Lord Bachelor

by Tammy L. Bailey

  He threw his head back and laughed, and not the animated novel hero kind of laugh, but the rumbling guffaw that caused his shoulders to shake.

  “I’m so glad I amuse you, Lord Rushwood,” she said, interlacing her arms across her chest.

  He sobered in his amusement, though a brilliant smile remained on his face. “Oh, you do more than that,” he said in a tone so low, it almost sounded like an anguished growl.

  His words, clearly meant to rattle her, only made her more determined to do the opposite of what he wanted. She knew he was trying to scare her off, but why? Was her simple, unobtrusive life so appalling to him? Still clutching the contract, she opened her purse to find a pen.

  “Do you really mean to do this, Abby?” he asked, wrapping his large hand around hers after she’d secured the pen between her fingers. She clicked it nervously and glanced around for a place to sign it.

  “Yes,” she answered simply. “Since I have nothing to lose, why not, right? Besides, it could be like getting free advertising for my dad’s shop.”

  “Your dad’s shop? Do you even hear what you’re saying?”

  She nodded, unsure what he meant. “Yes, of course.”

  She turned and walked toward the closest table, sitting fifty feet from where they’d stood. The distance seemed to take forever to cross.

  He didn’t follow her, remaining in place, his legs spread in an incensed stance. She tried to ignore him, but his icy glare made it so difficult for her to concentrate on the fine print. When she finally returned, he stared down his nose at her.

  “So that’s it?” he commented.

  She smiled, but the satisfaction of what she’d done didn’t reach far below the surface. She was risking getting her heart broken, just for free publicity.

  No. It was more than that. Although she knew neither the audience nor Edmund would choose her as his love match, she wondered what it would be like to step outside the world she’d lived in for so long.

  As she lingered over what she’d done and the consequences of her actions, Edmund brought up a hand to stroke his smooth jaw, the same jaw she had touched in a moment of infatuated weakness.

  “So, Abby, there’s no objection to our numerous moments together where I may be required to touch you, kiss you, get to know you…” he said, pausing to sweep a sultry gaze down the length of her, “…better?”

  She swallowed hard, trying to employ the same seductive tactic he’d used. Only when she dropped her gaze, it lingered too long at his midsection. A blush spread like wildfire across her cheeks as her mind drew upon his aforementioned compensations.

  She blinked to pull her attention back to his face, where she found him smiling wolfishly, his gaze wide and full upon her. So much for fighting fire with fire.

  He inhaled deep this time, expanding his chest toward hers. “Well then, congratulations, Miss Forester,” he said as he lowered his chin. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Edmund conceded to Abby wiggling her way into the contest. Torn between his growing attraction for her and the chances of hurting her in the end, he’d stood back and watched her scribble her name on ten separate documents. He supposed Holly had witnessed the entire exchange and had gone to get Will as they both reappeared soon after.

  Will slapped his hands together, and rubbed them in his villainous way. “Holly, arrange Abby’s background checks and blood work.”

  Abby’s light eyebrows drew together. “What?”

  “Purely precautionary, Abs…Abby,” Will corrected and then showed her a grin that reminded Edmund of Jack Nicholson as the Joker.

  Edmund didn’t smile. Quite the opposite. He tried to console himself by remembering how Abby had brought all of this on herself. He’d tried to warn her, tried to frighten her with a seductive tone, but she refused to turn away from the impending storm. Did she want her heart shattered? Did he want the burden of being the person who shattered it?

  “Oh, God. What was I thinking?” she scolded herself, a little too loud. “I really don’t have a snowball’s chance in bloody hell,” she said, mocking him.

  “A chance at what, that?” he asked toward the horrible life-size poster of himself. Not only had they made his nose too big, they’d made his eyes aqua blue and air-brushed stubble on his always clean-shaven face. “Oh, Abby, you deserve so much better than him.” He was half joking, but Raify’s words came back to haunt him after he’d said them aloud without thinking.

  Abby turned toward him, unsmiling. “Don’t do that,” she warned.

  “Do what? Compliment you?”

  “Ha! A man who avoids a compliment like—”

  “Don’t say plague.”

  She drew back, insulted. “I was going to say a futon mattress.”

  “Touché.” A second later he clicked his tongue and shook his head, regretting the French word as soon as it left his mouth. Abby, in all her quick-wittedness, turned her full, luscious body toward him. He’d forgotten—and so did she, it seemed—about Delphine.

  “No.” He intended to end it there, twisting toward the exit. He stepped one foot forward before she slipped in front of him, her beautiful mouth puckering with speculation.

  “Tell me you’re not engaged.”

  He stood there, staring straight into her lucid blue eyes. “I’m not engaged.”

  Her face softened. “Tell me you don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “I do not have a girlfriend, Miss Forester. And if you must know, I was quite content to have neither until—” He stopped there.

  Her eyes widened. “Until—”

  When he folded his arms over his chest and refused to say anything else, she exhaled and dropped her shoulders.

  “So, are you quite done with your inquisition?” he said in a cautious tone.

  She shrugged. “For now.”

  Satisfied—for now, he supposed—she turned around and left him standing there. He admired her exit, or rather, the exciting sway of her hips, sensual and hypnotic.

  “Christ,” he mumbled and stalked off toward Will’s office. Edmund didn’t even bother knocking before barging inside.

  Will popped up from his lounging position at his desk, the phone trapped between his shoulder and ear.

  “Bollocks! What the bloody hell was that?” Edmund said, slamming the door behind him.

  “Your mother,” Will mouthed. “What’s that? Oh, no, that was our…producer. He’s British too.”

  Edmund rolled his eyes and leaned across the man’s desk to grab the phone. He didn’t understand why his mother didn’t just call his cell phone. When he reached down into his pocket to draw the phone out, he realized it was off. He chuckled to himself, believing Abby had had enough of Delphine and Blaire to last her a lifetime. Well, so had he.

  He cleared his throat and then pasted on a smile. “Hello, Mother, and before you ask any questions, I’m doing exactly what Father wanted and what was suggested. I’m trying to find a rich wife.”

  “Oh, Edmund,” his mother said with as much disappointment in those two words as he’d heard his entire life.

  “Don’t worry. I should have her name announced before my birthday,” he said, trying not to think of Abby.

  “Could you not have done this the old-fashioned way?” his mother asked. “This is all so very…well, vexing.”

  “No.”

  “I suppose there is nothing I can say to change your mind, then?” She didn’t even give him a chance to answer. “You’re as stubborn as your father. Just, please, promise me you won’t do anything that would require bailing you out of jail. A dating game show is not exactly Rushwood behavior, but it is what everyone’s doing these days.”

  He heard whispering in the background, and then the sound of his mother cupping her hand over the receiver. A few seconds later, she came back on the phone. “Dowager Hemsley and I do like the last contestant. She has a lovely demeanor, and she’s rather fetching, in a modest sort of way.”

 
He smiled. “I would have to agree,” he said.

  “Yes, yes, well, I’ll try to hold off Sir Richard for as long as I can. He’s gone to Switzerland…for reasons that are too complicated to explain. However, he will not be happy to hear what you’ve done.”

  “I know. Good-bye, Mother.”

  “Good-bye, Edmund.”

  He hung up and stared at his friend for a long, silent moment.

  “What?” Will asked, innocent and clueless.

  Edmund wanted to reach across the messy desk and strangle him. “Abby Forester is not only poor, but has no connections whatsoever. If the audience—or I—choose her, I lose my inheritance. If I don’t choose her…she will hate me.”

  Will nodded until his eyes grew wide under his shaggy haircut. “Oh, I see the problem now. You are in love with Abby Forester.”

  Edmund pushed himself away from the desk. “Don’t be ridiculous. I like her, but there is no chance for us to be together. I’m an English lord and she’s a…a…broke record shop owner who’s stuck living someone else’s life besides her own,” he said, his throat raw from trying to keep his voice down.

  “She’s like the whimsical character in all those fairytale movies,” Will said, a wide grin on his face.

  “Don’t you dare put a bloody label on her,” Edmund seethed. “I don’t want her in this contest, Will.”

  The man met him halfway across his desk. “At this point, Edmund, you don’t have much choice.”

  ****

  Abby refused to get distracted, immersing herself in her work and volunteering at the nursing home to read her literature assignments to Molly and the others in the morning before her shop opened. After work, she made the mistake of turning on the nineteen-inch television tucked under her corner kitchen cabinet to find it bombarded with commercials for Love Match.

  An advertisement for the show was even plastered on the bus she rode from the shop to classes, showing the faces of his seven potential brides, hers taking up the smallest spot over his right shoulder.

  The next few episodes consisted of Edmund and his date du jour, discussing the play-by-play of what took place the night before. The installments included snippets of video for any intimate moments the audience might find…persuading. Since Abby wasn’t slotted to go on a date with Edmund until taping day number eight—just three days away—she hadn’t heard anything from the studio, Will, Holly, or Edmund. To make things worse, she couldn’t avoid the curiosity seekers who came by her store to inquire after the good Lord Rushwood and his awesome attributes.

  “May I help you?” Abby asked, her mood as gloomy as the threatening clouds looming outside the store windows.

  “You’re Abby Forester…the seventh contestant…bride number seven, right?” asked a tall girl with flawless skin, her glittery eyelashes fluttering with expectation.

  Inside, Abby’s stomach twisted into a nervous ball. “Yes.”

  The second girl with a pixie haircut popped forward. “You have to tell me, how does he kiss?”

  “Yeah,” said the tall one, “he looks like he would be a great kisser.”

  Abby decided to play dumb. “Who?”

  “Lord Rushwood,” the two said in unison.

  “Yeah, he’s amazing,” she lied, hoping they’d leave.

  “OMG…shut up,” Pixie screeched.

  Abby felt like shoving the two toward the front door, with advice to come back in three days if they wanted the real scoop on Edmund’s lips.

  “Okay, well, is there something else I can help you with? A record, perhaps?”

  Pixie protruded her glossed lips outward. “Records? Who listens to them anymore?”

  Then they both shrugged and left the shop, clucking like two spring chickens.

  “Great. He already has a fan base,” Abby mumbled, walking behind them to flip the Open sign to Closed. Only she wasn’t quick enough as another customer turned the knob and stepped inside.

  He was of average height and stature, sporting an expensive black suit under a gray trench coat and a pair of black-rimmed glasses. Happy to have a potential customer, Abby greeted the man with a smile. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I…I…achoo,” he replied, bringing up a wrinkled handkerchief to wipe at his nose. Abby backed up, trying to put some distance between them, but he fell in step in front of her.

  “I…I…achoo,” he said again, this time spraying Abby with his infectious cold. She held back a groan and hurried to stand behind the cash register. She felt like slathering hand sanitizer all over her face when he craned his neck toward her.

  “I’m…just looking,” he rasped, his voice and face familiar, although she couldn’t remember where she’d seen him before.

  “Oh, all right.” She tried smiling, but something about him set her on edge, a wave of apprehension beginning to crawl up her back.

  “Ah…ah…achoo. Are you willing to sell those paintings on the wall?” he finally managed to croak out, pointing behind him while wiping his red nose with a soggy handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry, but they’re not for sale.”

  “Hmm,” he said before letting loose a few more sneezes in her direction. “Here’s my card, in case you change your mind,” he said, placing his plain business card on the glass countertop and sliding it in her direction.

  She stared down at the name and title: Norman Weatherby, Art Buyer. She rolled the name over and over and her mind, still unable to remember where she’d seen or heard of him.

  Not two days later, Abby huddled in her bed, her muscles aching from her constant shivering. When it hurt too much to open her eyes, she wished she had spent more time decontaminating herself.

  Several times she’d tried to reach Will to tell him her date with Edmund needed to be postponed. Either he didn’t get the message or he chose to ignore it. Either way, at ten to seven, the buzzer from outside announced their arrival.

  ****

  Edmund glanced at his reflection in the storefront window, unsure if he liked the person staring back at him. For the past week, he’d taken out six women, all of them beautiful, all of them eligible for him to marry without him ending up sitting around in a one-room flat in alligator-patterned boxers, drinking Weaver’s Beer, internet dating and wondering where it all went bloody wrong.

  Then, his thoughts turned to Abby. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he’d missed her. She was a fire flower, her guard up and metaphorical fists raised at all times and ready to do battle with him over the least little thing. Trapped in a small world with no way out, he felt sorry for her.

  He also envied her. She was independent and free as a bird, although she had no idea which way to fly.

  Despite wanting her out of the contest, he found himself looking forward to seeing her again. Since the day at the studio, he’d had no contact with her. He didn’t know if his display of cold attitude had thickened a concrete wall between them.

  In the silvery white glow from a nearby streetlight, his heart thumping like a randy teenager, he watched as Joe, the quietest cameraman on the entire planet, motioned for Edmund to press the buzzer. As Will checked something on his iPhone, and Holly swatted at some invisible insect, Edmund pressed the age-stained button and announced himself.

  “Abby?”

  A few moments later, he was rewarded with an answer. “You can’t come up,” she said, her voice almost indistinguishable.

  “What?” he asked, her response causing a rising aggravation. His first thought was that she’d changed her mind. As much time and energy as he’d used to turn her against the idea of becoming bride number seven, he’d laid awake nights imagining every intimate opportunity from the unthinkable decision she’d made. He also lay awake, picturing her hating him, and never wanting to see him again.

  “I said, you can’t come up.”

  “That has already been well established. Now I’m wondering, why?”

  A sudden loud sneeze forced all four of them to jump back. From his peripheral vision, he
noticed Will grasp the back of his neck and turn away.

  “I’m thick.”

  With Will whistling into the wind and looking as guilty as hell about something, Edmund pressed harder on the round yellow button. “What do you mean you’re thick…you’re sick?”

  The ancient-looking black box crackled and buzzed like an angry bee. He believed the device a relic of her parents’ era, a memory she refused to replace.

  “I mean, I’m a…a…achoo…”

  “Gesundheit,” Holly said, drawing near the speaker and pushing the button over Edmund’s index finger.

  “Thank you,” came the miserable voice on the other end.

  “You’re welcome,” Holly said back.

  Having lost control of the situation, Edmund stepped away. He’d planned on seeing Abby, and he damn well planned to do so, no matter in what condition he found her. He did, however, want to see her alone.

  “I’m not going up there with her if she’s contagious,” he said toward Will, who was pacing one way and then the other.

  “Yes, I’m highly contagious,” she said, apparently able to hear their conversation after he’d released the button. At this moment, Will thrust himself into the predicament, and not so gracefully.

  “Damn, Abby! Your illness is throwing everything out of sync.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll consult with you before I…I…I…oh God…kill me.”

  Will ran an agitated hand through his disheveled hair and stepped away. “Well, this is just great. How can she get sick? We have to film you and her tonight. The studio needs the tape in early tomorrow.”

  Edmund rose to her defense. “I’m quite sure she didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  “I don’t know. It didn’t appear like the two of you were too chummy the last time you were together. I wouldn’t put it past her to make up a fake cold to get out of holding up her end of the contract.”

  Edmund glanced toward Joe, who had rightfully taken the camera from his shoulders. As Will returned to pacing back and forth and Holly began nibbling on a fingernail, Edmund wanted to slip upstairs and check to see if Abby was okay. She sounded awful.