“I don’t know now.” And it was true. Andres had spoiled her. He’d taught her what it was like to be with a man who considered her a partner … and that was when she started to believe that perhaps Celeste could be right. Andres might love her.
The possibility was both exciting and frightening. People looked at Andres, saw his face, the many gifts God have given him, and assumed the man needed no one.
She’d thought that, too—but over the last few weeks, she’d learned he was a compassionate man who needed compassion in return. Nor did he trust easily—and she recognized the expression on his face when he’d found her with Freddie. He had trusted her, and he’d felt betrayed.
If he did love her, if he’d been jealous of Freddie’s presence, his behavior this evening made sense.
Celeste was right. Abby wanted more than pretending she and her husband rubbed along well. If she returned to Stonemoor now, it would be to a man with a grudge, a man who expected her to choose him over the welfare of her parents—a choice that was too hard without a meaningful commitment from Andres.
“He has to come to you,” Celeste said, accurately reading Abby’s thoughts. “If you matter to him, he must say the words.”
“He may not know how,” Abby observed sadly. “Women go to him. He’s never had to put himself out for anyone—ever.”
“Well, he must for you.” Celeste gave her hand a squeeze. “Please, Abby, believe in yourself. You are thoughtful, beautiful—”
“No,” Abby denied.
“Yes,” Celeste insisted. “You are vibrant, intelligent, everything a man wants in a wife. Don’t argue with me. For one moment, just allow yourself to believe.”
Abby sat still. She knew her faults. She could list them for Celeste….
“Believe what I say,” Celeste insisted.
“If it is true, Andres should be kissing the ground where I walk,” Abby answered, half in jest.
“I think he does,” Celeste confided. “He just hasn’t realized it yet.”
Abby shook her head, yet the conviction in Celeste’s voice made her pause. “How did you come about all this wisdom?”
“The hard way—through experience. Jon is my second husband. My first was a bitter disappointment. I wanted him to love me. I did everything I could but failed. Truly, Abby, men don’t want anything they haven’t had to work at gaining. I made certain Jon wanted me.”
“What if Andres doesn’t come?” That was her greatest fear.
“Then you haven’t lost anything, have you?” Celeste said, practical and wise, and Abby knew she had little choice.
The next morning, she left for London.
At the same time, Celeste took the stablehand and the pony cart and drove to Stonemoor.
Abby prayed Celeste was right.
Chapter Seventeen
Andres had arrived home in the very early hours of the morning. Sleep had been impossible, so he’d started building a new paddock, throwing himself into the work.
Women had rarely occupied a large portion of his mind. If one had made him unhappy, there had always been more.
That was not the case with Abby. She’d changed him.
He pounded a nail in with more force than he needed and split the board. With a soft oath, he ripped it off the fence post and tossed it aside. He’d been at it for hours. The stable lads were tiptoeing around him. He overheard someone mention Abby’s name. They knew she hadn’t returned with him.
Andres tried another board and split it, too. He wanted to blame the wood, but he knew better.
He might have lived a lie, but he’d always been honest with himself.
Yesterday, he had left Stonemoor with high spirits. He’d been proud of what he and Abby were doing here. The windows shone with cleanliness. There was fresh paint everywhere, and his stables were in the process of becoming what he’d envisioned.
Soon Destinada would foal and all the world would see the quality of Ramigio horses. Her baby was going to be a beauty. Andres could feel it.
And now, everything was wrong.
He dropped the hammer and went to the house. He was tired. Exhausted—and he was waiting for Abby.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have left the Landsdownes’ house party. It had been a tactical error. Instead of leaving, he should have grabbed Sherwin by the nape of his neck and the seat of his breeches and thrown him out the window.
“My lord,” Cook said as he walked past the kitchen, “is Lady Vasconia returning today as planned?” Both she and the scullery maid had worried looks on their faces.
Their concern made Andres angry, then he took a look at himself and frowned. He was still wearing his evening dress breeches and shirt—not exactly clothes a man chose for labor. And he hadn’t shaved. He probably struck them as some wild creature.
But what could he tell them?
That he didn’t know?
Andres would bite off his tongue before saying such a thing … because he expected Abby to come home.
Home.
He’d never really had one. Stonemoor was his dream, and as a dream, it had already exceeded his expectations … because of Abby.
“She should be here soon,” he told Cook and stomped up to the bedroom.
Pouring water into the wash basin, he gave himself a scrubbing. It didn’t do much good. The air was cold. He and Abby didn’t burn fires in empty rooms, and they rarely had a big one at night. Sleeping together and making love had kept them warm.
The thought of her giving herself to another was like a knife sliding into his ribs. She was his.
But he’d given her up. Walked out of Landsdowne’s house without a look backward because he’d truly expected her to follow him. He’d thought she would have been here by now.
As he’d been sawing and pounding, he’d been playing over in his mind the things he planned to say to her. Now it all sounded so contrived. Andres had never had a woman cheat on him. Ever.
That it would have been Abby behaving this way was astounding because, the truth be told, he’d assumed Abby would always be there. She was the one person he’d finally let himself trust—
Andres thrust the thought away. He did not want to think on it. Later, when Abby returned, oh, he’d have some things to say, but first it would be a very cold reception. He might go a day not speaking to her. Let her stew in his unhappiness.
But first, he should make himself look presentable. He picked up his shaving soap. It was hard to mix with cold water. If Abby had been here, he would have had warm water. He wouldn’t even have had to ask for it. It would just have been there, a product of his wife’s good housekeeping and efficiency.
He pulled off his shirt and lathered his beard. He picked up his shaving strop and sharpened his razor. With a sigh, he tried to put his mind to his tedious task. He’d just taken a swipe along his jaw, shaving it of whiskers, when he heard the sound of a horse and wheels.
Andres rushed to the window. He couldn’t see anything at this angle, but Robin, one of the stable lads, was running toward the drive.
Abby had returned.
Shaving was no longer of interest. He looked at his soapy face. He should finish, and yet he had to see her. He needed to.
They had things to say to each other, and shaving could wait. He wiped the soap from his face. He had one strip of smooth skin, but he didn’t care. He started to reach for the shirt he’d thrown aside, but it was filthy. His breeches were still dirty, too.
Andres didn’t want to waste time taking off his boots. He went to the wardrobe and drew out a clean shirt. There was a stack of them folded and neatly put away. His wife had seen to that, and now she was back. She’d returned.
All thoughts of how he would handle her homecoming flew from his mind.
Pulling on the shirt, he started out the door and then thought of a neck cloth. He grabbed one of those, too. His hands were shaking.
His eyes fell on the bed. She was back.
Walking out on her, letting her know his anger, h
ad worked. He’d won his point, but at what cost? He didn’t believe in second chances. He would not take this risk again—or let Abby know how much he cared. Love humbled him. Made him realize that he didn’t like life without Abby.
If she knew how deeply he cared, she could cripple him.
He left the room, forcing himself to move with decorum instead of racing pell-mell to his wife.
Halfway down the stairs, he heard a woman’s voice. It wasn’t Abby’s. He hesitated, recognizing the voice as Celeste’s. Had she accompanied Abby? He waited, listening as Celeste handed her cloak and hat to the maid.
Andres continued down the stairs, tying his neck cloth. He entered the main room off the hall. Celeste stood alone in the center of the room. She heard his step and turned.
“I was almost afraid you weren’t home,” she said in greeting as she walked over to him, her smile wide, her hands outstretched.
He took her hands, bowed over them. “I thought you had guests.”
Abby wasn’t here. She hadn’t returned with Celeste.
“They are relatives and can entertain themselves.” She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I had to be certain your pony cart was returned safe to you.”
Andres didn’t want reassurance. He wanted his wife. A deep cloud of concern settled over him.
“I’m famished,” Celeste said. “Do you have something to eat? I imagine you could stand to eat as well.”
“I’m not hungry.” He turned from her and walked over to the maid, Ginny, lurking out in the hall. “Have Cook prepare something for our guest.”
“Would you like it served on a tray in there, my lord?” Ginny asked.
“Yes, that would be fine,” Celeste answered for him. She’d walked toward the door and leaned against the doorjamb.
Andres marched past her into the sitting room. “Where is my wife?” he asked. There was no fire in the grate. If Abby had been here, in this room, there would have been a fire.
“She’s on her way to London,” Celeste said.
Her words sucked the air from the room. Andres couldn’t think. She’d left him. She’d gone with Sherwin.
“It’s not what you are thinking,” Celeste hurried to say. She walked over to Andres. “She didn’t go off with my idiot cousin. She had to go see her mother.”
Andres wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly.
“Why?”
Celeste made an impatient sound. “You know Freddie conveyed the message that her mother was ill.”
Andres shrugged, unhappy. “It is what he said. Who knows the truth?”
“She had to go, Andres, to find out. Abby is very close to her parents.”
On one level, he understood what she’d said, but Sherwin had taken hold of his mind. “That fop should not have been at your house.”
“It was a family gathering, Andres,” Celeste said. “He’s a relative. If we had known the history behind all of this, Jonathan would have set him straight. As it was, we didn’t learn the tale until last night after you’d left.”
“How did he even know we live here?” Andres said, asking the question that had been haunting him.
“From me,” Celeste admitted with a sigh. “I wrote my mother in London about how much we enjoyed ourselves as your guests. You are a bit of an infamous person there. According to my mother, the women are still talking about you.”
Andres made a face. He didn’t want to hear this. “They mean nothing to me.” He paced the distance from the hearth to the center of the room, and then stopped. “She left me.” He had trouble believing it.
“She didn’t leave you,” Celeste said, coming up beside him. “You left her. She’s gone to see to her mother’s welfare.”
“Without telling me? Without saying one word? What did she do for money? How did she travel?”
The maid appeared at the doorway holding a tray of sandwiches and some cider.
Andres moved away from Celeste, pushing a distracted hand through his hair. “Set it anywhere, Ginny.”
The maid did as told and bobbed a curtsey before leaving.
Celeste sat on the settee and began preparing plates of food.
“I’m not hungry,” Andres said.
“Of course you are,” Celeste countermanded him. “Please sit.”
He didn’t want to, yet he did not know what else to do. Abby had left him.
Celeste handed him a mug of cider. Andres held it without raising it to his lips. She placed a plate on his knee. He could barely look at the food.
“Disappointment is difficult, is it not?” Celeste said cheerily.
“Disappointment?” Andres almost choked on the word. Was that all she thought he felt?
“You expected me to be your wife returning,” Celeste said, “and to be honest, Andres, you are being very pouty about it.”
“Pouty?” Andres came to his feet. The plate on his knee fell to the floor. He threw the mug at the fireplace. “My wife leaves me and you call me pouty?”
“Her mother is ill, Andres. When you love someone, you go to them when they need you. Can you understand that?” She answered her own question as she studied him. “You don’t understand, do you?”
He didn’t know what to say. He was angry and, yes, pouty.
“Do you love her?” Celeste demanded.
The question penetrated the emotions roiling inside him. Celeste sat on his settee like a pagan priestess meting out justice.
“She’s my wife,” Andres said.
“Do … you … love … her?” Celeste repeated, drawing out each word as if he’d been simple and she’d had to make herself clear.
Andres felt cornered. He felt vulnerable.
Her expression softened. “You poor man,” she said. “You are so afraid.”
He started to deny it, then realized there was nothing he could say. Celeste saw right through him.
Funny, that Abby didn’t.
“Both of you are too fragile,” Celeste said. “She’s certain you won’t come after her, that you don’t care.”
“She knows differently.”
“Does she?” Celeste placed her plate on the tray and leaned forward. “And how does it feel to have your pride and no wife?”
Anger flashed through him. He reached for it. Anger felt better than being vulnerable. “You know nothing of us.”
Celeste didn’t take offense at his tone. Instead, she rose with a sound of resignation. “I know when a man is being too stubborn for good sense. And how futile it is to talk to any of your sex when you are in this state. But understand, Andres, I have come here as a friend. I don’t like my cousin. He thinks he is some Captain Sharp. And I am distressed at the thought that one such as him could come between two people who so obviously care for each other.”
Her words found their mark. The anger ebbed. He tried to keep hold of it. “If she cared, she’d be here.”
“Because it is too much of a risk for you to go there?”
Her challenge hung in the air between them.
“I can’t go to London,” he said. If he went and Dobbins discovered his presence, he would lose Stonemoor.
But he couldn’t say that to Celeste. She’d think worse of him than she already did.
“When we love someone, we take the first step,” she said, her expression carefully neutral. “We go to them.” She gave him a small, sad smile. “I’ll be leaving now,” she said quietly. “Andres, please, your pride is not worth losing what the two of you have. I didn’t come here to badger you but to assure you that Freddie means nothing to Abby and he never will. You walked out on her, my lord. Now it is up to you to make the first step.” She didn’t wait for his response but left the room.
He stood very still. He should have gone with her to see that she had safe transportation home, but he couldn’t move.
A moment later, he heard the sound of horses riding away, and he was alone.
All of his life, he’d dreamed of a place like Stonemoor, and now he had it. But the d
ream was hollow without Abby.
Andres raised a hand to his chin and frowned as his fingers brushed the spot he’d shaven, surrounded by his beard. No wonder Celeste had so accurately read him. He was a mess.
“It is up to you to make the first step.”
The doubt of his own worth, the sense that he would never measure up to his father’s expectations, the fear that Abby could not respect him, collected into a hard knot in his chest.
Could it be that his fit last night—because that was what it had been, a fit—had had more to do with jealousy than he wanted to admit? Could it be that he’d hurt her as much as he was feeling abused? Could it be that Abby thought he didn’t care?
She had to know he did….
If she had been here, he’d have told her how he felt.
If he went there, he could lose Stonemoor. Andres sank down onto a side chair, his brain buzzing with a desire to go after his wife and bring her back, and the fear that she wouldn’t come back. Then he would have lost all for nothing.
In the end, he decided to write. He would put in a letter the feelings he had not spoken.
Andres sat down to the task. It did not go well. He even attempted writing in Spanish, a language more conducive to what he felt in his heart.
But words failed.
He waited a day, hoping for another solution, watching the road, expecting her to return home. She didn’t.
Andres spent the following day cursing his fates and his wife. He’d never needed anyone in his life. He told himself that he didn’t need anyone now.
By the third day, he knew he was wrong.
It was the mistletoe that made up his mind.
In five days’ time it would be Christmas. The servants had put up holly and evergreens, decorating in the manner Celeste had done her house. They’d even put mistletoe up, right over the front door.
Cook had told him of the English tradition of kissing under the mistletoe.
Andres had no one to kiss. And he was tired of an empty bed. He didn’t like this life he was living. He missed the life he’d had with Abby. Perhaps he didn’t need her, but he wanted her close. He wanted to share the activities of his day with her, to sit across a table and watch her eyes light up when he thought of something amusing to tell. He wanted to tuck her body in close to his and hold her while she slept, protecting and keeping her.
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