Lord Bachelor

by Tammy L. Bailey

  “Were those some guys in your class?”

  Abby smiled. “They wanted to start a study group.”

  “I’m sure they do,” he mumbled before offering her a seat beside him. He didn’t want to admit he was jealous to himself—or to her.

  “I thought you might have changed your mind about giving me the paper.” He was only half joking.

  She nodded. “I did,” she confessed. “Several times.”

  Her honesty and what his reaction might have been if she had swayed in the other direction left him unsettled. She finally smiled, her lashes blinking as if she’d spent a longer night awake than asleep. He wondered if he’d occupied her mind as much as she had his.

  “But, we had a deal, remember?”

  “Yes, Abby. I remember.”

  She leaned over and grasped an evergreen-colored folder. He wasn’t quick to take it, which surprised both of them. After several awkward moments, she sighed and stood.

  He popped up right away, moving to block her path. He didn’t care if he appeared desperate. He wasn’t ready for her to leave yet. “Wait. Do you want to grab something to eat?”

  She tilted her head, her shimmering blonde ponytail swaying to one side. “I don’t eat breakfast.”

  “A bad habit that you would do well to eliminate.”

  ****

  Abby struggled with what to do. This reminded her so much of her life. The options were there; she just didn’t know which one she wanted to take, or which one would leave her less hurt and less alone. So what if she threw caution to the wind and allowed herself to fall head over heels in love with him?

  On average, how many broken hearts did a young woman suffer before finding Prince Charming, or in Edmund’s case, Prince Erratically Charming? Two? Three? At least halfway there, she plopped back down and let out a discouraging breath. “So, now that you have that thing, what do you do now?”

  He inhaled, his strong jaw clenching. For a man adamant about getting married, he certainly didn’t seem too happy about the process.

  “Interview and wait. Will thinks we’ll begin advertising the show soon, now that we have some eligible contestants to sign a binding contract and then agree to be my bride.”

  The last word sank like a brick in Abby’s midsection. As she thought about his intentions, he began flipping through the pages of her report, pausing at the pictures of a few younger women in the area, including Zella, whom Abby discovered had been born with blue blood running through her thin veins.

  “Why are you in such a rush to get married?”

  He didn’t answer her as he paused to take a sip of his tea, his striking facial features pulling into harsher lines.

  Abby didn’t relent from her questioning. “I mean, don’t you think deciding who to marry ought to be your choice? Oh, and perhaps involve a little romance?”

  He scoffed like a disgusted Frenchman. “When you’re rich, Abby, sometimes you don’t have a lot of choices.”

  She exhaled as if she’d been kicked. “Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for you, Lord Rushwood? Just because we come from two different worlds, it doesn’t make us much different. I might not know what it’s like to have a wallet full of money at my disposal, but obligations place both of us on level ground…or quicksand.”

  He lifted a dusty eyebrow, a gesture that caused her stomach to flutter. “No, Ms. Forester, I do not want you to feel sorry for me, and for the record, romance is highly overrated.”

  “Says the guy who stood before a class of strangers and recited some romantic passage from God knows where.”

  He whipped his index finger into the air. “Ah, pretending to be in love is easy.”

  Thoroughly confused and a little disappointed, Abby challenged his thinking. “But if you fake it most of the time, aren’t you afraid you might not know it’s the real thing?”

  “No,” he said, with such arrogance that she didn’t see any reason to challenge him further. To her eyes, Edmund only wanted one thing out of life, to remain rich and privileged with women at his fingertips and a butler to bring him champagne served on a silver platter.

  Of course, she didn’t blame him. How was Edmund any different from most people who wanted one thing from life—to make themselves happy at the expense of everyone else?

  With a lump of disillusionment growing in her throat, Abby stood and lifted the teapot Raify had given her on her twenty-first birthday.

  “Where are you going?” Edmund asked, standing.

  With her free hand, Abby offered him a truce and a good-bye. “Good luck on your wife hunting.”

  He hesitated before placing his palm against hers. Abby sucked in a staggering breath, the contact of his warm flesh against hers weakening her resolve to let go. She realized after a few moments, she didn’t want to. He held her hand, firm and unyielding. He stepped closer to her and her heart jumped.

  He gave a quiet laugh. “You say it as if we are not seeing each other again, which cannot be true. I’m to tutor you on Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice, remember?”

  Abby smashed her lips together before forcing a smile. “You know, I think Women’s Lit might be a bridge I’m going to have to cross alone.”

  His mouth turned downward. “You don’t mean that?”

  She nodded. “I do.”

  ****

  Edmund walked out of What Goes Around, trying to quell the emptiness at leaving her behind. To say he was displeased over her decision not to see him again was a vast understatement. He did, however, try to forget her, without much success.

  To torture himself regarding Abby, he supposed, he read every chapter of the books he’d purchased before meeting Will at the studio to sign a contract binding him to the show.

  “Snap out of it, Edmund,” Will said, slapping his hand down upon the only clean space on his desk.

  Edmund sat inside Will’s unorganized office where piles of crumbled paper lay in corners and several pots of expired plants teetered on a dusty windowsill.

  “Snap out of what?” Edmund said, daring his friend to answer him.

  Will shook his head and motioned for a young woman with shoulder-length auburn hair to come forward from his doorway.

  “Edmund, meet Holly. Holly, meet Edmund. She’s my intern and will be working behind the scenes to bring us the women for the daily interviews and podcasts. She’ll also be arranging all the dates or whatever the audience requests in order to make their decision on whom you should marry.”

  The young woman sent Edmund a weak smile and then pushed the black-rimmed glasses up on her freckled nose. She was pretty, but disheveled, with a large chocolate milk stain running down the front of her Oregon State sweatshirt.

  Edmund stood and shook her hand. After the awkward moment, she fumbled a step back and pulled a clipboard in front of her.

  Will continued. “I have someone in accounting writing up the agreement for the contestants to sign. I think you’ll like them. A few are from Abby’s genealogy list, and there are a few from prestigious backgrounds, their families coming from both new and old money. To make it more interesting, we’ve brought in two contestants who are not wealthy, but are smokin’ hot.”

  “But how does that benefit me? What if the audience likes them, and they believe they have a chance?”

  Will shrugged. “It was the producer’s idea.”

  Edmund sat back down, scooting to the edge of the right-leaning chair. “Is there any way to back out of this?”

  “Have you found a rich wife to save your ass yet?”

  “No.”

  Will threw his pen down before standing, only to take a seat on the corner of his desk right in front of Edmund. He settled his elbow upon one thigh and leaned forward. “Good, because it’s a little too late for cold feet. The women have been screened and the marketing department has already spent days on advertising and promos.”

  Will then slid his gaze to Holly, who took the hint and scooted out, backward. “Are you still seeing Abby?”<
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  Edmund jerked his head in Will’s direction. “Who said I was seeing Abby?”

  His friend shrugged again, a habit Edmund was starting to find more annoying by the second. “I just don’t want her complicating things. I mean, she knows why you’re trying to find a rich bride?”

  “Can we change the subject?” Edmund said, drawing a hand across his face, wishing he had the last two weeks of his life back. Every day he resented his father more, and Edmund didn’t know how to live the rest of his days without hating him.

  “Just be at the studio in the morning. We start taping at nine o’clock sharp.”

  Edmund stood, nodded, and then left WKLW Studios, in search of solace. However, it didn’t take him long to find himself outside Abby’s storefront, his pathetic form reflecting off the glass door. It wasn’t too late in the evening, nine-thirty or so.

  He hesitated at least fifteen times before his finger pressed the buzzer. When she didn’t answer, he buzzed it again.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re closed.” Her static-filled, sleepy voice brought a smile to his face. He’d missed her.

  “Abby, it’s me…Edmund.”

  He let go of the buzzer again and stepped back. He heard nothing but silence this time. He tried it again. “Abby?”

  “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

  He contemplated saying no. “Yes.”

  She continued the conversation with a staircase and a few walls between them. “Because, oh, let me guess, the studio made you sign a contract that prevents you from flirting or sleeping with any woman who is not part of the show.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Should I be flattered or offended?”

  “Well, if you’d buzz me the bloody hell in, I’ll tell you.”

  He expected her to either curse him through the speaker or say nothing at all. She graced him with a composed response. “I’m sorry, Edmund, but I just so happen to be in the middle of washing my hair. You will need to leave now. Good night.”

  Not ready to do what she asked, he pressed the buzzer again. “You know that excuse went out with bell-bottoms and hair picks.”

  This time, the only thing he heard coming from the little black box was silence.

  “Abby? Abby? Bollocks!” he cursed, throwing himself away from the door. He closed his eyes and brought in a frustrated breath.

  When he opened his eyelids again, he almost jumped out of his skin. Beside his dejected reflection stood Abby’s friend, Raify. Dressed in the same floral blue and white dress with the abominable hat upon her head, she exemplified the word eccentric.

  “Abby is like a delicate flower, Lord Rushwood. With just the right amount of care and attention, you will see her open up and blossom as she’s intended.”

  “I’d be happy with her opening the bloody door at the moment.”

  The woman slapped her pink, wrinkly hands together, the sound echoing into the gray night. “Tell me, my lord. What plants are you used to nurturing?”

  Oh, she was indeed a strange bird. “Are we using vegetation as a metaphor for people?”

  She graced him with a sigh. “I do wish I would have vetted you better before this.”

  He’d long lost his patience, bringing his thumb and index finger to massage the bridge of his nose. “Before what?”

  When the air shifted, he dropped his hand, finding himself staring at a lone reflection. He started to turn when a startled bird flew by him, tweeting its disapproval. He’d only managed three steps back toward his car when the door to the shop clicked open, the hinges protesting with an eerie moan.

  Chapter Nine

  Behind schedule, Abby fumbled for the tub nozzle, twisting it blindly as the cool water slid down her face and into her eyes. Still on her knees, she patted around for her thick terrycloth towel before wrapping it tight around her sopping wet head and tucking the ends in at her nape.

  She tried to wipe Edmund Rushwood out of her mind, but he kept galloping back. Determined to not let anything—especially him—distract her from her tasks, she closed her navy blue stretch-jersey robe and ambled into the kitchen a few feet away, a sideward glance catching a form splayed across her bed. She let out a scream, and with her heart slamming in painful rhythm against her chest, dove toward a drying cast iron pan on the counter.

  She’d never had an intruder before, never even considered what she would do if she did. She’d committed to throwing the lethal weapon when she turned again and found her intruder studying her with interest and amusement.

  “How…did…you…?”

  Edmund thrust his thumb toward the stairs. “You unlocked the door.”

  “I did not.” She paused, unsure about anything she did when it came to Edmund. “Did I?”

  He nodded and pushed himself up, coming to stand a few feet away. His penetrating gaze unnerved and excited her at the same time. “What smells so good?”

  “Dinner,” she volunteered, still rattled. He bent down and pried the frying pan from her hands to place it back on the narrow counter. She didn’t realize just how heavy it was until the adrenalin started seeping from her body.

  “Perfect. I’m starved.”

  “You’re not staying,” she said, trying to keep the hurt out of her tone. She didn’t want him to see just how much his absence had wounded her. Although she’d said good-bye to him, she admitted she’d missed him and thought he might have attempted to drop by the shop, just to see how she was doing.

  Oh, who was she kidding? He was champagne and caviar, and she was apple juice and marshmallow cereal, on the rare occasion she did eat breakfast.

  “Have we not become good friends, Abby?”

  She harrumphed. Her only friend was an elderly woman who, when they went for a walk in the park, talked to the animals as if she heard their grievances.

  “Why can’t I stay?” Edmund asked over his left shoulder, as she turned him around and began pushing him toward the stairs.

  Her arms stretched outward and her hands spread across the muscles of his back. She continued to coax him forward, trying like hell not to imagine him without a shirt on or her fingers touching his bare skin. “Because…I’m not…in the mood…to hear you complain.”

  She’d managed to shove him about six inches when he twisted his head around. “When did you ever hear me complain?”

  Her scoff sounded loud in the small space.

  “Okay, but you have to admit that thing you call a bed is abysmal.”

  Her arms dropped away from him. “I’ll have you know, I like my bed.”

  He flicked a wary glance across her small apartment. “Of course you do.”

  Abby let out a breath before crossing her arms across her chest. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He turned, opening his mouth to answer, but then left her hanging without one. “You know it’s very rude not to offer your guest a drink or a bite of something to eat.”

  “Perhaps if you were invited, I might be persuaded to do such a thing.”

  He ignored her and stepped sideways, heading back into her dollhouse kitchen. She followed him, although she didn’t have to go very far. “Must I remind you, you were not invited? Somehow, you broke in, waltzed up here, and are now trespassing.”

  He stopped short of the stove, forcing her to either crash into him or stumble backward. When she lost her balance, his strong hands reached out to hold her steady.

  “Just admit you missed me.”

  Her shoulders dropped in defeat. “Even if I did miss you, you shouldn’t be here.”

  His lips lifted into a pulse-shattering smile. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Tomato soup.”

  “Why is it pink?”

  Offended, Abby marched a half step forward and grabbed the lid from his hand. “It’s not pink. It’s…creamy.”

  “How does one make creamy tomato soup?”

  “With milk and cheese. Now, I’ve answered your questions, so please just go away.”

  He conti
nued to ignore her. She wondered if it was because her words held no conviction behind them. Oh, she didn’t want to like him. She didn’t want to think about him. He was off limits and searching for a woman to marry who knew which fork to use when eating her salad.

  “Is that all you’re having for dinner, pink soup?”

  “No,” she said quickly, and then corrected herself. “Yes, that’s all I’m having.” She didn’t want to mention she’d planned on grilling a cheese sandwich in her waffle iron. Then, he’d insist she make him one. She had no doubt he had someone cook for him, with an array of kitchen utensils used for their specific purpose.

  He chose this moment to lean in toward her, his lips a whisper away from touching her ear. A shiver of fascination gripped her insides. She might be able to convince her mind she didn’t want him around; however, her body bared the truth. Even Derek didn’t cause such unusual reactions.

  “Are you certain?” Edmund said, lowering his gaze to her mouth. She thought, she hoped, she prayed he might try to kiss her. Her heart jumped at the anticipation. Her stomach flipped at the possibility.

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Do you have a date?” One corner of his mouth lifted in the soft glow of the room, teasing her.

  He knew she didn’t, which annoyed her beyond comprehension. “Speaking of dates,” she said, “shouldn’t you be resting up for your continuous bride fest?”

  “Oh, that’s why you’re angry with me?”

  She drew back, but only slightly and then proceeded to correct him before he jumped to the wrong conclusion. “I’m not angry with you.” They stood face to face, his an inch from touching hers. She inhaled, but all she could smell was the enticing warmth of his skin.

  “Jealous, then?” This time his smile was incorrigible.

  “I’m…I’m not jealous,” she stammered. “I just don’t see the point in finding love the way you’ve chosen to do it. I hope if a man falls—”

  “If?”

  “When.” Damn, he was frustrating. “When a man falls in love with me, it’s not because I’m the one left standing out of a line-up of hopeful women.”