Reckless Viscount

by Amy Sandas

  Somehow, she made it back up to her room, though she didn’t remember climbing the steps or closing the door behind her. Standing there, she looked at the bed with a frozen glare. The bed where she had envisioned her wedding night.

  It mocked her now, empty and cold. Nothing in the entire world could convince her to climb between those sheets now and lay still as she waited for her husband to come to her after his dalliance.

  Turning in a sharp half circle away from the sight of the offending piece of furniture, Abbigael threw the shawl from her shoulders and whipped her nightgown up over her head until she stood naked in the center of the room. Though a light film of frost layered the window, she felt no chill. Rather, she felt the heat of indignant anger and fierce disappointment. Grabbing her borrowed dress with stiff fingers, she yanked it over her head, almost grateful for the pain in her scalp when a button caught in her hair. After securing the dress, she quickly plaited her hair in a long braid and gathered her meager possessions.

  She was forced to pause as she realized she would have to somehow make her way through the common room without being noticed in order to get to the stables.

  In the end it was surprisingly easy. A quick glance at the noisy group of men proved that they were all engaged in a serious debate over whether Wellington’s were as functional as they were fashionable. The barmaid was nowhere in sight, but Abbigael didn’t doubt for a moment that she would be back.

  She lifted the shawl over her head, partially concealing her face, and with only the briefest glance at Leif to ensure he remained preoccupied, she crossed the room and slid out the door. She didn’t release her held breath until she was outside and confident no one had noticed her momentary intrusion and subsequent escape.

  Leif glanced toward the stairs for the hundredth time. The ache in his groin throbbed back to life.

  He should just go up there. He wanted to. Desperately.

  But something held him back. A strange, tight feeling around his chest that constricted every time he thought of his bride. He imagined her curled up in the center of the bed, warm, content and oblivious to the lascivious thoughts that had been consuming him for the last two days. From the moment she became his wife and he comprehended the fact that she belonged to him in the most elemental and primitive way, he had been hard-pressed not to toss her over his shoulder and carry her to bed for a wild and thorough debauching.

  He imagined a thousand ways he would claim her body and give her pleasure. Things came to mind that he had never considered doing with anyone else. Part of him wanted to shock her and scare her with his sensual craving. He wanted to strip her of her innocence, take her with him into unknown carnal depths, until all she knew of sex and passion was what he taught her.

  The only way he managed to keep his greedy hands off her in the carriage was to ignore her completely. But in closing his eyes to block out the tempting image she made curled up on the opposite seat, he invited his imagination to conjure up all sorts of deviant images of his new bride.

  The poor girl did not deserve such wicked treatment, even if the lustful acts he imagined were securely contained within his mind.

  For now.

  He had hoped to drown his desire in country ale and lose himself in familiar masculine diversions. But his chosen entertainment was weak and didn’t come close to keeping his thoughts away from the woman above stairs. The drink was not as bracing as he’d hoped and the revelers he’d joined were not nearly as witty. In fact, the longer he nursed his ale and forced himself to laugh with the obnoxious trio he had chosen as companions, the more he longed to slide into bed alongside her and assuage the fire in his blood.

  It scared him, terrified him really, the depth of the need he felt for that slip of a girl. He had hoped after having her once his lust would be sated. He imagined his desire to be for the novelty she presented. A pure innocent. Angry and vulnerable. Dependent on him.

  He had been so utterly wrong.

  If it was novelty, then it hadn’t worn off yet. In fact, his need for her seemed only to grow exponentially with every hour that passed.

  Raucous laughter exploded at the table. His companions were so far gone they would likely be snoring into their pillows before too long. Leif looked toward the stairs again. Sweat broke out on his brow and he pushed his hand back through his hair. If he weren’t feeling so damned pathetic, he would be laughing at himself. Who would have thought he could be brought so low by one small woman?

  He shook his head, the band tightening further around his chest.

  The poor girl really didn’t deserve him.

  “Wot’s the matter, luv? Ye can’t seem to keep yer mind on the present.”

  Leif eased a careless smile into his lips. It was a practiced gesture of thoughtless charm, one he’d used so many times it came automatically. The barmaid had been none too subtle in who she wished to give her favors to that night. She had thrown herself into his lap so many times, he guessed his thighs would be tender on the morrow. The maid’s softly padded arse was overridden by her total lack of grace.

  “I promise, my thoughts hold nothing of interest to you, sweetheart.”

  The maid gave a shrug of her rounded shoulders and her bosom nearly fell from her bodice.

  “I doubt that verra much.”

  Leif smiled at her persistence. “You are astute enough to know by now that I am not a taker tonight.”

  Her pout was almost pretty. “I dinna like to give up on wot I want.”

  “Neither do I, sweetheart.” Leif pushed back from the table and stood. Bowing jauntily to the maid and then nodding to the other gentlemen, he said, “Time for me to retire. I bid you all good night and offer my condolences on the horrific morning you are all likely to share.”

  His departure was met with a few heartfelt if sloppy protests, but he was glad to see the maid turn her attention to a gentleman who appeared to still maintain a modicum of awareness.

  He made his way up the stairs. Everything was dark, nearly pitch black in this hour just before the dawn, and he welcomed the lack of visual assistance as he was forced to train his focus on not running his nose into a wall.

  Even so, as he got closer to his destination, he was helpless against the visceral memories of Irish starting to clamor through his brain. The sensual catch of her sighs. The wildflower scent of her skin. Images of her slight form arching in ecstasy, her arms reaching for him, her legs wrapping about his hips. The soft sea-green of her eyes turning dark and turbulent with desire. Details flew in one after the other until every sense was inundated with elements of her.

  When he reached for the door handle to enter their room, he saw that his hand was shaking. What the hell had she done to him?

  Ignoring the disturbing evidence of his weakness, he pushed forward into the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

  The room was dark, but his eyes had fully adjusted. There was no mistaking what he saw, or didn’t see. The tight constriction in his chest squeezed unmercifully and his breath was stalled.

  Irish was gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Abbigael stepped cautiously from the carriage to the sidewalk in front of the Blackbourne townhouse. She looked around, half-expecting her sudden appearance to cause some sort of neighborhood pandemonium.

  The lost heiress is returned.

  Albeit looking bedraggled and exhausted in her borrowed gown, dusty from the road and terrified of what faced her inside the double doors ahead.

  But all was quiet on the street. No one stared or pointed in her direction. Bow Street Runners did not appear from the shadows, bombarding her with questions.

  It was as if she had never left, as if life in London had continued on its course with no visible disruption. The concept made her irritable.

  For her, the last two days had been an uncomfortable exercise in self-examination. The anxiety that traveled with her had been oppressive as she kept expecting her husband to catch up to her at any moment. He could have been
as close behind her as a couple hours. If he had been determined, he could have easily made up that time during the stops she took along the way. Then again, there was no telling how long it may have taken for him to even notice she had left. If he had found another place to bed down, he might have slept well into the next day. He could be as much as a half day behind her, and that was only if he felt the need to follow right away. He could just as easily have decided to take his time in trailing his errant bride.

  The multiple possibilities of when and how she saw him again kept Abbigael speculating and worrying for the entire trip back. He would, of course, demand an explanation for why she would run off and leave him stranded in the tiny roadside inn. And she would have to face him, look into the swirling richness of his gaze and admit what? That she had been angry and hurt at his marital abandonment. That she had been overwhelmed by disappointment and regret. That she had acted like an immature child and thought only of getting revenge on him for his callous disregard.

  She felt like a spoiled brat.

  A mature and reasonable woman did not run off at the first sign of adversity.

  Squaring her shoulders, she turned to the driver and thanked him for the escort home, then started up the stairs to the front door. She would figure out what to do about her husband later. Right now, she needed to assure the Blackbournes that she was safely back in London and then somehow break the news to them of her marriage.

  She forced herself not to fidget nervously as she waited for her knock to be answered.

  The noble butler, Hastings, didn’t even blink when he opened the door to her less than impeccable appearance. He simply stepped aside and nodded for her to enter.

  “Lady Neville. Your arrival has been much anticipated. They await you in the parlor.”

  At his very first words, Abbigael’s stomach dropped down to her toes then bounced back up again.

  He had called her Lady Neville.

  She stared at the butler. How could he possibly know of her new title?

  Hastings’s stiff wizened features softened at the edges. “Go on, my lady. They are anxious to know how you fare.”

  Her gaze slid toward the open door of the parlor. Without her conscious command, her feet took her across the hall in that direction.

  She had expected surprise at her return. At the very least, she had anticipated having to explain what had happened and that she had married Leif. But this evidence that somehow the Blackbournes already knew of her changed circumstances turned her about and filled her with uneasy trepidation.

  Reaching the parlor, she stopped in the doorway.

  Lady Blackbourne paced back and forth before the fireplace, her entire body tense with obvious agitation. The earl sat in the corner of the sofa, one wrist fell over the curved arm of the sofa and the other hand rested palm down beside him. His posture would have been innocuous if not for the intent stare he directed toward the man sitting in the chair across from him.

  Unable to resist looking in his direction any longer, Abbigael turned her gaze to her husband. He lounged with distinct lack of concern in the overstuffed armchair, as if he had fallen into it and hadn’t bothered adjusting himself for comfort. One leg swung over the arm, his head fell back into the corner of the high back and his eyes were closed as if he had fallen asleep.

  He looked heart-stoppingly handsome and Abbigael felt her throat swell with the aching disappointment that had urged her to flee from him on their wedding night.

  “Abbigael!”

  The countess had finally noticed her presence in the doorway. From the edge of her vision, Abbigael saw her take a few hustled steps toward her before stopping abruptly. At the same time, the earl rose swiftly to his feet. The Blackbournes’ concern was apparent and Abbigael felt the heat of embarrassment rise to her cheeks, but she couldn’t manage to take her eyes off the one man she hadn’t expected to find there.

  His reaction to Lady Blackbourne’s exclamation proved he hadn’t been sleeping at all. Abbigael watched as he slowly opened his eyes. His attentive gaze swept over her from head to heel as she stood stiffly in the doorway, then he smiled with lazy aplomb.

  Her toes curled in her shoes.

  “Hello, Irish,” he drawled. “Glad to see you made it in one piece.”

  The days of travel, anxiety and anticipation had left her physically and emotionally exhausted. However, at his casual tone and teasing words, Abbigael was suddenly infused with a wealth of energy.

  Without at a glance at the other occupants in the room, Abbigael spun on her heel and marched in long strides back across the hall. Hastings hurried to open the door for her before she reached it and she swept purposefully outside and down the stairs. The borrowed carriage had gone, so with no other choice, she turned and started heading down the sidewalk.

  She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t care that once again she was running away from a situation she didn’t know how to handle. Perhaps it was time she simply accepted that she was cowardly ninny.

  Her hands clenched into fists at her sides when she heard running footsteps approaching her from behind.

  “Irish. Wait.”

  Leif closed his hand around her upper arm and she stopped, not yet to the point where she would willfully choose to engage in physical resistance right there on the sidewalk.

  Though she was close.

  She turned to face him, holding her chin high, trying to muster up whatever dignity she might have left. A task that became more difficult when she noticed he must have gotten to London hours ago. He looked refreshed and confident in a clean set of clothes. He had been washed and shaved. She could smell the sandalwood soap he must have used. By stark comparison, she felt all the more ragged and pathetic.

  “How did you get back so fast?” Her words sounded peevish even to her own ears.

  Leif still held her by the arm, but at her question, he slowly released her and took a step back. He lowered his chin and his hazel eyes stared unflinchingly into hers. “Why did you leave me?”

  Abbigael bit her lip, unwilling to answer his question. And he did not seem any more inclined to answer hers.

  After a moment of extended silence while he waited for a response that wasn’t forthcoming and Abbigael stood resolute in her refusal to offer an explanation, he stated blandly, “You do not seem happy to see me.”

  “I am humiliated,” she blurted out, her abrupt candor surprising them both.

  His brows shot upward.

  “I am sorry?” He said it like a question, as if even as he spoke the words, he was asking if they were the proper response.

  Abbigael sighed and her shoulders fell in defeat. “No. I am sorry.”

  He eyed her askance, but didn’t interrupt her.

  “I shouldn’t have run off. It was a reckless, foolish, childish thing to do.” She glanced back toward the townhouse. “Oh, what they must think of me,” she murmured.

  “Don’t worry about the Blackbournes. I filled them in on the important points of our escapade. When it came to explaining how we became separated, I said it was all a misunderstanding.” His lips quirked upward at the corners and he pushed his hand back through his hair, messing it up in a way that made him look boyish and tilted Abbigael’s equilibrium. “Considering my own confusion, a misunderstanding seems to be as close to the truth as anything. They are not completely convinced you were not coerced to Gretna Green under threat of violence or some other dastardly warning. You can decide for yourself if you want to dissuade them of that notion. They do, however, believe we are now legally married.”

  Clear sea-green eyes met rich hazel ones. “The marriage wasn’t consummated.”

  Her words startled him. They startled her.

  She watched as he visibly swallowed and an odd look settled about his features. He looked as if he might choke.

  “I did not—” He stopped and cleared his throat, then started again. “I did not tell them that.”

  A few seconds of silence ticked by fille
d with a strange new swirling tension that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She hadn’t meant to say that. And the way she said it. It had sounded terribly similar to an accusation. She wished she could take it back.

  Abbigael averted her gaze and distracted her growing sense of uneasiness by making note of a young boy pushing a vendor cart across the street and an elderly couple walking arm in arm a bit farther down.

  “Is that why you left?” His question was whispered, with a clear note of incredulity.

  She looked back at him and saw the glow of dawning understanding lighting his face. She bit her lip, embarrassment flooding her cheeks with heat.

  He coughed. Then sputtered. Then burst into full-blown tear-wrenching laughter. He laughed so hard he had to double over and brace his hands against his knees in order to keep from toppling to the ground.

  Abbigael stood frozen in place for a moment, watching his uncontrollable hilarity, seriously considering putting her booted foot against his handsome backside to assist him in finding the ground. Surely he would be more comfortable rolling about in the grass, struggling as he was to keep his feet.

  Instead, she turned on her heel and marched back toward Blackbourne House. Except she didn’t want to go back in through the front door and cause another scene, so when she reached the drive that led back to the stables behind the house, she turned sharply and continued toward the cobbled courtyard.

  It took a few moments for Leif to catch up to her, winded as he was from the laughter that still rumbled from his chest. She was determined to ignore him even though she anticipated the hand he wrapped around her arm to slow her down. What she did not expect, however, was to be swept completely off her feet.

  She clasped him around his neck and looked down at the ground in panic as his long-legged stride carried them both toward the stables.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You are mad at me,” he said by way of explanation. A wide grin split his lips and showed his white teeth. “We need to rectify that.”