“Our second quarrel is much worse than our first. Do you remember our first?” He tightened his coat about him to fend off the chilly air. “It was this summer. I wanted to carry you over the fallen log, chivalrous and all, but you wouldn’t have it. We quarreled because you were too independent to accept my heroism.”
She turned to face him, her chin quivering. “Is my life a joke to you?”
“I meant no harm. I only wanted to make you smile. You have a lovely smile.” He reached a hand to cup her cheek. “You’re beautiful, Abigail. I mean what I say. You’re beautiful.”
A crease formed between her brows.
Percy took two steps forward, clasped his hands on either side of her face, and kissed her. With a gasp, she made to step away. He relaxed his lips against hers, moving with her. Her breathing sharpened, but she puckered her mouth into a delectable pout, returning his kiss. Her lips were soft, pliant, and moist—heaven tasted of ginger biscuits. He angled to embrace her more fully. Running a thumb down her cheek, he nibbled and suckled, inhaling the intoxicating scent of jasmine. She returned as good as he gave. Hot blood pumped through his veins, invigorating him, fueling him. His tongue teased the seam of her lips.
Her hands covered his, and she stepped away, quitting the kiss. With an expression of confusion, marred by the flush of her skin and the red of her lips, she looked up at him.
“What if we didn’t call it off?” Percy asked.
Her brows knit, she stared back at him as though he had sprouted two heads. “You want to remain here? With me? Why?”
“Would you consider it? I know it sounds mad, but would you consider staying engaged? Have the banns called…marry?”
Now that he said it aloud, he warmed to the idea. The solution had been staring them in the face all this time, but they had been too stubborn to see it.
A hint of a smile teased the corners of her lips.
Oh, to kiss her lips again…
He smiled with a soft laugh. “I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? I need a bride, though she doesn’t have to be an heiress, and you need a hero. We could solve each other’s problems by marrying, couldn’t we? We’re not ideal for each other, and in fact, we’re not even suited, but—”
Abbie stuttered a laugh. Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she turned and walked away.
Chapter 11
Crying into a pillow was not Abbie’s style. She took out her frustration on an unsuspecting band of robbers who Sir Bartholomew happened to come across, her quill working furiously across the page, the inkwell receiving an equal abuse to the highwaymen with her jabs for more ink.
All along she had known Mr. Randall was a rake. It had not taken two full weeks for him to live up to her expectations. A first-rate rake.
What hurt was not that he had tried to use his wiles on her, taking advantage of her as he had done in the churchyard, confusing her mind and senses, sending her heart reeling. No, what hurt was how desperately she had wanted it to be real. From the moment he stood on the chair in the inn, she had wanted it to be real. Of course, she had known he was posturing, but that had not stopped her traitorous and irrational heart from wanting his words to be true. For him to be in love with her, find her beautiful and witty, an ideal bride.
He was right. She wanted a hero. And for some stupid reason, she had wanted it to be him.
These were all thoughts she had not allowed herself to have. Now that she had tasted sin, she let the thoughts flood her mind as a way to torture herself into accepting what a naïve fool she had been. From this point forward, she would guard herself with brambles. For starters, she would heed the advice of Mrs. Button. Over and over, she had written to guard oneself against rakes, and what had Abbie done? Listened instead to the inane jabber of Mr. Stitch. How had she allowed this to happen? It was his dratted dimples that had distracted her.
If he refused to return to London—she ignored the twinge of panic at the thought of his leaving—she would make new rules clear to him. This situation was in her control. She could, after all, break off the engagement, while he, as a gentleman, could not, no matter what situation he found himself in. Thus were the legalities and rules of society. This engagement, false or not, was a legally binding verbal contract. She was in control. She needed him to stay to avoid further pursuit from Lord Dunley, and she did not want his reputation harmed, and so the best course of action was a truce, but on her terms. If he refused her terms—well…
Scowling at her story, she returned her quill to its stand. Only when she looked about the desk did she realize she had written two entire chapters without stopping. What an unexpected turn of events—the rake was a muse.
It was not until Monday that Percival sought out Abigail. The days between the disaster in the churchyard and his visit to the vicarage were a blur of self-berating. He could not say what had come over him. From kissing her to proposing they follow through with the engagement, he had been a man possessed. Only after private reflection did he realize the error of his ways.
He never should have lusted after her—where had that come from? He never should have pushed himself on her—she was a vicar’s daughter! He never should have insulted her—oh, yes, this was the real sticking point.
He was not such a dolt as not to realize why she had fled. It had nothing to do with his kiss or his proposal but his foot-in-mouth words to follow. The attempt to keep things light and friendly had been botched the moment he kissed her, practically a declaration of love to someone like Abigail. And then he had swiftly kicked her by all but saying it had nothing to do with love. Well, it did not…did it? That was not the point. The point was he should not have said what he said or how he had said it.
Best do this before he dug his own grave.
Knocker to brass, he struck the front door of the Walsley home. The wait was long, requiring a second strike. Just when he wondered if they were from home, the door opened.
Mr. Walsley smiled in greeting. “Mr. Randall. A pleasant surprise. Do come in.” He stepped aside, opening the door wide. “Our footman is tending to a family matter, so I’m afraid we’re shorthanded today. May I take your coat?”
Shaking his head, Percival shrugged out of his coat and pulled off his gloves and hat, setting them on a table in the vestibule. The weather had taken a nasty turn on Sunday, raining most of the night and bringing with it a frosty chill far too early for the season. With luck, the sun would return to warm the temperatures.
“Abbie’s in the parlor if you’d like to see her. She’s been in a writing frenzy for days, so I hope you don’t mind ink-stained hands. Thankfully, no spilled inkwells.” He chuckled. “I presume you can find your way. I’m in the middle of a project. I hope this doesn’t cast us in a bad light, me being a derelict chaperone and all.”
Mr. Walsley patted Percy’s arm then disappeared behind a door down the hall.
Seeing himself to the parlor, Percy peeked into the open door. Abbie sat at the escritoire, quill in her hand, feather stroking her chin. He grinned at the smudge of ink on her cheek.
“Ahem.” Percy cleared his throat before stepping into the room.
Abigail turned, her hand nudging the inkpot as she looked up at him. She shrieked as the container tipped over, splashing ink on her pages. Handkerchief brandished, Percy dashed to the rescue, blotting the ink as she tried to do the same with her own handkerchief. Thankfully, it was mere splashes, not the entire bottle.
He stopped himself short of making a joke about being her hero. Instead, he surrendered his kerchief to her expectant palm and stepped away from the desk, having the courtesy to look chagrined for startling her.
“Mr. Randall. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to apologize for my behavior on Friday. You must think me the worst blackguard.”
She pulled her shoulders back and clasped her hands at her waist, a proper posture for a headmistress, thou
gh ruined by the ink-tinged hands and smudge on her cheek. Now that he had a better look at her, he realized the smudge was not singular, as a thin streak also graced her brow. There was something bewitching about those smudges. If he had not schooled himself already, he would have half a mind to kiss her in the parlor.
“Would you care to take a seat?” Abbie waved a hand to the chairs by the hearth.
They sat in silence for a minute or more, she holding her prim pose, he tapping his emotions onto his thigh.
“Well?” She raised a single brow—the brow christened with ink.
He hid his smile behind his hand. This was no laughing matter, but who could not be amused in such circumstances? A serious discussion with an outraged woman and, well, the ink!
“You said you came to apologize. I’m waiting.”
Right. Percival cleared his throat once more, pulling the edges of his lips down with his fingers. “Yes. About that. Please, accept my apology. I never meant to, er, accost you. Pressing advances where they’re unwanted is disrespectful. I shall keep my, ahem, hands and lips to myself in future.”
However intent she was to remain poised, the flush of her skin hinted to her true thoughts. He knew she remembered as well as he how sensual had been that kiss.
“I’m relieved you’ve called on me, to be honest,” she said, her voice a notch higher. “We need each other for this to end to our mutual advantage. I must make one point clear, however. I am not like your London women. I will not be abused by your…” She hesitated on the last word, as though searching for an appropriate term to call what she had mistaken as rakish lust.
Not that it was anything but rakish lust.
“Charm,” she concluded.
Percy crossed one leg over the other, uncomfortable by the direction of his own thoughts. Of course it was rakish lust.
A hand to her brow, she rubbed her forehead as though warding off a headache. The ink smeared into her hairline.
“We must maintain boundaries, strict boundaries,” she said. “I insist upon it. We are business partners and nothing more. We will never be anything but business partners. If you’re to stay here rather than return to London, you must agree to keep your…charm…far from me.” With a strained expression she asked, “You are staying, aren’t you?”
“If you’re not planning to run me out of town with a pitchfork and blazing torch, then yes, I’m staying.”
“Splendid. Shall we shake on our agreement to maintain boundaries and conduct this situation as business partners?” She thrust out a purple-blotched hand.
Taking her hand in his, a simple action that caught his breath, he asked, “Not as friends?”
“Don’t toy with me, Mr. Randall.” She gave his hand a squeeze.
“Very well. Business partners.” He liked it when she was feisty. Hoping to prompt a pout of disapproval, he added, “And our first business transaction needs to be you calling me Percy. Don’t think I’ve not noticed you still using my surname.”
Stealing her hand from his, she sighed. “If that’ll be all, Mr. Randall, I’m terribly busy and must return to my work.”
Of all the jests he could make, he resisted. He held his tongue, gave a business-like bow, and excused himself.
For two days, Percy avoided his business partner, not for any logical reason, rather to clear his mind of her kiss and temptations. Of all the kissing he had done in his life, he never would have guessed a kiss from a vicar’s daughter would keep him awake at night—much to the disappointment of the determined, hooting owls who declared that their right.
All the distancing he had accomplished, and he nevertheless felt compelled to see her. Had the Reverend Walsley not invited him for tea, Percy would have invited himself.
An overeager footman showed him to the parlor where Mr. Walsley and the fetching Abigail waited. There were no signs of ink this time. Pity. Flashing a smile to both, Percy accepted the offered chair, exchanged pleasantries, and waited for the tea to be brought in by the same industrious young footman.
“Have you thought more about where you might live after the marriage, Percival?”
The first question from Mr. Walsley had Percy spluttering into his teacup. Blast Abigail for laughing behind her hand.
Dabbing his chin and nose with a napkin, he said, “I confess I’ve not given it much thought since our previous conversation about it.”
“What he means to say is it’s a point of contention for us, Papa,” Abbie offered, ever the helpful business partner.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s a point of contention so much as acclimation,” Percy countered.
Abbie was not to be outdone. “But we’ve spoken about this. At some length, if you’ll recall. And your heart is set on London, while mine is not.”
“People change. Plans change. My heart is set on you, not a place.” There. That ought to be a point in his favor.
Mr. Walsley intervened. “You’ve lived in London for some time. I’ve not been in years, decades, truth be told. Noisy, smelly, crowded, from what I remember. What is it you like about the place?”
Percival stared into his teacup, lapsing into thought. Where else was there for him except London? His brother had a family of his own. His father had a second family. Everyone had a place, a purpose. Percy had…what?
He savored a sip. It was exceptional tea, a bold flavor but with a sweet aftertaste.
“London is a place to lose one’s self. You can be anything, see anything, do anything. The noise is the essence of life, a symphony of people thriving. The smell is one of industry, culture, refinement. The crowd is full of promise, everyone from chimney sweepers to nobles, all walking the same street, all with a dream of their own. In a single day, one can visit with friends, watch a horserace, attend an opera, and attend a soiree.”
“It sounds exotic,” Abbie said, her eyes revealing her curiosity. “I might like to see it.”
Percy cast her a curious expression. She sounded sincere.
Mr. Walsley mirrored the curiosity when he glanced at his daughter before asking Percy, “How have you found the country, then? Dull, I suppose.”
“Not at all. Well, at first, yes. But I’m growing accustomed to the pace. The country is a place to find one’s self. It’s a sort of looking glass if you will. If there’s nothing inside of substance, the silence can be far louder than any noise in London.”
The vicar set his saucer on the table and leaned back into his chair, lacing his fingers over his chest. “What have you discovered in this looking glass?”
Percy chuckled. “You manage to pull out my confessions every time. How do you do that?” he mused. “No matter. I’ve found I like my company. I don’t mean that in any conceited way, merely that I don’t need the distractions I thought I did.”
In his periphery, he spied Abbie watching him, her fingertips absently touching her lips. Percy kept his focus on Mr. Walsley, enjoying the feel of her attention when she thought he would not notice her gaze. Only when she spoke did he turn to her.
“How did you like the mill?” she asked, her hands having returned to her cup and saucer.
“Would you be shocked if I said I’m returning on Friday?”
A lift of her slender brows and a quick dart of her eyes to her father answered the question.
“Mr. Polkinghorn likes some of the ideas I shared with him,” Percy said. “Difficult to believe, but there might be more to me than fluff and fashion.” With a wink, he returned his attention to his tea.
Abbie laughed. “Of course there is. Did you know, Papa, that he’s been attending the literary society? He’s quite the adept writer.”
“You exaggerate, darling. I’ve no more interest in writing than you have in owning a wool mill. I’m only attending the meetings to bask in the brilliance of my betrothed.” His eyes met hers, and his smile faded as the reality of his wo
rds registered.
She continued to stare at him even as his attention fell to the fare of sweets and savories before him. Food would distract him from that inconvenient realization. It would also distract from the awareness of her gaze which had him feeling warm under the cravat.
“As it happens,” Mr. Walsley began, “Abbie will be visiting her sister in Sidbury tomorrow. Have you been to Sidbury? Far more hustle and bustle than our quaint village. Her friend Miss Clint was to accompany her, but we’ve received notice this morning that she’s unable to join. Would you consider escorting Abbie? It would ease my mind that she’s safe with a protector and give you the opportunity to consider Sidbury as a potential residence should you wish for someplace more engaging than Sidvale but not as far as London.”
With so much to unpack, Percy delayed his response with a conveniently timed bite of a biscuit. Abigail, he noticed, was staring wide-eyed at her father, obviously not privy to either the invitation of accompaniment or the suggestion of living in Sidbury. He took his time with the biscuit then refreshed with a spot of tea.
“It would be my privilege to escort Abbie and an honor to meet her sister.” He relished in her consternated expression. Had she expected him to say no? Not a chance! “As to Sidbury, I suspect Sidvale is where she would be happiest. If, in the end, I were to choose London or even next door to her sister, she may cry off the engagement and send me packing.”
It was her turn to hide behind a teacup.
“I don’t wish to be an influence,” Mr. Walsley said, “but as it happens, the McVey place is for sale. It neighbors the Dunley estate, though a quarter mile or more stretches between them.”
“Leigh Hall? But no one has lived there for ages,” Abbie said, returning her cup to its saucer. “I can’t think it would be in good condition after all this time.”
“With some love and care, it would be grand. I doubt it’s anything like what you’re used to, Percival, but it’s a sizable estate all the same. When Mr. McVey lived there, I spent many an afternoon in his study. He was a good man and took pride in his home. It’s been a shame to see it sit empty for so long.”
A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1) Page 10