His Christmas Pleasure

by Cathy Maxwell

  Thankfully, Mrs. Laing came into the room carrying a tray with their plates. Her cheery presence was a respite from the two glowering gentlemen Abby found herself with. The older woman fussed around the table as if everything was exactly as it should have been. She even declared Andres and Abby “lovebirds” on several occasions. Each time she said it, her father’s knuckles whitened.

  At last she left and they were alone.

  Abby didn’t touch her food, but her father and Andres ate as if they hadn’t had a care in the world.

  “Eat, daughter,” her father ordered.

  “If you do not feel hungry, palomita, you must not force yourself,” her husband said.

  “Oh, no, waste away to nothing. That will make your mother happy. Speaking of your mother, I left her in tears.”

  Those words tore at Abby’s conscience.

  “A good mother always finds it difficult to release her daughter to the care of another,” Andres observed. “It is the way of the world.”

  Abby rested her elbows on the table, burying her head in her hands.

  “I want what is best for my daughter,” her father said.

  “As do I,” Andres answered. He leaned over to Abby. “We have agreed, Abby. See? It is not so bad.”

  “Depending on what you want,” her father responded. “Do you care for my daughter, Barón?”

  “I do.”

  Her father put down his cutlery. He leaned back in the chair, and his fingers drummed the table in that manner he had when he was not happy.

  Abby attempted to intervene. “Father, please. I meant no disrespect. But I could not marry Lord Villier. I wish I could have pleased you, but I couldn’t.”

  “All you had to do is say you didn’t want to marry him,” her father answered. “You didn’t need to elope.”

  That’s not how Abby remembered her father’s opinion of the Villier match, but before she could respond, he said to Andres, “And don’t think I don’t know what you want. You stole my daughter for her dowry. Well, I have news for you, Spaniard"—he practically spit the word out—"there is no dowry. It was mine to give or keep. I’m keeping it.”

  Abby was stunned by his words. “Are you disowning me? You are doing what my grandfather did to Mother?”

  Her father acted ruffled at the accusation. The line of his mouth grew more set, as if he wished he could reconsider but was too stubborn to do so.

  Andres placed his hand over hers. “I don’t need her dowry,” he informed the banker.

  “That’s what you think,” her father answered. His gaze focused on Andres’s hand holding Abby’s. He picked up his fork to savagely stab a sausage, but he placed the fork down instead of raising the food to his mouth. “There is something else you should know, Barón. Something my daughter didn’t know because I never told her. However, this information will change your attitude toward her.”

  “Abby is my wife. Nothing can change what I feel for her.”

  Her father pushed away from the table and stood. For a second he appeared ready to flee.

  He doesn’t like someone else having more control over me than he has, Abby realized. She didn’t think it was out of malice, but for so long she’d done as he’d expected—and now here she was defying his authority, listening to another man.

  “You and Mother eloped,” she said, speaking as gently as she could. “Your marriage turned out well.”

  “Yes, but I don’t know this man. He has no connections—”

  “The same argument Mother’s father used against you,” Abby pointed out.

  “At least I was English. Ah, Abigail, Abigail, Abigail … I want what is best for you. This man is a lothario. A rakehell, a scoundrel. A gambler.”

  There was no worse accusation in her father’s vocabulary than that of gamester. He never gambled.

  But she did. She was gambling on Andres.

  Andres spoke. “I understand your feeling,” he said. There was tension in his voice. He was offended, but he was holding his temper at bay. “I don’t want us at odds. Abby cares for her family—”

  “Or so I thought!” her father barked.

  “Or so I do,” Abby stressed. “Father, you and I are much alike. As are my brothers. We’ve all sought our own fortunes.”

  The harsh lines of her father’s face crumpled into sad ones. “You are a woman, Abby. It is my role to see you safe.”

  “Now it is my role,” Andres said.

  His claim seemed to suck the bluster from her father. He sat heavily on Mrs. Laing’s wooden chair. “Yes, it is your role now.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out some papers. “Mrs. Laing,” he called.

  She appeared immediately at the doorway, leaving no doubt she’d been eavesdropping. “Yes, sir?” she said, sympathy in the look she gave Abby.

  “I need pen and ink. Do you have it?” her father asked.

  “Aye, sir, I do.”

  “Bring it here.”

  Her father shoved his plate of uneaten food to one side. “This paperwork concerns the trust Abigail’s maternal grandmother left to her.” He glanced at Andres. “She didn’t like me and wanted to ensure that I never put my hands on the monies that would have come to me through my wife. That was fine. I knew how to make my own money.”

  He said this last in a tone that could be understood to mean he didn’t think Andres could.

  Abby laced her fingers through Andres’s as a silent request for patience. They had each other.

  The gesture was not lost on her father. “Ah, yes, miss, we shall see how supportive the two of you are to each other. I tried to spare you from this, Abby. But it is your choice. Remember that. This is your choice.”

  “I accept responsibility for my actions,” she said.

  “Good,” he answered and opened the folded pages of parchment. It was a legal document. She knew her father. He’d meant what he’d said about there not being a dowry. This must have had something to do with her inheritance from her maternal grandmother.

  “I have before me the paperwork for a trust that I set up.” Her father took his spectacles from their case and perched them on his nose. “As I said, your grandmother thought to circumvent me by leaving these monies to you, daughter. Her wish was that I should never place my hands on them. However, I am more clever than she could ever have thought.”

  “What do you mean?” Abby asked.

  “I placed everything in trust.” Her father looked to Andres. “Do you understand what a trust is?”

  “Is it like an entailment?” Andres answered, his brows gathering in concern.

  Her father frowned. “Somewhat. Very good, Barón, I didn’t expect you to understand the process.”

  The lines tightened around Andres’s mouth at the insult but he kept quiet, which Abby appreciated. Her father would have liked Andres to lash out.

  Mrs. Laing entered the room with ink and a sharpened quill. “Thank you, Mrs. Laing,” her father said and unstopped the ink bottle. He dipped the quill in it.

  “According to the trust, Abigail may not have access to her inheritance until her twenty-seventh birthday—July 17, 1813—almost three years from now.”

  “I thought it was to come to me upon marriage,” Abby protested.

  “Yes, those are the terms of your grandmother’s will. However, I set up the trust. Even though you may be married, this trust will hold your inheritance until the stated date. Nor can any changes be made to it without the permission of the trustees, who include myself, my assistant Archibald Vaughn, and your two brothers, until you reach the age of twenty-seven.”

  Andres pulled the papers to him. Abby leaned over so that she could read them, too. She didn’t understand all the legalese, but her father was a smart man. If he said he had seen this done, so it was.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this?” she asked.

  “There was no reason to do so,” her father answered. “I had anticipated giving you a dowry, and this trust fund would have been superfluous—to
the proper man.”

  He pushed another paper toward them. “This must be signed and dated to show that I have given you the papers of the trust and that you acknowledge receipt. When you turn twenty-seven, Abigail, you can bring the documents to my bank and have access to the money, which is currently sitting in the funds gathering interest for you.”

  Abby couldn’t move. She couldn’t believe her father was doing this. She pulled her gaze from the paperwork to meet his eyes and found him a stranger. He was truly that angry that she had defied him.

  And he wished to teach her a lesson. She knew it.

  Well, she’d not let him have the best of her.

  Abby took the quill he offered, dipped it in more ink, and signed her name.

  “Very good,” her father murmured. “But the name that matters is your husband’s. You are a married woman now, Abby. You have few rights. As you both pointed out to me, you are in his hands.”

  Andres would like nothing better than to slam his fist into the banker’s smug face.

  But that would have confirmed the man’s low opinion of him. Banker Montross assumed that in spite of being titled, his Spanish birth made him inferior.

  Andres might have been a bastard, but his father’s aristocratic blood flowed through his veins, as did his pride.

  Andres took the pen and signed his name.

  “Leave us,” he ordered her father.

  The banker did not appreciate the command. He sat back, blinking at Andres’s audacity. Andres stood. He’d not spend a moment more in this man’s company. “We are done,” he said. “You have insulted my wife. I wish not to see you again.” He offered his arm to Abby.

  She’d gone very pale. But she stood, her hand shaking as she placed it on his arm.

  Andres didn’t hesitate; he left the room quickly, taking Abby back to the bedroom they’d shared. “Prepare to leave,” he said as he dropped her off at the threshold, then went in search of David Laing or his wife.

  He found Mrs. Laing in her kitchen. “I need a vehicle to take me to a place called Corbridge in Northumberland. I was told it isn’t far from Newcastle.”

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Laing said. “Johnny Whitacre left this morning with some passengers and there isn’t much else in town unless you go to Carlisle. Everything leaves out of Carlisle.”

  “Are there horses I can hire to travel to Corbridge?”

  “Oh, that, yes there are.”

  “And how much would they be?” Andres didn’t want to sound anxious, but he was concerned.

  She rolled her eyes as if trying to guess and then shrugged. “A good amount. Perhaps, if you are going any distance at all and wish to save funds, my lord, you’d best consider the mail. It comes through here but never stops. You’ll need to board it in Carlisle. How far will you be traveling?”

  “I’m not certain,” Andres had to admit.

  And he was just now realizing the enormity of what it meant to have Abby’s funds in trust.

  He was done up. He had supplies coming, horses, and tack—and he had no way to pay for them. He had a wife, property, expenses … and no money.

  “The reason he can’t tell you where he wants to go,” Montross’s voice said from the door of the kitchen, “is because he doesn’t know. He has no idea where Corbridge is.”

  Abby’s father had donned hat, gloves, and coat and was ready to leave. He walked into the kitchen. “You thought to steal my daughter. Now what?”

  “Now what?” Andres echoed, offended by the man’s manner because he was right. “Now I take my wife and leave.”

  The words “my wife” wiped the smug expression off the banker’s face. “You don’t truly care for her,” her father said. “You look at her and you see pound sterling. But I have nurtured and protected her from the moment she drew her first breath. Let her come home with me, Barón. We’ll strike a bargain, you and I. I pay you five hundred pounds and you disappear. Vanish. Just as Dobbins bribed you to vanish.”

  So, Montross knew Andres had accepted payment to leave London … but he didn’t think the banker knew more, for he would have used it to his own advantage.

  “You think she is only worth five hundred pounds?” Andres challenged.

  “She’s worth far more,” her father said, hands doubling into fists at his sides. “Of course, now you’ve ruined her—”

  “I’ve done nothing of the sort,” Andres flashed back. If Montross wanted a fight, he’d picked the right man. Andres wouldn’t mind releasing the tension he was feeling with a few throws, especially at a man who mocked him….

  “Stop it! Please.” Abby rushed into the room and placed herself between the two of them. Her back to Andres, she faced her father. “Go,” she told him. “You’ve had your say, now go. Let me live my life.”

  “This isn’t what I want for you,” her father said.

  “It’s what I have chosen for myself,” Abby countered.

  “A life in the poorhouse?” Her father stepped back, as if amazed. “He’s no good, Abigail. I can smell with my nose that something is not right here. And if you leave with him, if you don’t come home with me now, don’t think you can turn to your mother and me later when you discover the mistake you’ve made.”

  “She has made no mistake,” Andres said. He would have lunged at the man if Abby hadn’t been standing between them. As it was, he raised a fist.

  “Do you see? He’s hotheaded and a fool,” her father predicted. “Look at him. Some nobleman.”

  Abby’s back straightened. “He is my husband,” she said. “Please tell Mother I love her. I love both of you, but I have chosen my own course.”

  Her father stepped back, his lips pressed together so tightly that he had to force himself to answer her. “Very well. Have it your way. Enjoy your ride on the Mail,” he said to Abby and walked out of the room.

  Abby started to collapse, as if struck by the finality of what had happened.

  Andres caught her, wrapping his arms around her. “You’ve made the right choice, palomita. The right choice.”

  She shook her head and pushed away. “Let’s go,” she pleaded with him. “Let us go to Stonemoor.”

  “We shall.” He looked to Mrs. Laing, who had been watching this whole scene with a dazed expression, her hands gripping her apron. Andres decided then what he would do—it was the only thing he could do. “I need to hire a horse to take us to Carlisle.”

  “I’ll go ask Mr. Laing,” Mrs. Laing said and hurried out.

  Andres and Abby were alone.

  Andres had never ridden on the Mail, but he had an idea that it would be like many public vehicles he’d taken in other countries. He was certain, however, that Abby had never experienced such a ride.

  “I’m sorry,” Abby said.

  Andres shook his head, his mind preoccupied with all sorts of “what if’s?” He had to reason it all out. He had to think. “I’ll bring us through this,” he promised, but he knew he sounded curt. “Come, let’s gather our things. The sooner we leave, the sooner we reach Stonemoor.”

  She nodded and hurried through the door in front of him. They didn’t speak much as they prepared to depart. Andres wanted to tell her what a bastard her father was, but he knew it would be the wrong thing to say.

  And he wondered if her own silence meant she was wishing that she’d left with her father. Wondered if she didn’t regret coming with him.

  His saving grace was that he had been honest with her. There had been no false promises of love in his proposal to her. He’d remind her of that if she expressed recriminations.

  As it was, she held her tongue, so he held his.

  The trip to Carlisle did nothing to clear the air between them. Andres tried to act as if all was well … but Abby answered him with monosyllables. Nor did she look at him.

  The horses were very tame. She had been telling him the truth when she’d said she wasn’t a good rider. Her balance on the back of her beast was too stiff for enjoyment. Andres offered to take her
reins, but she rebuffed him with a shake of her head.

  And so they went … taking twice as long to reach Carlisle than it would have if Abby had unbent and let him help.

  Chapter Twelve

  Abby knew she’d made a mistake in her marriage.

  Her father’s final words burned in her mind. She shouldn’t have run away. She’d hurt her parents deeply, especially after they’d lost Robert not more than four years ago.

  She couldn’t imagine what her mother was feeling … and she wished everything was different.

  And the guilt of what she’d done to Andres weighed heavily on her.

  He’d married her expecting a fortune. She’d told him she’d had a fortune. He’d built his dreams on that belief, and now they were in a terrible situation.

  Abby had never experienced fear—or doubt, its uncomfortable companion—about her future. Her life had been cushioned by doting parents and no cares about money. Overnight, all had changed.

  It didn’t help that she was on a horse, never her favorite place to be. She was all too aware that her husband, who had an excellent seat, was riding slowly to accommodate her.

  He couldn’t hide his annoyance either. She saw it in the tight lines of his mouth and in his silvery eyes, now dark with frustration. She’d learned to tell his moods by the color of his eyes. When he was upset or concerned, they darkened. When he was pleased, they were brighter than the stars.

  And as if to add insult to injury, riding sidesaddle was even more difficult when a certain part of her anatomy was very sensitive from making love. Who would have thought it? Not herself—and yet, she was now more aware of her private areas than she could ever have believed possible.

  They reached Carlisle late in the afternoon. It was growing dark. They turned the horses over to the stable Laing had told them about, and Andres, for the first time since they’d left Gretna, took Abby’s arm. He made some inquiries and found a respectable house where they could spend the night.

  The owner, Mrs. Rivers, was a bosomy widow in a lace mobcap who had at least five cats that Abby could see, although her watering eyes warned her there were more.

  Abby ducked her head, not wanting to let Andres see how his choice of establishment was affecting her … yet she did not know how she could stay here.