by Anne Gracie
“I do.” He picked up his leather driving gloves and rose. “Immediately, if it suits you. We’ll take my carriage.”
She hesitated. “Can you drive with that arm?”
He said brusquely, “Yes, of course. Shall we say in ten minutes? Is that enough time for you to get ready?”
“Of course.” She hurried away to fetch her pelisse and hat. And to regain her temper. She would not allow him to provoke her again.
Eight minutes later Abby hurried back toward the stairs, pulling on her gloves. As she passed the sitting room, Lady Beddington and her friend Mrs. Murrell waved and called a greeting.
“Are you going out, Miss Chance? But I thought . . .”
“Yes, but don’t worry, Lady Beddington: Damaris will read you the next chapter, and I think you’ll find she’s very good.” Damaris’s father had been a missionary of the fire-and-brimstone variety, and Damaris had been his assistant. She knew the value of storytelling and could infuse any text with drama.
Abby smiled to herself as she ran lightly down the stairs. The ladies really were enjoying the novel. It was a good omen.
When she reached the entry hall, it was to find three more ladies arriving. Two were much the same age as Lady Beddington, and one was a young lady about Jane’s age. They handed coats and shawls to Featherby while they chatted with animation to a harried-looking Lord Davenham. They were here, they said, for the book reading.
Abby hugged a small knot of hope to her breast. Her plan was starting to work.
The trouble was, there was no telling how long they had. Miss Parsloe might not want to wait till spring. After all, she’d waited nine years already.
Still, she had to try. Lord Davenham was leaving for Manchester immediately after they moved to Berkeley Square. The day after that would be the first official meeting of Lady Beatrice’s literary society.
Abby hastened to join him. The ladies gave her several curious looks. Abby smiled at them, but Lord Davenham made no effort to introduce her, so she said nothing.
“Well, we must get on. Clara said the reading starts at two,” the oldest lady, a hawk-faced dowager, declared. “Delightful to see you again after all these years, Davenham.” She glanced at Abby again and gave her a brisk, not unfriendly nod.
As the ladies followed Featherby up the stairs, the hawk-faced dowager’s voice drifted back to them. “That’ll be one of Griselda’s gels. Seems Clara was quite right—Davenham don’t acknowledge them. All hushed up at the time and the boy never knew the truth.”
Lord Davenham’s head snapped around, but the ladies had disappeared from sight.
Abby stifled the urge to giggle. “Don’t look at me,” she said as he turned toward her. “I didn’t say a word.”
In grim silence he handed her down the front steps to where his phaeton waited. He helped her into the carriage, his hand strong and warm even through his gloves.
He climbed in after her, picked up the reins and gave her a sideways glance. “One of these days I’ll strangle Aunt Bea.”
Abby laughed. “You won’t. You know perfectly well she means no harm.”
He snorted.
“You have to admit life with her isn’t the least bit dull.”
He snorted again, but his mouth quirked in rueful acknowledgment. He loved the old lady, she knew, and it seemed he’d even tolerate the eccentric invention of a half sister and a handful of faux nieces—not that he had much choice.
But what, Abby wondered as the carriage moved off, would the unknown Miss Parsloe make of Lady Beatrice and her eccentricities?
* * *
The carriage threaded its way through the busy London streets at quite a smart pace. For all his years away in foreign places, Lord Davenham was a skilled driver.
The phaeton was very elegant, of course, but it wasn’t terribly large. She could feel the warmth of his body all the way down her side. An awkward silence fell.
Or maybe it was just she who felt awkward; no doubt he was concentrating on the traffic. How he managed, with horses, vehicles, barrow boys and pedestrians going in all directions, was beyond her.
A dog shot out into the road, and a boy after it. “Look out!” The carriage stopped with a jerk, catching Abby unprepared and throwing her forward. She might have fallen, except that Lord Davenham caught her with his left hand, pulling her hard against him, while with his right hand—his injured arm—he kept his startled horses under control.
“Are you all right?” He glanced at her.
“Y-yes, thank you.”
The carriage moved on. He didn’t release her. He could drive one-handed, it seemed. His arm was warm and heavy around her shoulders. He’d probably forgotten he was holding her; he must be concentrating on the traffic again.
Abby knew she should move away, make some sign to him that he should release her. It was almost an embrace, and in public, so not at all seemly. But she couldn’t bring herself to speak or even move.
It was like the day before, when he’d held her after she’d been attacked. She wanted to close her eyes and lean into his solidity, breathe in the scent of him. Instead she held herself rigidly erect. And tried not to remember the way he’d kissed her. And the way she’d responded.
Piccadilly Circus thronged with carriages. The phaeton slowed, and finally he lifted his arm from around her to better negotiate his way through the traffic. Or perhaps he’d realized the impropriety of their position.
Or was his arm aching? Her own bruises had certainly made themselves felt this morning, and his injuries were much more severe—but he showed no sign of it.
He’d held her only a moment or two, she realized in retrospect; it just felt longer.
After a few minutes they turned down a side street into a much quieter neighborhood. He cleared his throat. “About yesterday,” he began. “I’m s—”
“Please! If you tell me you’re sorry for kissing me one more time, I—I’ll scream!” There was a short silence. She turned her head for a quick glance at him. He seemed to be trying not to smile.
“Actually, what I was going to say was that I’m certain you and your sisters are in some kind of trouble, and if you could only bring yourself to trust me, I’m sure I could help.”
“Oh.” Abby felt herself blushing. Of course he hadn’t intended to apologize for the kiss. He probably hadn’t even given it a thought.
“And while we’re setting stories straight, I’m not sorry for kissing you at all.”
“What?” She whipped her head around to stare at him. “But you said—”
“I apologized, yes. But I’m not sorry.”
Was he flirting? Teasing? Serious? Or was he perhaps thinking she might be willing to become his mistress? She couldn’t read a thing from his expression. Nor could she think of a single thing to say, and when she finally thought of a response—the merest commonplace, but better than stunned silence—it was too late. “Ah, here we are, Berkeley Square,” he said.
They pulled up outside an elegant white house. The groom hurried to lower the steps for them to alight, but Lord Davenham leaped lightly down, and before Abby knew what he was about, he’d put his hands around her waist and swiftly lifted her down. Just as he’d done that first day on the stairs. Leaving her breathless.
“It’s raining again,” he said, when she gave him a surprised look. “Quick, inside before you get wet.”
* * *
The house on Berkeley Square might have been small by comparison to the mansion on the Strand, but Abby had never seen such an elegant abode. With a Grecian-style pediment over an entry supported by Corinthian columns, the house rose to four stories, not counting the servants’ quarters in the attic or the kitchen quarters in the basement. Inside it was both grand and spacious. A staircase rose from the handsome entry hall in a graceful sweep rising through several floors before culminating in an elegant domed ceiling.
“Well?” Lord Davenham’s deep, rather hard voice startled her out of her reverie. “What do you thi
nk?” Quite as if he hadn’t just knocked her composure endways by the admission that he didn’t regret their kiss. What did he mean by it?
And what was she supposed to think? He’d told her himself he was betrothed. Or was he perhaps thinking she might be willing to become his mistress? Surely not.
Two could play at “let’s pretend it never happened,” she decided. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen such a beautiful house. I think Lady Beatrice will enjoy living here very much. And Miss Parsloe, of course.”
He nodded, looking satisfied.
Abby was a little overwhelmed, if the truth be told. Throughout her childhood, she and Jane had played house, furnishing boxes with tiny pieces of homemade furniture for their dolls, and imagining how one day they’d arrange a house of their own. And now she had this to arrange, this grand, elegant house.
Though it would not be her home.
Abby took a small notebook and pencil from her reticule. She wandered from room to room, Lord Davenham following. Their footsteps echoed in the empty house. On the ground floor she found a large drawing room, several smaller salons, a dining room and a ballroom that opened onto a terraced back garden.
Abby had never been to a ball, but that didn’t stop her imagining all the details—the scent of flowers and perfume, and music, perhaps one of those marvelous new Viennese waltzes, and people twirling around the dance floor, the ladies in beautiful gowns and the gentlemen so elegant in their crisp black and white. It would be a warm evening and the French doors would be open onto the terrace. . . .
If Lord Davenham and his wife entertained . . .
“How formal do you want the house to be?” she asked him.
“Formal?”
She nodded. “I presume, having bought a house with a ballroom, you plan to entertain a great deal.”
He frowned.
“Does Miss Parsloe like to entertain?”
“I have no idea.”
She moved on. Lord Davenham prowled silently along behind her. She made notes, trying to imagine the furniture from Davenham House in this fine new setting. From time to time she asked him about Miss Parsloe’s preferences—did he think, for instance, that Miss Parsloe would prefer to sleep at the back of the house, or the front? The front bedroom was grander, and looked out over the square, but the back would be quieter.
But he seemed to know nothing of her tastes. Worse, he didn’t seem to care.
“I have no idea of her preferences,” he would say indifferently. Or, “It doesn’t matter.” And once, “If she doesn’t like it when she gets here, she can change it.”
“But in the meantime I need to know what you want,” she told him, annoyed with his lack of guidance.
“What do I want?” He paused. They were in a sitting room overlooking the street. He stalked across the room and gazed out of the window across the gray street to the lush green park at the center of Berkeley Square. Abby wondered what he was looking at. All she could see were the leaves of the plane trees just starting to turn. Autumn was coming. By spring he would be married.
Finally he spoke. “Featherby told me the previous servants had left my aunt’s house in a disgraceful state and that you supervised the cleaning and rearrangement of the rooms. And do so still.”
“That’s true.” Why would he bring that up? He couldn’t want her to clean this house. It was already immaculate, not so much as a speck of dust on the glowing parquetry floors or the marble mantelpieces.
“That house was never homelike. In my uncle’s day it was always formal and chilly and . . . unwelcoming. At least, to a boy it was. Now, despite its shabby condition, the house is more attractive and welcoming than I’ve ever seen it.”
Abby felt the beginnings of a glow of pleasure—and then she realized: He hadn’t brought her here to talk about furniture; he wanted a home, wanted her to make him a home.
His next words confirmed it. “I don’t know how the effect was achieved, but I’d like the same to be done for this place. For my aunt.” He turned to face her and added stiffly, “And for Miss Parsloe, of course.”
Abby didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Did he know what he was asking her to do? To make a home for him to share with Miss Parsloe?
Right after his confession—if confession it was. I’m not sorry.
Did he have no idea? Homes were made by the people who lived in them, for the people who lived in them.
Houses were filled with furniture, but homes were made with love.
She looked into his unreadable gray eyes as he waited for her response. No, he had no idea. Somewhere inside this tall, grave man was the lonely small boy who’d waited . . . who’d been abandoned by his parents and left to grow up at school. And had then gone abroad from the age of eighteen.
Like Abby, he hadn’t ever really had a home to call his own.
“Yes, of course, Lord Davenham,” she said softly, “I’ll try to make it as homelike and welcoming as I can. For Lady Beatrice.” And for him.
And for herself. She’d probably never get the chance to make a home for anyone again, so she might as well enjoy this, even if it was only for a few weeks. And creating a homelike atmosphere in this gorgeous house was a lot better than playing with dolls and old boxes.
But she wasn’t going to do it with him watching her every move. She couldn’t think straight. “Now, I’m better able to do this on my own, and I’m sure you have much more important things to attend to,” she told him briskly. “Could you pick me up in, say, an hour?”
* * *
He’d been dismissed, and Max was glad to go.
It was hard enough imagining himself married to Henrietta Parsloe—it was so long since he’d seen her—but planning the arrangement of his house with Miss Abigail Chance was proving rather unsettling.
And what the devil had caused him to say he didn’t regret their kiss? He didn’t, but telling her had been a fool’s act. It changed nothing. He was promised and that was that, and the sooner he got himself married the better. That would put an end to these . . . feelings.
He’d travel to Manchester the minute the move was accomplished. To that end, he decided to call on Freddy. He had a favor to ask.
“I’m going to Manchester,” he told Freddy a short time later.
“Good God, why?”
Max hesitated, but he supposed he couldn’t keep it secret for much longer. “I’m betrothed.”
Freddy’s jaw dropped; then a grim expression settled over his face. “Blasted muffins—they’ll get a man every time. Never mind. It’s not over till the parson sounds. Manchester’s an excellent notion! Scotland would be better. The continent, better still. What about Paris? Italy?”
Max stared at him. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“You need to get out of London fast. Let it all blow over. Believe me, I understand.”
Max gave a short laugh. “You don’t, you know. I’m not going to Manchester to escape a betrothal.”
Freddy blinked. “Why else would you go there?”
“Because that’s where my fiancée lives.”
There was a short, astounded silence; then Freddy shook his head. He took a bottle from the sideboard, poured himself a brandy, downed it in one long swallow, shuddered, shook himself like a dog, then returned to Max. “Let me get this straight—you’re betrothed?”
“Yes.”
“To a girl in Manchester?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t want my help to escape to Scotland or the Continent.”
“No.”
Freddy said slowly, disbelievingly, “So you want this betrothal?”
Max hesitated. “I’m betrothed,” he repeated firmly.
“Ah.” Freddy gave him a piercing look. “She’s a muffin, isn’t she?”
“No, of course n—at least, I don’t know what she’s like. I haven’t seen her for nine years.”
“Nine years? Good God!” Freddy returned to the brandy bottle and poured out two glasse
s. He handed one to Max.
Max shook his head. “I don’t want one. Nor do I want to explain anything. Or escape anything. I came here to tell you I was going to Manchester for a short visit and to ask if, while I’m away, you’ll keep an eye on my aunt and the misses Chance.”
“The muffins?” Freddy eyed him balefully through the fumes emanating from the brandy glass. “Not a chance. Bad enough one of us has been caught in a parson’s mousetrap.”
“Miss Chance was attacked in the street yesterday by a villain with a knife.”
“Good God! Is she all right?”
“Yes, though rather bruised and shaken. But the only reason she wasn’t badly hurt—or worse—is because I was there and stopped the fellow.” He held up his arm. “The swine cut me. So while I’m away, I need someone to keep an eye on them.”
Freddy considered the request briefly, then shook his head. “Sorry, but you can hire someone to look after them. It’ll be less dangerous.”
Max frowned. “Dangerous for whom?”
“For me.”
“No one’s going to attack you; it’s—”
“I’m not talking about getting attacked,” Freddy scoffed. “Knives and assassins don’t worry me. I can look after myself.”
“Then what danger are you talking about?”
“Muffins.”
Max rolled his eyes, but he could see no amount of argument would get Freddy to change his mind.
But there was more than one way to lead a horse to water.
“Going to Barney McPhee’s card party tonight?” Max asked him.
“Definitely,” Freddy agreed.
“What’s the best way to get to Barney’s?” Max asked. “I’m not familiar with the address.”
“Don’t worry; I’ll pick you up in the curricle,” Freddy said. “At seven?”
“Perfect.”
An hour later Max collected Miss Chance from Berkeley Square. They drove home in relative silence.
When they arrived home, however, Featherby drew him aside. “Two footmen have been hired, m’lord—Turner and Hatch, very reliable men—they start today. And Mr. Morton Black is waiting for you in the small sitting room.”
Chapter Sixteen