by Anne Gracie
There was a short silence.
“Well, I don’t reckon you ought to write any more letters,” Daisy said. “Not if blokes with knives are going to follow you home from the post office.”
Abby sighed. Daisy had a point. Abby still thought her attacker had to be a random cutpurse, because it made no sense to kill her, but if she was wrong, if it was somehow connected to Mort and the brothel and the letters she’d been writing, she was gladder than ever that she’d changed their name to Chance.
She wondered again what she should do in response to Lord Davenham’s offer to help. The interruption to their conversation had been timely; it gave her more time to think.
She couldn’t imagine how telling him would help. She had no idea who’d sent that man with the knife—if anyone had—but one thing she was sure of: The moment Lord Davenham learned that three of the four girls his aunt had taken under her wing had come from a brothel, all four of them would surely be out on their ears.
Worse, Jane’s reputation would be ruined forever. She’d never be able to make a respectable marriage.
Abby couldn’t risk that.
* * *
Abby snuffed out the candle. It had been a long, eventful day, and she was so glad finally to slide down into the comfort of her bed. It wasn’t every day a girl was attacked by a man with a knife, then rescued by a man she’d assumed up till now was her enemy. And then kissed almost senseless by that same man . . .
She and the other girls had decided not to tell Lady Beatrice about the attack. If her nephew wanted to tell her, he could; they would not distress the old lady.
As the day wore on, the aches and pains of Abby’s bruises had made themselves more strongly felt, and by the afternoon she was thinking of asking Featherby to draw her a bath when Lady Beddington arrived with a friend, Mrs. Murrell, in tow, eager to hear the next installment of the novel—which of course was what Abby had hoped for, but still . . . Lady Beddington had been insistent that Abby must read.
It was all Abby could do to focus on reading the story, but she managed. Now that she’d had her bath and was ready to draw a veil over the events of the day . . .
But as the darkness surrounded her, she found herself reliving in her mind the moment when she’d found herself held tight in his arms. . . .
If she closed her eyes hard enough and lay very still, she could almost feel the corded muscles of his arms, the jagged breathing and the thud of his heart in the broad, deep chest. Her cheek pressed against that chest. . . . Safe . . . protected.
A haven against the world.
And that moment when she’d turned her face to him and—No, not him—Lord Davenham, she told herself, refusing to allow herself even the intimacy of thinking of him simply as him . . . as if there were no other.
For Abby there was no him.
It was fear and reaction and loneliness speaking. She knew that. And to let herself dream that it was anything more was not just foolish; it was dangerous.
She’d been down that road before, with Laurence. And at the end there’d been only heartbreak and humiliation.
It was her own fault, she’d realized; she had a great capacity for self-deception. She’d learned that at nineteen. And if she let herself dream foolish dreams of Lord Davenham, it was her own fault if she was hurt again. If?
When.
And if she read anything into that kiss . . . anything except reaction to danger, and masculine opportunism . . . it would serve her right. Had Laurence taught her nothing?
At nineteen she’d at least had the excuse of youth and innocence. Ignorance. She’d been eighteen months out of the Pillbury, away from her sister and all her friends of the last six years.
As a governess she had no friends. She was neither servant nor member of the family. If the Taylor family had lived in a city, she might have made friends of other governesses, but they lived in the country, outside of a village. The only adults she saw, apart from the household, were the people at church, and even so, she was in charge of the children and had no time to talk.
She ached with loneliness. Oh, she had the children, and they were all that made her life bearable; she’d poured all her love into caring for them, teaching them. But it wasn’t enough. She’d craved adult conversation, friendship, intimacy.
And then Laurence had come, Mr. Taylor’s son by his first marriage, twenty-four years old and fresh down from his work in the city. She’d heard him mentioned, of course‚ the oldest son, Mr. Taylor’s heir, but somehow she hadn’t expected him to be a man. Mr. Taylor’s children by his second wife were all under ten.
Laurence had come up to the nursery that first afternoon—to visit the children, he’d said, but his eyes were all for her from the very first.
He’d made her laugh that first day, and had entertained her with tales of his life in the city.
She’d been absurdly flattered; he seemed so sophisticated, so worldly.
On the second afternoon, he’d coaxed her into taking the children for a walk and, once they were away from the house, had tucked her arm through his, like a gentleman did with a lady. Not the governess. Strolling and chatting, telling her about his life, his dreams.
Like a ripe plum she’d fallen, head over heels.
On the third evening he’d come up to wish the children good night, to see them tucked up safe in bed, and he’d sat with her as she read them a story and watched till they drifted off to sleep.
He’d kissed her then, in the hallway outside the children’s rooms. Her first kiss. And if it wasn’t quite as she’d dreamed a kiss would be, the second and the third were better. He’d placed his hand on her breast that night, and she’d pushed him away, shyly, virtuously, a little alarmed by the speed with which the courtship was proceeding.
Courtship. It was what she thought, of course.
Over the next few days they’d walked and talked, and at every opportunity Laurence had stolen kisses and secret caresses. Abby had tried her best to keep him in bounds, but he adored her, he said, and had no control where she was concerned, and when they were married . . . ah, when they were married . . .
One night, just as she was drifting off to sleep, her bedroom door had opened and Laurence slipped inside, dressed only in his nightshirt.
What are you doing?
What do you think?
No, no, we mustn’t . . . you mustn’t. . . .
Oh, yes, my dear, we must. You’ve kept me waiting long enough. . . .
And he’d lain on top of her and started kissing her, pulling her nightgown up, ignoring her objections. . . . Touching her where nobody had ever touched . . .
She’d struggled and tried to stop him, but only halfheartedly, because she loved him, after all, and he wanted her so desperately, needed her—loved her. He told her so repeatedly as his hands groped and thrust.
She must have cried out, for a moment later her bedroom door slammed open and his father stood there, shouting, pulling Laurence off her, shoving him out into the corridor in his bare feet, calling Abby a slut and a whore; she was finished here.
The next morning as Abby was packing her few meager possessions, Mrs. Taylor came to see her. Laurence was betrothed, she’d explained, but young men had needs. The same thing had happened with the last governess too.
Mrs. Taylor was embarrassed, apologetic. The family would be moving to Jamaica soon; she would give Abby a reference and give the move as a reason for her dismissal. It was the best she could do. If Abby found herself with child, the family would deny it.
At least it hadn’t come to that, Abby thought. She’d escaped with her virginity intact. Just.
Abby had seen Laurence just once more before she left. You said we were to be married.
Why would I marry you? You’re poor, you’re plain, and all I ever wanted from you was what I nearly got last night. But you had to go and screech, didn’t you?
As those hateful words scalded her for the thousandth time, Abby buried her hot face in the pillow. Sh
e’d been such a fool. Stupid, naive and gullible. Hadn’t they been warned at the Pill that male employers and their sons could sometimes behave in a predatory manner, that a girl needed to wear her virtue like a shield?
But Abby had taken Laurence at his word and opened her lonely, eager heart to him.
Just as she was in danger of doing with Lord Davenham. If the son of a country merchant thought she was too plain and poor to be of interest, what chance would she have with a handsome London lord? Even if he weren’t betrothed.
Even if his kisses did make her foolish heart dream . . . They meant nothing, she told herself firmly. Nothing.
He’d told her so himself. There was no excuse for thinking otherwise.
Chapter Fifteen
“A lady, without a family, was the very best preserver of furniture in the world.”
—JANE AUSTEN, PERSUASION
“May I ask you something?”
Max looked up, lowered his newspaper and stood. Abby—Miss Chance, he corrected himself—stood in the doorway of the small sitting room. His gaze went straight to her mouth. He dragged it away.
She looked completely recovered from her ordeal of the day before. For once she wasn’t in one of those drab gray gowns. She wore a dress of dusky pink satin with thin cream stripes and dozens of tiny embroidered roses that echoed the roses in her cheeks. The deep rose hue exactly matched the color of her lips.
He glanced again at her mouth. Instantly the sensation of holding her in his arms swirled through him, as immediate and visceral as if the kiss were only a minute ago, instead of a full day. And a night.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
He realized he’d been staring. “No, no, come in.”
She entered the room. Her dress looked oddly familiar, though he was sure she’d never worn it before. He would surely have noticed; along the scooped, though perfectly decorous neckline rode a narrow line of knotted silk roses that drew his gaze to a tantalizing hint of the creamy bosom beneath.
She looked fresh, pretty and altogether edible.
But she was not for him.
He realized his fists were clenched, crushing the paper, and deliberately forced his fingers to relax. “Please sit down.”
When she was seated he sat too and asked, “Are you quite recovered from your ordeal yesterday?”
“Thank you, yes. A good night’s sleep was all I needed. And your injury?”
He shook his head. “Perfectly all right, thank you.” It ached a little, but that was normal. He folded the paper and set it aside. “So, what did you want to speak to me about?”
She hesitated, smoothing the fabric of her dress with nervous fingers, and for a moment Max wondered whether she was going to confess that she knew the villain after all. He leaned forward.
“Jane said yesterday at breakfast you were asking where I was. And then you followed me to the post office. So did you want me for some reason?” She glanced up, tilting her head. “Or was your being there when that man came after me just a coincidence?”
“No, it wasn’t. Have you had any thoughts about who he might be?”
She shook her head and said with a slight edge to her voice, “I told you yesterday, I have no idea. I didn’t come here to talk about that; I just wondered what was so urgent that you must follow me to the post office.”
“Oh.” He sat back. “It wasn’t urgent. I was on my way to the new house and wanted to talk to you about it.”
“Oh.” An anxious pucker formed between her brows and she leaned forward. “What about it?”
“The furniture.”
She blinked. “Furniture?”
“There’s more furniture in this house than can fit in the new one. Someone must inspect the new house and decide which pieces go and which will remain. Obviously my aunt cannot do it.”
There was a short silence. “You want me to decide what furnishings are to go into your new house?”
He was a little perplexed at her surprise. “Couldn’t you do it?”
“I could, of course. But would it not more properly be a task for Miss Parsley?”
He stiffened. “Miss Parsley?”
“Yes, is that not right? Your aunt told me you were betrothed to a Miss Parsley of Manchester.”
His aunt. He might have known. “Her name is Miss Parsloe. My aunt will make her little pleasantries. And the betrothal has not yet been formally announced.” Now why had he told her that?
She did her best to look contrite, but he could see she was struggling not to smile. “I’m sorry. Miss Parsloe. But most new brides would enjoy such a task, wishing to make their home their own.”
“Miss Parsloe is in Manchester and hardly in a position to make such decisions.”
“Can’t you decide, then? It will be your home, after all.”
He made an impatient gesture. “If the task is distasteful to you, just say so and I’ll put that butler fellow in charge. I merely thought that since women are generally held to enjoy such things, you might like to be of service to my aunt but if you don’t—”
“No, no. Of course I’ll do it.”
“Thank you.” There was a short silence. Her direct gaze was unsettling.
She seemed to be waiting for him to say something. The reminder of his betrothal should have made things easier between them, clarified the boundaries, but instead Max felt more uncomfortable than ever.
He wanted to explain what had been in his mind when he’d kissed her—a betrothed man kissing a woman he had no right to—but he couldn’t find any reason, certainly not anything she could accept.
She kept looking at him with those big wide eyes. Silently asking him questions he could not answer.
He stood. “So, can you be—”
“And what of me and my sisters?” she said in a rush, rising from her chair. Her fists were clutched in knots at her sides. “Do we move to Berkeley Square next week? Or must we leave?”
He frowned. For himself, he didn’t give the snap of his fingers whether her sisters stayed or left—for him, she was the issue. He couldn’t let her stay, not permanently, but equally he didn’t want her to leave.
It wasn’t like him to be so indecisive.
His aunt would create a grand fuss if he tried to throw them out at the end of the week. To be honest, he couldn’t care less if the sisters stayed indefinitely. They made the old lady happy and kept her entertained while she was so limited in her movements.
It was only Miss Chance who disturbed his peace of mind.
And there was his bride to consider. It had already occurred to him that she might not be particularly happy at sharing a house with his aunt. He would stand firm on that, of course; his aunt was in no condition to live on her own any longer.
But would any new bride welcome into her home four pretty and vivacious young women who were no relation to the groom or his aunt? Max didn’t even have to ask the question.
“I do value the service you have done for my aunt,” he said carefully. “And, of course, for the time being you and your sisters are welcome to continue your visit”—he stressed the word, with all its temporary implications—“at Berkeley Square.”
“But?” she prompted.
“The visit must come to an end before my marriage. After that date, my bride will take on the care of my aunt.”
A glimmer of humor lit her eyes. “I’m sure Lady Beatrice will enjoy that.” Before he could respond, she added, “And when is your marriage to be?”
“It’s not yet been decided,” Max told her. “As soon as the move to Berkeley Square is accomplished, I’ll go to Manchester and finalize the arrangements.” He glanced at her and added, “Spring, I expect—isn’t that when most brides like to get married?” He was not looking forward to it at all.
“I see.” That anxious pucker was back, marring the smooth line of her forehead. Of course she’d be worried about her future; she and her sisters seemed to be wholly dependent on the stipend from his aunt.
When they left, he’d bestow on them a handsome sum—not a bribe, as he’d offered her that first day, but a reward for the care of his aunt. He didn’t like to think of her—them—struggling, or worrying about money. Perhaps a cottage, as well as a sum of money . . .
Would she accept such a gift from him? He remembered her anger the last time he’d suggested such a thing. No, she was prickly with pride. When the time came, he’d make sure it would look like a gift from his aunt. In the meantime he could ease the worst of her anxieties. “Naturally you will be paid for your trouble in helping with the matter of the furniture.”
“There’s no need for that,” Abby began.
“There’s every need,” he said in a clipped voice. “You are an employee of my aunt and this is outside of your usual duties.”
“But I am not—”
“You accept a wage from her, do you not?” It wasn’t a question. Lord Davenham was underlining her status as an employee. A servant.
Any warm feelings Abby might have had for the man dissolved. She was not an employee. But there was no word for what she was. Friends didn’t accept a stipend for their friendship. Neither did guests. Abby did what she did for Lady Beatrice because she cared about her, and wanted to help—not for money. If she’d had any choice, she wouldn’t have accepted any payment at all.
But she had no choice. It was horrid being so poor. You couldn’t even afford pride.
“You’re quite right,” Abby said crisply, hoping her chagrin did not show. “If you wish to pay me for the service I won’t argue.” Though it would choke her to accept it.
“You don’t know what I’m offering yet.”
“I don’t care what you’re offering,” she flashed.
He tilted his head. “You don’t intend to haggle?”
Was he deliberately provoking her? Abby wondered. There was a gleam in the hard gray eyes that she found a little disconcerting. “Do you wish me to inspect the house or not?”