by Olivia Drake
An interest in the sport of angling was how he’d explained his frequent absences to his strict father. It had provided Max with an excuse to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the Court. Here, he had found peace and an unexpected friend in Abby.
Though he had noticed her in the village from time to time—especially once she’d developed a figure—he had never spoken to her. His father had been a stickler for proper behavior in the heir to the dukedom. He had insisted that Max maintain a distance from the locals as befitting his exalted rank. It wasn’t an issue most of the year when he had been away at school. There, he’d had a wide circle of friendships with boys from the best families. But during the holidays, he’d been often lonely and left to his own devices.
Until he had met Abby.
She flashed a wistful half-smile at him. “It was fun, wasn’t it, meeting here in secret? That was my last summer of freedom before Mama suffered her accident and needed my constant help.”
She was absently rubbing her forefinger, the same one she’d suckled. He caught her hand and inspected it, seeing a reddened streak on the tip of her forefinger. “So that’s what it is. You’ve a splinter.”
“From the paddock fence. It’s nothing.”
She tried to tug her hand free, but he took hold of her elbow and guided her to the flattened boulder that they’d sometimes used as a table for picnics or to play a game of spillikins with sticks they’d gathered. The surface looked dry, washed clean by the hard rain.
“Have a seat,” he said. “That sliver needs to come out.”
She plopped down, tugging at her skirts with a flouncing shake that conveyed impatience. “You needn’t fuss, Rothwell. I’ll get it out myself later. I’ve done so a hundred times for my nieces and nephews.”
“You hurt yourself on my fence,” he said, examining her finger more closely. “Surely you would not deny me the chance to make amends.”
“How so? I hope you don’t mean to try to squeeze it out. It’ll just break into tinier pieces.” Again, she tried to twist at his grip.
“Hold still, Bramble. I need to determine which direction it went in.”
Looking a trifle anxious, she peered downward, too. “You see? It’s gone completely under the skin. There’s nothing to be done until I can fetch a needle from my sewing box.”
He grinned. “Oh, ye of little faith.”
One of her eyebrows hitched upward as he drew the pearl stickpin from the folds of his cravat. Placing her hand palm up on his knee, Max employed the sharp end of the stickpin to gently pierce the top layer of skin over the bit of wood. It was a slow task, and her light, elusive scent wreaked havoc with his concentration. So did the feel of her delicate hand lying so trustingly in his.
To distract himself, he said, “You did quite well on Brimstone.”
“I had little choice in the matter. Had I known your intention, I’d never have come anywhere near the fence.”
“Or any horse, either. At least now you’re over that hurdle.”
“Hmph. Being forced to ride isn’t the same as choosing to do so. And I don’t see what difference my private qualms are to you, anyway.”
Max didn’t want to get into his reason when he didn’t entirely understand it himself, so he deflected. “You’d never have agreed had I asked politely. And tell the truth now, it wasn’t so very frightful, was it?”
“Of course it was!” She released a breath. “At least at first, I was scared witless. But it helped when you talked to me. Then … well, I didn’t think about it quite so much after a while.”
Having exposed the little splinter, he used the utmost care to nudge it free, bit by tiny bit. “The best way to conquer fear is to face it head-on. Tell me, what made you so afraid of horses, anyway? You used to be an avid rider. The other day, you mentioned something about your mother taking a tumble.”
“Her hip was badly fractured and it never healed properly. She was housebound from then on. She needed crutches—and my help—in order to hobble from room to room.”
“But you weren’t the one who was thrown. So why would her accident cause such terror in you?”
“I witnessed it, for one. Mama persuaded me to accompany her on a jaunt through the meadow. Although she didn’t ride much anymore, she thought it might … cheer me.” Her troubled gaze met his, then flitted away.
According to what she’d told him earlier, the accident had happened shortly after their quarrel. Did that mean Abby had been melancholy over him? Max didn’t want to ask. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“We were taking a shortcut through the woods when Buttercup caught her hoof in a rabbit hole and stumbled. Mama was tossed through the air and hit the ground with a dreadful thud. She lay utterly still. For a moment, I thought … I thought she was dead.”
The horror in her voice disturbed him, so he changed the focus. “Buttercup was the bay mare you used to ride.”
“Yes, though Mama was on her that day. I don’t remember why exactly.” Her teeth sank into her lower lip. “But she wasn’t the only one with a fracture. Buttercup’s leg was broken … she had to be put down. Oh, Max, it was awful. I—I can’t even begin to describe it.”
Ah. That explained so much. He could imagine the trauma of that scene and Abby in a panic, desperate to ease her mother’s pain, agonized over what to do for the injured horse, then having to leave them in order to go for help.
“I’m sorry, Abby.” He wished he could think of something more eloquent to say. His friends would mock him, for he was known as a silver-tongued devil.
But Abby didn’t seem to notice. “In the weeks and months afterward, Mama was nervous at the thought of me riding, so I gave it up. The very notion made me anxious, too, and I found myself avoiding horses. As the years passed, my dread became more and more ingrained.” She gave him a self-deprecating smile. “So you see, Rothwell, I am officially a coward. The girl who once raced you on horseback is gone. I have lost all my pluck.”
Max felt the powerful urge to take Abby in his arms, to hold her close and offer her reassurance. But that was no longer his right. They each led their own lives now. Things were exactly as they should be. So why could he not shake this sense of a bond between them?
“Nonsense,” he declared. “It is simply a matter of reacquainting yourself with horses. The more you’re around them, the more your fear will subside.”
“Do you really think so?” she said doubtfully.
“Absolutely. In fact, I suggest you visit the stables every day. Gwen will be ecstatic at the chance to accompany you. And should you ever wish to try your hand at the saddle again, feel free to borrow one of my horses. I’ll instruct my grooms to offer you any necessary assistance.”
One corner of her mouth lifted in wry humor. “For what little time I have left at Rothwell Court, that is.”
On that first day in the library, he’d dismissed her from his employ. Abby was to depart after the prizefight. Now Max was in the uncomfortable position of regretting his hasty decision. On the one hand, she had deceived his aunt into granting her the post without his permission; on the other, Gwen seemed to adore her new governess.
So did he. Far too much. And if he kept her on, he would be forever encountering her on holidays whenever he saw his sister. Nothing could be more dangerous than to invite such temptation into his ordered life.
He changed the subject. “Look, the splinter is finally out and with nary a whimper from you. So you cannot be so very fainthearted.”
Examining her finger, she uttered a small laugh. “Oh, I never thought myself so spineless as to quail over something that small.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, replacing the pin in his cravat, “you now have the distinction of being the only woman in the world to be doctored with a pearl stickpin once owned by Queen Anne. She gave it to my great-grandfather more than a hundred years ago.”
“I am impressed, then!”
They shared a smile. For a moment it was as if no time at all had passed, and they w
ere still fast friends. Yet he was very aware, too, that he desired to know her in the present. To learn all of her private thoughts and opinions, to tease her into laughing, to spend time in her company for the pure enjoyment of it. But that would be madness.
Max turned his gaze downward to break the spell. He drew out his folded handkerchief and wrapped the linen around her finger. “Hold that in place until you can put a proper dressing on it.”
Abby was silent a moment as she touched his monogram embroidered on a corner of the makeshift bandage, an R bracketed by tiny strawberry leaves. Then she aimed a guarded stare at him. “Why are you being so nice to me, Rothwell? You were cold and haughty at first.”
“After we quarreled all those years ago, I believed you’d come to despise me. Naturally, I was less than pleased to see you in my house. It wasn’t until yesterday, when you said you’d never received my letters, that I realized I’d drawn the wrong conclusion.”
“I thought you despised me. So I suppose we’re both guilty of making assumptions.”
“Then we needn’t behave like two combatants in a prizefight. Truce?”
He held out his hand, and after a hesitation, she placed hers in his, careful not to disturb the improvised bandage. How soft and warm she felt, how kissable her lips looked. One small tug, and she could be in his arms …
As if sensing the lusty direction of his thoughts, Abby extracted her hand. She drew up her legs beneath her skirt and hooked her arms around her knees. It was the way she’d often sat talking to him. “What do you suppose happened to the letters?” she asked.
He had a suspicion, but it couldn’t be explored until he returned to London. “Who knows? They went astray somehow.”
“All of them?” She shook her head. “No, someone must have taken them, and it certainly wasn’t my parents. Mama could scarcely hobble and Papa was usually in the library, absorbed in a book. I always fetched the post for them. So it had to have been your father.”
“Perhaps.”
“You never spoke much about him. What was he like?”
Frowning, Max glanced away to watch the brown toad on the rock catch a fly with a flick of its tongue. “Proud, stately. A stickler for propriety.”
“He took you and Lady Gwen away after the funeral. Why did he never bring you back here? Was he so terribly distraught over your mother’s death?”
His muscles tensed. Her direct gaze seemed to peer into his very soul, so he lowered his eyes to her mouth. “Forget about the past,” he growled. “I can think of a better way to occupy our time.”
He leaned closer, his hand cupping her silken cheek. He craved to lose himself in the simple pleasure of tasting her mouth again. The little catch in her breathing told him she wanted that, too. Her lashes were lowered slightly, her expression softened, her lips parted to receive his kiss …
Abby thrust up a hand to shove him away. “Don’t do that. You’re trying to distract me. It happens every time I ask you about your family.”
Was that true? Caught off guard, he dissembled. “Perhaps I just like kissing pretty women.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Be honest, now. You’re evading my questions.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. Maybe if he gave her a brief summary, she would cease her badgering. “If you must know, my childhood was filled with loud quarrels, fits of weepy hysteria, interspersed with chilly silences. My father was a strict disciplinarian and my mother temperamental. They were utterly unsuited and should never have married.”
“Then why did they?”
“Why does anyone wed? She was a beautiful woman and he was a nobleman in need of an heir. He was infatuated with her, even though she drove him mad with her dramatic demands and extravagant whims—”
He cut it off there. That was all Abby would wrest out of him. His father had made him swear a solemn oath never to reveal the family secrets—and he’d already confessed more to her than to any other living soul.
Sympathy warmed her face. “Oh, Max. It can’t have been easy for you. Do you suppose they loved each other at least a little?”
“Love. It’s merely a romanticized term for lust.”
“That’s not true! My parents loved each other very much. They were devoted friends, laughing together, sharing meals, discussing everything under the sun. I think love is the most important part of a marriage.”
That glow was in her eyes again, lighting up her whole face and seducing his senses. Wispy curls of cinnamon hair framed features that might be deemed commonplace if not for the radiance of her spirit. If she’d ever had a season, Miss Abigail Linton would have been besieged by suitors.
And he would have been jealous as sin.
He leaned closer. “Enough about me. I confess to being curious, Abby, how did you end up as a governess?”
“I cared for my parents until they both passed away of influenza last autumn. Then I decided to leave home for a change.” She lifted her chin. “I daresay becoming a governess seems a paltry adventure to you, but not to me.”
“It seems a travesty of justice, that’s what. Couldn’t your sisters and brothers have helped out with your parents?”
“They were all married with children. Anyway, I’m the youngest by seven years, so the task fell to me. But you mustn’t think it was a trial, for I loved Mama and Papa dearly. They were very precious to me.”
Max felt a twist of anger nonetheless. He was beginning to size up the situation, and to develop a disgust for her siblings, who had denied Abby the chance to wed. In particular, he had a nodding acquaintance with her eldest brother, a pompous fellow more than twenty years her senior, whom he had encountered from time to time in London.
“Clifford Linton is head of your family now, is he not? Surely he’s capable of providing for you so that you needn’t labor for a living.”
“Of course! In fact, he insisted that I remain at Linton House. But I wanted something … more.”
She deserved a husband and children of her own. Instead, with all those sisters and brothers, nieces and nephews, she must have been treated as an unpaid servant. Little wonder she preferred to teach just one well-behaved girl.
“You should be married. Were you disappointed that Mr. Babcock didn’t offer for you?”
She reared back, her cheeks pink. “How impertinent a question!”
“I’m merely stating the obvious. There must be a dearth of suitable gentlemen in this rural neighborhood.”
“If you must know,” she said stiffly, “I consider myself to be quite firmly on the shelf.”
Feeling unaccountably angry, he glowered at her. “You don’t feel like an old maid, though, do you, Abby? You still have hopes and desires. Last evening, you didn’t appear spinsterish in the least when you were laughing and flirting with Ambrose before dinner.”
“We were merely talking.”
“Oh? You two seemed quite cozy. If you’ve any aspirations in that direction, I would advise you to think again. He’s too hardened a libertine to propose marriage.”
Her lips tightened. Releasing her knees, she scrambled off the boulder. “Pray be assured, Your Grace, I do not regard every bachelor I meet as a potential husband. Far from it! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve lessons to prepare.”
He rose to his feet. “I’ll take you back.”
“Don’t bother yourself. I would rather walk.”
Abby marched off in high dudgeon. To her credit, she didn’t so much as falter while passing Brimstone. She headed down the narrow dirt path until her slim form vanished into the forest. He wasn’t worried that she’d lose her way, for she knew these woods as well as he did.
But he was exasperated with himself. Why the devil had he brought up Ambrose? Now she would know that he’d been watching her the previous evening—though at least he hadn’t been fool enough to confess to a burning desire to grab his best friend by the lapels, haul him out of the chair, and plant him a facer for daring to trifle with her.
Max stalke
d to Brimstone and untied the reins. He’d had no right to prose on about marriage, either. What she did with her life was none of his concern. Who was he to render advice on wedded bliss, anyway?
He had no interest in the institution.
Yet his thoughts remained on Abby. Damn, why had he given up so easily all those years ago? When he hadn’t received any response to his letters, why hadn’t he returned here and confronted her? Instead, he had convinced himself it was irrational to pine after a country girl when there were countless more sophisticated women who fawned over him.
You’re very accomplished at seducing women. It is what you do best.
Max swung into the saddle. Her condemnation of him after their kiss the previous day still smarted. Perhaps because there was a degree of truth in her assessment of him. He had allowed himself to while away his life in the idle pursuit of pleasure. It was a hard fact to face. And it stirred in him the need to achieve something greater.
Perhaps the answer lay right here.
He turned Brimstone toward the farms that lay to the south. He would visit a few of his tenants before returning to the house. In a very short time here, he had discovered a great satisfaction in riding over his land, in knowing that everything, as far as the eye could see, belonged to him. Having grown up at Rothwell Court, he knew every square inch of the estate. Yet he had a nagging awareness that he’d neglected his farmers, the servants, and the villagers who depended upon him. He must take a more personal interest in the future, rather than merely reviewing account ledgers sent to him by his estate manager.
At the moment, however, he felt pulled in too many different directions. He had Goliath to prepare for the upcoming prizefight. He needed to spend more time with his sister. He also had a duty to see to the entertainment of his guests.
Max experienced a guilty start. He had been neglecting Elise in particular. In fact, until this moment, he hadn’t thought of her even once today. He had best pay her heed, or he would lose his chance to seduce the loveliest plum of the ton.
Nevertheless, as he rode onward through the forest, his thoughts kept returning to Abby.