Their gloved hands touched as she tugged the card away from him, and she fought a shiver of desire. She wanted Danecroft to look at her. She wanted him to see her as Cinderella and not a plain farm girl. And that was utterly absurd, as he was making quite clear by scarcely noticing her existence. “I could make the return of the children part of the marriage settlement,” she said with what she hoped was confidence.
Finally, he glared down at her. She couldn’t tell if the flare of his nostrils was fire-breathing anger or male lust as he glimpsed the scandalous amount of flesh revealed by the cut of her gown, but she felt the brush of his gaze like hot coals. Before she could catch her breath, he jerked his attention back to her face.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he asserted firmly, not sounding like a man overcome with desire. “Once a man has your blunt, he can do anything he wants with it. You need a man who likes children and doesn’t need your money. Come along, let’s see what I can do.”
In amazement, Abby set aside her empty cup. She knew she couldn’t expect an earl to look upon her as marriage material. And maybe he had forgotten the burning thrill of their kiss, but she hadn’t. She was nearly breathless from just touching his coat sleeve as he led her across the room. She had to fight an urge to swat him.
She swallowed hard and tried to divert her thoughts by hoping Danecroft could find someone for her who was a bit like himself. She liked that the earl didn’t tower over her as Lord Quentin did. Danecroft was tall and broad-shouldered enough to make her feel feminine and sheltered, but not so large as to intimidate. And he seemed to have her interests in mind, which was more exciting than all the money and titles around her. If she must have a husband, she wanted one who could be her friend, she decided. She feared it might be difficult to form friendships with men who wanted only her inheritance. Danecroft was right about that.
“Ah, here is Longacre. His children are grown. In fact, the younger son has legal offices in the city. He even has property in Oxfordshire. You can talk rhubarb together.”
A man with children her age was a little daunting, but Abigail eagerly looked for this paragon who might be the answer to her problems.
Danecroft led her to a rotund older man who was happily munching on foie gras. Abby tried to swallow her disappointment. She hoped she wasn’t so shallow as to choose a husband by looks alone. And at least Mr. Longacre was no taller than the earl. But she had hoped . . . perhaps just a little more dashing? She was dismayed at the extent of her petty selfishness.
“Miss Merriweather, may I present Mr. Albert Longacre of Oxfordshire. He has only one daughter left to marry off, am I correct, sir? Longacre, this is Abigail Merriweather, Lady Belden’s protégée. The marquess remembered her in his will, so she has come to see town before returning to her estates out your way.”
“How’dye do, Miss Merriweather.” Longacre wiped his greasy hand on his handkerchief and, rather than pull on his glove again, used the linen to cover his palm as he bowed over her hand. “Most happy to meet you. Believe I knew your father. Sad, that he was taken so young.”
Mr. Longacre was old enough to be her father. Abigail didn’t know if she could do this. Uneasily, she clenched her hands in front of her, trying not to bunch up her gown in the process. “He mourned the loss of my stepmother. I like to think he is happy to be back with her.”
“Or with your mother, eh what? Wonder how that works, if a man has two wives precede him to heaven? Does he have to make a choice when he gets there?”
Abigail didn’t want to be a man’s second choice to find out. She liked that he wondered about such things but felt only relief when Longacre’s unmarried daughter arrived, eager to be introduced to an earl, and Danecroft made their excuses and dragged Abigail away.
“Didn’t know the old goat was so maudlin,” he muttered.
“But you were right that he would otherwise be a good choice,” she said, hiding her dismay. “He reminded me very much of my father, who, by the way, would infinitely prefer my stepmother to my mother if given a choice. My mother was a bit of a tartar. I believe he married her for the house.”
Fitz sent her a look of frustration, and she tingled inappropriately at all that heated concentration on her. Despite his glare, for the first time all evening, she felt relaxed enough to smile and have a good time.
Fitz thought his head might explode if he didn’t shake some sense into the prim little spinster who had turned his eyeballs inside out wearing a gown her mother would never have approved. He was having difficulty staying focused while his sweaty palms ruined his gloves. He had to look anywhere except at Miss Merriweather’s bosom, or he’d be dragging her off the dance floor in search of a bed, and she was not the sophisticated type of woman one bedded without consequence. He tried to remember her vicious hoe and ugly bonnets, but her image in the ball gown was branded into the back of his skull.
Her smile nearly brought him to his knees.
“If your mother was anything like you,” he said in a grim tone she didn’t deserve, “I can assure you that your father married her for more than a strawberry field. Do you have any idea of how ravishing you look in that gown?”
“Did you notice that Mr. Longacre was more interested in the food than my gown?” she retorted.
The necklace on her plump, white bosom shook when she was irritated, and Fitz ground his teeth in frustration while trying not to look. “That’s the whole point! Feed him rhubarb tarts, and he’ll do anything you ask.” Like avoid her bed, was his hope. A fat old man shouldn’t have any interest in ravishing his young bride.
Just the thought of any man taking Miss Abby to bed really was enough to make his overheated head explode like a cracked kettle. So an old man seemed the safest choice to prevent his head from shooting off his shoulders.
“And I’ll be back to raising four children alone again, after he eats himself into an early grave. I don’t mind being married for my money and my managing ways, but is it so difficult to believe that I might marry someone who would at least like to accompany me into old age?” Dropping Fitz’s arm, she picked up her skirt and started back to the ballroom. “You are no better than Lord Quentin, seeing only one part of the whole. At least his lordship’s choices appear to be young enough to stay around for a while. Do you propose to marry a woman twice your age just because she’s wealthy and her lands lie near yours?”
“I’ve given it some thought,” he said crossly, “but I need heirs.”
He caught up with her and slowed her down before she stormed into the ballroom with all flags flying and every male in the place went cross-eyed.
“And what if I want children of my own?” she countered. “I’ve always wanted a family. I think I would be a very good mother. Are there any barristers in here?”
“Barristers?” he asked in incredulity. “Dry old sticks won’t give you children.” Although now that she mentioned it, dry sticks wouldn’t be interested in her bed either. His head was definitely in the wrong place.
“Must a man be old to be a barrister? What are the qualifications?” she demanded.
Now she was the one who sounded cross. This was not going well. He could usually twist a woman around his little finger with a few well-placed suggestions. But he kept trying to be honest with this one.
Quentin stepped into their path. “A little quarrel?” he asked silkily. “Miss Merriweather, shall I escort you to your next partner?”
“Why don’t you match her up with Cox?” Fitz asked in exasperation. “All he wants is a wife to convince his family he doesn’t fly light. Or maybe Dobbs, who has four brats of his own and probably won’t notice four more.”
When Abigail looked interested at the mention of Dobbs, Fitz wanted to pull his hair. He glared at her. “He has no funds of his own, and his salary at the ministry isn’t sufficient to feed the four mouths he already has. Don’t saddle the poor man with more.”
Fortunately, she had the wisdom not to argue.
Quentin, on the other han
d, looked smug, took the lady’s hand on his arm, and nodded toward the dance floor. “Fitz, you are scheduled to dance the waltz with Lady Mary Barron. She has a generous trust fund from her grandmother, as well as any marriage portion her father will bestow on her.”
“And she no doubt plans to donate it all to the church,” Fitz growled. He bowed to Miss Abby, who sent him a look of concern that he resented. “Enjoy yourself, Miss Merriweather, but do not consider one of those fellows on your dance card. They’re not worthy of you.” He stalked off.
Lady Mary looked like the queen for whom she’d been named. Her thin lips were drawn tight like a prune, her hair was scraped back from her face, and he swore, she had no eyebrows. She followed his shoes and counted her steps as he attempted to steer her through the dance. He inquired if she was enjoying the season, if she’d met anyone interesting, if she practiced needlework, and by the time the music ended, he was desperately asking if she had any younger sisters. The only reply he received to his inquiries was a tight smile and a nod or shrug.
Well, he’d wanted a quiet woman. He ought to hare off right now and find her father. He had a strong suspicion the lady’s family were closet Catholics willing to trade her dowry for his vote on the Irish question, but he didn’t much give a fig if they were Buddhists and wanted a temple as long as he had money in his pocket and could take Penelope out of London.
Maybe he could call on Lady Mary in the morning and see if she was a little more lively at that time of day. Or if her tight smile hid snaggled teeth. Or maybe it didn’t matter. She was female and presumably had all her working parts. Plus a dowry and a father wealthy enough to buy what he wanted.
He would have to spend a lifetime chained to a woman who probably prayed in bed. And by the time he spent all her dowry paying his debts, he wouldn’t be able to afford a mistress.
He noticed Miss Merriweather laughing with the normally taciturn Blake Montague, and his brain finally reached the boiling point. Blake would use her money to buy his way into the army and get himself killed, and Fitz would lose both his best friend and the woman he wanted for his own.
Which was how he knew his brain had finally exploded. He wanted Miss Merry for his wife, in his bed, chatting about strawberries, cuddling his children. Why should any other damned man in this room have her when she could be his countess?
He’d still be bankrupt, but if her dowry was large enough for him to hire an estate manager and replant a few fields, maybe he could scrape by with his gambling income. What were his creditors going to do, sue the residents of the family mausoleum and put their corpses in Newgate? The lawyers had assured him that since his name wasn’t on any of the debts, they couldn’t fling him in debtors’ prison, yet. If he didn’t do the honorable thing and pay up, he would never have credit anywhere, ever again, but since he’d never had any to begin with, that would hardly hurt.
Of course, he’d have to repay Quentin. It would take one hell of a gambling stake to win that much. . . .
So, he’d have to use the dowry to win a game or two to pay back Quentin before he could go back to earning a living and finding an estate manager. It would work out.
It had to because, entirely against his will and better sense, he was about to walk over and bounce Blake against a wall if his friend didn’t keep his damned eyeballs in his head instead of on Miss Merriweather’s splendiferous bosom.
19
Abigail gasped as a strong male hand gripped her bare elbow and tugged her through the open French doors where she’d stopped to catch a breeze.
“I need to talk with you.”
Danecroft’s bay rum scent seeped through her senses, more potent than the aroma of strawberries and roses combined, and more masculine than she was accustomed to. His grip on her arm was firm and slightly intoxicating. Or perhaps that sensation was caused by the glass of punch she’d drunk earlier. She just knew her head swam oddly when the earl pulled her into a niche behind a marble column and all she could see was him.
She stared at his impeccable neckcloth and white silk waistcoat, and her mind wandered to the man she’d seen in shirtsleeves. She was having difficulty juxtaposing the imposing aristocrat in silk with the man soaked to his skin in filth and carrying his child. It occurred to her that perhaps she put too much emphasis on appearance.
“How would you like to be a countess?” he asked desperately, clutching both her bare arms and pinning her against the wall. She could feel the heat of his hands even through his gloves.
A countess? That wasn’t very likely. She looked up at him with puzzlement. In the faint light from the lamps, she could see Danecroft’s mouth drawn into a tight line instead of curved with his usual smiling charm. His gaze was intense enough to light fires. Was he angry with her?
“I don’t think I’d like to be a countess very much,” she admitted. “I don’t seem to have a knack for giving parties or chatting idly.”
Belatedly, he stepped back and ran a hand through his rumpled hair. He glared, and she wasn’t certain if he wanted to laugh, or shake her. Whatever was wrong, it had caused the affable earl to abandon all his deceptive charm—which she perversely found charming in itself.
“You have a knack for bossing people about,” he reminded her.
“Children and servants, I suppose, but what does that have to do with being a countess?”
“I am not doing this very well, am I?” Hands behind his stiff back, he paced two steps, then swung about and paced four. “I have an estate in Berkshire large enough for an army of children.”
Shock froze her to the stone wall. How had she forgotten that he was an earl? A heart-stoppingly sophisticated one. Surely, she had misinterpreted his strange comment. She waited, striving to comprehend any other reason why he might mention his estate and children. Evidently, her mind and his were at odds.
Danecroft threw her a despairing look. “You don’t intend to make this easy for me, do you? Any other woman in that room would be smiling triumphantly and saying, ‘Yes, of course, my lord, whatever you say, my lord,’ and I’d be on firm ground. Or my knees. Depending on how I felt about her, I suppose.”
Abby wanted to smile at the image of this charmingly self-confident gentleman falling on his knees for a mere woman, but she wasn’t certain what woman he had in mind exactly. “I’m not much inclined to agreeing to questions I haven’t been asked, and I should hope you wouldn’t ask them of women who are so blandly agreeable.”
“Then let me put it this way.” Danecroft grabbed her waist and hauled her up against his silk-covered chest and covered her mouth with his.
Abby nearly swooned. She dug her gloved fingers into his wide shoulders and hung on while he showed her that the kiss they had exchanged at the inn had been a mere matchstick flame compared with the conflagration he lit now. Heat engulfed her from head to toe. Muscled arms held her close, dragging her from her feet. He bruised her lips with his passion, and she could do no less than open her mouth to allow him inside. The sweet tartness of his tongue was better than any pie she’d ever tasted.
For a few blazing minutes, she was immersed in mindless sensation, with no thought to responsibility or propriety. His moan of pleasure melted her bones. His big body engulfed hers, making her feel strong, desirable, and feminine instead of small, managing, and boring. Crushed against the hardness of his torso, her breasts swelled and softened.
When his hand slid up her back to stroke her bodice, she gasped at the erotically tactile sensation and pushed away, afraid her heart would leap from her chest. Danecroft reluctantly lowered her to her feet but didn’t release her. She rested her head against his shoulder, unable to stand on her own just yet. He held her tight enough that she could feel his harsh breathing.
My goodness, he would twist her head around to believe anything if he continued kissing her like that.
“Marry me, Rhubarb Girl.”
Rhubarb Girl? To whom was he talking? Seduced by the unexpected solace of the earl’s powerful arms around
her, promising the invincibility she’d never possess on her own, she didn’t want to move. If she could simply freeze time and stay here forever . . .
“Be my countess and come home with me and Penelope and show us how to plant strawberries,” he whispered into her hair.
Oh, he had meant he wanted to marry her. She flushed with embarrassment at her stupidity. How could she have known he was asking her to marry him? She couldn’t even fathom it now that he’d stated it plainly.
He was always making her feel simple and unworldly, probably because that’s what she was. A rhubarb, indeed.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured, pushing away slightly, fearful he was making fun of her in some way she didn’t grasp. “You must marry wealth and perhaps someone with an influential family who can help you.”
“Think, Abby. . . . I may call you Abby, may I not? I can’t keep calling you Rhubarb Girl and Miss Merry, which produce this absurd desire to hug you and pet you as if you were my own personal kitten.”
“Rhubarb Girl?” she inquired, recovering some segment of her sense of humor if not completely overcoming her shock. “I daresay Abby would be preferable.”
“And you must call me Fitz. Or Jack, which is my given name.” His gloved hands slid seductively around her waist, and his thumbs circled at the small of her back. She didn’t dare look into his tempting eyes just yet, for fear she would completely lose her head. Or her heart.
“You said your given name was John,” she said with what she hoped was severity, teasing because she could not believe any of this.
“John was my father’s name. I prefer Jack. Or Fitz. Or Doddering Fool. But I think I’m finally getting a little smarter. I don’t have much book learning, but I know people. I really do. And I think we’ll suit. Tell me you agree.”
She couldn’t resist; she had to look up. With his lock of hair falling over his brow, he looked so earnest that his smiling charm was entirely dissipated. Even his eyes failed to laugh. He looked nearly as startled as she was—but determined.
The Wicked Wyckerly Page 16