“You don’t have much book learning?” she asked, studying his expression, hoping her heart would stop fluttering long enough for her to understand. She needed time to mull over even mundane choices such as deciding to preserve or sell her strawberries. She couldn’t possibly make a decision so important as marriage with just a moment’s notice . . . especially to a man who obviously made momentous decisions on impulse.
Danecroft—Fitz—Jack—cupped her face between his big hands and planted a kiss on her nose. And the corner of her mouth. And she shivered with the need for more.
“Tutors like to be paid,” he explained. “Schools require money. My father didn’t see the necessity. That’s all past now, don’t you see? I can change things. Slowly, perhaps, but with you by my side, I’ll learn.” He sounded eager and not the least terrified of such a future.
Abby swallowed hard. He almost made her feel . . . desirable. To dream of an aristocrat like Danecroft . . . was insane. “Why me? I don’t like town. My dowry is limited, and I don’t know anyone influential. I have no idea what you’re asking of me, and neither do you.”
The most elegant, charming man she’d ever had the pleasure to know released her face to run both his hands through his hair in a gesture of despair. The action boyishly disheveled his golden brown locks, making him even more heartbreakingly appealing than in all his polished sophistication.
“I know. You’re perfectly right,” he agreed. “But think about it, Abby. I may not know rhubarb from rutabagas, but I can hire an estate manager with your dowry, one who will know how to put the land back in order. How could any executor deny you if you’re married to an earl? You could have the children back. And I would have my sensible Rhubarb Girl for wife instead of some twittering adolescent.”
He needed her dowry and her managing ways, just like everyone else did, she told herself. She had been ready to accept that, for the sake of the children. But this . . . she placed her gloved hands on her face in a vague attempt to hold herself together, or seal in the heat of his touch.
He’d called her sensible. Was that a good thing?
He was talking about marriage. To an earl. To the most handsome, desirable man she’d ever met. Fairy tales did not come true. He must be scheming again, and she was too naive to understand the rules. She could lose everything she had and more if she decided wrong.
She shook her head, and Danecroft’s expression was so crestfallen that she nearly cried. She touched his coat, knowing she courted danger in doing so, because his gaze smoldered.
“I need time to think,” she murmured. “I cannot . . . This is so . . .”
“I know, I know. I think my brain exploded when I thought of it. It just seems so right, and I’m not known for doing what is right.”
He crushed her hand in his, and for a moment, everything seemed remarkably clear. Then he placed it on his arm and propriety returned. “If I do not return you inside, Quentin will fling me over the parapet and Isabell will demand an immediate wedding, and I would rather give you time to be certain. I take that back. No, I don’t want to give you time to think of all the reasons it won’t work. I want to rush you off to Gretna Green. But I won’t. I know I’m the impulsive one, and you’re not.”
She nodded uncertainly. “I do need time, thank you. There are so many things I must consider before saying yes. You are . . . so much more than any of the gentlemen I have met. I cannot put my mind on it. You could have any woman in London.”
He laughed in self-deprecation as he led her back to the ballroom. “Miss Pemberley prefers Sir Barton. I don’t fancy ignorant young things. And most of the smart women don’t fancy me. Or need me. You, on the other hand, need me just as I need you, so we’re well matched in that.”
A marriage based on mutual need almost made sense, in the same way this glittering ballroom of exotic scents, beautiful people, and lavish clothing made sense. Abby feared that once she returned to the real world, however, the Cinderella fantasy would turn back into ashes. She needed to be in the familiar, simple surroundings of her home, preferably with the children—anywhere but here—before she could even think of such an enormous leap of faith.
She was too tongue-tied to explain any of that before Lord Quentin and Lady Belden swooped down on them, clucking and threatening, and sweeping them in different directions as if they were disobedient children.
“Whatever are you thinking?” the marchioness cried, towing Abby away from Fitz toward a gaggle of her cronies. “I have told you Danecroft is unsuitable. He is a shallow cad who makes his living gambling. He has no interest in children and rural pursuits. You need a man who shares your interests.”
Gambling? The earl—Fitz—was a gambler? How had she not known that? Because in reality she knew nothing of him at all. How could she learn when she scarcely knew a soul? “How does one make a living gambling?” she asked cautiously.
“Does it matter?” the marchioness asked with a dismissive sweep of her hand. “Perhaps he cheats. Perhaps his friends are extraordinarily stupid. Perhaps he smiles at ladies and they hand him their jewels. Or all of that. But someday, sometime, he will lose more than he can afford. I know whereof I speak. Do you wish a man like that to have possession of your farm and dowry and your siblings’ futures?”
She couldn’t risk her farm! She knew she needed to think hard and long about his proposal, but basing their futures on the fall of a card . . .
Abby suffered the agonizing suspicion that the light had just gone out on her shining moment.
“What the devil are you thinking?” Quentin demanded, digging his massive fist into Fitz’s upper arm and hauling him toward the smoking room, where a bar had been set up for the gentlemen. “You’re a damned earl now. You can’t be seducing country chits under the noses of all society if you mean to marry one of their whelps.”
Fitz debated declaring his intentions, but he had the uncomfortable notion that Quentin would demand his loan back if he did so. He shook his arm free and brushed at the wrinkles in his coat sleeve. “I would not seduce Miss Merriweather. I was just giving her some advice. You shouldn’t bully her into marrying where she has no interest.”
She hadn’t accepted him yet. He had made a perfect botch of his proposal. He couldn’t believe he’d botched something so important. He needed to collect his wits before trying again.
“Since when have you become an expert on marriage?” Quentin asked, pouring a whiskey and scowling.
“Same time as you, apparently.” Fitz helped himself to a brandy and scowled back.
Quentin might be large, but Fitz had watched the man box. Quent used his size to advantage, but his proper footwork and practiced punches were much too predictable. Fitz knew how to think on his feet and strike unexpectedly. He could take the larger man down if necessary. But he’d rather remember Miss Merry’s sweet kisses.
The thought of bedding Abigail fogged his mind with such lustful images that it obliterated any chance of winning this argument. “I need to hire an estate manager,” he declared, taking a new direction. “I assume it’s not too late to plant some of the fields if I had the blunt to pay for whatever is needed.”
“Did you win another stud for collateral?” Quentin asked in scorn.
“I will stop liking you shortly,” Fitz warned. “I might not have your education, but I know people and I know how to win at cards. I make do with what I can. I can’t blame you if you don’t trust me for another loan, but you know damned well I’m not a fool. If I want to court Miss Merriweather, that’s my business and none of yours.”
“Isabell will have your head on a platter,” Quentin said bluntly. “She won’t allow it. If you must marry quickly, you need to look elsewhere.”
There were no doubt ten thousand reasons why he should look elsewhere, starting with lust not being a good basis for marriage and ending with Abby being a rural farm girl who would despise the unwholesome life he led. And there was all that business about creditors and children he couldn’t afford
and didn’t know how to manage and run-down estates in between.
And he still stubbornly clung to his instincts. “I don’t believe Isabell has any say in the matter. Will you help me find an estate manager or not?”
Quentin sipped his drink and eyed Fitz as if he were a snake who might strike. Fitz felt wild enough to bite, but his shield of civilization was too thick.
“Did you ever find out who set up your suicide scene?” Quentin asked unexpectedly.
Fitz took a swallow of the brandy. There were some subjects he’d rather not discuss. “My heir is on his way to Yorkshire, so I can’t ask him about it.”
“How do you know if it is even safe to return to your estate? Could there be someone there who wishes you dead?”
“What the devil is this all about?” Diverted by the change of subject, Fitz studied his friend. “I don’t appreciate being questioned like a truant.”
Quentin produced a folded, dirty sheet of paper from his pocket. “This arrived via my window last night.”
Fitz’s heart sank as he shook open the note.
WIKERLY IS TAYVENG SKAHNDRL—HEV HIMSEF MAYT ME TO BE GAYVENG BAK WUTZ NOT HEZ ER AYLS.
“Tayveng?” Fitz said in incredulity. “What is this, Russian illiteracy?”
“I have Irishmen working at the dock who talk like that. Thieving scoundrel, I believe, is the translation,” Quentin said, watching Fitz carefully.
“Have himself meet me to be giving back what’s not his or else?” Fitz interpreted. “Well, it looks as if my admirer is not only Irish but spells about as well as I do,” he continued cheerfully, crumpling the Tattersall’s poster it was written on and throwing it at the empty fireplace. “I’ll be heading home now. I have some more windows to board up.”
And an illiterate Irishman to hunt down and strangle before the villain started flinging bricks at Abby or any more of his friends. He didn’t know any Irishmen! Tattersall’s was hardly a clue. He didn’t have the kind of blunt needed for horse-trading. He’d send Nick around to take a look for a lunatic Irishman. Nick knew the men over there better than Fitz ever would.
If Irishmen worked in Quent’s shipping trade, might they not also work for Geoff’s woolen trade?
Minutes later, Lady Isabell slipped into the smoking room and located Lord Quentin puffing on a cigar and looking smug. “She will not have a gambler,” she declared in satisfaction. “I will see to that.” She waited happily for him to frown at his impending loss of their wager.
Instead, Quentin blew a smoke ring, undisturbed. “Wyckerlys are notorious for good reason, my dear,” he said, politely setting the cigar aside and viewing her with the superior attitude of a man who knew everything. “They always do what they’re told not to do, come hell or high water. Your heiress doesn’t stand a chance. I’m happy to see that you and my sister get along so splendidly. She will enjoy your company next season.”
Narrowing her eyes, Lady Isabell did not deign to express her disapproval. She merely swept from the room, leaving him to contemplate the wallpaper.
20
Leaving the salon, her assistant at her side carrying still another bouquet from one of her admirers, Lady Belden halted at the arrival of a footman with a calling card. She read the card, sniffed, and glanced over her shoulder at Abigail. “It is your gambling friend. Shall I have him turned away?”
Abigail had stayed awake all night, tossing and turning and feeling feverish, reliving Fitz’s impulsive proposal. Just knowing how far her thoughts had traveled down the path of marriage beds brought a blush to her cheeks. She distinctly remembered the day he’d said he preferred to be compared to a stallion than a rooster. She would go to hell for considering the image that raised.
“Lord Danecroft is my friend,” she said quietly. No matter what else was between them, she had to believe that much.
“You have never seen men win and lose fortunes at a gaming table, have you?” the marchioness asked, not unsympathetically. “They become obsessed to the exclusion of all else. He could lose your farm and everything on it. Perhaps we should hold an evening of cards so you can judge for yourself.” When Abigail’s expression of determination didn’t waver, she conceded. “Very well, have him in. I’ll send a maid to chaperone.”
“That isn’t necessary, my lady,” Abigail protested.
“Balderdash. He’s a fortune hunter. I applaud his good taste, but I’ll not see you wasted on his cause.”
Abigail closed her eyes and reined in her temper. She had too many crises on her hands and did not need to add an argument with her hostess to the collection. She owed the lady too much. “I understand. Thank you, my lady.”
She might lack the courage to stand up to the dowager in person, but she did not have the temperament for subservience. Instead of waiting for the chaperone, Abigail grabbed a shawl and met the earl in the foyer. She led him through the house and out the back to the kitchen garden. An upper housemaid would never follow her into the territory of a mere kitchen servant, so she assumed they could avoid any chaperone here.
Amusement twisted Danecroft’s lips as he regarded the carefully tended beds glistening in the fine mist of a gloomy day. “Ah, is this what a garden should look like? How very . . . tidy.”
Abigail strode a graveled path past the herb beds to the more private cutting gardens to the rear. “The lady likes fresh flowers,” she stated curtly, not knowing how to deal with the vast array of emotions the earl’s presence engendered. She was unaccustomed to being assaulted by conflicting desires.
How did one speak to a gentleman she had tried to envision naked? One who had crushed her breasts against his chest and invaded her mouth with his tongue? She rather thought such intimacies required a proposal. But she wasn’t certain they required her acceptance. And that was only the beginning of her confusion.
“You are out of sorts.” He spread his handkerchief on a damp bench and gestured for her to have a seat. “And you have led me out here to avoid the dragon lady. What is wrong?”
She wanted to weep over his perceptiveness. He still wore respectable mourning for his brother, although he obviously disdained full black. She did not like the dark gray with his coloring, but the tailored fit emphasized his formidable masculinity. Was she so shallow that she was simply falling for a dashing, handsome man?
Abby suspected the earl was well aware of how his appearance affected the fairer sex. He had a solid streak of pride and vanity, deservedly so. But he had revealed too much of his vulnerability last night, and her heart ached at the possibility that she might truly wound him.
“You always know the right thing to do and say,” she said, taking the seat he’d offered. “I wish I had that gift.”
“It isn’t a gift but a lesson learned of necessity.” He broke off a perfect pink rosebud and handed it to her. “Be glad that you grew up in a household where honesty was respected.”
He must have ripped another hole in his soul to reveal that to her. Abby’s eyes teared up at the image of this proud man growing up in scorn and neglect. She bent over the rose to prevent his seeing how much she really didn’t want to tell him no. “We grew up in very different ways, did we not?” she murmured.
He’d been prowling the gravel path, examining the topiary. He swung on his heel at her tone and took the seat beside her. She could feel the heat and size of him without looking up.
“Don’t let our differences be the excuse to turn me down,” he said urgently. “I have done nothing these past hours but examine all the arguments you can possibly make, and none of them can overcome the fact that we suit each other better than anyone else we can meet.”
She couldn’t resist lifting her head, and his impassioned gaze nearly ripped her heart out. “You don’t regret your hasty proposal? You know I will not force you to honor it.” It would make her life infinitely easier if he backed out now, but believing that he thought well enough of her to propose filled her with wonder. Of course, he was also being extremely impractical, which
showed how well they would not suit.
He grabbed her hand. His was gloved, but hers was not. Her fingers lingered in his warmth, even though she knew she must pull away.
“I have never had anyone to rely on but myself,” he said earnestly. “I know that is not much of a recommendation, but I have learned to trust my instincts, and I know we will suit. Will you marry me, Abby? Be my helpmate, mother of my children, and my better half? I practiced my speech all night, but the pretty words fled as soon as I touched your hand.”
She knew what he meant. She’d practiced speeches, too, but his hand clasped around hers was so certain and strong. . . . She desperately wanted to change her mind. She wanted his strength, his friendship. She wanted him. And for the sake of the children, she couldn’t be so selfish. She gently freed her fingers.
“There,” she whispered. “We can think clearly again. We cannot be like a pair of mindless poultry. We have others to think of besides ourselves.”
“You are classifying me as a rutting rooster?” he asked in amusement. “I think I deserve better than that. I behaved in almost perfect circumspection when we were alone. It wasn’t until the madness of last night that I realized I would be a fool to deny what your kisses tell me.”
“I wish I could rely on instinct as you do,” she said wistfully. “But I cannot. I hope someday you will forgive me enough to still be my friend. Perhaps then you might tell me what drove you to believe an inarticulate spinster with no accomplishments and little dowry could be your countess. It is a leap of judgment I cannot make.”
He gripped the bench with his hands as if to keep them from straying. Abby wished she could find some equal means of preventing her gaze from wandering to the magnificent man she was sacrificing. She had to remember that appearance wasn’t everything.
The Wicked Wyckerly Page 17