by Olivia Drake
“His Grace knew my whereabouts,” Abby hedged. “That is all that matters.” Ignoring Lady Desmond’s frown, she returned to her charges. “Young ladies, I’m afraid it’s time to go. If you will gather up your kittens, please.”
“Must we?” Valerie said, pouting a little. “But they’re having so much fun—and so are we! Wouldn’t you agree, Gwen?”
Lady Gwendolyn nodded. She looked equally downcast, though she obediently reached for the caramel tabby. It settled into her hands and immediately yawned. “Perhaps it’s time for their naps. And we must fetch them a dish of cream from the kitchen.”
“Oh, all right,” Valerie said grudgingly, rising to her feet. “We still need to decide on names, too. Forgive me, Lord Pettibone, but I cannot really care for Graybeard. Hmm. Perhaps Cloud since we found him just before the storm. No, I’m not sure that’s right, either.”
She picked up the gray ball of fluff and cuddled it to her bosom. Unfortunately, the shuttlecock had become entangled in its tiny claws. The kitten mewed, trying to disengage itself from the feathers.
Lord Ambrose leaped up to assist. “Allow me, Miss Perkins. It will take just a moment … there, we have the little one free now.”
“Thank you, sir.” Valerie lowered her chin and fluttered her lashes at him. “You are so very kind.”
Lord Ambrose looked rather taken by her coquettish manner. He ran one finger over the tiny gray cat. “Scamp,” he murmured. “Now that would be a fine name, I believe.”
“Scamp! I do like that! It seems I am in your debt, sir.”
The little exchange alarmed Abby. Valerie’s behavior was much too forward for a seventeen-year-old and she was far too inexperienced to be flirting with a London rake nearly twice her age. The last thing Abby needed was for her niece to be swept up in dreams of romance. She herself knew from painful experience how quickly adolescent girls could form an intense infatuation. Lord Ambrose seemed the sort who flirted with anyone in a skirt, for he had been making eyes at Lady Gwen at first, and now at Valerie.
Beckoning, Abby turned toward the doorway. “Do come along, girls.”
Before she could take more than two steps, disaster appeared in the form of Rothwell entering the saloon. Her heart jumped to her throat. It was absurd for her knees to weaken at the mere sight of him. Certainly, he looked as handsome as sin in a charcoal-gray coat and white cravat, but he was also her employer. For that reason, she must prepare herself to face his wrath.
He came to a dead halt, his gaze locking with hers. For a moment, it was as if they were the only two people in existence. The intensity of his eyes blazed into her. Assailed by a sudden shortness of breath, she felt giddy and flustered. Especially when his gaze flicked to her mouth and she knew that he too was remembering their passionate kiss.
How shocking it was to feel so starved for another taste of him. Not that it would ever happen again. No. She wouldn’t permit herself to yearn for a dissolute rogue. He hadn’t kissed her out of love or tenderness, anyway, but for the purpose of distracting her from probing into his private past.
Then he turned his attention to his sister. An expression of surprised displeasure came over his face. “Gwen?”
Lady Desmond glided forward to loop her arm through his. She tilted a flirtatious smile up at him. “Why, Rothwell, what a pleasure it is to see you. I trust you’ve completed all of your dreary business at last?”
“Yes.” He kept his gaze on his sister. “Gwen, please come forward. I would like to know why you’re here.”
Shamefaced, Lady Gwendolyn trudged toward him, clutching the sleepy tabby to her bosom. She could barely meet his eyes. “We only wanted to show everyone our kittens. Oh, Max, pray don’t be angry with me.”
“I expect you to know better than to introduce yourself to any guests without my permission. However, it isn’t you that I fault.”
His gaze flashed back to Abby. Those steely eyes bored into her. This time, they were devoid of any warmth at all.
She drew a breath to speak, but what could she say? It was her fault. If she had gone straight back to Lady Gwendolyn’s chamber, instead of stopping to question his aunt in the conservatory, none of this would have happened. She would have been present to stop Lady Desmond from luring his sister downstairs.
Yet if she voiced the truth, he might perceive it as tattling on one of his guests. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she said. “Perhaps I was too long delayed in your study.”
“Perhaps you were,” he said.
The faintly caressing note to his voice again brought to mind their torrid embrace, and a thrill shimmied over her skin. He surely couldn’t have been as affected as she had been. Rothwell plied his skills on women all the time. It wouldn’t mean anything to him except a momentary episode of self-indulgence.
“You mustn’t scold Aunt Abby, Your Grace,” Valerie piped up. “It was Lady Desmond who invited us to join the party.”
Rothwell turned to Lady Desmond. “Is this true?”
“I’m afraid so,” she admitted, tilting her head back to regard him through the screen of her lashes. “It is I you should hold to blame, Rothwell. You see, I’d hoped to do your sister a good turn.”
Abby stared in surprise. She’d fully expected the woman to deny her role, and this abrupt switch in tactics was baffling. What was she up to now?
The duke frowned at his chère amie, whose pretty face wore a look of contrition. “A good turn.”
“Yes, you see, it struck me that Lady Gwendolyn spends all of her time here at Rothwell Court with only a governess for company. How will she ever develop the skills necessary to navigate society? Why, she’ll be overwhelmed, never knowing what is suitable and what is not. How much wiser it would be for her to mingle with us, to learn how to converse with a few select members of the ton—here in the safety of your home.”
Rothwell glanced at his sister. He appeared struck by the notion that he had somehow failed her. “Gwen’s debut won’t be for three years yet.”
“It is best to begin such training early. Joining our company for a few days surely cannot harm her, especially under your watchful eye.” Lady Desmond smiled engagingly at him. “Perhaps it will even induce you to spend more time with us.”
Rothwell seemed taken by her persuasiveness, gazing down at her as she clung to his arm. With her fair curls and womanly curves, she was the essence of English beauty and the dream of every blue-blooded rake.
Abby unclenched her teeth to say, “I must respectfully object to this notion. Innocent girls should never be privy to improper behavior like gambling.”
“Ah,” Lady Desmond murmured, “but there can be nothing improper so long as you, Miss Linton, are present to chaperone the duke’s sister.”
Those kittenish eyes held a gleam of artfulness, Abby thought. She couldn’t quite fathom why Lady Desmond would welcome the company of a sheltered fifteen-year-old, for they surely could have nothing in common. Her purpose couldn’t be wicked, though, if Rothwell was present.
A possibility wormed its way into her mind. Was Lady Desmond angling for a marriage offer from him? Did she wish to ingratiate herself with the duke’s sister in the hopes of winning his heart?
With considerable distaste, Abby mulled the thought. Now, that explanation made sense. The widow must be hoping to demonstrate her worthiness as the perfect wife for him.
Lord Ambrose strolled into the group. “Max, you old dog, I’ll consider it an insult if you dare to suggest your sister or her lovely friend are in any danger from us. Especially as we shall be on our very best behavior.”
“That isn’t saying much,” he remarked dryly. “Nevertheless, I’ll take the matter under consideration.”
“We shan’t be here long, so why wait?” Lord Ambrose said. “Perhaps the young ladies would care to dine with us this evening.”
“What a splendid notion,” Valerie chirped, looking charming as she cuddled her kitten. Then her lips formed a little moue. “Oh! But I’m afraid Mama
is expecting me to return home. Though it seems to be still pouring rain in buckets. Do you suppose the roads are safe to travel? I should not wish to be drenched or, worse, stuck in the mud somewhere.”
She regarded Rothwell with innocent expectancy.
It wasn’t only her niece’s kitten that was a scamp, Abby thought. With those bright blue eyes, Valerie appeared utterly disarming, as if Rosalind had not coached her daughter on how to finagle an invitation to stay. But at least this had spared Abby the embarrassment of broaching the topic with Rothwell.
Lady Gwendolyn stepped closer to her brother. “Please, Max, we mustn’t send Valerie out into the storm. Might she not spend the night here? I’d be happy to lend her whatever she may need.”
Rothwell cocked an eyebrow. He looked lordly and forbidding, the master of the household. Then abruptly he smiled, shaking his head in good humor. “As you wish, then. I surrender. She may stay for as long as her aunt will allow.”
Chapter 13
After leaving the kittens in the kitchen under the watchful eyes of a footman, the girls had a delightful time trying on gowns in Lady Gwendolyn’s dressing room. The young maidservant who was assisting them seemed to be having as much fun as they were, so Abby slipped out to go to her own bedchamber directly across the corridor.
The pretty room had pale yellow walls, rosewood furnishings, and sky-blue chintz hangings on the canopy bed. With the rain clouds bringing an early twilight, a lighted candle lamp had been left on a table by a servant. Abby had been surprised at first to be assigned such grand accommodations, rather than an austere cubicle near the other servants. But this had been Miss Herrington’s room. And now that she knew the former governess was the sister of one of Rothwell’s old friends, it all made sense.
Abby winced at the memory of her wrongful assumption. She had thought the worst of him when the truth had been quite the opposite. The duke might be a hardened rake, but he was to be commended for his kindness in giving Miss Herrington a position after the death of her brother in battle. And for securing the special license for her elopement, too.
The fact that Miss Herrington had wed Mr. Babcock left Abby feeling out of sorts. Like Rothwell, the man had broken his promise to her. How could this have happened to her a second time? Yet when she searched herself for anguish, she found only a trifling sense of relief. In all honesty, she’d never developed a strong affection for Mr. Babcock; he had merely been a way to escape the role of the maiden aunt, dependent upon the largess of her siblings.
Pondering her future, she picked up the candle and went into the dressing room. She balked at the notion of returning to Linton House to live with Clifford and his wife, Lucille. Though she loved her family dearly, she yearned for something more. Something of her own choosing.
If only it were possible for her to stay in the role of governess to Lady Gwendolyn! But she doubted Rothwell would change his mind. Too much acrimony remained between them.
Abby opened the wardrobe to examine its modest contents. Having seldom had occasion to attend fancy events, she possessed little that was suitable for dinner at a duke’s table. But there was an indigo-blue silk that she’d worn to the village Christmas ball the year before her parents had died. The gown might not be in the latest stare of fashion, but its classically simple elegance had always pleased her.
While dressing, she settled on a plan. She would accept Rosalind’s request to help with the preparations for Valerie’s debut. Then she would accompany them to London in the spring, so that she might finally see the city that her siblings had described in glowing detail. She would partake in the dancing and parties and sightseeing that she’d missed while caring for her infirm parents. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to meet a gentleman who would court a spinster of her advanced years. Barring that, she could apply to an employment agency to seek a position as a governess or companion.
A world of possibilities lay ahead of her.
Feeling greatly cheered, she finished her toilette and then turned to and fro in front of the pier glass. She’d left off her cap and pinned up her hair in a softly becoming style. The mirror showed a tall, slender lady, bright-eyed and smiling, and still attractive enough to catch male attention.
What would Rothwell think of her transformation?
Against all good sense, the memory of his embrace washed her in warmth. Abby closed her eyes and fancied his arms around her again. She felt the pressure of his hard body, the caress of his skillful hands on her bosom. The mere act of reflection made her breath quicken and her insides burn.
How she yearned to discover the mysteries of physical love. That experience, however, would never be with the duke. He was so jaded a scoundrel that he couldn’t be faithful even to his current mistress.
He had caught Abby off guard. It must never happen again.
* * *
“Ah, the Three Graces have arrived. Be still, my heart!”
As Lord Ambrose swept a deep bow, Valerie and Lady Gwendolyn giggled with delight. Abby merely smiled at his exaggerated manners, especially when he made a show of kissing their hands in turn. He had met them at the door to the drawing room just now when they had come down for dinner.
“Good evening, Lord Ambrose,” she said, extracting her hand from his. “I’m sure you’ve had ample experience in charming ladies. Girls, let this be a lesson to beware of gentlemen who pay you compliments that are far too extravagant.”
“Oh, Aunt Abby, we know it is just a flirtation,” Valerie said, looking adorably sweet in an aqua-blue gown. “I’m sure Lord Ambrose is the perfect gentleman. Isn’t that so, Gwen?”
Lady Gwendolyn merely nodded, her eyes modestly downcast, a blush tinting her cheeks. It was clear she felt a bit shy conversing with one of her brother’s friends without the kittens around to serve as a distraction.
Catching him eyeing the girl’s coltish form outlined in primrose sarcenet, Abby said quickly, “My niece will be launched in the spring, Lord Ambrose. Perhaps you might tell her a bit about what to expect from the London season.”
He turned his gallant attention to the older of the two girls. “Endless entertainments, of course. During the day, you’ll have your fill of shopping and visiting all the attractions, and at night there’s the theater, the opera, concerts, and more balls and rout parties than any girl could ever imagine. If truth be told, Miss Perkins, you will scarcely find time to catch your breath.”
“Oh, it all sounds perfectly wonderful. I can scarcely wait.” Valerie batted her lashes at him. “Dare I hope to look forward to encountering you in town, sir?”
“Valerie!” Abby chided in an undertone. “That is entirely too forward. He will think you a gazetted flirt before you’ve even made your bows.”
“Nonsense,” he said, an attractive half-smile on his lips. “I find your niece to be quite refreshing. Though I daresay I won’t be able to squeeze through the crush of suitors who will undoubtedly surround her.”
Valerie chirped a reply, but Abby didn’t quite hear it.
Rothwell had appeared at her side. The air took on a sudden sparkle as every particle of her awareness sprang to attention. A whiff of his spicy masculine scent sent a flurry of warmth throughout her body. In his fine evening clothes, he looked every inch the master of the house.
He must have come from somewhere behind her. Lord Ambrose had met them at the door, so she had not walked all the way into the drawing room.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said, giving them a nod.
His gaze lingered on Abby, roaming over the slim-fitting blue gown and the softened style of her hair. She found herself hoping that the slight upturn at one corner of his mouth indicated appreciation. Surely it could not be wrong to desire his admiration. Any woman would feel flattered to have earned a second glance from a handsome duke.
Even one who was notorious for his many conquests.
Abby glanced over at the girls, pretending an interest in their curtsies, when in reality, she strove to calm the wild fluttering
of her heart. She was no longer a green girl, she reminded herself. Though it was natural to be attracted to him, she must retain a firm hold on good sense.
Lady Desmond strolled into view, a vision in amber crepe with a demitrain that Abby privately thought too fancy for a country dinner. Diamonds glinted at her throat and ears, including a dainty feathered aigrette tucked into her blond curls. She slipped her hand into the crook of Rothwell’s arm, and he acknowledged her presence with a cool smile.
“Perhaps Lady Gwendolyn and Miss Perkins would join us for a drink,” she said to him. “A glass of ratafia for the young ladies would not be amiss.”
Rothwell turned his attention to Abby. “What is your verdict, Miss Linton? Will the governess permit her niece and my sister to drink spirits?”
The glint in those gray eyes caused a treacherous heat in her. She realized two things in quick succession. First, that his manner held a hint of playfulness. Second, that it was far easier to resist his allure when he was harsh and aloof. “I believe a small glass would be perfectly proper.”
“Excellent. I shall see to the pouring at once.”
As he strolled away, Abby drew a deep breath in an effort to collect her scattered senses. That one moment of being the subject of his warm attention had had a ruinous effect on her equilibrium. His initial coldness toward her seemed to have been mitigated by the discovery that neither of them had received each other’s letters.
“Do come along, girls,” Lady Desmond said. “We shall enjoy a nice chat before dinner.”
She looped her arms through Lady Gwen’s and Valerie’s, but before they walked off, she aimed a keen look at Lord Ambrose. Abby wondered at its purpose. Were those two conspiring in some manner?
Whatever it was, she doubted it could be respectable.
Lord Ambrose swept his hand toward a pair of chairs apart from the rest of the party. “Miss Linton, will you do me the honor of sitting with me? I find large groups to be intrusive when one is in the company of a lovely lady.”