by Mary Balogh
He lowered his forehead to rest on his arms.
“The family she married into has turned out to be a ramshackle one, hasn’t it?” she said, her voice bright. “Though it has struck me that perhaps—just perhaps—Papa would have turned out differently if Mama had not done that to him. My mother would have to take the family prize, though, no matter what. She was always so proper, always so much the lady. She always despised Papa even after she had Boris with him. And she always favored me over Boris. I suppose she must have loved my real father. I don’t know. But those are the facts. I am a bastard. You have married a bastard, Miles.”
“Your father accepted you,” he said. “He gave you his name. He allowed you to grow up in his home with his own children even after your mother’s death. He legitimated you, Abby. That is why you loved him despite everything, I suppose.”
She pushed herself off the bed with undignified haste and crossed the room to straighten some ornaments on a dresser.
“Bad blood was drawn to bad blood,” she said. “Like found like. I don’t think I really loved him. He needed me, that is all. He was ill. I know people despise drunkards and think they can straighten out their own lives whenever they want. But they cannot. My father was ill just as surely as if he had had consumption or a cancer. He was ill and he needed me and I tended him. That is all. It was as simple as that.”
“You loved him, Abby,” he said.
“He left us all in a terrible case,” she said. “We had always been together despite everything. Yet suddenly he was gone, the children were with a great-aunt who dislikes them intensely, and Boris was burdened with debts he had done nothing to incur, and with no possible prospects for himself. And I was all alone. So very alone.” She wrapped her arms about herself.
“Come here,” he said, getting to his feet and moving the chair to one side. “You are not alone any longer.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “I thought no one else in the world knew about me,” she said, “with Mama and Papa both gone. But he had told Rachel. And she is going to come to you for the two thousand pounds after the week is over, Miles. If she does not receive the payment, then the whole world will know.”
“Abby . . .” he said, walking across the room to her.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, hugging herself more tightly. “Please don’t. I shall go away somewhere. I don’t know where. But I will think of somewhere soon. I have some money left of the six thousand. Indeed, just two weeks ago I would have thought it a fortune. I should be able to—”
“Abby,” he said harshly, and he took her none too gently by the arm and pulled her into his arms. “What nonsense are you talking? Stop it this instant.”
“I ought not to have done it,” she said. “I would not have done it if I had not been so tempted. But I was overwhelmed by temptation, Miles. You cannot imagine what it was like, coming here knowing I was quite destitute, afraid to hope too strongly for any help at all, and suddenly finding that I could be a countess and married to a man as rich as Croesus. But I didn’t know that anyone else knew about me, Miles. I swear it. I didn’t even know that Rachel was still alive. I would have fought the temptation if I had known that there was a chance of dragging you down into such a dreadful scandal. I would have. You must believe me. I know that I have done terrible things, and I am a bastard and all that, but—”
He stopped her mouth with his own.
“I may have to take drastic measures if I hear that word on your lips again,” he said. “You are in no way responsible for the circumstances of your birth, Abby, and you are not that ugly thing you keep calling yourself.”
“But I am,” she said. Her eyes were enormous with unshed tears.
“By an accident of birth,” he said, “you are not a product of the marriage of your parents, Abby. But from what I have heard, you have proved yourself your father’s daughter and your brother’s sister and your half-sisters’ sister over and over and over again. Abby—my love—forgive yourself.”
“For deceiving you?” she said.
“For that too if you like,” he said. “But I meant for being an embarrassment to your mother and a shock and a disappointment to your father—if you were. You were the only one he did not mistreat a great deal? The only one who had any influence over him? I think perhaps he realized what a gem had been brought so strangely and unexpectedly into his life, Abby. Forgive yourself.”
Two tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. “I cannot forgive myself for what I have done to you,” she said.
“Can’t you?” he said. “For bringing sunshine into my life and a little craziness and a whole world of love? I do love you, you know.”
She sobbed quite indelicately and lifted a hand to her mouth. “You can’t,” she said, lowering her hand. “Miles, you can’t. I am a bas—”
He kissed her hard.
“I meant it,” he said, “about the drastic measures. If you think I did not, test me. I would hate to have to prove it to you, you know.”
“If you were to beat me, I would hit you right back,” she said, and this time her sob got all mixed up with a laugh and a hiccup.
“I am sure you would,” he said. “Abby, if you can get over this dreadful guilt of yours and this terrible feeling of inadequacy, do you think you can love me, even just a little bit? Enough to build on in the future, maybe?”
“I fell in love with you as soon as I saw your eyes,” she said. “What woman could help doing so?”
“Who indeed?” he said. “So you love my eyes. That is a start, at least. Is there a chance that the feeling may spread to other parts of me?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Long ago. But, Miles, this is just foolish talk. There is still Rachel and the ruin she can bring on you through me. You must take her the money. Will you? Today, before she becomes impatient? There will be unbearable scandal for you if she tells anyone else what she knows.”
“For me?” he said. “Shall I tell you how much it would worry me, Abby? That much.” He snapped two fingers next to her ear. “How about you? Would it upset you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Because I would have dragged you into it.”
“Leaving me aside for the moment,” he said, “would you be upset?”
She thought for a moment. “No,” she said. “Because I realize that despite everything, if my mother and father—my real father—had not been indiscreet, I would not be here at all, would I? And I think I would hate that.”
“Would you?” he said, smiling. “And in what corner of the universe would you be sitting at this moment, Abby, hating the fact that you had never been born?”
She smiled slowly at him, and he touched his forehead to hers.
“Does it really and truly make no difference to you?”she asked wistfully.
“It really and truly does not,” he said. “And more important than anything else, I shall be able to save myself two thousand pounds and have the pleasure of telling Mrs. Rachel Harper to go hang into the bargain. This is a wonderful day for me, Abby.”
“The money is the most important thing to you?”she asked, looking at him a little uncertainly.
He circled her waist with his hands and smiled down at her. “I refuse to answer such a nonsensical question,” he said. “Abby, tell me something.”
She looked inquiringly up at him.
“Is everything out now?” he asked. “All the murky secrets of your past?”
She thought carefully. “Yes,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “In a moment I am going to undress you and make love to you—as soon as you have told me if you would prefer to have it done in your bed or mine. And after it is over, I am going to tell you the same thing I have told you for the last two nights. I shall await your response. Will there be one today?”
Her face was flaming when she looked up at him. “Yes,” she said. “In your bed, if you please, Miles.”
He laced his fingers with hers and led her through the two adjoining d
ressing rooms to their bedchamber. And he took her by the shoulders to turn her so that he could tackle the long row of buttons at the back of her dress. He bent his head to kiss the back of her neck as his hands worked.
And he lifted her to the bed at last, unclothed himself while their eyes roamed over each other, lay down beside her on the bed, and proceeded to make long and slow and finally frenzied love to her.
When he came to himself, he moved to her side and settled her head on his shoulder and drew the blankets up about them.
“Mm,” he said, rubbing his cheek over her curls. “Some things definitely improve with practice, don’t they? Can you imagine what it might be like for us in ten years’ time? The stars may be exploding around us.” He bent his head to kiss her lingeringly on the mouth. “I love you, Abby.”
She burrowed her head farther into the warmth of his neck. “I love you too,” she said. “Every inch of you and everything that you are.” She sighed with contentment.
“And so they lived happily ever after,” he said, “and retired to their country estate and domestic bliss the very next day.”
She drew patterns on his chest with one forefinger. “There is one little thing I should probably have told you,” she said.
He groaned.
“When I once told you something I had said to discourage Mr. Gill,” she said, “you said I could not possibly be unladylike enough to have said any such thing. And so I did not tell you what I told him when I caught him trying to pinch Laura. I was afraid that you would be quite disgusted with me.”
He groaned again.
“It was really quite dreadful,” she said. “It makes me blush even to remember.” She chuckled nervously.
He set the back of his free hand over his eyes and sighed. “Abby,” he said, “do you think you could possibly confess all without taking ten minutes to do so? Get it off your conscience if you must, my love, and then let me sleep. I have just earned a good rest, haven’t I?”
She was giggling. “I can’t,” she said. “Oh, I can’t.”She held her nose. “It was most dreadfully vulgar, Miles. It would have you blushing.”
“Lord,” he said, addressing the canopy over their heads, “am I to be subjected to fifty years or so of this? What have I ever done to draw such punishment on myself?”
“You should have seen his f-f-face, Miles!” And she exploded with mirth.
The Earl of Severn chuckled, though he had no idea yet what exactly it was he was laughing at.
“I have married a madwoman,” he said. “This is to be the next secret you will feel impelled to confess, isn’t it, Abby? You have escaped from Bedlam and I have married you, Lord help me.”
“I am sure if he had leaned forward, his eyes would have p-popped right out of their sockets and bounced on the f-floor,” she said.
They clung to each other, helpless with laughter.
“You had better tell me what I am laughing at,” he said when he was able.
“I can’t,” she wailed. “Oh, I c-can’t.”
“Abby,” he said, hugging her to him, “I have done more laughing in the past two weeks than in all the thirty years previous to them. But I do feel something of an imbecile when I do not even know why I am doing so. Little idiot! I do love you, you know.”
“I told him I would pinch his bottom if he ever did so to Laura again,” she said quite soberly.
There was a moment of incredulous silence.
And then the Earl of Severn threw his head back against the pillow and bellowed with laughter.
About the Author
MARY BALOGH is the New York Times bestselling author of the acclaimed Slightly novels: Slightly Married, Slightly Wicked, Slightly Scandalous, Slightly Tempted, Slightly Sinful, and Slightly Dangerous, as well as the romances No Man’s Mistress, More Than a Mistress, and One Night for Love. She is also the author of Simply Unforgettable, Simply Love, and Simply Magic, the first three books in her dazzling quartet of novels set at Miss Martin’s School for Girls. Simply Perfect, the fourth book in the quartet, is available in hardcover from Delacorte Press. A former teacher herself, Balogh grew up in Wales and now lives in Canada.
ALSO BY MARY BALOGH
SIMPLY PERFECT
THE DEVIL’S WEB
WEB OF LOVE
SIMPLY MAGIC
THE GILDED WEB
SIMPLY LOVE
THE SECRET PEARL
SIMPLY UNFORGETTABLE
SLIGHTLY DANGEROUS
SLIGHTLY SINFUL
SLIGHTLY TEMPTED
SLIGHTLY SCANDALOUS
SLIGHTLY WICKED
SLIGHTLY MARRIED
A SUMMER TO REMEMBER
NO MAN’S MISTRESS
MORE THAN A MISTRESS
ONE NIGHT FOR LOVE
Read on for a sneak peek
at the next enchanting novel
in Mary Balogh’s series
featuring the teachers at
Miss Martin’s School for Girls.
Simply Perfect
CLAUDIA MARTIN’S STORY
On sale now
from Delacorte Press
Simply Perfect
on sale now
CLAUDIA MARTIN HAD ALREADY HAD A HARD day at school.
First Mademoiselle Pierre, one of the nonresident teachers, had sent a messenger just before breakfast with the news that she was indisposed with a migraine headache and would be unable to come to school, and Claudia, as both owner and headmistress, had been obliged to conduct most of the French and music classes in addition to her own subjects. French was no great problem; music was more of a challenge. Worse, the account books, which she had intended to bring up-to-date during her spare classes today, remained undone, with days fast running out in which to get accomplished all the myriad tasks that needed doing.
Then just before the noonday meal, when classes were over for the morning and discipline was at its slackest, Paula Hern had decided that she objected to the way Molly Wiggins looked at her and voiced her displeasure publicly and eloquently. And since Paula’s father was a successful businessman and as rich as Croesus and she put on airs accordingly while Molly was the youngest—and most timid—of the charity girls and did not even know who her father was, then of course Agnes Ryde had felt obliged to jump into the fray in vigorous defense of the downtrodden, her Cockney accent returning with ear-jarring clarity. Claudia had been forced to deal with the matter and extract more-or-less sincere apologies from all sides and mete out suitable punishments to all except the more-or-less innocent Molly.
Then, an hour later, just when Miss Walton had been about to step outdoors with the junior class en route to Bath Abbey, where she had intended to give an informal lesson in art and architecture, the heavens had opened in a downpour to end downpours and there had been all the fuss of finding the girls somewhere else to go within the school and something else to do. Not that that had been Claudia’s problem, but she had been made annoyingly aware of the girls’ loud disappointment beyond her classroom door as she struggled to teach French irregular verbs. She had finally gone out there to inform them that if they had any complaint about the untimely arrival of the rain, then they must take it up privately with God during their evening prayers, but in the meantime they would be silent until Miss Walton had closed a classroom door behind them.
Then, just after classes were finished for the afternoon and the girls had gone upstairs to comb their hair and wash their hands for tea, something had gone wrong with the doorknob on one of the dormitories and eight of the girls, trapped inside until Mr. Keeble, the elderly school porter, had creaked his way up there to release them before mending the knob, had screeched and giggled and rattled the door. Miss Thompson had dealt with the crisis by reading them a lecture on patience and decorum, though circumstances had forced her to speak in a voice that could be heard from within—and therefore through much of the rest of the school too, including Claudia’s office.
It had not been the best of days, as Claudia had j
ust been remarking—without contradiction—to Eleanor Thompson and Lila Walton over tea in her private sitting room a short while after the prisoners had been freed. She could do with far fewer such days.
And yet now!
Now, to cap everything off and make an already trying day more so, there was a marquess awaiting her pleasure in the visitors’ parlor downstairs.
A marquess, for the love of all that was wonderful!
That was what the silver-edged visiting card she held between two fingers said—the Marquess of Attingsborough. The porter had just delivered it into her hands, looking sour and disapproving as he did so—a not unusual expression for him, especially when any male who was not a teacher invaded his domain.
“A marquess,” she said, looking up from the card to frown at her fellow teachers. “Whatever can he want? Did he say, Mr. Keeble?”
“He did not say and I did not ask, miss,” the porter replied. “But if you was to ask me, he is up to no good. He smiled at me.”
“Ha! A cardinal sin indeed,” Claudia said dryly while Eleanor laughed.
“Perhaps,” Lila suggested, “he has a daughter he wishes to place at the school.”
“A marquess?” Claudia raised her eyebrows and Lila looked suitably quelled.
“Perhaps, Claudia,” Eleanor said, a twinkle in her eye, “he has two daughters.”
Claudia snorted and then sighed, took one more sip of her tea, and got reluctantly to her feet.
“I suppose I had better go and see what he wants,” she said. “It will be more productive than sitting here guessing. But of all things to happen today of all days. A marquess.”
Eleanor laughed again. “Poor man,” she said. “I pity him.”
Claudia had never had much use for the aristocracy—idle, arrogant, coldhearted, nasty lot—though the marriage of two of her teachers and closest friends to titled gentlemen had forced her to admit during the past few years that perhaps some of them might be agreeable and even worthy individuals. But it did not amuse her to have one of their number, a stranger, intrude into her own world without a by-your-leave, especially at the end of a difficult day.