by Olivia Drake
His tender grip beguiled her. So did the warmth in his gray eyes. He did not release her, only gazed down at her intently while her pulse skittered and her breath quickened. Oh, heavens, she knew precisely how he’d charmed so many women into his bed. She herself felt caught in the throes of a powerful enchantment cast by the allure of his masculinity.
In a gruff tone, he murmured, “Abby, I wish—”
The click of approaching footsteps shattered the spell. Flustered, she stuffed the handkerchief into the pocket of her gown. Untying the ribbons beneath her chin, she hung her bonnet on the row of hooks on the wall just as her sister-in-law hurried into the foyer.
Unlike the typical vicar’s wife, Daphne dressed stylishly since her father owned the local draper’s shop, and she seemed always anxious to hide her common birth, as well. Today she wore a gown of yellow-sprigged muslin with a Belgian-lace cap on her sable hair. Her manner was unusually frazzled, her brow furrowed.
“Abby, thank goodness you’re here!” she said, rushing forward to offer a quick embrace. “Clifford and Lucille and Rosalind have come to call, Nurse is ill with a cold, and I am at my wit’s end with the children! I was just now trying to shoo them outside to play in the garden, but they refuse to listen to me! Perhaps you’d be a dear and have a word with them, for they always heed what you say— Oh!” Her eyes widened on Max, who had been standing to one side, but now had stepped into her view. “Forgive me, sir, my son neglected to mention there was another visitor.”
Abby performed the introductions and was amused to see her talkative sister-in-law stunned speechless for a moment. Daphne dropped into a curtsy worthy of obeisance to a king. “Your Grace, this is such an honor!”
As she arose, he offered his hand to assist her. “The honor is all mine, Mrs. Linton. And I must beg forgiveness for having arrived unannounced.”
An explanation seemed in order, so Abby said, “A party of us came into the village for the afternoon, and the duke expressed a wish to meet James, so here we are. I’m afraid it was rather spur-of-the-moment.”
“Perhaps this is a bad time for you?” Max asked their hostess, his manner perfectly correct, as if she were not goggling enraptured at him as women were wont to do. “I wouldn’t wish to impose upon your hospitality.”
Daphne recovered herself. “Impose? Why, certainly not, Your Grace! I’m sure that my husband will be anxious to make his bow to you. Do come with me.”
Chapter 21
Following her sister-in-law down the narrow passage, Abby was intensely aware of Max’s presence close behind her. She rued his intrusion on this visit when she had hoped to find comfort in the bosom of her family. At the same time, her mind was preoccupied with wondering what he had meant to say to her before Daphne’s arrival had interrupted him.
Abby, I wish—
I wish I could kiss you senseless again.
I wish I could devote myself to you, and you alone.
I wish that you would change your mind and marry me.
Oh, botheration. It was best that she not speculate on his meaning. No doubt it had been just another charming bit of nonsense that would have tempted her excessively when she needed to remain strong.
They entered a parlor containing a clutter of comfortable old furnishings along with framed biblical scenes on the walls. Abby had always liked the informality of the small chamber, though she feared Max would find it sorely lacking compared to the splendor of Rothwell Court.
Nothing in his handsome features betrayed so much as a smidgen of scorn, however, as Daphne blurted out his identity to the four people gathered in a cozy chat. “The Duke of Rothwell has come to call!”
Since her sister-in-law still looked bedazzled, Abby did the honors. “Your Grace, if I may present my brothers, Clifford and James, along with Clifford’s wife, Lucille. I believe you’ve already made the acquaintance of my sister Rosalind, when she brought Valerie to visit Lady Gwendolyn.”
Max was all charm and courtesy as he greeted the two gentlemen and two ladies. Clifford and James bowed before shaking Max’s hand in turn, while the women curtsied to him. Rosalind and Lucille came forward to kiss Abby’s cheek, though their admiring attention remained on the duke.
“It is indeed a pleasure, Your Grace,” Clifford said jovially, as if he had not just been denouncing the Duke of Rothwell as an infamous libertine only a fortnight ago while forbidding Abby to work in his house. “I realize our acquaintance is only slight, but I have often considered our situation as close neighbors to be a singular honor.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been an absentee landlord these past fifteen years,” Max said. “I’m hoping to rectify that in the near future.”
The bottom dropped out of Abby’s stomach. Was he truly intending to spend more time at Rothwell Court? “You can’t really mean that,” she blurted out, then flushed as everyone turned to stare at her.
“Why would you question the word of our guest?” Clifford chided. “Pray, beg His Grace’s pardon at once.”
“That isn’t necessary,” Max said, his smile amiable. “One can hardly blame Miss Linton for being surprised. After all, I’ve been away for so long that most of the villagers wouldn’t even recognize me. Perhaps, sir, you wouldn’t mind if sometime I were to observe your methods of animal husbandry.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Clifford said, sufficiently distracted to cease glowering at Abby.
While the men talked, she gathered the shreds of her composure. The prospect of encountering Max in the village from time to time was both dismaying and appealing. But surely he was only making polite conversation since he was a man who craved the vices of the city.
Wasn’t he?
“Perhaps you would join us in a glass of elder wine, Your Grace.” James turned to add, “Abby, would you be so kind as to ask Nettie for another glass—or two, if you would like some?”
She dutifully went to the kitchen and procured the items from the harried maid, who was peeling carrots for dinner. Upon Abby’s return, she found the men still chatting in a group. Max frowned slightly as she handed the wineglasses to her brother, and Abby wondered what had displeased him.
There was no opportunity to find out.
Just then, a dark-haired young girl came dashing into the room. She was screeching with laughter as Bertie chased after her with a wooden sword. Three-year-old Sarah brought up the rear, riding on a stick horse. They weaved around the chairs and tables, making such a racket that a sudden wailing issued from the cradle in a darkened corner of the room.
“Oh, no,” Daphne moaned, rushing to the infant’s side. “Freddie had just dropped off to sleep.”
“Children!” James said sternly, pointing at the door. “Go out to the garden at once.”
“But, Papa, I’m a knight hunting for dragons inside the castle,” Bertie protested. “If I leave, Princess Prissy will die!”
“It seems that you are trying to slay the princess, not the dragon,” Abby observed. “Perhaps Prissy would be wise to go outside where there is more room for her to run from you.”
Max strolled to the window and peered out at the walled garden. “The arbor would make a stout fortress, especially as it is surrounded by a moat of thorny rosebushes.”
Eight-year-old Prissy appeared enchanted by the notion. “I claim the fortress as mine!” She dashed out the door with her dragon-slaying retinue trailing close at her heels.
Abby blinked at Max. A moat of thorny rosebushes? Where had a disreputable duke learned just how to appeal to a child’s imagination? Even more puzzling, why had he bestirred himself to do so?
As he returned from the window to rejoin the others, she burned to ask him, but hesitated lest she betray any hint of familiarity with him in front of her family. Especially in light of her earlier outburst. Then Lucille spoke up, her eyes bright in her plump face. “I must compliment you, my lord duke, on your remarkable skill with children.”
Max gave her a wry smile. “I grew up an only child until the age of sixteen. Whe
n I was very young, I would entertain myself with games of make-believe.”
Ah, Abby thought, so that explained it. She felt a sudden softness to picture him as a little boy, playing all by himself in that great house. Why had he never told her about that? Although she’d encouraged him to talk when they were youths, he had always been reticent about his life at the Court.
Clifford waved everyone into seats, offering the best chair to their noble guest. He cast a grimace at the cradle in the corner, where Daphne was attempting to rock the fussy baby back to sleep. “Such a bothersome hue and cry!” he said. “I beg forgiveness, Your Grace, on behalf of my brother.”
An anxious look drew down James’s thin features as he poured the wine and handed a glass to Max. “Rather, I must be allowed to make my own apologies for the disruption, Your Grace. You see, Nurse awakened with a sore throat this morning, so I brought the cradle downstairs from the nursery. Poor Daphne has been contriving to keep the children entertained.”
“Pray, do not concern yourself over such a trifling matter,” Max said, his expression good-natured as he settled into his chair. “Especially as Miss Linton and I arrived in so unexpected a manner. However, I must inquire, can your maid not help out?”
“Unfortunately not,” Daphne said from her stool beside the cradle. “You see, Nettie is far too clumsy a girl to trust with our dear Freddie.”
“That is the trouble with servants,” Rosalind added, looking smart in a gown of striped jonquil muslin, the few silver strands in her copper hair betraying her forty years. “They are either inept, or are forever falling ill at the most inconvenient times. I daresay Abby is the lucky one, not to have the headache of running a household or worrying about one’s children.”
“Yet our youngest sister has always had an uncanny way with infants,” Clifford said. “Abby, do see if you might calm Freddie, so that His Grace need not be subjected to such incessant whimpering.”
Daphne hopped up, barely hiding her relief to be set free from duty, and went to join the others, while Abby set down her wineglass and went to the corner. Instead of sitting, however, she picked up her crying nephew from his cradle. She cuddled his tiny swaddled form against her shoulder and gently patted his back.
As she walked to and fro to soothe him, his fretting began to subside. She had always loved the sweetness of a baby’s face tucked into the curve of her neck. It never seemed a burden to comfort her nieces and nephews, for it was a gift to hold them close.
She was conscious of Max’s keen glance at her as he discussed parish matters with James. “If there is anything that wants repair either here at the parsonage or at the church, you must not hesitate to send word to my man of business.”
“That is most kind of you,” James said with a grateful smile. “There is a matter of deathwatch beetles in the choir loft, but I’d hesitated to impose on you for such an expense.”
“It’s no trouble whatsoever. The church is under my jurisdiction, after all. I would be remiss in not funding its upkeep.”
How was it that Max could speak in such a perfectly agreeable tone with her family, while looking askance at her from time to time? She didn’t think that trace of disapproval was evident to anyone else, but she knew him well enough to notice it. Beneath all that civility, something seemed to be bothering him, and she could feel his censure as if he were glowering outright at her.
Of course, a woman holding a baby must be a novel sight to him. This morning, he’d appeared unnerved by the possibility that he might have gotten her with child. Perhaps his usual strumpets had some sort of illicit method of preventing pregnancy, and he disliked being reminded of Abby’s lack of experience.
Well, she did not have to heed him. On the pretext of soothing Freddie, she went out into the corridor and proceeded into the small dining chamber with its cream walls and the russet draperies framing the open windows. She walked around the old-fashioned oak table in an effort to regain a sense of peace in holding the now-slumbering baby.
The quiet reprieve didn’t last long, for Rosalind hurried through the doorway. “Where is Valerie?” she whispered.
“Visiting the shops with Lady Gwendolyn,” Abby replied in the same hushed tone.
“Hmm. Could you not have contrived for her to accompany His Grace here? I’ve been counting on you to encourage a courtship between them.”
“I warned you, Rosie, I would not participate in such a scheme. And Valerie agrees. She confessed to me today that she finds him to be too old.”
Her niece also had noted his partiality to Lady Desmond. But Abby didn’t care to mention that.
“Oh, rubbish,” Rosalind murmured with feeling. “Many girls marry older gentlemen. She’ll realize that when she has her come-out next spring.”
“Perhaps, but I rather doubt it will matter. She seemed quite taken by the notion of entertaining a host of suitors closer to herself in age.”
Rosalind gave her sister an assessing look. “I wonder if perhaps you yourself have designs on the duke.”
Fighting a blush, Abby glanced down at the sleeping baby. “Designs? Don’t be absurd.”
“I noticed His Grace watching you just now. It was covert, to be sure, but I’ve been in society long enough to recognize these things. So tell me the truth, has he rekindled the romance you two shared years ago?”
Abby hesitated, then decided it would be best not to deny it. Especially as she had a burning question to ask Rosalind. “Yes, though I very much doubt it will come to anything. But I was wondering about something. Are you quite certain that you forwarded the letters that I wrote to him all those years ago?”
“Absolutely! I myself made sure they were properly franked. They were addressed to Rothwell House in Grosvenor Square.” Rosalind’s eyebrows arched in curiosity. “Do you mean to say that he never received them?”
“I’m afraid he did not.”
“Abby, I’m so very sorry! But it wasn’t my fault, I assure you! What do you suppose could have happened? Might his father have taken them?”
“I don’t know—and likely will never know. But his letters to me vanished as well, and so we each thought the other had lost interest. Oh, you needn’t look so tragic, Rosie. It happened a very long time ago.”
“But it is tragic. If you’d kept up the correspondence, Rothwell might have offered for you when he came of age.” The warmth of sincerity on her face, Rosalind stepped closer to place her hand on Abby’s shoulder. “I know I’ve pinned my hopes on Valerie, but believe me, dear sister, I never would have done so had I known you still harbored feelings for him. And I would be every bit as happy if you were to marry him!”
Abby’s eyes misted. There was no support as comforting as a sister’s when one’s spirits were low. But she could only imagine Rosalind’s shock if she were to learn that only a few hours ago, Abby had turned down the chance to become the Duchess of Rothwell. That must remain her secret.
“He’s a rakehell who has no true interest in matrimony,” she said firmly. “Nor have I any interest in having a libertine as a husband.”
“Oh, bosh. Many gentlemen sow their wild oats, then settle down when they fall in love. My Peter certainly did. Now, perhaps we should rejoin the others, for we must not deny Rothwell his chance to steal admiring glances at you. I do believe he might be more than a little in love with you already!”
Abby had to smile at that outrageous statement. She didn’t have the heart to tell her sister that Max viewed love as a romanticized term for lust.
He stood up as they entered the parlor. “Ah, here are your sisters. And just in time for a toast.”
Clifford and James rose to their feet, too, though they appeared mystified by his intention. James made haste to refill everyone’s glasses, while Abby went to place Freddie back in his cradle. The infant stirred a little and wiggled his bottom before settling back into slumber.
When she turned around, the others were waiting, their inquisitive eyes on Max. He commanded attention by his
very presence, she noted, for he had an air of authority that put people in awe of him. She could not help but admire the change from his awkward, sometimes sullen youth. In the intervening years, he had acquired a cool self-possession as befitting his exalted rank, and she felt a bit in awe herself.
A slight smile on his lips, he lifted his glass. “I wish to propose a toast to your sister, Miss Abigail Linton, on this occasion of her birthday.”
The room fell quiet except for the sounds of childish laughter drifting from the garden. Abby stood motionless as everyone’s attention shifted to her. It was eminently clear that the significance of the calendar date had come as a surprise to them.
She had never expected them to remember. As the youngest, she hadn’t had the opportunity to celebrate many birthdays with her much older brothers and sisters. For most of her youth, they had been grown and gone, living elsewhere with families of their own. In recent years, the day had been observed quietly with only her parents.
The faces of her siblings and their spouses reflected a series of emotions: consternation, chagrin, guilt. Then a babble of comments spilled forth.
“You might have said something,” Clifford blustered.
“How dreadful that it slipped my mind,” Rosalind said.
“We should have planned a party for you,” Lucille fretted.
“Pray forgive us, dear sister,” James added.
Their manner apologetic, they crowded around Abby to kiss her cheek, to offer a hug, to wish her all the happiness in the world. She knew they loved her, and so she accepted their remorse with a certain discomfiture. She would never have chosen to mortify them over such a trifling matter.
This was Max’s doing.
Her gaze flashed to him as he stood by the hearth. He looked smugly pleased by the upheaval he’d wrought. As if he had just done her a great favor instead of causing distress to those who were most dear to her in all the world.
* * *
As they left the parsonage, Max tried to fathom Abby’s coolness toward him. He could see that she was in high dudgeon. Her chin was elevated, her lips firmed, her brow slightly furrowed. She hadn’t approved of him toasting her birthday, and it baffled him as to why.