How would she ever know what was best for them?
Rain began to fall before they were an hour down the road. Fitz cursed his impulsiveness in asking Abby to take this journey on such a day. The wind slashed the downpour across the road in gray sheets. The carriage’s hood kept the rain out of their faces and off their backs, as long as they didn’t turn west, but the spray of water would soon drench them no matter which way they turned. He debated whether it was better to get soaked, or to infuriate Isabell for jeopardizing Abby’s reputation by stopping at an inn.
A true gentleman would no doubt know the right choice, but all his life he’d lived for expediency on the rough edges of bachelor society. He would normally never be caught in the company of a respectable lady.
“Penny will catch cold,” the topic of his internal debate said softly, pulling her pelisse around the child sleeping in her lap. “There was a decent-looking inn just ahead, was there not?”
“And how do you remember this?”
“I feared we would be caught in the storm and didn’t want you and Penny to suffer from my foolishness, so I noted likely shelter on the way down.” She spoke apologetically, as if the dilemma were her fault and not his.
“The marchioness will be furious if she learns you’ve been with me. What tale did you tell to escape her velvet trap?”
“I am five and twenty and don’t need a chaperone to protect my reputation,” she said stiffly.
“Five and twenty,” he crowed. “That makes you a doddering ancient, and I must be one foot from my grave.”
She shot him a sharp glance that said she saw through his diversion. “Lady Belden means well, but I am not a silly miss with stars in my eyes, foolish enough to believe I can find a husband among the pampered aristocracy. She would do far better to introduce me to lawyers in need of my dowry, who would be able to defend my claim without cost. Men such as that will not know or care that a woman of my age is independent.”
Fitz lashed the horse into the innyard, feeling unreasonably irascible at her perfectly logical conclusion. How could he tell the damned woman that most sane men ought to pay gold for a treasure like her? “You underestimate yourself,” he said curtly, throwing the reins down to a lad who ran out to meet them.
She ruined her useless silk parasol covering Penny from the rain until he lifted his sleeping daughter from her arms. Together, they hurried through the muddy yard into the inn, which was crowded with other travelers seeking refuge from the storm.
“This won’t do.” He shouldered his way through the mail coach’s huddled, dripping passengers until he located an officious man ordering servants about. “A private parlor?” he called over the bustle.
“Only the wife’s left,” the innkeeper called back. “Small, but there’s a fire and a place to lay the wee lass.”
Small, and costly. As he pushed his way toward the hall the man indicated, Fitz mentally totaled the coins in his pockets, the fee for stabling the horse, and the stableboy’s gratuity. Even if Miss Merriweather paid for tea with her coins, he’d still have to abandon her for a while to earn their keep. He glanced down at her petite figure, but she seemed undaunted by the crowd or the offer of an intimate parlor. There were advantages to a woman of pragmatic mind.
Of course, an insipid miss would no doubt have insisted that they return to London without stopping, thereby saving him a great deal of blunt.
They followed the innkeeper’s plump wife to a small parlor at the back of the inn. Two well-worn wing chairs framed the small coal grate. A slightly unstable round table filled the space between the chairs. Their hostess gestured at a faded fainting couch in a dark corner. “Me mam used to lie there in her last days. The babe should sleep well in it.” She brushed Penny’s sleep-flushed cheek with a callused finger. “The two of you are lucky to have such a one. We never had none of our own.”
In minutes, she produced a pot of tea, cups, and a quilt to cover Penny.
“For the sake of appearances, I’ll have to leave you here with her,” Fitz said as Abby tucked the child in. His companion’s damp muslin clung to her rounded figure in ways that made him all too aware that they were alone and the innkeeper thought them married. And that he liked the idea. “And come back when the rain lessens.”
She was having difficulty unfastening her wet bonnet ribbons, and he delayed his flight to help her untangle the knot. The delicate scent of violets that had enticed him all day hadn’t faded with the hours, and his hands lingered a little too long near the curve of her jaw as he wrestled with the ribbon. If he could slide his fingers through her curls, cup her cheek, turn her head until her eyes met his . . .
She lifted her glorious blue gaze to study him without need of his seductive moves. Fitz didn’t stop to think but lowered his head for just a taste of moist strawberry lips—his reward for enduring the frustration of looking and not touching all day.
She gasped, her mouth parting on the exhalation. He dropped her unfastened bonnet and finally and at long last slid his fingers through her silken curls. He captured the back of her head to hold her still, caught up in the wonder of her ingenuous sigh. He knew better. He truly did. But his Abby was a foreign delicacy too rare for him not to sample. Just for one minute out of his dissolute life, he needed the approval of a good woman.
To his shock, she laid a hand on his chest, burning a brand through his wet linen clear to the skin, and then she tilted her head so he could better access the pure ecstasy of her shy kiss.
This was wrong, wrong in so many ways that even his mathematical mind couldn’t calculate them, but he’d never felt so perfectly, joyously right in all his life. For one intoxicating moment, her artless seduction blended into a potent concoction he could not name or recognize. He simply knew her kiss was the missing piece he’d sought forever.
Fitz pushed Abby’s wet pelisse off her shoulders, sliding it down her arms to the floor so he could stroke her bare skin with hands shaking to grab and hold. But even in his madness, he fought the temptation. That she curled her fingers in his waistcoat and returned his kiss with fervency was all the bliss he dared ask.
A loud rap at the door forced them apart. Abby covered her swollen lips with a muffled gasp and regarded him with eyes so round, he didn’t know whether she looked on him as insect or hero. He knew which he was, but he rather hoped he could be her hero for just a little while.
“Lady here asks if she might join you,” the innkeeper called, opening the door without invitation. “Says she’ll pay for supper.”
Fitz stepped in front of Abby to give her time to recover herself, then wished for a shield of invisibility when Lady Anne Montfort walked in, her riding habit dripping, her superior smile flitting about her lips until she saw him.
“Oh, it’s you, Fitz,” she said with what he could swear was disappointment. “Did I interrupt something I shouldn’t?”
“I was just leaving for the tavern. Have you met Miss Abigail Merriweather, Lady Belden’s protégée?” Briskly, he performed the social niceties, pretending Abby wasn’t looking as if she wanted to sink through the floor or that a duke’s daughter wasn’t scowling at him—pretending he hadn’t just been given a glimpse of heaven and must now pay the price.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Lady Anne claimed, throwing her hat on the table and checking her upswept black hair for loose pins, making it clear she had no intention of leaving, “but I saw the rig and was told the driver had taken shelter here. My groom wanted to warn about a loose spoke.”
Balderdash. She recognized the carriage and had come seeking the owner—Montague. Fitz would have to ask his friend a few impertinent questions about unobtainable daughters of dukes when he returned. And if his cousin Geoff had his eye on Lady Anne, as rumor had it, then he could taunt his tradesman heir about his slim chances against Corinthian Blake.
“I’ll take a look at the spoke, thank you. Miss Merriweather, if you’ll excuse me?”
Abby nodded, retreating into that sphinxlike
silence Fitz had noted before. He hated leaving her in the company of a noblewoman who could tie grown men into knots with her tongue, but lingering invited more scandal than he’d already created.
“Your child?” Lady Anne asked, looking at Abby and indicating Penelope as she appropriated a chair and propped her riding boots on the grate.
“Mine,” Fitz said, his hand on the door clasp. “Miss Merriweather has been kind enough to offer to look after her while she sleeps.”
He didn’t linger to see the lady’s smirk. He didn’t give a damn about duke’s daughters. He simply hoped the woman wasn’t cruel enough to destroy Abby simply for the fun of a little gossip mongering.
15
“Looks like I interrupted just in time,” Lady Anne declared, sipping from the teacup that should have been the earl’s. “Fitz is a charming bounder.”
“It wasn’t like that at all,” Abby managed to murmur, although how a word passed her sinful tongue was a mystery to her. She’d never known her lips could be used to produce such pleasure, and a thrill shivered through her at recalling what the earl’s mouth had done to hers. The vicar had certainly never kissed her in such a manner.
The Earl of Danecroft had kissed her—as if he really and truly meant it. Did that mean he found an insignificant country mouse like her attractive? That was almost too incredible to believe. Or perhaps he was just bored and demanding payment for his wasted hours. She supposed she ought to listen when everyone, including Fitz himself, declared he was little more than a shallow cad, but he’d left her too bewildered to think sensibly.
“Wasn’t it like that?” Lady Anne asked in amusement. “I don’t suppose you have a very large dowry?”
The mercenary part of the aristocracy, Abby understood too well. “Not large enough,” she answered bluntly, checking on Penny before taking the second chair. The earl had introduced the lady as the daughter of a duke. She didn’t understand why such an exalted personage was galloping about the countryside un escorted by more than a groom.
The lady chuckled. “Whereas my dowry would pull him out of the soup and put him on firm ground again. The plot thickens.”
Without the fashionable armor of her pelisse, Abigail felt very small and inconsequential next to the taller, elegant lady in her striking wine-colored riding habit, with her hat and coat tailored like a man’s. Abby knew she would never be able to carry off a look like that with such grace.
And she had no idea what the lady was talking about. “The plot?” she asked tentatively.
“If you’re a relation of Lady Belden, you must know her late husband’s distant cousin Lord Quentin Hoyt?”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Abby said faintly, at an utter loss as to the direction of this conversation. Of course, her head was still spinning in the stars, and she was having difficulty breathing. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She could still smell Danecroft’s bay rum cologne on her fingers. She had touched his neck! She might never think straight again.
“Well, if you stay in town for any length of time, you will come upon Quentin. He’s a mischief-maker, with his fingers in more pies than is good for him. Smack his hand for me when you see him, will you? He’s really quite bad at matchmaking.”
“I . . .” She couldn’t agree to smack a gentleman’s hand. Abby simply offered a general “Of course,” and let it go. Surely the lady didn’t mean it. And then her final statement sank in. “Matchmaking?”
Accented by a black widow’s peak, the lady’s features were cool and regal. “Lord Quentin led me to believe I would find a friend of mine, Mr. Montague, in the vicinity. He deliberately deceived me. He knows Montague is not a likely candidate as my suitor, but the bankrupt earl driving Mr. Montague’s carriage is. Like many self-made men, Lord Quentin believes marriage should match the greatest purse with the greatest need. It’s a foolishness that I do not cater to.”
“Yes, of course.” Abby stared at her fingers in her lap and wished she knew how to converse so casually on topics of such significance that they made her head spin worse. She was accustomed to being in complete charge of her surroundings, and now she was in a world where she scarcely understood the language, much less the customs. She was vaguely aware dukes expected to marry their offspring to the highest bidders, but they may as well discuss the marriage of cherubim for what little she knew about it.
She feared Lord Quentin had the right idea. Danecroft needed the wealth of a duke’s daughter.
When Abby did not respond, the lady turned a quizzical look on her. “You do not mean to buy a title with your dowry?”
Abby almost laughed. She ran her hand into her unfashionably red gold curls and sought something sensible to say. “I think I mean to buy a solicitor.”
Startled, Lady Anne emitted a chuckle before refilling her cup and attempting to look stern again. “Solicitors are oily worms. You’d do well to steer clear of them. How about an up-and-coming barrister who might make MP some day?”
“Are we matching purses to needs?” she asked softly.
“Of course. That is what men do. Why shouldn’t women be equally practical? Unless you have your heart set on Fitz, which is a shame, because he can’t afford a solicitor-sized dowry.”
“I have my heart set on having my brothers and sisters returned to me.” Abby finally dared sip her tea now that she was on ground she understood.
“Really?” Lady Anne lifted her dark eyebrows. Against her white complexion, the effect was striking. “No wonder Isabell took you on.”
Abigail waited, but the lady did not explain, and she did not feel it respectful of the dowager’s privacy to question, no matter how much she would like to know more of her benefactor.
Finishing her tea, Lady Anne glanced at the ceiling as if hearing a summons from above, nodded, and began gathering her effects together. “I believe the rain has let up. It was very kind of you to share your sitting room. I look forward to seeing you at this season’s events. You seem a sensible sort, so I don’t need to warn you to stay away from scoundrels like Fitz. However did you run into him?”
“Friend of the family,” Abby thought to say before the lady tied on her hat and shook out her heavy skirt.
Lady Anne located her riding crop and a purse heavy with coin that she searched through as she spoke. “Oh, Fitz’s ambition is to be a friend of everyone. Very convenient when one wants to borrow rigs or dine well on nothing. Lovely fribble. I wish him well.”
Lady Anne strode out, leaving Abby with a dozen questions, none of which were any of her business.
The lady had made it sound as if Danecroft were as idle as her father had been, or even more so. Now that he was earl, shouldn’t he have an estate to run? She knew so very little about him, after all.
Seeing Lady Anne signal her groom from the tavern door, Fitz hastily flipped the last card, winning the round. He gathered his coins and rose amid groans from the well-to-do merchants who had gathered to wait out the storm.
“Sorry, gentlemen, but ladies cannot be left waiting.” As long as he did not act out of greed, he always walked away from these games leaving his fellow players thinking he was deuced lucky at cards, and that they could have beaten him had they played long enough.
But in counting cards, playing through the deck meant he won more often than not. Best to leave some element of chance so he lost occasionally. He’d invented a system of staggered wagers that lowered his odds of losing all he earned, so even if he lost a hand, his money came out ahead.
He slipped his winnings into his pocket, and met up with the duke’s daughter in the lobby. “The rig is at your disposal if you are heading into town, my lady. The clouds haven’t entirely dissipated.”
She slapped her gloves impatiently against her palm. “No, I’m riding back to my father’s stable, but thank you for the offer. I assume you are already aware that your friend has her heart set on a houseful of children and is not the match you need. While I may be the opposite, having no need
of children and possessing wealth to spare, I still refuse to be won by seduction or trickery. Don’t let Quent manipulate you. The man is too sure of himself and needs to be cut down to size.”
The lady spoke like a man, in peremptory terms that would confuse many, but Fitz had no doubt of her meaning. “I don’t believe Quent meant harm. He might have thrown you in my path, but he didn’t know I was with Miss Merriweather. She was kind to me when I needed a friend, and I’m only returning her kindness. I trust you will not speak harm of her for this incident.”
“Of course not. I meant to threaten you if you intended mischief, but you are not that sort of scoundrel. Good day.” She marched out the instant her horse was led to the door.
Not that sort of scoundrel. Damned by faint praise, and he’d almost forfeited that one credit had he been left alone with Abby much longer.
He didn’t know what had got into him. He wasn’t a rake. His one attempt in his youth to be a man about town had resulted in Penelope. Since then, he’d learned to be wiser, using protection and worldly widows and the occasional whore. He never seduced innocents. Had no interest in them.
And he’d almost thrown his hat in the marriage ring over a woman who was totally unsuitable for his needs—as he was unsuitable for hers. He had wits to let.
Steeling himself, he returned to the cozy parlor to find Miss Abigail fastened into her pelisse and tying her bonnet ribbons. She offered him a curt nod of greeting and bent to remove the quilt from Penny’s still-sleeping form.
Right. She was sensible. He’d hear no missish noises from his Rhubarb Girl. They were in this together. Friends helping each other and all that.
Heavenly kisses were simply an idyllic side road they’d mistakenly taken. Back to the main thoroughfare now.
But he could still swear her bonnet smelled of violets, and even though he carried his daughter over his shoulder, his spare hand instinctively sought to protect the small of his companion’s back as he led her through the departing mob.
The Wicked Wyckerly Page 13