by Anne Gracie
She was in green. He liked her in green. He liked her in anything except that gray dress of hers. When they were married he’d burn that gray dress. And the cloak.
He approached quietly. The sisters were intent on their conversation. Abby wore a small confection that he supposed was a bonnet. It provided absolutely no protection from the misty rain. Tiny jewel-like droplets of mist clung to her hair, like a sprinkling of diamonds.
He stood for a moment, watching her tilt her head as she examined something in the window, then shake it in disagreement. His heart was pounding. Every gesture, every movement was familiar and dear to him. He’d almost lost her because of his own stupid stubbornness. The thought chilled him to his spine.
Never again.
On that thought he stepped closer. “Abby.”
She turned, her mouth forming a delicious O of surprise. She was pale, and her eyes, though beautiful, were a little heavy. He was not the only one who’d been losing sleep, then.
“Lord Davenham, how did you knmmph—” He kissed her right there in the street. At the first taste of her, a deep rush of hunger set his head spinning. He’d waited so long for this, for her. He thought he’d lost her, and now he’d found her.
“Max, what are you doinmmph—” He kissed her again, indifferent to the stares and muttering of the scandalized passersby. He’d feared he might never again hold her, taste her sweet, intoxicating . . . Abbyness.
“We need to talk,” he told her when he’d released her again. She looked so adorably flushed and confused it took all his strength not to snatch her back and carry her off, regardless of the audience. “Not here in the street, nor . . .” He glanced at her sisters. “Morning, ladies, you’ll forgive me if I take your sister back to my hotel.” It wasn’t a question.
“But if you take her to a hotel, won’t she be compromised?” Jane asked.
Max nodded. “I certainly hope so.”
Abby’s eyes widened. A delicious blush colored her cheeks, but she didn’t say a word.
Jane looked prepared to argue the point, until Daisy elbowed her firmly in the ribs. Ignoring Jane’s surprised look, the little cockney winked at Max, turned to Abby and said, “Well, go on then, Abby; run along and let the nice man compromise you. You know you want to.”
Max grinned. He’d always liked Daisy.
Abby spluttered with laughter, half shocked, half embarrassed. Oh, dear, was it so obvious? She’d tried so hard to hide her feelings.
And of course she didn’t want to be compromised. No respectable girl would.
“Trust me, Abby.” He slid his arm around her waist in a move guaranteed to set the Bath tabbies whispering again and pulled her hard against him. “Come with me.”
His strength, his warmth, his certainty were so appealing.
She shouldn’t do this. She shouldn’t . . . She knew it wasn’t possible.
She made no attempt to pull away
His hold on her tightened. “Ladies,” he said, inclining his head to her sisters, and together he and Abby walked back up Milsom Street.
It was just a walk, she told herself, a walk in public. Quite respectable . . . except for the arm that encircled her waist. She loved the feel of him, the firm, possessive way he drew her against him, the way their bodies brushed against each other as they walked, the way he adjusted his long stride to hers.
But she wasn’t going to any hotel with him.
The cobbles were damp, and the soot from the smoke of domestic coal fires that had covered the street was now, in the fine misty rain, collecting in the cracks, each wrinkle and crevasse etched in black. They walked in silence, hearts full, not knowing where to start because there was so much to say.
One question was at the forefront of her mind. “Henrietta Parsloe?”
“We caught up with them before they reached the border. It’s all sorted. I left Henrietta and her father planning the grandest wedding Manchester’s ever seen. She’s a cunning little minx—that placid surface had us all fooled—she’d had this planned for weeks.”
“I see.” Abby didn’t know what to say. An expression of sympathy was appropriate—he’d been jilted, after all—but her heart was singing. Oh, she had no right to be happy, no right even to think of possibilities. A connection with Abby would bring him worse disgrace and humiliation than mere jilting. Still, he was better off without Henrietta. He deserved a woman who loved and wanted him.
“Not that it mattered to me,” he said, causing her to look up at him sharply.
“But I thought. . . I thought . . .”
“What did you think?” But he must have seen it in her eyes. “You thought I’d marry her anyway? Even though she’d run off?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Why did you go after her, then?”
“I owed it to her father to help. But there was no question of me marrying her. I’d already broken it off with Henrietta before she eloped—that’s why her father was so angry with me. He thought it was why she’d run off. He didn’t know—none of us did at that point—that she’d been planning it for weeks.”
Abby gasped and stood stock-still. “You broke it off? But I thought keeping your word was so important to you.”
“It is, but you’re much more important.” He brushed a lock of damp hair from her cheek.
“Me? But—” She stared at him, unable to think.
They’d reached York House. “All your questions shall be answered if only you’ll come inside. Come on, sweetheart, it’s started to rain and you’re getting wet.” He drew her into the doorway of the hotel.
Her heart thudding, she allowed him to lead her into the hotel. Further conversation was doused by the luxurious hush of the hotel lobby. She felt out of place, damp, bedraggled.
“How did you find us?” she asked as he led her up the stairs. It was not the question that tore at her but it was the easiest to ask in this lush environment.
He didn’t respond.
She looked up at him. “Lady Beatrice? She promised she wouldn’t betray me, but . . .”
He gave a small smile. “Betray you? Aunt Bea?”
“Then how did you know we were in Bath?”
“Featherby gave me your address.”
“Featherby?” Abby exclaimed, hurt. She would have sworn Featherby would have remained loyal.
“Only because I threatened to beat it out of him.”
She turned a shocked face to him. “You didn’t! Threaten to beat poor Featherby? But—”
He laughed at her expression. “Of course I didn’t. But Featherby knows where you belong better than you do, apparently. His last words to me were, ‘Bring Miss Abby home.’ And I intend to do just that.”
Abby bit her lip and turned her face away. It was a lovely thought, but it wasn’t her home. That letter had ensured she could never go back.
At the top of the stairs he produced and key and unlocked a door. “Come in and hear me out, Abby,” he said softly.
She hesitated. She shouldn’t go in there, shouldn’t be alone with him in his hotel room. There was no future for them, she knew it. She should leave, cling to what little respectability she still retained, return to her sisters. And yet . . . and yet . . .
What did he mean, saying she was more important to him than keeping his word?
For a moment Max was sure she was about to refuse, standing there in the corridor, her sweet face crumpled with doubt and indecision, her eyes troubled.
He took her hand and drew her inside, shutting the door behind them, shutting the rest of the world out.
“You wondered why I broke my engagement with Henrietta.” He was drowning in her gaze. “Because I’ve found the one woman in the world I can’t live without.”
Her mouth trembled. “Oh, Max . . .”
He didn’t wait. He couldn’t. He hauled her into his arms and kissed her. She was stiff in his embrace at first, then he felt a shiver run through her and she softened, pressing herself eagerly against him, winding her arms around his
neck as she returned his kiss. She tasted of innocence and rain, a hint of woodsmoke, and warm essence of Abby.
Her lips parted beneath his, and without warning the kiss spiraled out of control as he plunged into her sweet depths, the taste of her entering his blood like wildfire.
He hadn’t planned for things to go this far, this fast.
“No, no—stop,” she said suddenly, and pushed at his chest. “We cannot. I cannot.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Max took several deep breaths, struggling for control.
“I can’t be with you. I can’t go back to London. There was a . . . a horrid letter.”
“Oh. Yes, I know.” Of course she was worrying about that. Stupid of him not to deal with it earlier. With an effort he forced his body to behave. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You know about the letter? Then you understand why I can’t go back—”
“Nonsense! Of course you can.”
“But I couldn’t bear it if you and Lady Beatrice suffered—”
“Nobody will suffer anything,” Max told her firmly. “Not that either Aunt Bea or I care two hoots what anyone says about us—or you and your sisters—but the man who wrote that poisonous letter is in gaol. Sit down and I’ll explain.” He didn’t trust himself to touch her again. He just wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss away all resistance and argument.
She removed the tiny piece of nonsense that passed for a bonnet, and placed it on the table. Her hair was damp from the misty rain; tiny dark tendrils spiraled along her nape and temple. He longed to touch them, to bury his face in her cool, tender neck. But she was a worrier, this little love of his, and when she came to him, he wanted it to be with a clear heart and no remaining doubts.
There was a decanter of something on the sideboard. He poured two glasses and handed one to her.
She received the glass absently. “You think Mort wrote the letter? But according to Daisy he can barely read, so I very much doubt—”
“Not Mortimer, someone else.” He took out the letter he’d removed from the hall table the day before. He’d read it in the carriage on the way to Bath. “My friend the magistrate wrote to fill me in on what has happened in the last few days. It seems Sydney Mortimer—Mort, as you call him—on realizing he will undoubtedly hang, decided to take his partners in crime with him. He’s been a fount of information, and as a result, a number of men—and some so-called gentlemen—are now in prison.” He handed her the letter. “See if you recognize any of the names.”
While she read, he sipped his wine, some kind of sherry. Not bad either.
She looked up in surprise. “Greevey? Sir Walter Greevey? But he’s one of the governors of the Pillbury Home!”
Max nodded. “That, and a number of other charitable institutions for girls. According to Mortimer, Greevey’s been personally selecting pretty orphan girls for abduction and sale to brothels for the last five years.”
“How dreadful. I can hardly believe it—I never met him, but Jane said he was always so nice.”
“The evidence is overwhelming. According to my friend, they discovered a pile of incriminating correspondence in his home. He’ll hang as well.”
She closed her eyes. “I can’t bear to think of it, all those poor girls . . . What he did was cruel and evil, such a betrayal of his position of trust.” She frowned thoughtfully. “You think he sent me the threatening letter?”
Max nodded. “It’s the same handwriting as that blank one that you got that day you were attacked. My guess is it’ll match that of the correspondence that was seized.”
“So he sent that man after me with a knife? But why? He didn’t even know me.”
Max had given it some thought. “You’re the reason Jane was able to escape the brothel—he mustn’t have realized she had a sister, let alone one in London. And so he needed to get both you and Jane out of the way; the link between you girls and the Pillbury—and his crimes—was too clear. Your evidence could hang him.”
“He arranged Jane’s position at the vicarage and sent the carriage to take her there,” Abby said. “It’s sickening even to think of it—we were so grateful to him for arranging it, and all the time . . .” She shuddered. “I even wrote to him and the vicar and to Mrs. Bodkin, saying that Jane was safe with me—”
“Which is how he traced you and sent that villain after you with a knife.”
“Mrs. Bodkin wasn’t involved, was she?”
“The matron of the home?” Max shook his head. “No, she’s now trying to trace every girl who ever left the Pillbury since he became involved—see, there.” He pointed to the part of the letter that mentioned the matron.
“Oh, I’m so glad.” She sipped her wine, grimaced and put it down. “It’s such a relief that the author of that beastly letter wasn’t anyone we know. It was so horrid wondering if any of our friends . . .”
Max slipped a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Don’t think about it. It’s all behind you now.”
With a smile, she turned and, as natural as sunshine, lifted her face for his kiss.
He kissed her, lightly at first, then managed to say with some semblance of control, “Not yet. First there are things I need to tell you. Before we . . .” He swallowed and waved her back to her chair.
“What things?” She sat down, folding her hands like an anxious schoolgirl, so serious and pretty he wanted to kiss her again.
“The first and most important is that I love you and in a minute I’m going to ask you to marry me.”
“Oh, Max—” She rose and took a step toward him, but he held up his hand.
“I’m not finished yet.” He wanted to say it all, so there would be no misunderstandings before she accepted him. Or not. “First, I owe you an apology for not telling you back in London that I’d broken my betrothal to Henrietta. And after your sister was almost abducted, I should have explained to you what I was doing instead of rushing off.”
“But I know now—”
“I should have told you at the time, not let you find out afterward, from other people. And the other morning, I should have explained exactly why I was going with Henry Parsloe in pursuit of Henrietta and her lover—and that it was not because I wanted to marry Henrietta. I owe Henry Parsloe a great deal, not just because he lent me money nine years ago.”
Her eyes were shining. “Oh, Max, you don’t need to explain anyth—”
“I do need to explain, because I think I hurt you and I didn’t mean to. The thing is, I wanted to clear all the obstacles away first, so I could come to you free and clear. But I should have said—”
“Hush.” She put soft fingers over his lips, silky and cool against his burning mouth. “It doesn’t matter. And I think it’s lovely that you wanted to make everything right first—it’s one of the things I love about you, the way you always try to do things properly.”
“One of the things?” He swallowed. “You love me?” She loved him!
“Oh, Max, of course I do, with all my heart.” And she flung herself into his arms.
Her kiss was sweet and wild and slightly off-center in her enthusiasm. He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him, exploring the mystery of her, reveling in the graceful sinuousness of her body—the pure marvel of her, offering herself to him—as his mouth joined with hers in a dance as old as time. Abby.
His body ached for total possession but he forced himself to put her gently aside. His pulse was racing. He took a ragged deep breath, stepped back and produced the emerald ring from his pocket. “As you know, I like to be thorough in everything I do, so before we go any further . . .” He went down on one knee in front of her. “Abigail Chantry Chance Chancealotto—”
It surprised a choke of laughter out of her.
“Under whatever name you choose, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife? For I love you dearly and cannot imagine life without you by my side.”
“Oh, Max. . . Oh, Max.” Her eyes misted. “I’d be honored to. I love you s
o very much, so if you’re sure . . .” He slid the ring onto her finger, rose to his feet, pulled her into his arms and kissed her again.
He stepped back almost immediately, putting two feet of space between them. It felt like a chasm. A cold gap that needed to be bridged immediately.
He was hard as a rock and aching with desire. “And now, I think you’d better leave, my love, before I do more than compromise you.”
There was a short silence, and then a blush rose on her cheeks. Her gaze dropped. A tiny smile began to play on her lips. “Would you like some help with those buttons?”
His heart gave a lurch. As did other parts of his body. “Are you sure, love? I can wait until we’re married.”
“I can’t.” Her eyes were shining.
“You trust me?”
“Oh, Max, with all my heart.” She reached for his waistcoat buttons. With fingers that tried not to tremble, she undid the buttons one by one—cloth buttons, hard to undo. Beneath the fine cloth she could feel his warmth, his strength, smell the dark, familiar scent of him. Smoke-dark eyes watched every move she made. She could not meet his gaze. She was not bashful, but emotions were swelling within her, and she felt so . . . exposed. They threatened to burst from her, like a sausage splitting its skin. It was not a pretty thought. So inelegant, at a time when she most wanted to be beautiful.
She wished she were more poised, more skillful, less ignorant, not such a fumbling fool. She wanted it, wanted him, more than she could ever believe possible. A consummation devoutly to be wished . . . So where did these nerves come from?
“Would it be easier if I did this?” He leaned forward and brushed his mouth across her lips. Her fingers instantly became thumbs.
“Or this?” He trailed kisses along the line of her jaw. Like a cat she raised her face to give him better access, and shivered deliciously as he laved her skin with his tongue.
All she could do was to clutch feebly at the fabric of his waistcoat and give herself up to the luscious, shimmering sensations that washed through her with every touch.