by Mary Balogh
She smiled and turned away from him. He watched her leave the room, and stood for a long time where he was, thinking, his hands clasped behind his back. He frowned.
Abigail had not lied about feeling ill. She vomited after reaching her room, until she felt that she must surely die, and felt quite shaky with weakness afterward.
She lay two hours later on top of the covers of her bed, diagonally across them, her face buried against a blanket. The cup of chocolate that Ellen, her new maid, had brought her had grown cold on a side table with the laudanum. She had rejected Ellen's offer to undress her and put her to bed.
She was not going to sleep that night. That much was clear to her. She was cold, yet felt too listless to get up long enough to change into a warm nightgown and climb beneath the blankets.
She was not going to tell him. She had thought she could. Downstairs, when it had become clear that Boris and Sir Gerald between them had told him everything else, she had thought that she would tell him that one last detail.
But she had not. He had talked of how they had brought everything into the open and of how they had survived and of how there was still hope for their' marriage, and she had made the mistake of thinking before she spoke. Usually she was guilty of the opposite, but each was equally unwise in its own way.
What if that one last detail made all the difference? she had thought. What if he could overlook everything but that, forgive her silence on everything else, but not on that? What if, after all, she should lose him?
She would die, that was what.
She could remember how it had felt to kiss Bea and Clara good-bye and to watch the stagecoach take them on their way to Bath and out of her life. It had felt like death, only worse, because there had been intense pain.
She could not go through that again. She could not bear to lose him now. Not when hope had been kindled. He had spoken to her earlier as if he really cared, as if she were precious to him. All that nonsense about his having married her because she was plain and uninteresting was just that—nonsense. It had been true but was so no longer.
She had it within her grasp—the dream that warmed every growing girl's heart, the dream that she had never dared dream for herself. But it was there now, hers for the taking. She could live happily ever after with a man she loved more than all the dreams of love combined.
But what if that one remaining secret made the difference and shattered the dream?
What if Rachel said something when they visited her? Abigail's fists closed on the blankets and her stomach contorted.
She must just stop Rachel from saying it. She must steer the conversation away from that particular detail. She must persuade Rachel that Miles knew all without arousing her suspicions— or his.
And then she must put it all behind her. There was so much to be happy about. So very much.
Abigail surged over onto her back suddenly and stared up at the canopy over her head, dimly seen in the darkness. Her candle had burned itself out long since.
She was cold. And so very alone. Her aloneness frightened her. She must get up, change into her nightclothes, get properly into bed. She must try to sleep. She would look perfectly haggard by the next morning.
For half an hour after she had undressed and curled up beneath the bedclothes, she tossed and turned and tried to put all the teeming thoughts from her mind so that she could sleep. Finally she flung back the blankets.
He was asleep. She could tell that as soon as she stepped into his room and closed his dressing-room door softly behind her. He was breathing deeply and evenly. She climbed slowly into the bed, careful not to bounce the mattress. And she inched closer to his warmth, to the comfort of him, the smell of him.
“Mm,” he said, as her cheek finally found a resting place against his shoulder. “Abby?”
She moved hurriedly against him when he turned onto his side and slid one arm beneath her head. She felt that she would have moved right into him if she could.
“But you are so cold,” he said, his arm closing about her.
He lifted one of her hands and set it between them, against his chest. “Put your feet against my legs. They are like blocks of ice. What is it?”
“I couldn't sleep,” she said, and clamped her teeth together again. They were chattering.
He drew the blankets right about her. “I'll have you warm in just a minute,” he said. “And you will be asleep before you know it. Are the cramps gone? Women are very unfortunate to have to live with this so frequently.”
“Yes,” she said, clinging to him, feeling the warmth seeping into her body from his. “Thank you.”
“Go to sleep, then,” he said, finding her mouth with his own and kissing her warmly. “Ah, yes, that is better. Now your head is where it belongs.”
She was warm and safe and comfortable. And sleepy. Almost.
“Miles?” she whispered.
“Mm?”
“I lied to you,” she said. “I have never had cramps in my life. Not at that time of the month, anyway. And it is not that time of the month—not for at least another week. I just needed to be alone.”
“Mm,” he said. “What are you saying, Abby? Do you want me to make love to you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, please.”
She searched for and found his mouth again, wrapped her arms about him, turned onto her back, pulling him on top of her.
“Easy,” he said soothingly, moving to her side again, sliding her nightgown up her body. He kissed her. “Let's take it slowly, my love.”
“Don't call me that.” She grabbed at her nightgown, which he had lifted over her head, and threw it over the side of the bed. “Miles.” She reached blindly for him.
“Why not?” He came onto her and into her and brushed his lips across her own. “You are, you know. My love. My lover.”
“Don't talk,” she said. “Don't talk. Just make love to me.”
She moved against him, urging him on, repeating his name over and over, sighing out her satisfaction when he came to her finally, relaxing beneath his weight.
“Better?” he said, moving to her side, bringing her with him, tucking the blankets close about her. “Have I banished the devils?”
“Mm,” she said. “Better. Thank you.”
“Sleep, then,'' he said against the side of her face. ' 'There's nothing else to worry about, Abby. I love you.”
She closed her eyes tightly and burrowed her head deeper into his shoulder.
16
The Earl of Severn would have liked to take his wife to Mrs. Harper's the very next morning. He would have liked the whole wretched episode out of the way and behind them. He wanted to get on with his life and his marriage. He wanted to be away from London, at Severn Park, becoming familiar with his principal country seat, getting to know his wife better, reuniting her with her half-sisters without further delay.
But it was not to be. His steward had arrived very early that morning from Severn Park, and there was enough business to be attended to to occupy him for at least the whole morning. And somehow too, of course, he had to find time to pay a private call on his brother-in-law. When he suggested the afternoon to Abigail, it was to discover that she had promised to call on Prudence after luncheon and to proceed from there with his mother on another round of visits.
“We will go tomorrow morning without delay, then, Abby,” he said to her, standing behind her at the breakfast table before leaving the room. He squeezed her shoulders.
“Yes,” she said. “That will be good, Miles. Thank you.”
He noticed, though he did not comment on the fact, that she had scarcely touched the food on her plate, even though she had been at the table all of ten minutes.
Perhaps, he thought, he should have delayed his business with his steward. His wife was, after all, more important than any property of his. But she had said that she would join Lady Beauchamp and her sister on a shopping trip now that she had no other plans.
He could not quite und
erstand why she was still so tense and unhappy. He had thought their talk of the evening; before quite satisfactory. Everything had been brought into the open—even, he had been horrified to find, his description to Gerald of the type of woman he would marry if only he could find such a one before Frances came to town. Nothing they hi ad spoken of had seemed to pose any barrier to their present or future happiness.
Perhaps it was just that she dreaded the visit to he? stepmother, that she could not relax and smile again until that was all in the past. He wished that he had insisted on going alone. And he certainly wished he could have persuaded her to make a stand against the woman, to refuse to pay even one more penny.
But for some reason it was important to Abigail both to see Mrs. Harper once more and to pay her the additional two thousand pounds. Perhaps it was difficult for him to understand. The woman was, after all, Abigail's stepmother. They had lived together in the same house for a number of years. The two children Abigail loved were Mrs. Harper's. Perhaps there was a fondness there, beyond all reason.
Certainly there was something. He could not shake from his mind the memory of her coming to him the night before, cold and forlorn and desperate to be loved. No, not to be loved— she had sounded almost panic-stricken when he had called her his love, and she had made no response at all to his final words before she fell asleep. She had been desperate for love in its purely physical form, desperate for the forgetfulness that an energetic coupling could bring for a few brief moments.
After holding her close until she had finally fallen asleep, he had been a long time getting back to sleep himself.
There was something.
He was interrupted late in the morning when his butler appeared at the study door to inform him that Sir Gerald Stapleton was in the yellow salon, asking for a few minutes of his time.
Lord Severn rubbed his eyes and stretched his arms. “It is time for a break anyway,” he said to his steward. “I think we can finish this in an hour after luncheon.”
“Yes, my lord,” the man said, getting to his feet.
Sir Gerald was standing looking out through the window. He turned when his friend came through the door.
“Ah,” he said, “you aren't dead after all, Miles. I missed you at Jackson's this morning.”
“Business,” the earl explained. “Don't tell me you were sparring again, Ger.”
“Not quite,” his friend said. “Merely cheering and jeering those who were. Are you coming to White's?”
The earl pulled a face. “I have to get back to the books,” he said. “My steward is here from Severn Park. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“That's why I am here,” Sir Gerald said. “I asked for Lady Severn, actually, Miles, but Watson said she was from home. I wanted to apologize to her, try to set things right with her. Did you tell her that I told you?”
The earl nodded. “All is well,” he said.
“Ah, good.” Sir Gerald looked relieved. “I asked her for a set at Warchester's ball tomorrow night, Miles, but I shall have to excuse myself, I'm afraid. I'll be out of town. I'm leaving this afternoon, as a matter of fact.”
The earl raised his eyebrows.
“She has probably been to the altar and back already and settled down to cozy domestic bliss,” Sir Gerald said, “but I am going down there to see anyway. Perhaps if I offer her a raise in salary and buy her a few more jewels she will come back. Do you think?”
“Is that what you want?” the earl asked. “I thought you were feeling a little tied down, being with the same woman for more than a year.”
His friend shrugged. “I was comfortable with her,” he said. “She suited me. She knows how to please me. The damned woman I had at Kit's last night wanted to tell me what I wanted, but it was not it at all.”
“Are you sure you want to destroy Prissy's chance of marrying?” the earl asked. “You are fond of her, are you not? And you can't be thinking of marrying her yourself, surely?”
“Eh?” Sir Gerald looked at him in surprise. “Marry Priss? My mistress? Good Lord, Miles, she was one of Kit's girls for a few months before I set her up. She was a whore.''
“Why do I get the impression," the earl said, looking keenly at his friend, ' 'that you would flatten the nose of anyone else who used that word to describe her, Ger? You are on your way, then?”
“Yes.” Sir Gerald ran one hand through his fair curls. “I'm on my way.”
“You had better have some luncheon here with Abby and me, “Lord Severn said. “She should be home any minute. And then you can make an early-afternoon start.”
“Yes,” his friend said, “that's what I'll do, Miles. You had better not go mentioning Priss in Lady Severn's hearing, though. She would have forty fits. I am on my way to visit my aunts, if she asks.”
The earl chuckled.
Abigail spent only an hour with her friends. Lady Chartleigh wished to be home early because her husband was taking her and their son to Astley's amphitheater in the afternoon.
“I am quite sure Jonathan is far too young to appreciate the performances of the horses,” she said, “but Ralph and I will enjoy it all, and having a child gives us an excuse to go. “She laughed gaily. “We will be returning to the country soon. Ralph would be happy to live there his whole life, but he forces himself up to town for a few weeks each year for my sake, though he has no need to do so. I am happy wherever Ralph happens to be.”
“Géorgie!” her sister said. “You know you would waste away if you could not view the newest fashions at least once a year and dance the night away a few times.”
Lady Chartleigh laughed again.
Abigail did not want to go home so early. The less time she had to herself to think, the better pleased she would be. She would call on Laura, she decided. Perhaps Mrs. Gill was impressed enough by her new title and consequence to allow her to spend a little time in the schoolroom.
Good fortune was smiling on her, she found a little later. Mrs. Gill was from home with the children, and Laura had just returned from running an errand. Edna, the thin and nervous little maid, took Abigail all the way up to Laura's room, though
Abigail assured her that she did not need to exert herself.
“How fine you look, Miss Gardiner, mum,” she said. “I mean, my lady, mum.”
“Thank you, Edna,” Abigail said. “Did you fall and hurt yourself?”
The girl touched the bruise on her cheek. “Bumped into the door, I did, my lady, mum,” she said. “Wasn't looking where I was going. Lucky I didn't take my eye out, I was.”
Laura was sitting at the small desk in her room. She jumped to her feet when she saw who was at the door.
“Abby,” she said. “Have you come to visit me? How good of you. Did I thank you yesterday for inviting me to your picnic? It was such a wonderful afternoon.”
“You thanked me at least a dozen times,” Abigail said. “But I have been hearing strange things, Laura.”
“Oh?” Laura gestured her friend to a chair.
“I have been trying to promote a match between you and Sir Gerald Stapleton,” Abigail said. “I was determined to have the two of you married before the end of the summer.”
“I suspected as much,” Laura said. “But it will not do, Abby. There is no spark of attraction between us.”
“Miles told me last evening that Sir Gerald is pining away for a mistress who left him recently, poor man,” Abigail said. “Is that not deliciously scandalous?” She chuckled.
“Oh, dear.” Laura blushed.
“More to the point,'' Abigail said, “he told me that perhaps I will be acquiring a new sister-in-law soon.”
Laura flushed rosily. “Oh?” she said politely.
“And he said that Boris had been kissing you among the trees,” Abigail said. “Now, is not that deliciously scandalous?”
“Oh.'' Laura got abruptly to her feet. “It was just the beauty of the afternoon, Abby, and the romance of the setting. I forgot myself for a few moments. I am just a governe
ss, a younger daughter of a poor parson. I would not so forget myself as to aspire to your brother. I am sorry.”
“To aspire to Boris?” Abigail said. “He has not a feather to fly with, Laura. And you know what our father was and who our stepmother is.”
“You are not angry?” Laura asked.
“Angry!” Abigail laughed merrily. “I am ecstatic. I schemed to have you the wife of Miles's friend. And yet now there is a chance that you will be my sister.”
Laura turned away. “There can be no question of marriage,” she said, “or not, at least, for a long time. And don't—” She held up a staying hand. “Don't say that you will get Lord Severn to do something for us. Boris would not allow it and I would not, Abby.”
Abigail smiled. “Boris?” she said. “And you have talked of marriage? I did not realize my brother was such a fast worker.”
Laura bit her lip. “We have been out walking twice since you introduced us at the theater, Abby,” she said.
Abigail's smile broadened. “I have a premonition,” she said, “that very soon now Boris is going to be lucky at the tables and win a fortune. He can pay off our father's debts and bear you off to live happily ever after with him.”
Her friend's face clouded. “Don't Abby,” she said. “I try not to dream too much. And I would never rest my hopes on the fortunes of a gaming table. I tell myself that five years from now I will still be here. I am fortunate. At least I have employment.”
Abigail made an impatient gesture. “Has Mr. Gill been behaving himself?” she asked. “And has Humphrey? If they have not, you must come to live with us even before we go down into the country. Miles has said we must certainly take you away if you are being molested.”
“That is kind of him,” Laura said, “but there is no need. I have been able to hold them both at bay. But oh, Abby. Poor Edna.”
Abigail looked into her friend's troubled face. “She did not run into a door?” she asked.
“Is that what she told you?” Laura frowned. “I think Humphrey ravished her, Abby. She would not admit as much even though she was crying belowstairs fit to break my heart. She merely said that he had held her roughly and kissed her. But I think he ravished her.”