate the passageway, the storm had struck with vicious power. Rain lashed the tall windows and coursed in rivulets down the panes. Trees swayed under the whipping of the wind. Lightning zigzagged across the dark clouds, chased by rumbles of thunder.
Through the gloom, she could see a spacious, well-appointed study with a mahogany desk as its centerpiece. An account book lay open, and beside it, an assortment of quill pens and a silver ink pot. The wall behind the desk held shelves that displayed leather-bound books interspersed with classical busts.
Rothwell made no move to light a lamp. He merely tossed his gloves onto a wing chair by the fireplace. “It appears we were fortunate to have reached shelter in time.”
“I hope Miss Herrington was as lucky to reach wherever she was going.”
“Ah. So that’s what this is all about.” The duke settled himself onto the edge of the desk, folding his arms and fixing Abby with his unnerving gaze. “You’re peeved that I wouldn’t go gallivanting after a woman in a gig.”
She nearly quailed under his scrutiny. But his mocking tone set her teeth on edge and reminded her of her purpose. Gripping the strings of her bonnet, she stated, “Not just any woman. She was Miss Herrington, and well you know it.”
“Oh? I barely caught a glimpse of her. And it’s rather absurd of you to have expected me to recognize her bonnet. I’ve met the woman only briefly on holidays when my sister came to visit me.”
“Then kindly explain why you didn’t appear in the least bit surprised to learn that I’d seen her driving along the lane. In fact, you looked rather secretive. I strongly suspect you already knew she was in the area—and that you wished to hide that fact.” Throwing caution to the wind, Abby added, “Because you have recruited her to be one of your—your paramours!”
He stared for a moment while the rain drummed its staccato beat. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “I see. And how, may I ask, did you arrive at this brilliant conclusion?”
She paced back and forth in front of him, ticking off the reasons on her fingers. “You tried to dissuade me from asking questions about her. You had just ridden from the same direction as she had come, so you must have been visiting her. Yesterday, you nearly skewered me for mentioning a rumor that she’d run off with her lover. Of course, at the time I never dreamed he might be you, Rothwell. And besides which, she is exactly your style!”
“My style.”
“Yes, young, beautiful, and fair-haired—just like Lady Desmond. I wonder if she knows that you’ve set up another chère amie as her rival. Or is that your typical conduct these days? To flit from one mistress to another as the mood may strike?”
During her tirade, his countenance darkened, and tension crackled in the room like the lightning outside the windows. His lips were thinned, his gaze narrowed, his eyebrows clashing in a frown. “That’s quite a burden of sins you’ve ascribed to me.”
“If they are yours, you must own them. I need the truth from you, Rothwell. And for a very good reason!”
“Do tell.”
“It is necessary because of my duty to your sister, of course! I must know if I need to be careful that Lady Gwendolyn never encounters Miss Herrington while riding on the estate, for I will not have her exposed to your sordid peccadilloes. And we both know that you can be careless in such matters—only recall your behavior in the library with Lady Desmond.”
Abruptly, he straightened up from the desk and advanced on Abby. Her heart thumped wildly within the confines of her corset. For one frightful instant, she feared she had gone too far and that he meant to clamp his hands around her throat and throttle her.
But he merely stalked to a table set against the wall behind her. There, he uncorked a decanter and poured a splash into two crystal glasses. He returned to thrust one of the goblets into her hand.
“Drink this,” he ordered.
Abby eyed the dark liquid suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Brandy. You’ll need it to recover from the shock.”
“Shock?”
“Yes. Given the extent of your delusions, what I have to say will undoubtedly rattle you to the core. I also require your promise that my confession, such as it is, won’t go beyond these four walls.”
“Only an unscrupulous rogue would demand such a vow when you haven’t even told me what it is I’m to conceal! Why should I agree to your terms at all?”
“Because if you don’t, then my lips are sealed. And you will forever wonder what secrets I harbor concerning Miss Herrington.”
Abby took a swallow from her glass, the liquor burning down her throat. She was conscious of Rothwell watching her. He probably expected her to cough and choke, but she often had sipped brandy with her father in the evenings when Mama had retired early. The two of them could sit for hours discussing some obscure aspect of his historical research about England. If only she could calm her flustered nerves and know such peace again …
She scrubbed an untimely nostalgia and focused on her resolve to protect Lady Gwendolyn. “As you insist, then, Your Grace. I promise not to tell anyone—unless of course you’ve committed an actual crime.”
“By gad, you’ve a low opinion of me,” Rothwell growled before tossing back his drink in one smooth motion. He set the glass down on the desk and gave her an aggrieved stare before adding tersely, “You’re right on only one count. I did indeed know the woman in the gig was Miss Herrington.”
“So, you were lying to me. I knew it!” Abby stabbed her finger at him, but it somehow got tangled in her bonnet strings, quite ruining the triumphant gesture.
“Don’t celebrate too soon. The rest of your assumptions are completely, utterly wrong. So wrong, in fact, that when you leave my employ, you ought to consider making a career of writing Cheltenham tragedies.”
She wanted to dash the remainder of her brandy in his too handsome face. Instead, she carefully set the glass down on the desk along with her bonnet, for it wouldn’t do to give free rein to the wild emotions only he could stir in her. “Wrong, my lord duke? How so?”
“First of all, Miss Herrington is not and has never been my chère amie, as you so indelicately put it. Nor have I ever even considered such an improper arrangement with her. Believe of me what you will, but I won’t allow you to besmirch her reputation with your baseless innuendos.”
“Then kindly explain why a man of your rank would hire an attractive young lady scarcely out of the schoolroom herself, rather than choosing an older, more qualified governess with impeccable credentials.”
Rothwell paced to the rainswept window and combed his fingers through his hair. He stared out at the wild tempest a moment before turning back on his heel to face Abby. “If you must know, I did it as a favor to an old school friend. When William Herrington was killed at Waterloo, his younger sister was left penniless and alone. By chance, Gwen’s former governess had decided to retire from service, so I offered the position to Miss Herrington. She was gently bred and I believed she would make an excellent companion for Gwen. There was nothing in the least bit nefarious about it.”
In spite of everything, the story touched Abby’s heart and left her flummoxed. It was the last thing she’d expected from Rothwell. But could she trust him to tell the unvarnished truth? She tried to picture him in the role of benefactor. Though she could readily believe it of the boy she had once loved and admired, he had broken his vow to her when he’d gone away and never replied to her letters. In the intervening years, he had become an unprincipled rake, the tales of his many exploits having been brought back from London by family members and neighbors.
“Are you saying, then, that Miss Herrington had no relatives whatsoever who might have taken her in?” Abby asked.
“A few distan
t cousins in Gloucestershire, that is all.”
“Then why did you claim that she’d had to leave due to a family crisis? You lied about that, too, for clearly, Gloucestershire is not where she went!”
A flash across the sky cast an eerie light over Rothwell. It made the angles of his face appear hard and sinister and not at all hospitable. “She needed a story to explain her disappearance, that’s why. The fact of the matter is that she and her betrothed left to be married in Avon a few weeks ago and returned only yesterday from their honeymoon.”
“Married! To whom?”
“A local landowner by the name of Babcock. His parents forbade the match, as Miss Herrington is quite without fortune. When they threatened to disrupt the nuptials, she and her fiancé decided to marry elsewhere. They did not wish to endure the shame of a Gretna Green wedding either, so she applied to me in London for help, and I was able to procure a special license.”
Rothwell went to pour himself another drink, then continued, “I might add that I advised the happy couple not to elope, but to stand firm. However, Miss Herrington was adamant, so plans were made to depart in secret and then present the marriage as a fait accompli. Babcock told his parents he was going away to inspect a prize bull to purchase and off he went, with Miss Herrington joining him along the way. Upon their return yesterday, Miss Herrington—or rather, Mrs. Babcock—prevailed upon me to allow them to stay temporarily in an empty cottage in the woods, where I called on them today. Mr. Babcock had already gone alone to break the news to his parents. The new Mrs. Babcock was worried at how long it was taking for him to return, and I can only surmise that’s why you saw her driving the gig in the direction of their property.”
During this long speech, Abby stood dumbstruck. Now, she flattened the palm of one hand on the smooth surface of the desk in order to hold her wobbly legs upright. “Mr. Babcock … and Miss Herrington.”
“Yes, I presume you know him?” When she didn’t reply, Rothwell strode closer to grasp her shoulders and peer down into her face. “You’re pale. Who was he to you?”
“No one! It’s just that … I never guessed…”
She stared mutely over his broad shoulder at the rain weeping down the windows. This past spring, Mr. Babcock had proposed marriage to her, but she had turned him down. He had sworn to ask her again as soon as her year of mourning was completed. Just this morning, while sitting in the portrait gallery, she had decided to accept him. She’d reconciled herself to a future where she would become his wife, bear his children, and hope that in time she might learn to love him.
Instead, he had married Miss Herrington. When had that romance blossomed?
Now that Abby thought about it, she’d noticed the couple talking a few times after church, in particular, when the governess had worn that new green bonnet with the cherries. How long had they been meeting in secret? Were they truly so madly in love that they’d felt the urgency to elope? The act seemed contrary to the dull, proper man Abby knew whose conversational ability had been limited to sheep and hops.
She expected a rush of wretched sorrow to immerse her heart. But the truth was, she merely felt deflated and a trifle disappointed. It was dispiriting to contemplate leaving here once Rothwell and his friends departed for London again. Unless she could form another plan for her future, she would have to return to Linton House and settle back into the role of maiden aunt, tending to everyone else’s needs and having no husband or children or home to call her own.
“Ah,” Rothwell said. “I see that this news has shaken you excessively. Did you perhaps believe Babcock to be your beau, hmm?”
Feeling the heaviness of his hands on her shoulders, she jerked up her chin to meet his shadowed gaze. He appeared rather amused, and his ironic tone sparked the white-hot flash of anger she had failed to feel at Mr. Babcock’s abandonment.
She stepped back out of his reach. “Never mind him. Rather, I would like to know why you didn’t tell me all of this earlier, when I first saw Miss—Mrs. Babcock in the gig.”
“It isn’t my prerogative to proclaim their news to one and all. Nor is it yours, so I trust you’ll honor your promise to keep your lips buttoned until the official announcement is made.”
“Of course,” she said stiffly. “Though I do think it would be wise to tell Lady Hester. She is the one who noticed that Miss Herrington was behaving like a woman in love.”
“Or in lust, as you would have it.”
Abby twined her fingers together and hoped the gloom hid her blush. It was mortifying to face just how far off the mark she’d been. A deep-rooted sense of fairness nudged her to say, “Pray forgive me, Rothwell. I leaped to the wrong conclusion, and I should not have made such a dreadful assumption. It is just that…”
“That you are determined to think the worst of me?” He put his fingers under her chin to tilt it up so that she could not look away. “Abby. I wish I knew what it was that turned you so much against me.”
The sound of her name on his lips gave her an unwanted thrill, especially when spoken in that low, gravelly tone. She despised the breathlessness he stirred in her, and the host of turbulent feelings that ought to have stayed long buried. “Your libertine ways, of course. I daresay I never really knew you.”
He uttered a low chuckle. “Surely you can’t still be raking me over the coals for enticing you into a minor indiscretion in the woods all those years ago. Not when I apologized so abjectly in the letters I sent you.”
“Letters?” she scoffed. “What letters? You never wrote to me—or answered any of my missives, for that matter.”
His gaze sharpened. “The devil you say! I watched my father’s secretary frank the billets-doux that I sent to you—all five of them. I received no replies, no correspondence at all in return. I took it to mean you’d washed your hands of me.”
Abby felt a quake inside her. His assertion was too incredible to be believed. Was it true? How could it be possible that neither of them had received the other’s notes? Letters certainly went astray from time to time—but not all of them.
Yet why would Rothwell lie to her about the matter? It made no sense. Unless he regretted his sworn vow to marry her once he reached his majority. He surely didn’t think she might still try to hold him to it—did he?
“There’s no need for you to dissemble,” she said stiffly. “I won’t appeal to your honor and demand an offer from you. I would never hold you to a promise made when we were practically children.”
“Is that what you think this is about? Me, trying to weasel out of that pledge?” He shook his head. “Rather, you negated it when you tossed me over—perhaps for your Mr. Babcock. A pity he never came up to scratch.”
Had Abby been one of her little nieces, she’d have stamped her foot. “Don’t be absurd. He has nothing whatsoever to do with this. When I wouldn’t succumb to your seduction, you headed off to greener pastures. ‘I’ll seek my comfort elsewhere,’ you said. And you very likely pitched my letters into the nearest dustbin.”
“Believe what you will, but if my letters vanished, it must have been your parents absconding with them. Perhaps they thought you were too young to have a serious beau.”
“No one could have done so at Linton House,” she asserted. “I checked the mail delivery faithfully, meeting the postman at the door for months on end, to no avail. I finally forgot about you when I became busy caring for Mama after her riding accident.”
He frowned rather skeptically. “How did you even manage to write to me, anyway? At the time, I never even considered it, but now I can’t imagine your father allowing his adolescent daughter to correspond with an unmarried young man—not even one of high rank.”
“I smuggled the letters to Rosalind, who posted them on my behalf. When you didn’t respond, I presumed I’d been no more than a summer fancy, easy to forget once you’d sampled the superior amusements of London.” Abby paused, then added firmly, “I was disappointed, of course, but it all happened a very long time ago. It isn’t im
portant anymore.”
Rothwell made no reply, his gaze narrowed on her while the rain continued to fall with no sign of abating. Hail pinged against the windowpanes, but she took little notice. She was too caught up in remembering the excitement of her first romance and then the crushing disillusionment of facing the fact that Max had never meant to return when he came of age, that his vow of eternal love must have been just a trick to convince her to grant him liberties that no decent young lady should allow.
But now it seemed possible that that wasn’t entirely true, and they’d been kept apart by forces unknown. If indeed he had written to her, what could have happened to his letters—and hers? She hardly knew what to think.
It was all so very perplexing.
Abby had a hard time thinking, anyway, when he stood so close. It was highly improper for them to be alone together. Especially after she had seen him stripped to the waist in the boxing ring and discovered that she was as weak as any woman when it came to the infamous Duke of Rothwell. It was a galling realization to know that she ached to touch him, to explore the differences between the boy she had known and the man he had become.
She pressed her fingertips into her palms. That would be the height of madness. Not only was he her employer, he was renowned for his expertise in seducing women.
As if he’d read her mind, one corner of his mouth curled into a dangerously attractive half-smile. “So,” he mused, “all this time I thought you’d taken a disgust of me for enticing you into misbehaving. But that wasn’t the case at all, was it?”
“It can’t possibly matter now. The incident is best forgotten. If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, I must return to my duties.”
Abby turned away, but Rothwell caught hold of her wrist. “One moment,” he commanded. “We aren’t done here.”
She could scarcely breathe for the swift beating of her heart. It took a concentrated effort to say calmly, “I beg to differ. Neither of us seems to know what happened to those letters. Nor does it appear likely at this late date that we shall ever find out. So, there is nothing more to be said.”