“What would you like?” she asked in a gentle tone.
Christian gaped. He glanced around, certain that she was speaking to someone else in that voice, not cold or tart but soft and low. “Who, me?” he asked, baffled.
“Yes, you,” she answered, proving to Christian that he was still asleep and dreaming. “What would you like?”
Christian grinned at the leading question. “Oh, I can think of lots of things,” he murmured as he walked slowly toward her.
Her dark brows inched upward slightly. “I meant, what would you like for breakfast?” Christian’s disappointment was tempered by the realization that she was slicing bread. She stood at the long oaken table that occupied much of the kitchen, a long fork at her elbow. She was going to make him toast? With her own hand?
As if unaware of his confusion, she continued speaking. “I have a bit of cold ham, and I can make you some eggs or a plum cake. No, I don’t think we have any plums. An apple tart, then.”
“You can cook?”
She gave him a look that questioned his wits, but Christian was questioning them anyway. “Of course I can cook.”
Christian remained skeptical. If she could, why the hell didn’t she teach the kitchen staff here how to do it? He had never had more wretched swill in his life. And he loved his food. He wasn’t a connoisseur by any means, nor did he employ a French chef. He just wanted good, solid English food, and plenty of it. With some flavor. With some variety. With some… dessert.
Christian watched as she poured some flour into a large bowl and tossed in other things until it was a big, gooey mix. Then she plopped it down on the table and began rolling it out. Her hands were covered with flour, and although most of his friends would have wrinkled their noses in disgust, Christian was drawn to the sight. As always, she was competent and efficient, and Christian stared, rapt, even as he imagined those hands upon him, the two of them rolling around in the flour…
He was just about to seize her when she picked up a knife and began to peel apples with the ease of an expert. Was there no end to her talents? Here was a woman who could balance books, run a household, serve as a companion, fearlessly explore secret passages, fence better than some men, and bake an apple tart. Christian felt dizzy with discovery. Who would want a spoiled, grasping, gossiping creature with no skills beyond a few social graces and the ability to dabble at watercolors or the pianoforte when he could have a real, genuine woman?
Seized by a sudden certainty, Christian opened his mouth to say as much, when she turned toward him. A lock of hair had fallen loose to brush against her lashes, and she blew it away. He grew hard in an instant. Spying a smudge of flour on her cheek, Christian decided to lick it off. And continue on from there. He leaned close.
“Would you like a bite?” she said.
Convinced he was imagining things, Christian blinked, only to see she was proffering a piece of apple. Now he was sure he was dreaming. Instead of lifting the fruit from her fingers, he bent his head toward it, looked directly into her eyes and took it, taking her fingers into his mouth as well and sucking the juice from them.
Her eyes widened, and Christian leaned forward to seize his chance, but she turned away, back to her work. “You may tell your man to stop spying upon me.”
Christian blinked, the change in subject—and mood— taking him aback. Had he heard her correctly? “What?”
“You may tell your man, the villager you felt the need to hire, to quit following me about. I find it wholly unnerving, and as I told you before, I am capable of defending myself.”
Christian felt like one of Montgolfier’s deflated balloons, the ardor sucked out of him all too quickly by the casual unmasking of his plan to safeguard her. He should have known. She was too clever by half not to notice Alf’s presence. Christian shifted uncomfortably as she set her creation in to bake.
“Although I do appreciate the thought behind your actions,” she added. “You also need no longer keep watch outside my room at night. I assure you that it is locked and secured against all intruders.”
As Christian gaped, she smiled. “Now, perhaps, you can get some sleep at night and avoid missing your breakfast.”
He was right. She was too clever by half. Christian struggled to keep up. “I’m concerned that whoever is behind this specter of yours might try something else, something more dangerous.”
“I do not see what he—or it—can gain from harming me.”
“We still don’t know who would inherit, should something happen to you,” Christian protested. “A convenient accident might eliminate the need for hauntings to halt the sale of the house.”
She looked startled, but still she argued. “And just how is anyone here going to maintain Sibel Hall on a small stipend?”
“Perhaps they are counting on the so-called treasure to fund their stay,” Christian suggested.
Abigail frowned. “A foolish hope indeed.” She dismissed the idea with a shake of her lovely head.
“Crimes have been committed based on worse follies,” Christian warned. Why did she have to be so stubborn? How was he going to protect her? And, more important, how was he going to get into her bedroom if she objected to him being outside of it?
Ignoring his comment, she put the toast on the fork and bent to the fire, and his disgruntlement slipped away. There was something about the picture of her there, beautiful despite her dowdy clothes and cooking for him with her own hands, that made his heart catch. He had hardly ever entered a kitchen, any kitchen, and yet now this room, the purview of the servants, seemed the coziest of spots.
Christian took a deep breath, only to sigh in pure pleasure at the incredible smells. Baking cinnamon, nutmeg, and apple wafted through the air. And he’d thought the lilacs were wonderful! He was drooling, and he couldn’t tell where the hunger was coming from. It no longer was his belly crying out to be filled, but all of him, desiring to fill and be filled. He wanted to lay Abigail across the floured surface of the table and have his way with her. He would have, too, if he hadn’t wondered whether one of the maids might wander in or if his hostess might take a meat cleaver to his more tender parts.
Still, need pounded out a drumbeat in his blood, making him yearn not just for the sex but for her, every inch, every breath, every thought, every dream. The awareness of her as a singular being and his desire for her struck him uncommonly dumb. He stood staring, like a fool, for the longest time, even as he searched for words to tell her, to let her know that she was tastier than anything that could be concocted in this kitchen or any other, with her lilac smell and her smooth skin and her heavy hair.
How was it that she was here, within his reach, this living, delectable, treat of womanhood? How had he stumbled across such a treasure, his for the taking? Or at least the attempt? As she gingerly laid his toast onto a plate, Christian shook his head in puzzlement. “Why aren’t you married?” he blurted out.
He was startled by her response, a low laugh. “Who on earth would marry me? I have spent my adulthood as companion to a demanding elderly woman who continually pointed out the magnanimous charity of taking me in. She made very clear her expectations for me, and they did not include socializing with those in her company, or anyone else, for that matter.” She dipped a thick-handled knife into a crock of butter and slathered it upon his toast.
“I can do that myself,” Christian murmured.
She glanced up, as though in surprise, then smiled. “Sorry, old habits,” she said, sliding the plate and the butter toward him. “Where was I?”
“Why you did not marry,” Christian prompted.
“Oh, yes. Believe me, no one likes a companion who draws attention to herself, by word or deed or appearance. Younger women see you as a threat, older women as a temptation to the gentlemen. So you try your best to make sure no one takes notice of you, to become invisible.” As if she had revealed too much of herself, Abigail paused. “I assure you that the men who came into my orbit did not have legally sanctioned liais
ons in mind.”
Christian set his teeth, angry once more at the nameless, faceless denizens of the ton who dared to make unwanted advances toward her, but before he could speak out, she shook her head.
“But all that matters little, for in truth I have no wish to be married. As I said before, all I want is my own little cottage, with no one, especially not some loutish fellow, commanding me about,” she added with a crooked smile.
Before Christian could protest that he, for one, was not a lout, she paused to lean upon the table and stare off into the distance. Her face, limned by the light from the tall windows, looked positively angelic, and Christian was struck dumb once again.
"It will be a cozy place, small, but neat and tidy and comfortable, with lots of windows and fresh paint and a garden in the rear.” She spoke as if reciting some long-cherished hope. Indeed, she looked so dreamy that Christian could almost feel her yearning, and it struck him to the core. Obviously, that dream owned her heart, and a man had no place in it.
“And what of your paragon mate?” he asked sarcastically.
She looked at him and blinked, as though awakening from a daze. “My what?”
“The only sort of man you would consider marrying, a man of science, of study, a buttoned-up, deadly dull boor, whose pompous droning puts the whole room to sleep,” Christian said, aware of his resentment but unable to stop the flow of it. After all, he was only speaking the truth. The scholarly sorts he knew were awfully similar to Emery, if not as rude. They always had their head stuck in a book and never made for good company, which was why so few of them were married. At least that’s what he had always thought.
“You know, someone like…” Christian paused, pleased to see a blush climb her cheeks before he finished his sentence with a vengeance. “Emery!”
She stared at him in stunned silence, and Christian lifted his brows. “Well, isn’t that the sort of fellow you want?”
She blanched, and Christian flashed a grin, enjoying his bit of retribution. “After all, Emery’s a scholar, though I’ve yet to see exactly what he studies or where all of it is getting him. I’m not sure a man without any other resources can support a family on eclectic reading,” he continued, his brows furrowing.
“But he does meet your other criteria. He’s certainly not handsome or too robust.” Indeed, Emery looked like the kind of young man who’d been perpetually sickly as a boy and would want his wife to tend him during his frequent relapses. His frequent, whiny relapses.
“Of course, he doesn’t possess even the most rudimentary of social skills, but that wasn’t on your list, was it?” Christian grinned evilly. “And you know exactly what you want. You recited it all quite well.”
Abigail chose that moment to take an inordinate interest in checking the progress of her baking. Finally she inhaled deeply and spoke, without glancing up at him. “Emery is not… without his merits.”
Christian burst out laughing at that bit of hedging, and when he saw Abigail’s lips curve suspiciously, he wanted to kiss her mouth. Hell, kiss her all over. So much for Emery. Now if he could only forward his own cause.
“And why aren’t you married?” she asked, still seemingly too occupied with watching the tart to look up. It was probably a good thing, as the question caught Christian unawares. “Too much of a rake, no doubt,” she quipped.
Christian opened his mouth to give his standard prevarication, but it seemed too flippant, not in keeping with the mood of precarious truce between them. But what other answer to give her? The one he gave his grandfather. That he was waiting for someone special. He didn’t know who, but he would recognize her when he saw her, and he would know, deep down inside, that she was his bride. She might not be one of the select ladies presented at Almack’s. She might be different. Unexpected. She might smell like lilacs and have eyes of that same vivid hue…
Christian jerked upright, startled by his own thoughts, only to find Abigail eyeing him quizzically. His gaze slid away. “I was nearly married once,” he admitted.
Hearing her swift intake of breath, Christian glanced toward her, surprised to see her staring at him with a stunned expression that hardly seemed a fitting response to his disclosure. Did she think that no one wanted him? Christian frowned. Just because she had odd tastes did not mean he wasn’t on the list of every other woman, especially those who valued wealth and a title more than arcane attributes like scholarship and honesty.
“Who?” she asked, her voice odd.
Christian shrugged. “One of the duke of Bedford’s innumerable daughters. Lily, or was it Jonquil? All of them are named after flowers, and each is more spoiled and scheming than the last.” Christian couldn’t help tensing at the memory of his close escape. Too close.
“What happened?”
“Unfortunately she took a fancy to me, and since none of the duke’s daughters have ever been denied anything, she fully expected me, and my grandfather, to fall at her feet, prostrate with gratitude at the opportunity to join her family. When I did not, she used all her wiles to trap me.”
Christian’s expression hardened. “She arranged for us to be ‘discovered’ in the garden, she in a state of dishabille that would require me to do the proper thing. Thankfully, I sent my regrets in answer to her invitation by way of a young man who was eager to take my place. You could hear her shrieks all the way to the ballroom.”
“I see,” Abigail said softly.
Did she? Christian wondered. Then perhaps she might excuse some of his worst behavior. He had become wary after that, wary of women and flirtations and invitations. While he tried to find the words to explain, she set the steaming tart upon the table before him, and Christian gave up all attempt at speech. The scent made his mouth water and his stomach growl, and he wasted no time in cutting into it. He popped the first piece, still hot, into his mouth, and then closed his eyes. Heavenly.
He was tempted to propose right then and there, but the prospect of an abrupt rejection stopped him. Instead, he gazed up at her longingly. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to take over the cooking here, at least during my stay?”
15
Abigail found herself wandering the rooms of Sibel Hall, seized by a restlessness that made working in the study impossible. Instead of doing her duty, she found herself longing for… adventure, or at least the exploration of some secret passageways. But Christian had found no other hides and seemed unlikely to do so. And what other sort of adventure could she expect to find here in Devon?
She flushed as the memory of what had happened in the priest’s escape returned in all its lurid glory. It wasn’t as though she was looking for… that. She was simply bored, not with the deadly dull tedium she had known as a companion but with books and correspondence and such. It was all Christian’s fault. He had awakened her from her stupor, and now she wanted… life. But life usually consisted of obligations and work, not heart-thudding excitement.
Yet even as Abigail reasoned with herself, her steps led her through the house, seeking something. Or was it someone? Perhaps, she admitted. But who could blame her for forgoing the isolation of the study and the tepid conversation of her cousins for the dazzling company of her houseguest? Abigail frowned at the thought, aware that since she had changed her mind about him, Christian had become far too appealing to her. Now, instead of cataloguing his faults, she could do naught but admire everything about him, even the teasing wit she once would have dismissed.
Abigail had the uneasy sensation that her feelings for the man were becoming far too particular, which could only lead to heartache, as well she knew. That sort of pain had been one of the reasons she had cut herself off from the world, and she didn’t want to go through it again. And yet the reckless embrace of life that had been roused in the passage drove her forward, overriding her reservations.
She told herself that theirs was a harmless flirtation, the kind that she had never had the chance to engage in before. Who could blame her for wanting to enjoy a more lighthearte
d existence, that which had been denied her after the death of her parents? And if she stole a few kisses? Well, that, too, was an experience she had never known.
Except that she wasn’t getting any kisses.
Abigail stifled a discontented sigh. Since his first aborted efforts to woo her on the stairs, Christian had not approached her again. She could have sworn that a man like the viscount would be undeterred by her refusal, and yet he had behaved like a gentleman. Such conduct proved that he was different from the usual fellows who importuned her, and a woman could hardly find fault with a man who took her at her word, for that was just the sort of man she wanted, wasn’t it?
It was, Abigail confirmed. And yet, she knew an absurd yearning to be importuned once more. Certainly, there had been that time in die passageway, but she had been the one to instigate that, and though she hoped for some kind of repetition, days had passed and nothing had happened. When she had learned that he was lurking outside her bedroom during the night hours, it had taken all her strength not to fling open the door and seek him out. She had lain abed, sleepless and breathless, listening for any sound of a knock, but Christian had remained a gentleman.
Truth be told, Abigail was growing rather disgruntled by the whole thing. For the first time since she had expounded on male virtues—virtues she admittedly had deemed lacking in the viscount—she began to wonder if the traits she had listed were as desirable as she had originally thought. Perhaps there was such a thing as too much studiousness in a man, for a devotion to books left little time for… adventure.
The tinkle of piano keys drew her from her thoughts, and she wondered if Sir Boundefort was up and about, now trying to communicate his wishes through music. Although Christian seemed to believe the ghost wasn’t real, Abigail wasn’t so sure. She had no evidence of his existence, and yet she could hardly imagine anyone perpetrating such an elaborate hoax here at Sibel Hall. It was baffling, but she had no doubt now that Christian would solve the mystery. Impatient at first with his seeming lack of progress, Abigail no longer chafed at the delay. In fact, she rather dreaded the prospect of his success, for to whom would she look for adventure then?
A Man Of Many Talents Page 22