by Mary Balogh
Abigail could almost feel herself floating to the surface of sleep. But she clung tenaciously to the dream. This one was too good to be given up without a fight.
“Yes, my lord,” she said.
He crossed the room, passing close enough to her that she was aware of the fragrance of a musky cologne. He pulled on a bell rope beside the fireplace.
“Have my carriage sent around immediately, if you please, Watson,” he said when the butler appeared almost before he had released the rope.
For her? It would be very wonderful, Abigail thought. She would be walking into the wind on the way home.
“I shall have you conveyed to your employer's,” he said. “I shall come for you there tomorrow morning, ma'am, if I may. You will need some bride clothes. The morning after, I shall take you away from there to stay. In the meantime you may inform Mr. Gill that if his hands stray close to you again, he will have the glove of the Earl of Severn slapped in his face shortly after.”
Abigail felt all her inner muscles tense with the effort of keeping her amusement from bursting forth into laughter. It made such a delicious mental image—the picture of the tall and athletic and handsome earl slapping an elegant glove in the face of short and fat Mr. Gill. There was something hilarious too in the idea of Mr. Gill's being interested in pinching her bottom or kissing the back of her neck when there was Laura in the house.
But she sobered instantly. Should she not tell the earl something about herself? Should she not warn him? “Yes, my lord,” she said.
The earl walked beside her to the front doors of his house a few minutes later and made her an elegant bow after descending the outside steps and handing her into his carriage. His hand was warm, well-manicured, strong.
The interior of the carriage was all dark green velvet and golden tassels and plush cushions. Abigail sank back into softness and smoothed her hands over the inexpensive brown cloth of her cloak.
Well, she thought. Well. Oh, good Lord in heaven! She did not know whether to give in to panic or to howl with laughter. Probably it would be wiser to do neither until she was safely back in her room at the Gill's.
“You have done what?” Sir Gerald Stapleton stopped so abruptly in the middle of the pavement that a lady and gentleman walking behind him almost collided with him. The gentleman glared at him and guided the lady safely past.
“I have offered marriage to an impoverished relative who called on me this morning,'' the Earl of Severn repeated.' 'Miss Abigail Gardiner.”
“You knew her before?” his friend asked. “You discovered in her a long-lost youthful love, Miles? You are not about to tell me that she is a complete stranger, are you? You are, aren't you?”
The earl motioned his friend to resume their walk toward White's. They had met earlier, without design, at Jackson's, the earl having gone there to spar, Sir Gerald to watch. “Do you ever stop to allow a fellow to answer a question?” he asked. “Yes, she was a stranger, Ger. But she is related to me in some manner. She did explain, but the explanation was complicated, and it pertained to how she was related to the old earl.”
“She must be a stunner,” Sir Gerald said, frowning his disapproval. “But are you mad, Miles? You'll be sorry in a week. Can't you look all about you and see how very few satisfactory marriages there are—especially for the husbands? What is wrong with your life as it is now? You have your independence, you are master in your own house, you are free to come and go as you please, and you have Jenny. You didn't really make her an offer, did you? You merely thought that you might do so at some future date? Don't. You want the advice of a longtime friend? Don't.”
“Do you remember the woman I described to you last evening?” Lord Severn asked. “The one I would marry on the spot if someone would just place her there before me?”
“Dull and ordinary?” Sir Gerald looked suspiciously at his friend.
Lord Severn nodded. “Miss Gardiner is she,” he said. “I was immediately struck by the likeness, Ger. She is perfect. Not ugly, but plain. A little brown mouse. She has fine eyes, though. Quiet and disciplined and respectful without being cringing. Almost all she said to me was 'Yes, my lord' and 'No, my lord.' She has been dismissed from her employment because her employer's husband has roving hands. She had come to ask me to help her find another post.”
“And you did,” Sir Gerald said gloomily. “You actually asked her, Miles? She said yes, I suppose. She would have to be insane not to have done so.”
“She said yes,” the earl said with a smile. “I thought you would be delighted for me, Ger. I thought we would celebrate together my narrow escape from Frances.”
His friend brightened. “Your mother will change your mind,” he said. “And she will find some way to get you out of this mad betrothal in short order. The woman will have to be paid off. And then you must tell your mama that you are not going to marry Frances either. You have to learn to assert yourself where females are concerned, Miles.”
“I will.” The Earl of Severn grinned. “I will have no trouble at all with Miss Gardiner, Ger. And my mother will have no power to change my mind by the time she arrives in town. I am going to be married by special license the day after tomorrow.”
Sir Gerald stopped abruptly again, removed his high-crowned beaver, and ran a hand through his short fair curls. “Devil take it,” he said. “The woman' must be a witch. You are going to regret this for a lifetime, Miles. I will be saying T told you so' before the month is out.”
“I think not,” the earl said. “I think Miss Abigail Gardiner will suit me admirably. I believe she will make the ideal wife. Are you going to stand there all day admiring the scenery, Ger, or are you coming to White's?”
“The ideal wife!” Sir Gerald said scornfully, replacing his hat on his head and tapping it firmly into place. “There is no such thing, old chap. And it would be to your eternal benefit if you would realize that within the next two days.”
“You have done what?” Laura Seymour was free of her duties in the schoolroom for the morning and had returned to her room to find Abigail pacing the floor there.
“I have agreed to marry the Earl of Severn the day after tomorrow,” Abigail said, “and I don't know whether I should collapse into a quivering jelly or roll on the floor with laughter. I don't know if I am the mad one or if it is he. Or perhaps it is the both of us. We will doubtless suit admirably. You would not care to pinch me, I suppose, Laura, to prove that I really am awake? I am not at all convinced that I am.”
“But you cannot marry an old man, Abby.'' Her friend stared at her in horror. “Oh, no, really you can't. There must be an alternative. He took one look at you—is that how it was?—saw you were young and pretty and destitute, and thought to hire himself a nursemaid at no expense. Men are quite horrid creatures. That silly Humphrey is all puffed up with conceit about being accused of being seduced by you, and has started to leer at me. Father and son both—it is too much.”
She picked up her brush from the dressing table and began to pull the pins from her hair.
“I shall be sure to give him a blistering setdown before I leave here,” Abigail said. “But the earl is not a doddering old man, Laura. The old earl died more than a year ago. This present one cannot be above thirty. I could have died of mortification. I mistook him for a secretary.”
Laura's hands stilled and she stared at her friend in the mirror. “And he took one look at you and wanted to marry you?” she said. “An earl? And one of the richest men in England? Whatever is wrong with him?”
Abigail laughed merrily and perched on the edge of the bed. “Must there be something wrong with him?” she asked. “How flattering you are.”
Laura grimaced. “I did not mean it that way, Abby,” she said. “Oh, of course I did not. But there is something very peculiar in his behavior, you must confess.”
“Yes, there is something wrong with him,” Abigail said, sobering and frowning down at the floor. “There has to be. You should just see him, Laura. Ther
e cannot possibly be any more handsome man on this planet, and if anyone should be foolish enough to dispute that fact, she would realize her error as soon as he smiled. He has a dimple to weaken even the most firmly locked knees. And blue eyes rather like a summer sky. And yet he spoke to me for perhaps ten minutes and offered me marriage.”
“The day after tomorrow,” Laura added.
“The day after tomorrow,” Abigail's frown deepened. “He said he thought I was the sort of woman who would suit him, Laura.”
“Did he?” Laura pulled the brush slowly through her hair.
“What did he see?” Abigail said. “A woman who is plain at the best of times but made downright drab by the brown cloak and bonnet. A meek and mute creature who had scarcely two words to rub together. A weak thing who remembered not to bristle even when he had the effrontery to lift his quizzing glass to his eye. That is the sort of woman who will suit him?”
She looked up at her friend, covered her mouth with one hand, and exploded into nervous laughter.
“I ought not to have said yes,” she said. “I am perpetrating a dreadful deception against him, Laura. What will happen when he discovers the truth?”
“Perhaps he is deceiving you too,” Laura said. “You saw a young and handsome man and assumed that he is some god. Perhaps he is as different from what you expect as you are from what he expects.”
“He is to come here tomorrow to take me shopping,” Abigail said. “I suppose I should see to it that we have a long and candid talk. That will be the end of my betrothal, of course. I did not realize how seductive would be the temptation to be rich. And to be somebody. I would be able to see Bea and Clara if I married him. We would be able to be together again. And perhaps I could do something for Boris before it is too late.”
“Shopping?” Laura said.
“For bride clothes,” Abigail said wistfully. “Some fine muslins, perhaps. And a velvet riding habit.”
“And a ball gown,” Laura said. “You would surely go to balls, Abby. You would be the Countess of Severn.”
“And so I would,” Abigail said, startled. She got to her feet. “Do you see why I am tempted? And they are such very blue eyes, Laura. But I will probably never see him again. He was doubtless having his little joke at my expense. He must have been joking, don't you think?”
“Oh, Abby,” Laura frowned and set down her brush. “Do earls joke about such matters?”
“I have no idea,” Abigail said. “Do they?”
“What if he was serious?” Laura said. “Are you going to throw away such a chance for security, Abby? Why don't you continue to be his ideal woman for two days longer?”
“Would it be honest?” Abigail asked.
“But you are not a monster, Abby,” Laura said. “And you would be as sweet and quiet as he seems to think you if you would just remember not to talk all the time.”
Abigail laughed. “And a murderer would be as mild as the next man if he would just remember not to kill people,” she said. “I don't think I could do it, Laura. Apart from the morality involved, I don't think I could do it. I almost burst a few times this morning.”
“Think about it,” Laura said, “Oh, Abby, I feel as excited for you as if it were me. And I would not feel nearly as bad about being responsible for having you dismissed if everything ended so splendidly for you. Think about it—two more days of being demure in exchange for a lifetime of luxury.”
“I am not going to think about it,” Abigail said, striding to the door and setting her hand on the knob. “He probably will not come tomorrow anyway. I am going to concentrate my mind on devising the very best method I can think of to deflate Humphrey's conceit. No thanks are called for. You may owe me a favor.”
“Oh, Abby,” her friend said, laughing despite herself.
3
The Earl of Severn stepped from his carriage and looked up at Mr. Gill's house. The man was a cit, he guessed from the location. He was doubtless a man who thought to increase his consequence by hiring a companion for his wife. And doubtless the type who would then believe that he owned the companion and was free to use her as he would.
He hoped that Miss Gardiner had passed on his message to the man.
He stood on the pavement as his footman raised the brass knocker on the door, and concentrated on looking nonchalant. He was feeling anything but. Indeed, if the truth were to be admitted, there were butterflies dancing inside him.
He had had a day and a sleepless night in which to brood on his hasty offer of the morning before. And he had been foolish enough to spend all the afternoon and part of the evening with Gerald, who had pointed out all the possible disasters that could result from such a match, and some of the impossible ones too. And then he had gone to Jenny's and ended up spending the whole night with her when he had found her every bit as amorous as she had been the night before.
And Jenny was to be exchanged for Miss Abigail Gardiner! Unfortunately, he would not be able to reconcile it with his conscience to have both a wife and a mistress. Yet Jenny was by far the most satisfactory mistress he had ever kept.
He wished, as the door opened and a uniformed maid bobbed a curtsy, that it was the prospective bride he could shed rather than the mistress. But the offer had been made and accepted and making his wish come true was no longer a possibility.
He must fortify himself with thoughts of Frances.
“Would you announce to Miss Gardiner that the Earl of Severn has arrived?” he said to the maid, walking past her into a dark and cluttered hallway.
She gawked past him to his footman and coachman and his carriage waiting on the street, turned to bob him more curtsies, and scurried away without a word.
Was she really as plain as he remembered her? the earl wondered, removing his gloves and hat. It was strange, deliberately to have chosen a plain woman as his bride. He had always dreamed, he supposed—if he had dreamed of the married state at all—of a lovely wife, someone he would enjoy looking at every day of his life.
And was she as quiet as he remembered? He hoped so. He would not be able to bear a prattler or someone who would wish to manage his life and that of everyone around her. He might as well have married Frances and made his mother and sisters happy if that was to be his fate.
On the other hand, of course, he did not want a dull and mindless creature of no character.
However, he thought as he turned to bow to the bald and smiling man who was bowing deeply to him, it was pointless at this moment in his life to try to picture the qualities he really wanted in a wife. She was already chosen. He was stuck with her.
The man, as Lord Severn suspected, was Mr. Gill. They exchanged pleasantries after his lordship had refused an invitation to step into the study for refreshments.
“Miss Gardiner is, ah, seeking employment with you, my lord?” Mr. Gill asked. “She is an ambitious young lady to have looked so high.”
“Miss Gardiner,” the earl said, one hand playing with the handle of his quizzing glass, “is a distant relative of mine, sir.”
Mr. Gill rubbed his hands together.
She had not passed along his message, Lord Severn decided. “And my betrothed,” he added.
Mr. Gill's hands stilled.
But the earl's attention was diverted. She was coming down the stairs and he turned to watch her. She was clad from head to ankles in gray. Only her black gloves and half-boots relieved the monotony.
Oh, yes, he thought in some shock, he had not been mistaken in her appearance.
Or in her character either. Her face was expressionless. Her eyes were directed at the floor between him and Mr. Gill. She curtsied when she reached the bottom of the stairs, without raising her eyes.
“Good morning, my dear,” the earl said, bowing to her. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Yes, thank you, my lord,” she said.
“Ah,” Mr. Gill said, rubbing his hands together again. “Young love. How splendid. And how very pretty you look, Miss Gardiner.”
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The woman looked up, first at Mr. Gill and then at her betrothed. There was a gleam in her eye that looked remarkably like amusement, the earl thought. But it was gone in a flash before he could observe more closely.
She took the arm that he offered.
Abigail had been on Bond Street
only once, with Mrs. Gill. But they had not stopped there, only strolled along it in order to look grand. Bond Street
was somewhat above Mrs. Gill's touch.
But it was to Bond Street
that the Earl of Severn took her, to the shop of a modiste who looked quite as grand as a duchess and who spoke with a French accent that had Abigail peering at her with suspicion. But the woman knew the Earl of Severn and curtsied deeply to him. And her eyes passed over Abigail's gray clothes with curiosity and some condescension.
This was where he brought his ladybirds to be clothed, Abigail thought, and Madame Savard—or Miss Bloggs, or whatever her true name was—was assuming that she was another of that breed. She fixed the woman with a severe eye. And she felt mortified beyond belief. She had not known that gentlemen ever went shopping with ladies for clothes—not right inside the shop and greeting the modiste and demanding to see fashion plates and pattern books and fabrics.
“We will need something pretty without delay, Madame,” he said. “Miss Gardiner is to be my bride tomorrow.”
The eyes surveying her became sharper and considerably more respectful. Madame clasped her hands to her bosom and uttered some charming and sentimental words about whirlwind romances. She and Mr. Gill should get together to render a romantic duet, Abigail thought, and then wished she had not done so, as her stomach muscles tightened with suppressed amusement.
“But by tomorrow, m'lord?” Madame said, long-nailed hands fluttering. “Non, non. Impossible!”
“Possible,” the earl said firmly, not giving the word the modiste's French intonation. “Definitely possible. Madame Girard was telling me only last week that her seamstresses can make up even the fanciest of ball gowns in three hours when necessary.”