by Olivia Drake
Chapter 16
The moment she stepped through a side door and into the house, Abby heard the distant sound of upraised voices coming from somewhere along the marble corridor. She paused only long enough to remove her dirty shoes before hurrying in stocking feet to investigate.
It had taken her the better part of an hour to walk back to Rothwell Court. She had marched fast at first, her steps driven by a tempest of roiling emotions. But after muddying herself by splashing through several puddles, she had slowed to a more measured pace while ruminating on the unsettling encounter with Max.
He had been alternately talkative and tight-lipped, kind and meddlesome, gentle and forceful. He had badgered her about marrying, poked into her private hopes and dreams, while granting her only an abbreviated glimpse of his family upbringing. Worst of all, despite his own tarnished reputation, he’d had the temerity to chide her for flirting with Lord Ambrose!
Yet, in retrospect, she was glad that he’d hauled her up onto Brimstone without warning. His technique might have been infuriating, but his intent had been worthy. She likely never would have mounted a horse on her own. And now that she had ridden again, even if she didn’t feel entirely cured of her fear, at least the experience had bolstered her confidence.
In the doing, though, he had wreaked havoc with her peace of mind. She had forgotten how wonderful it felt to be held by a man. Once having overcome her initial shock, Abby had felt perfectly at home in the saddle with his arm firmly clasped around her waist. Her thoughts lingered on the memory of his muscled form, his masculine scent, his enticing body heat. It was not an experience that would be easy to forget.
Yet forget it she must.
Max was her employer, not her suitor. And if she could no longer bring herself to think of him as Rothwell, that was her own cross to bear. She must not be fooled by his concern for her fears, his attentiveness in removing the splinter, his interest in conversing with her. He was a man who used women for one thing and one thing only.
Or was he? Why could she not rid herself of the notion that there was more to him than met the eye? Why did she yearn to spend more time in his company, to discover everything about him?
Abby longed for a few moments of solitude in which to unravel the tangle of feelings inside her. But after a lifetime of settling family squabbles, she felt duty-bound to seek out the source of the quarreling voices.
Heading through a doorway, she found herself in a sitting room with gilt-framed paintings of flowers on the sunny yellow walls. The remains of breakfast lay on a round table by one of the windows overlooking the rose garden.
Across the spacious room, Lady Desmond and Lord Ambrose stood arguing—or rather, Lady Desmond seemed to be doing most of the talking. Their attention was trained on the gargantuan man who was crouched on all fours, peering beneath a large rosewood bureau. Nearby, Finchley observed the proceedings with a smirk on his wrinkled face.
“You’re taking too long for such a simple task,” Lady Desmond scolded Goliath. “Whatever is the problem? Just seize the creature and begone!”
“Problem is,” the prizefighter grunted, tilting his battered face up at her, “ye’re scarin’ the wee mite with all yer squawkin’. Ye’re worse than a yowlin’ molly cat callin’ fer her tom.”
“I beg your pardon! Ambrose, will you just stand there and allow that brute to insult me?”
Lord Ambrose gave her a droll look. “Seeing as how he’s England’s boxing champion, I should think it wiser for us to refrain from insulting him.”
As she huffed out a breath, Finchley swung his withered fists at an imaginary opponent. “Have a care lest he catch you with his famous left hook,” the butler said with a rusty cackle. “Bam, and he’s darkened your daylights.”
“You stay out of this,” Lady Desmond groused. “Servants are to be seen and not heard.”
Abby cleared her throat. “Excuse me. May I ask what is amiss?”
They turned to watch her approach. Lord Ambrose grinned, his bold gaze flicking up and down her form. Lady Desmond merely curled her lips in distaste. Abby could only imagine how untidy and windblown she appeared, her hem dirty, the mud-caked shoes dangling from one hand.
“Ah, reinforcements have arrived,” Lord Ambrose said, affording her a courtly bow. “Elise and I were enjoying a cup of tea when one of the kittens darted into the room. He dashed beneath the bureau and now refuses to come out. It’s Scamp, the gray one belonging to your niece.”
“It’s all the fault of that big bruiser,” Lady Desmond snapped. “He should know he’s forbidden to enter this house. He belongs out in the stables!”
“’Ey!” Goliath protested. He sat back on his massive thighs to glower at Lady Desmond. “I told ye the tiny feller slipped in when Mr. Finchley opened the back door. Weren’t me fault ’e ran in ’ere—or that ye screeched like a banshee and scared ’im.”
Seeing anger smolder in the woman’s eyes, Abby said quickly, “Whatever were you doing with one of the kittens, sir?”
“They was followin’ me along the path to the kitchen, is all. So I picked ’em up. Scrappy little things, ain’t they?”
It was then that she realized the other kitten was peeking out of the pocket of his green checkered coat. It was the golden-brown tabby that Lady Gwendolyn had named Caramel. Stroking its tiny head with his massive paw, Goliath wore a soppy expression on his battle-scarred features. It was so incongruously sweet a sight that Abby found herself smiling.
At that moment, a streak of gray lit out from beneath the bureau and raced across the fine carpet. The boxer reacted half a second too late, grabbing for the kitten and missing.
Pandemonium ensued as Scamp dashed in between Lord Ambrose’s boots, then attempted to run behind Lady Desmond. She yelped and tried to step away, confusing the kitten, who made a flying leap up onto her skirt, where it clung with its tiny claws, a dab of gray against her rose-pink gown.
“Eek! Shoo! Get it off!”
Lord Ambrose went down on one knee to disengage the feisty kitten. Abby dropped her shoes and hastened to help. He was chuckling as he handed over the wriggling fur ball to her. “There you go,” he said, “and no harm done.”
“No harm?” Lady Desmond wailed. “Why, my gown is ruined!”
“I was referring to the kitten,” he said, attempting a sober expression though laughter still danced in his blue eyes. “As to your skirt, why, the damage is scarcely noticeable.”
Cuddling the squirmy bundle to her bosom, Abby leaned down to peer at the fabric. “I must concur. There are only a few pinprick holes that your maid can easily repair.”
Lady Desmond twitched her skirts away. “Pray keep your distance, Miss Linton. I don’t wish to get mud on myself, too. You should never have allowed Lady Gwendolyn and your niece to adopt such wild animals.”
“Actually, the decision wasn’t mine. Rothwell approved it. And you did seem to like the kittens yesterday.”
Lady Desmond sniffed. It was clear she didn’t wish to be reminded of her ploy to introduce Lady Gwendolyn to the London group. “Where is His Grace, by the by?”
Abby’s heart lurched at the sharpness of the woman’s stare. She handed the kitten to Goliath, who had clambered to his feet. Had she and Max been seen when he’d carried her away on horseback? Why else would Lady Desmond ask such a question of her?
“I wouldn’t know his whereabouts, my lady,” Abby said truthfully, for she had no idea whether or not he’d remained at the glade. “Though I did see him in the paddock quite a while ago, when I walked down there with Lady Gwen and Valerie for their morning ride.”
“Ah, so that’s where the young ladies went,” Lord Ambrose said. “A pity, for I was hoping to consult with them on the plans for tomorrow’s picnic.”
“They should be back very soon,” Abby replied. “They were intending to look near the lake for a suitable location.”
“You needn’t have a care for the victuals,” Finchley advised. “Mrs. Beech is already coo
king up beefsteaks and chickens and all manner of jellies and cakes. Mrs. Jeffries is gathering the linens, and the footmen hauled down a heap of baskets from the attic.”
Lady Desmond turned her ire on him. “Shouldn’t you be assisting the effort by polishing the silver instead of offering unsolicited reports?”
“Aye, milady. I’ll see our champ out, then.” Looking unperturbed by her rudeness, Finchley motioned to Goliath, saying, “I thought you was naught but a monstrous heathen at first, but ’tis plain you’re a true Englishman—better’n some I can say.”
The age-shrunken butler had to crane his neck to look up at the young giant, who cradled both kittens in one oversized paw. As they left the room, Abby wondered in amusement if Max knew that his ruthless champion had a soft spot for baby animals.
She turned back around to see that Lady Desmond was picking up a scrap of white cloth from the floor. Abby’s good humor vanished in an instant. She glanced in chagrin at her bare hand. Of all the luck, the handkerchief that Max had wrapped around her injured finger must have slipped off while she was chasing the kitten.
Any hope that Lady Desmond might not realize it belonged to him died a swift death. Turning it over in her dainty hands, the woman arched an eyebrow as she spied the embroidered ducal monogram. Instead of confronting Abby, however, she merely gave her a dark look as she tucked the square of linen into a pocket of her gown.
“My dear Ambrose,” she purred, “why don’t you accompany Miss Linton to the stables? As governess, it is her duty to be present when Lady Gwendolyn returns from her ride.”
“A capital notion.” He smiled winningly at Abby. “If Miss Linton doesn’t object to my paltry company, that is?”
“I’m rather muddy from my walk in the woods. I was hoping to tidy up a bit.”
“You look dazzling to me,” Lord Ambrose said with characteristic gallantry. He cast a downward glance at her stockinged toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her gown. “Although if we are to venture outdoors, it would be advisable for you to don your shoes.”
Abby wanted nothing more than to escape to her bedchamber, to ponder the tumultuous emotions Max had stirred in her. But she mustn’t allow Lord Ambrose to go to the stables alone. Her first priority was to chaperone the girls, not to indulge her own wishes.
Accepting his arm, she intercepted Lady Desmond’s sly look and suspected this was an attempt to distract her from the duke. If only the woman knew, Max had no interest whatsoever in rekindling a childhood romance. He had made that abundantly clear this morning when he had prodded Abby to find a husband.
That had been the moment when a dismaying realization had struck her. The moment when she’d faced the truth that had lurked in her heart from the instant she set eyes on him again.
For better or for worse, she was still head over heels in love with him.
* * *
On the day of the picnic, Max dismounted from Brimstone and handed the reins to a groom. He was looking forward to spending time with his sister. Between the entertainment of his guests and the impending prizefight, he had seen Gwen mostly from afar. The anticipation of finding Abby with his sister should not be a consideration, yet it energized him nonetheless.
As a pair of footmen set up tables in the shade, he spotted his sister chatting excitedly with Valerie Perkins near the drooping branches of a willow. Pretty in pink, Gwen stepped forward to say rather timidly, “Attention, please!”
Valerie clapped her hands. “Come, gather around,” she called to the scattered group. “We have a surprise for you.”
The others had traveled by carriage to this idyllic spot at the far end of the lake. Lord Pettibone sauntered toward the girls with Mrs. Chalmers on one arm and Lady Desmond on the other.
Max cast only a cursory glance at the trio. He scanned the scene until he spotted a couple talking near the water’s edge. His gut tightened. Blast it, Abby should not be in Ambrose’s company.
Especially when Max had advised her to beware of that scoundrel.
Ambrose appeared entirely too smitten with her. And no wonder. In a simple lilac gown that was exceptionally becoming to her tall, slender form, she would not have been out of place strolling with the ton in Hyde Park. A straw bonnet tied with lilac ribbons framed her lively features. As they turned to join the others, Ambrose placed her hand on his arm. He bent his fair head closer to say something to her, and she laughed in response. Her face took on the radiant glow that set her apart from all other women.
The sight incensed Max.
He stalked toward them. As her employer, he was responsible for her welfare, and he must not allow her to fall under the spell of a charming rake. Especially not one whose foibles he knew too well.
A hand on his arm brought him to a halt. He looked over to see Lady Desmond smiling fetchingly at him. An extravagant leaf-green bonnet brought out the green-gold of her eyes and the peaches-and-cream hue of her skin. “Your Grace, I’m so very pleased you’ve arrived. I must say, that brutish prizefighter is taking up entirely too much of your attention. But at least you’re in time to be on my team.”
“Team?”
“We’re dividing into pairs for a scavenger hunt.” Her full bosom pressing into his arm, she gazed soulfully up at him. “I haven’t the foggiest notion where to look for anything on the list, so please do say you’ll be my partner.”
Max controlled a twist of vexation at the prospect of enduring her company. Which was preposterous considering he’d invited her along on this trip for the sole purpose of wooing her into his bed.
At least that had been the plan before their detour here to Rothwell Court, where his sister’s presence prohibited any such dalliance. And where Gwen’s new governess had proved to be an unexpected distraction.
Bound by rules of civility, he could hardly refuse Elise’s request. They joined the others to find Abby accepting a small basket from his sister and setting off arm in arm with Ambrose toward a patch of woods. Pettibone and Mrs. Chalmers strolled along the path that followed the shoreline of the lake.
Max seldom suffered puritanical impulses, but he was tempted to put an immediate halt to this scavenger hunt on the grounds that it was improper for unmarried couples to go off together. However, Gwen looked so animated and excited as she handed him a collection basket that he lacked the heart to ruin her fun.
“Here’s the list, Max,” she said, thrusting a paper into his hand. “Be as quick as you can! There’s a prize for the winning team!”
Chattering like a pair of magpies, she and Valerie hastened off toward a gentle grassy slope beyond the end of the lake.
Max set his sights on the route that Abby and Ambrose had taken, intending to keep a watch on the two of them. But Evelyn held back, playfully tapping his coat with her folded fan.
“Now, that would be cheating, Your Grace! Each team must take a different direction, and someone has already gone that way. Come, we shall do better to walk toward that spinney.”
He grimly acceded to her wishes and let himself be steered toward the thicket of trees. As they walked, he scanned the dozen or so items on list. An acorn, a mushroom, a yellow wildflower. None of it seemed particularly difficult to find, thank God, because the sooner they finished this nonsense, the better.
It was a fine day in late summer, sunny and warm, with nary a cloud in the sky. The air grew pleasantly cooler among the trees, yet Max couldn’t enjoy the sylvan surroundings. He was too distracted by the thought of Abby alone with Ambrose. To make matters worse, he was tramping through the woods with a prissy female who squealed at the sight of caterpillars and played dumb in their search for the objects on the list. That was for Max to do, she said while batting her lashes, for he had a much sharper eye than a mere female.
What rot. He was morbidly certain that Abby was enjoying the hunt. She had always liked the outdoors. In their younger days, she wouldn’t hesitate to pick up a worm or a frog or whatever else caught her fancy.
After looking for what
felt like an hour, he had found only a conifer cone and a bird’s feather. It didn’t help that Elise kept up a continuous brainless chatter in his ears, so that he couldn’t enjoy a moment’s peace. Or that she kept trying in that gratingly sultry tone to convince him to stop and rest when it was obvious she was angling for a kiss. Refusing to think about why the prospect held such little appeal, he forged relentlessly onward.
Max was striding along, peering up into the branches to see if he could locate an abandoned bird’s nest, when Elise tripped over something. She let out a squeaky yelp and her fingers dug into his arm. Since he was holding the basket in one hand and she was pulling on his other arm, he was unable to grab her in time. Momentum carried him down to the ground with her.
They landed in a grassy patch with Elise sprawled over his chest. She opened her eyes wide. “Oh! Forgive me, Your Grace, there must have been a rock in the path. I daresay you saved my life!”
As she flapped her lashes in coquettish distress, Max suspected he’d been hoodwinked. Especially since he could spot no large rocks in the vicinity, and she had contrived to fall on him in such a way as to preserve her gown from being soiled. It took a prodigious effort for him to reply in a civil tone.
“I sincerely doubt your life was in danger, my lady. Now, do allow me to help you to your feet.”
He made a move to arise, but she looped her arms around his neck and moved sinuously against him. “There’s no need for haste, is there, darling? I believe I owe you a kiss at the very least.”
She pressed her lips to his, her tongue flicking out with a practiced sensuality that would have enticed him only a few days ago. But he was already disgruntled at being maneuvered, there were twigs sticking into his back, and—well—she simply did not arouse as before.
That realization was so galling that he decisively ended the kiss.
Catching hold of her waist, Max lifted her out of the way so that he could spring to his feet. He brought her up with him, then released her at once. Elise straightened her skirts while peeping at him from the screen of her lashes. She resembled a pouty little girl, but then, she’d been a stage actress when old Desmond had wed her, and luckily for her, he’d keeled over dead on their honeymoon.