by Olivia Drake
Of course she would think so. She had judged him by his wicked reputation and expected nothing better of him. She scorned him as a man who would carry on affairs even while married. If only she knew, he could think of no other woman but her. He was obsessed with her, consumed by a hunger that transcended carnal passion.
It wasn’t love, though. No. It couldn’t be. He had put all that starry-eyed nonsense behind him long ago, after witnessing the destruction that love had wreaked on his father, a robust man who had ended up weak and broken.
Max sank down on one of the marble steps of the temple. Scrubbing his hands over his whiskered face, he sought a logical explanation for his inner turmoil. He was infatuated with Abby, certainly. He felt an uncommonly strong fondness for her because of their shared past.
That was all there was to it.
Yet, as he stared out over the lake, the truth dug its claws into his mind and refused to let go. Oh, hell, why deny it? He was in love with Abby.
And nothing in his life had ever shaken him so much.
Chapter 20
When the party set out after luncheon to visit the village of Rothcommon, Abby had a mask of serenity firmly in place. She smiled graciously, spoke only when addressed, and in general, adopted the modest demeanor expected of a governess. Tranquility was second nature to her, although today it was an act designed to hide the havoc in her heart.
The ducal coach conveyed the women, while the three gentlemen followed on horseback. Clad in their London finery, Lady Desmond and Mrs. Chalmers occupied the seat opposite Abby and the girls. Valerie kept up an exuberant chatter, exclaiming over their bonnets and gowns, soliciting fashion advice, and asking their recommendations about the best shops in London.
“I predict your debut season shall be a triumph,” Mrs. Chalmers said with a good-humored smile. “Yours, too, Lady Gwendolyn, in a few years’ time. You are both such lovely ladies that all the eligible young bachelors are bound to be vying for your attention.”
Lady Gwen’s eyes sparkled. “You must promise to write and tell me all about it, Valerie.”
“Of course!” Valerie sighed dreamily, clasping her hands to the bosom of her sage-green gown. “Oh, I can scarcely wait. How thrilling to think about being courted. Imagine if two gentlemen actually fought a duel over me!”
“Duels are outlawed,” Lady Desmond said dampeningly. “Anyway, it would be of no use to you if one of your suitors was dead and the other forced to flee to the Continent.”
“Well, I daresay it would be very exciting, anyway,” Valerie asserted. “And extremely romantic, too! Don’t you agree, Aunt Abby?”
“Perhaps that’s a bit—”
“Oh, I shouldn’t take the advice of your aunt on this matter,” Lady Desmond cut in. “She is hardly an expert on London society. After all, she never even had a season.”
Valerie’s blue eyes widened. “Mama never told me that. Is it true, Aunt Abby? But why did you not make your debut?”
Conscious of being the subject of everyone’s stare, Abby clasped her fingers in her lap. “I was busy caring for your grandmama and grandpapa, that’s why. Sometimes, there are things in life more important than balls and parties.”
“Hear, hear,” Mrs. Chalmers murmured in a kindly tone. “You are to be commended for your devotion, Miss Linton.”
Lady Desmond pursed her lips, and that sour expression spoiled the incomparable beauty of her face. A straw bonnet with cream ribbons covered her gold curls and framed her flawless features. The pale lilac crepe of her gown lent her an air of elegant refinement that made Abby feel drab in a sky-blue muslin that was three years outmoded.
It was a relief when the conversation turned to other matters. She disliked being the center of attention, especially today, when it was a struggle to keep an untroubled expression on her face. Lady Desmond had been particularly contrary, and Abby had intercepted more than one speculative glance from her.
She hoped that the intimate episode with Max wasn’t somehow evident in her appearance. Having scrutinized her reflection in the mirror before departing, the only outward sign she had been able to discern was a faint pinkness to her cheeks left by his unshaven jaw.
Deep inside, however, Abby felt utterly changed, as if she’d been awakened after a long sleep. A vibrant glow suffused her body, although her heart was another matter entirely. She had known from the start that Max didn’t love her, and she had encouraged his seduction without the slightest intention of coercing him to the altar. Nevertheless, when he had made his offer, his palpable reluctance had cut into her soul. It would have been better if he’d not been chivalrous at all, if he’d just gone on his merry way like the rogue that he was. Instead, the proposal had been issued in dictatorial fashion, his voice stern and detached.
I intend to marry you, of course.
For one weak moment, Abby had been sorely tempted to accept him. Max, whom she had loved forever, could finally be her husband. She could share his life, bear his children, enjoy that wonderful intimacy with him again. Unfortunately, it would also mean tolerating his penchant for other women. She would have to look the other way when he took mistresses. She would sleep alone on nights when he was out satisfying his lust elsewhere.
That repellent prospect had given her the strength to refuse him—and to hide her hurt behind an unruffled façade. At least she could be thankful she’d had the presence of mind not to turn maudlin on him. The very last response she wished to inspire in him was pity.
The coach drew to a stop in Rothcommon and the passengers stepped out onto the village green with its medieval stone cross covered in moss. Nearby, ducks swam in a small pond beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak.
Abby strove not to stare as the gentlemen dismounted, leaving their horses with a groom. From the corner of her eye, she spied Max conversing with Lord Pettibone and Lord Ambrose. Though she could not discern his words, the mere sound of his deep baritone made her skin tingle. He chuckled at something one of the others said as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
When the men ambled toward the group, she felt breathless from the wish that he would seek her out. They had parted on good terms by the lake—she had made certain of that in order to prevent any awkwardness between them.
Her heart fluttered as he glanced in her direction. Their gazes met and held for an eloquent moment, and the buoyancy of anticipation swelled within her bosom. He stepped away from his friends as if to walk toward her.
Lady Desmond glided forward to catch his arm and steal his attention. As she smiled winsomely at him, Max returned the smile. They made a handsome couple, he so tall and dashing and she so dainty and stylish. He leaned down to murmur something that made Lady Desmond coo and preen.
Abby’s heart plummeted. For a man who had declared the widow wasn’t his mistress, he appeared perfectly enraptured by her company. There wasn’t the least sign of reluctance or aversion in his manner.
Perhaps it was nothing unusual for him to make love to one woman in the morning and then flirt with another in the afternoon. He must be relieved that Abby had let him off the marital hook. And why should he prefer her company, anyway? She was, after all, merely his sister’s governess.
The party began to stroll along the high street, where the array of small shops included a haberdashery, a linen draper’s, and the Fox and Hound Inn. On any other occasion, she would have enjoyed visiting with the merchants, all of whom she’d known practically since birth, including her friend Lizzie, who assisted at the bookshop owned by her scholarly husband.
At the moment, however, Abby felt a strong need to escape. Though it was her duty to chaperone Lady Gwen, Max was present to serve as a deterrent to any mischief. Surely she would not be missed for a short time.
She drew Valerie aside. “I intend to call on your uncle James and aunt Daphne at the parsonage. Would you care to accompany me?”
“Oh, no! I would vastly prefer to stay with Gwen. I promised to show her a length of mulberry ri
bbon that Mama and I spied at the draper’s last week.”
“Well, mind you don’t chatter too much. I won’t have His Grace thinking you poorly brought up.”
“You needn’t worry, Aunt Abby, I’ll be perfectly well behaved. Nor shall I flirt with the duke as Mama wishes. He’s far too old. Besides, he already has a particular liking for Lady Desmond.” With that, Valerie skipped ahead to join Lord Ambrose and Lady Gwen.
Abby blew out a sigh. At least that was one benefit to Max’s interest in the comely young widow. She could feel reasonably assured that her niece wouldn’t make a cake of herself over him.
She turned her back on the others and went in the opposite direction, heading toward the other end of the village, where the spire of St. John the Baptist Church could be glimpsed through the trees. She hurried on past the stone roundhouse and the apothecary’s cottage with its fragrant herb garden.
When she reached her destination, the iron gate squeaked beneath a push of her hand. The parsonage was a square edifice built of honey-colored stone and covered in ivy. A stand of leafy elm trees separated it from the ancient Norman church.
Going up the flagstone path, she could hear the shouts and squeals of children from the open windows. The familiar sounds were a balm to her battered heart. She had come here for the purpose of notifying her family that she would be returning home in a few days’ time.
It was impossible for her to remain at the Court. As much as she’d grown to love Lady Gwendolyn, Abby could never continue as governess, knowing she would be obliged to see Max from time to time. Although she’d toyed earlier with the notion of convincing him to let her stay on, she knew now that he wouldn’t relent. Not after the intimacy that they had shared. A man of his stature would never leave his innocent young sister in the care of a ruined woman.
It was simply not done.
Strangely, though, Abby didn’t feel ruined. Far from it. Their remarkable union had made her feel whole for the first time in her life, as if she had finally found a missing part of herself. For that reason, she could never feel a particle of regret. She was fiercely glad to have shared such closeness with Max, even if it had left her now with a sense of loss. The melancholy that lodged in her heart would subside eventually, once he returned to London and she was spared the pain of seeing him anymore.
On that resolute thought, she raised her hand to knock on the front door. Before her knuckles could strike the white panel, however, the squeak of the garden gate sounded behind her. It was too early for the afternoon post. Perhaps a parishioner had come to see her brother in his capacity as vicar.
Curious, Abby glanced back over her shoulder. She froze, her hand in the air and her heart pounding, as she spied the man who strode briskly up the walk.
Max was the consummate gentleman in a coat of coffee-brown superfine and biscuit-colored breeches with glossy black boots. An immaculate white cravat set off his dark handsomeness to perfection. Her errant mind produced the carnal image of what he looked like beneath all that clothing, and it sparked a spontaneous flare of desire.
He swept off his beaver hat and inclined his head in a nod. “Abby,” he said. “You’re quite the fast walker. It’s a wonder I caught up to you.”
Aware that she was still poised to knock, Abby lowered her arm. Her legs felt so shaky that she deemed it best to skip the obligatory curtsy. Afraid he might guess her weakness for him, she put up her chin. “I expect you’ve come to scold me for shirking my duties.”
“Not at all.”
“Then why did you follow me?”
“Your niece said you were coming here to the parsonage. And it occurred to me that I’ve never met your brother James. When I granted him the living several years ago, the matter was handled by correspondence. I was hoping you would be kind enough to introduce us.”
“I’m surprised you could pry yourself away from Lady Desmond’s side.”
“Ambrose was good enough to distract her on my behalf.” In a featherlight touch, he ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “You’re not jealous, are you? I told you she means nothing to me.”
Scalded by his touch, Abby took a step backward. She parted her lips to utter a tart denial, then realized that she was behaving like a woman scorned. But it wouldn’t do to reveal the ravages of her heart. She had sworn to conduct herself in a calm, dignified manner around him. It was the only way for her to survive these next few days until he departed for good.
But sweet heaven, it was difficult to feign indifference when his gaze flicked to her mouth and he stood so close that a whiff of his male cologne brought back the exhilarating memory of lying naked in his arms. A pulse of longing throbbed in the place where they had been joined only a few short hours ago. The intensity in his gray eyes told her that he too remembered that rapturous pleasure.
Why, oh why, had he come after her? Did he truly wish to meet James, or was that just a flimsy excuse to pursue her for his own amusement? Max was, after all, a rogue. Perhaps he thought that she could be enticed into continuing their illicit flirtation.
She glanced up at the open window, where the peals of childish laughter rang out. “Jealousy has nothing to do with this,” she said in a hushed tone. “Rather, I’m reminded of your fondness for a variety of women. And it seems I must reaffirm that there shall be no further … congress between us.”
“You made that quite clear this morning.”
“I warn you, when we are in the presence of my family, you must not make even the slightest reference to our … our…”
“Lovemaking?”
In spite of her resolve, she felt her cheeks heat. “Yes, and our past, too. Only my sister Rosalind knows of that, and I swore her to secrecy.”
“I’ll endeavor to be on my best behavior, then.” Max leaned over Abby and rapped hard on the door. At the same time, he brought his head closer and murmured into her ear, “You may depend upon me, nymph.”
The hint of teasing in his tone inspired a host of lascivious longings in Abby. Desire spiraled through her body and fizzed beneath her skin. She had been right to suspect him of trifling with her! And she mustn’t feel so thrilled about it, either, for this was just an idle game to a man of his ilk.
But when she frowned up at him, he appeared aloof and haughty as befitting his exalted station. There was not so much as a twitch at the corner of his mouth or a gleam in those iron-gray eyes. He might have been a sober-minded judge who had never once strayed from the path of virtue.
She was still framing a suitable retort when the door swung open a crack. A small, ginger-haired boy with his shirt untucked stood in the narrow slit, a smear of what looked like plum jam on his freckled face. He craned his neck to gawk at Max before shifting his attention to her. A gap-toothed grin spread over his face.
“Aunt Abby!”
As he threw out his arms for a hug, she managed to turn his head to the side before the jam was transferred to her gown. She sank down to his level to rub at the sticky spot with her thumb. “My goodness, Bertie! I believe you’ve grown an inch this past fortnight.”
“Nurse measured us, and I’m almost as tall as Prissy!” he bragged, naming his sister Priscilla, who was two years his senior.
“Indeed? That is remarkable. Now do stop wiggling.”
Max handed Abby a folded handkerchief, which she accepted gratefully, using it to finish cleaning the boy’s face. Arising, she glanced at Max and wondered what he would think of her family—or why it should even matter to her.
“Your Grace, if I may introduce my nephew, Herbert Linton, second oldest of my brother’s four children. Bertie, kindly make your bow to the Duke of Rothwell.”
Bertie bent over at the waist, one arm at his back, the other in front as Abby had drilled him. But she had never instructed him to thrust out his hand as he did now.
“I’m six. How old are you, sir?”
“Bertie! It isn’t polite to ask someone their age.”
“Why not? People are always asking me
.”
“A logical point,” Max said as he leaned down to shake the boy’s grubby paw. “I daresay some adults may not like it, though, so it’s best to do as your aunt says. I, however, will admit to being one-and-thirty.”
“Oh. Papa is seventy-three, and that’s a great deal more, I think.”
“Rather, your papa is seven-and-thirty,” Abby corrected with a smile. “Now, the proper thing to do is to invite us inside. Then you must inform your papa and mama that they have visitors. And pray, do not run in the house.”
Having thrown open the door and dashed off, Bertie checked himself in mid-scamper. He proceeded at a more sedate pace and vanished through a doorway. As Abby stepped into the foyer, she heard him shout for his mother.
“Well,” she said on a laugh as Max closed the door and set his hat on a table, “it seems I must apologize for his manners.”
“Don’t be absurd, I was once a little rascal, too. Besides, he isn’t your responsibility.”
Abby parted her lips to object. But Max had a point. Though she loved her nieces and nephews as dearly as if they were her own, Bertie belonged to James and Daphne.
It struck her anew that she was unlikely ever to have children. She had refused the only marriage offer that she’d ever wanted. Perhaps if she accompanied her sister and niece to London in the spring, she might meet someone else …
Her tender heart rebelled at the notion. It was far too soon to think of wedding another man after sharing such intimacy with Max. The flame of longing for him burned too deeply inside her. She couldn’t imagine loving anyone but him. Yet succumbing to the temptation to relent served no purpose. Her decision was firm. She would not subject herself to the pain and humiliation of a philandering husband.
She held out the slightly soiled handkerchief to him. “I believe this is yours.”
Taking her hand, he curled her fingers around the square of linen. “Keep it. You always seem to be without one at critical moments.”