Marry the Man Today

by Linda Needham

  He could feel every delicious inch of her through the inference of her curves against his thighs, the softly rounded heat of her breasts.

  He should step away from the woman while he still had control of his better nature.

  Bloody hell, he shouldn’t even have come here tonight. He’d nearly convinced himself to wait until the safety of broad, blazing daylight to confront her with her stubborn, confounding foolishness.

  But his uneasiness about the whole mess, about the woman herself, had seethed and bubbled as he pored over the archives in the Factory until it had finally boiled over. He’d made the short trek through the streets of St. James to the Adams on foot, unsure of what he intended, but determined to protect the woman, whether she liked it or not.

  And with his every quickening step had come the chilling sensation that he wouldn’t arrive in time, that no matter what wicked force was working against the women of the Abigail Adams, its evil was focused on Miss Dunaway herself.

  That was the danger he’d set out to protect her from tonight.

  Not the danger from himself, the deep hunger she aroused in him.

  Not from the temptation to slide his hands down her sleek arms and then around her waist. Over her breasts.

  That temptation to taste her mouth, her throat, to carry her into her bedchamber and bury himself inside her.

  Not that kind of danger. Not tonight.

  Probably never. Because Miss Dunaway was the kind of woman a man married. And he wasn’t in the market for a wife.

  Even this kind.

  So he dutifully released his hands from her arms and stepped back, clearing his throat as he freed her, his gaze still caught up in hers, waltzing there.

  “I don’t believe I’ve made myself clear enough, Miss Dunaway.”

  “Clear enough about… ?” She seemed bewitched by something, unfocused, almost amused.

  “About the danger to you.”

  “Me?” She blinked up at him.

  Damnation, if he didn’t know better, he’d think the woman was simpleminded. Or didn’t care about her safety, the safety of the other women. Or wasn’t listening to a word he said.

  But she was far from simple; the woman was as cunning as a politician.

  “Are you listening to me, madam?” He caught her arms again, but this time dropped her backward into the chair behind her. He knelt in front of her bent knees, hoping to see at least a shred of fear, but finding only that calm amusement.

  “Of course I’m listening. I just think your imagination is working too hard. I’m sure there’s no one hiding out in the alley, plotting to throw a bag over my head and steal me away. Or anyone else.”

  “Madam, I don’t know how much more proof you need that the Abigail Adams has become the target of a madman.”

  Her lopsided smile held nothing more significant than gentle patience. Even shyness. “I appreciate your interest in the Adams, however—”

  He grabbed her wrists and held fast to them, trying not to speak through his teeth. “I’m sorry, Miss Dunaway, but ‘however’ just doesn’t work any longer.”

  She frowned, dipping a shapely brow at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, that I’m moving into the Adams first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “You’re what?” She yanked her wrists out of his hands.

  Bloody hell! The solution had just come to him. Couldn’t have startled her any more than it did him. But it was the perfect answer to the situation.

  In fact, he would move in tonight.

  “You heard me.” He stood, his fears finally calmed. “Until these abductions stop, until we find the fiend who has been preying on your club members, the Abigail Adams is going to need twenty-four-hour security.”

  She looked genuinely horrified, scandalized. “Oh, no, it doesn’t. Don’t even think it, Blakestone.”

  “I’ll move into the visitors’ parlor on the ground floor. And you can just go about your daily business as though nothing has changed—”

  “Oh, no, you won’t.” She threw herself out of the chair and glared up at him.

  “I’ll put guards at each of the external doors. How many doors have you?” Of course, the woman wouldn’t tell him, or couldn’t, for the anger in her eyes. Or didn’t even know where all the chinks in her armor were.

  “Don’t be absurd! None of the abductions happened in the Adams.”

  “Not yet. But a fiend with a grudge against you and your ladies’ club will stop at nothing to do you harm. Surely you can understand that breaking into an unguarded building is the simplest of crimes.”

  “A fiend? Is that who you think is doing this?”

  “A fiend, a madman, a maniac. Call him whatever you will, I’m not going to allow him to take another woman.”

  Certainly not you.

  She just stood there in her simple linen robe looking at him in abject horror, her mouth agape and glistening.

  “What if I say no?” she said finally.

  “Then, regrettably, I’ll have the Lord Mayor shut you down as a threat to the health and safety of your club members.”

  Or something like that.

  “Close the Adams?” She gasped and backed away from him. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “I would, indeed, if you don’t cooperate with me.”

  She forced out a sharp sigh and paced across the sitting room to the alcove. She pulled aside the sheer moonlit curtains and looked out the window for a time. The breeze caught her robe around her slim ankles, revealing slender calves and a finely shaped hip.

  “What if I hire my own guards?”

  “This is a criminal investigation, madam. It requires the intervention of Scotland Yard.”

  “And a commandant in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, on loan to the Foreign Office and the City of London.” Her lithe shoulders sagged. “You’ve put me in an unwinnable situation.”

  “It’s not a matter of winning or losing, Miss Dunaway.” He took a few steps toward her, an offering of sorts, as he tried to gentle his voice. “You and your ladies can come and go as you please—”

  She scowled at him. “Under your constantly critical eye. I know your opinions.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “You’re a man, Blakestone.”

  Now there was an indictment if he’d ever heard one. “Guilty as charged.”

  She had met him halfway to the center of the room, her hands shaped over her perfect hips. “The Abigail Adams is a temporary refuge for women, sir. They come here to relax, to escape the pressures of their households. To be themselves, without the fear of having to perform as the perfect wife, or the perfect mother, or the adoring daughter.”

  This wasn’t going to be as easy as it seemed. “The guards will be posted outside, and when I’m in the house—mostly in the evening and overnight—just tell your ladies to ignore me if they see me.”

  “Ignore you? You must be joking!”

  Oh, this was sticky stuff, uncharted waters. “I’m very serious.”

  “Excuse me, my lord, but every woman for miles around seems to know exactly who you are and are vastly interested in everything you do.”

  “Me?” That sounded odd. He was hardly ever in town.

  “They were willing to bid thousands of pounds in order to win you for an evening at the opera.”

  The opera? “What are you talking about, madam? Bidding where?”

  “At the bachelor auction at Lady Maxton’s Charity Ball. Hasn’t she told you?”

  “Not a word.” A bachelor auction?

  “Nevertheless, the club members are sure to want to know the reason that you’re loitering in the halls.”

  “I guarantee that I’ll be discreet. Practically invisible.”

  “Then while you’re at it, sir, bring an elephant along from the zoo. We’ll put it in the tea room and we can ignore that too. Great heavens, this is ridiculous!”

  “But it’s the way it must be. I’ll do my best to stay out of sight.”


  “Excellent. Then I’ll just tell them we have a ghost.”

  “Whatever you like.”

  “I don’t like you.”

  Indeed. But he wouldn’t have expected that to hurt as deeply as it did. “I am sorry for that, madam.”

  “Another thing, Blakestone. If anyone asks, you will not say a thing to any of the club members about the reason you’re here.”

  “They’ll want to know—”

  “And I’ll explain that we’ve had a few breakins and I’ve asked Scotland Yard to look into the matter. That’s all. Nothing about the missing women and their so-called connection with the Adams. Do you understand me?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.” She took a deep breath and narrowed her eyes at him. “Now if you’ll please leave my—”

  “Just a few more questions …” He still needed to think this whole thing through. Square the facts with the crime, and judge them against the threats.

  She groaned and leaned against the arm of the chair. “Please, Lord Blackstone, it’s nearly two o’clock in the morning.”

  “I’ve been looking into the inheritance you received from your aunts—”

  “You’ve been what?” Suspicion flared in her eyes, winging her brows. “You have no right! My financial status is none of your business.”

  Now was not the time to tell her that he was determined to make everything about her his business.

  “You were your spinster aunts’ sole heir to a substantial fortune.” Nearly ten thousand pounds a year. Most of which she wisely kept in high yield bonds, managed nicely by the Bank of England.

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  He held back his smile of satisfaction. Because if the woman knew the extent of his resources, she’d throw him out the open window into the alley below. “I have my sources.”

  She fixed an outraged glare on him that he could feel right through his skull to the back of his brain. “Damn you,” she whispered with such naked loathing he drew back from her in confusion.

  No longer sure of himself, he toned down his approach. “Was the will ever contested, Miss Dunaway? By a disgruntled relation?” Not that he expected her to answer.

  “No. I am a free and independent woman. No one, anywhere, has a claim on my finances. And I plan to keep it that way. Now if you’re finished, I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

  A huge yawn seemed to ambush her. She rubbed her forehead as though she was tired beyond sleeping, making him feel like a complete heel as she shambled toward her bedchamber.

  “Busy at what?”

  “Club business, if you must know.” He didn’t like the tone of the frown that she tossed back at him from over her shoulder, or the challenge in her voice as she turned back to him at the door.

  “I absolutely must know, madam.” And he was just as certain that the woman would absolutely tell him nothing on her own. All right, then; the gloves were off. He plopped down onto the sofa. “Good night, then, Miss Dunaway.”

  Another scowl. “I thought you were going to use the visitors’ parlor.”

  “Tomorrow. Tonight, I’ll be right here. If you should need me.”

  She cast a wry glance at the spindly piece of furniture, then another at him, with a slow shake of her head. “Does your wife know you’re spending the night in my suite?”

  He tucked away his smile. “Believe me, Miss Dunaway, if I had a wife, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Oh.” She gathered her robe about her like an armored shield. “Well then, sir, sleep well.”

  And if she was his wife, he sure as hell wouldn’t be sleeping out here.

  Chapter 9

  If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation.

  Abigail Adams, to her husband John March 31,1776

  “”This way to the carriages, ladies!” Elizabeth called into the crowd of milling women in the lobby of the Adams. Their random circling reminded her of rounding up a flock of chickens on her aunts’ manor farm.

  “Carriages, where, Elizabeth?”

  “Outside, Mrs. Deverel, in the drive-up.” These were all highly intelligent women, one-on-one, but jam them together into a gossiping mob and they lost all sense. “We’ve got three carriages. Plenty of room for everyone. Just find a place and sit down or we’ll be late.”

  And the omniscient Earl of Blakestone might appear out of nowhere and discover them leaving on their expedition, then follow them with his blaze of objections right to the steps of Westminster.

  Or concoct some obstacle to keep them from leaving the Adams at all. For their safety. For England. For the good of mankind.

  She had expected to run his gauntlet of questions that morning on the way out of her bedchamber. Heaven knows, she’d felt him there all night long. Even imagined herself waking to the sight of him standing in her doorway, his bronze chest naked in the moonlight, stalking toward her, his corded muscles shifting … Ahem!

  But by the time she’d bathed and dressed, he had already disappeared from her sitting room. Her hopes that he’d reconsidered his unnecessary security measures against a nonexistent threat to her and the ladies’ club had been dashed when she found three very serious men walking a frowning circuit around the Adams.

  Trapped. Observed. For no reason whatsoever.

  Except that she’d obviously done her job far too well. But how could she possibly have predicted that secretly arranging steamship passage for one young woman who desperately needed to escape her abusive husband would so quickly escalate into a full-scale clandestine conspiracy to aid and abet two other equally desperate women?

  A total of four now, counting Lydia, who was quickly recovering from her ordeal and gaining back that much needed will to triumph over the worst of her fears.

  “I thought I’d bring one of our Votes for Women signs, Elizabeth.” Justine Knox grinned broadly as she held up the sign between them. “Just to get my husband’s attention on the back benches.

  “Let’s leave that here, Justine,” Elizabeth said, gently taking the sign from her. “Remember, ladies—this goes for all of us—we’re not attending the session of Parliament to protest this time. Only to listen and learn.”

  “Awwwww…” They all groaned like a team of cricketers at a rained-out match.

  “So we don’t want to do anything to call attention to ourselves….”

  But, of course, they couldn’t really help it. As much as Elizabeth wanted their expedition to be unremarkable, a dozen well-dressed women marching up the public steps of Westminster was bound to cause a furor.

  ******************

  St. Stephen’s Hall had been ringing with male voices when the ladies of the Abigail Adams entered the long room, but the sight of the women traveling in a pack seemed to have struck the men dumb.

  The stunned silence followed her determined group through the narrow, grandly vaulted hall, right into the central lobby, where the women broke into a chorus of oos and ahs about the impressive architecture, and wandered about among the other denizens of the room.

  “Oh, my! Look at that spire!” Mrs. Garrison pointed her gloved finger into the air. “Why, it’s grand!”

  It was, indeed. The octagonal tower was a full seventy-five feet high, and crowned with tall windows framed by lacy Gothic arches.

  “Ooo! And there’s the Duke of Argyll!” Mrs. Barnes was heading toward the man and his knot of aides.

  Elizabeth hooked the woman’s arm and turned her toward the group. “Mustn’t interrupt the duke while he’s in conference. Now, let’s—”

  “And if I’m not mistaken that’s Sir William Molesworth,” Mrs. Deverel said, narrowing her eyes at the man. “The Commissioner of Public Works. Excuse me, dear, I need to see him about a pothole in front of my town house.”

  “But, Mrs. Deverel, it’s time to take our seats in the public gallery. Come along, ladies!”
>
  Elizabeth had visited the halls of Parliament a few times since moving to London, but she’d never made it beyond the central lobby into the gallery of the House of Commons.

  Nothing was going to stop her today. Not flood nor famine, nor busybody earls.

  Especially not unmarried ones, who had slept the night just outside her bedchamber.

  “Have you lost your way, ladies?” An official-looking little man was bearing down on them as they moved toward the Commons, a patronizing tolerance for the weaker sex hovering beneath his neat moustache. “You have found yourself in the halls of Parliament.”

  “Excellent, sir.” Elizabeth met him before he could plow into the center of her party and risk his equanimity. “That’s exactly why we had our carriages drop us in front of St. Stephen’s Porch.”

  His smile thinned. “Whyever would you want to do that, madam?”

  “Because we plan to … to …”

  Oh, blast it all!

  Blakestone!

  “Look there, Elizabeth, dear,” Mrs. Barnes whispered, nodding slightly toward St. Stephen’s Hall. “It’s that stunning earl. And he’s coming right this way, like a locomotive.”

  With a full head of steam.

  “Let’s go, ladies!” Elizabeth left the little official stammering and started herding the women toward the long corridor and the Commons lobby beyond. “Up the stairs to the Public Gallery. Careful now.”

  Elizabeth could feel Blakestone’s eyes burning into her back as she hurried with the last of the group down the narrow corridor.

  Knowing she couldn’t escape him completely, she waited until the women had reached the Commons lobby, then stopped at the end of the corridor to wait for him.

  “Ah, Blakestone,” she said as she turned on her heel to meet him. Every massive ounce of him coming toward her as though he would overtake her like a thunderstorm. “Fancy meeting you here in Parliament. Is the Lords in session today? Or are you on loan to the prime minister?”

  He took up her elbow and brought his steaming temper against her ear. “Bloody hell, woman, you told my guard at the Adams that you were heading for Kew Gardens.”