Secrets of a Perfect Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  It was midafternoon and the parlor was crowded. Whether his hold on his temper would last until evening was anyone’s guess. Adrian allowed a Mrs. Woolcliffe, a newcomer to the district, to buttonhole him; while he listened to her ramblings, he watched Abby across the room.

  Mrs. Woolcliffe’s gangling son was attempting to ingratiate himself into Abby’s good graces. To Adrian, Abby looked quietly bored. Quietly distracted. Apparently Woolcliffe realized—he grabbed her hand. Startled, Abby tried to pull it back.

  Adrian stiffened. He was about to excuse himself to Mrs. Woolcliffe, then stalk across the room and throw her son out, when the new squire, a Mr. Kilby, moved in and spoke sharply to Woolcliffe.

  One glance at Abby’s face, and it was clear Kilby had opened his mouth only to put his foot in it. Adrian forced the tension from his shoulders, and paid spurious attention to Mrs. Woolcliffe. If Abby’s would-be suitors wanted to annoy her, who was he to interfere?

  He had already realized that in painting her picture of village life for him, Abby had omitted a few details. Such as her central role in village affairs, and the plethora of would-be suitors sniffing about her heels. While he had no quarrel with the former, the latter he had a definite opinion about. Not, of course, that he’d be fool enough to air that opinion to Abby, as, by the militant look in her eye, Kilby had just done.

  Adrian bided his time, smoothly moving through the crowd without haste or apparent direction. He arrived at Abby’s side in time to hear Kilby declare, “Regardless, I hope you’ll have the good sense to leave off your customary jaunts on the moor—there’s sure to be more snow.”

  Abby stiffened. She turned to Adrian as he joined them, and smiled warmly. “Ah, Adrian—Viscount Dere, I should say—allow me to present Mr. Kilby.”

  Adrian inwardly grinned at her supposed social stumble. She’d used his first name to irritate Kilby, and had succeeded. Kilby returned his nod stiffly.

  “I hear, my lord, that your curricle ran off the road in the snowstorm. Daresay with the thaw setting in, you’ll be going on to Bellevere tomorrow.”

  Adrian smiled; the gesture did not reach his eyes. “If the thaw holds, I certainly expect to be journeying to Bellevere tomorrow.”

  Kilby nodded sanctimoniously. “I was just telling Miss Woolley that the moor is no place for a gently reared lady, not in any weather but especially not now.”

  “Indeed?” Arching a brow, Adrian turned to Abby. “It seems, my dear, that in light of your established habits, Kilby no longer deems you a lady.”

  Abby suppressed her gasp and fought not to laugh; Adrian’s amber eyes audaciously quizzed her, daring her to grasp the opportunity to put Kilby in his place. She knew she shouldn’t encourage Adrian—God only knew how outrageous he might become—but she couldn’t resist. Drawing herself up, she looked censoriously at Kilby.

  He had paled. His gaping mouth closed, then opened again. “That isn’t what I meant!” he eventually got out.

  “Isn’t it?” Adrian turned his devilish gaze on him. “I must admit it seems a long bow. Abby—Miss Woolley—has been riding the moor since she could sit a pony. So have I. No one’s yet suggested such an activity tarnishes my claims to gentility—I don’t see why it should affect hers.”

  Mr. Kilby drew in a long breath. “I meant,” he said, “that it’s dangerous for a lady to ride the moor, especially with snow on the ground.”

  “As to danger,” Adrian drawled, “it’s been my observation over many years that Miss Woolley knows the moor as well as I, which is to say a great deal better than most. And as she doesn’t go out collecting specimens between the first freeze and early spring, there seems little call for your concern, sir.”

  Stiff before, Kilby was now rigid. “All ladies need to be protected—”

  “Especially from gentlemen who fail to appreciate them.” Adrian inclined his head. “My sentiments exactly.”

  Kilby nearly choked. High color suffusing his face, he bowed stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Abby regally inclined her head. Adrian merely watched as the squire stalked from the room. “Dunderhead,” he murmured.

  Abby sighed. “He means well.”

  “Most meddlers do.” The latest visitor paused on the parlor threshold; Adrian frowned. “Who the devil’s this?”

  The gentleman located Abby and quickly came forward, a wide smile creasing his face. He wore a floppy navy silk bow in place of a cravat. His loose coat was as ill fitting as Adrian’s was elegant.

  Swallowing another sigh, Abby held out her hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Potts.”

  Ignatius Potts clasped her hand warmly. “My dear Miss Abigail.”

  “Allow me to present you to Viscount Dere. His lordship is staying with us for the present.”

  “So I heard.” Mr. Potts’s cheeriness evaporated. He eyed Adrian narrowly while returning his nod. “The storm…It was a few days ago, wasn’t it?”

  Adrian smiled. Wolfishly.

  “I rather loose track of the days, y’know,” Potts ingenuously admitted. “Don’t know if Miss Abigail has mentioned, but I’m a painter. Landscapes, of course,” he quickly added as if Adrian might imagine he painted flowers like Abby. “Vistas of the moor—all the power and passion of the wilds, that sort of thing. Sells quite well, if I do say so myself.”

  Adrian merely raised his brows politely; Abby gave thanks. Bellevere housed a huge collection of moor landscapes, many of them highly prized. Adrian had seen the moor all his life, through artists’ eyes as well as his own.

  “Incidentally, my dear”—Potts turned to her—“I’m still very keen to view your studio. Perhaps today—”

  “I really couldn’t leave all these guests, Mr. Potts.” Eyes wide, Abby glanced at Adrian.

  “But once they leave—”

  “Actually, Potts, I’m looking to refurbish Bellevere.” Adrian frowned consideringly; he suddenly had Potts’s complete attention. “I’m not sure how many of the old pictures will still be presentable—” As if just recalling Abby standing between them, Adrian smiled charmingly at her. “Pardon my manners, my dear, but if you’ll excuse us, I believe Mr. Potts should tell me more of his work.”

  Abby was torn between kissing Adrian for saving her, and warning him not to buy any of Potts’s work. She contented herself with a smiling nod for both men and escaped to the chaise where Esme sat. Ignatius Potts, his eyes alight, fixed on Adrian, barely seemed to notice. Abby felt a twinge of guilt at leaving him to Adrian’s untender mercies, but…she wasn’t going to have him in her studio.

  Ten minutes later, she realized Esme was seriously tired. The room was still crowded. At a loss, Abby caught Adrian’s eye, then swept her gaze about the room, bringing it finally to rest on Esme—then she looked back at him. His lips thinned just a fraction as he nodded. She could not understand how he managed it, especially given all those in the room viewed him with suspicion, but he had them all up and moving out within five minutes. And not one of them knew they’d been herded.

  There were definite benefits in having a well-trained wolf to call upon; Abby inwardly admitted that as she sank onto the chaise and exchanged a speaking glance with Esme.

  “Thank goodness—and Dere—they’re all gone,” Esme sighed. “I don’t think we’ve had such a crowd since your birthday.”

  “If then.” The prospect of scandal stirred the locals to action much more effectively than a mere birthday.

  Abby heard the front door shut; an instant later Adrian strolled in. He paused on the threshold, and smiled, first at Esme, then at her. More intently at her, his amber gaze steady and direct. Abby returned that intense regard evenly, drinking in the sight of him filling her doorway, elegant and dangerous and ineffably assured. A wolf indeed.

  Unfortunately, not a tame one.

  The next morning they woke to the sound of steady dripping. During breakfast they heard the soft, long-drawn swoooosh as snow slid from the roof. After consuming tea and toast, Abby made for the front d
oor; having devoured a much larger repast, Adrian followed.

  Abby stood at the open front door, peering out at the lane. “The ice has gone.”

  Looking over her head, Adrian saw two brown furrows showing through the snow where some carriage had already gone past. “You have a gig, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Abby turned to look at him. “Are you really intent on pushing on to Bellevere?”

  “I promised Kilby, after all.”

  Abby humphed. She looked across the moor to where heavy clouds hung low on the horizon. “There’s more snow on the way.”

  “It won’t reach us until late afternoon.”

  Abby stared at the clouds. After a moment, she said, “There’s only the Crochets out there—I seriously doubt Mrs. Crochet will have put enough by to cater to your appetite.”

  Adrian lowered his gaze to her profile. “Mmm.”

  “It might, perhaps, be better to just visit today. That way she’ll have warning of your intention to reside there and will have time to get supplies in from the village.” Abby turned and met his gaze. “And we can leave Bolt here so he won’t risk a relapse.”

  Adrian managed not to smile. “That’s certainly a consideration.”

  Abby glanced at the clouds, and frowned. “Perhaps we’d better put off your visit until tomorrow.”

  “No.” As much as he enjoyed the company at Mallard Cottage, Adrian was eager to see his home again. He glanced at Abby. “We’ll go today.”

  They set out an hour later, Abby, wrapped in a traveling rug, perched beside Adrian as he guided her old dappled mare through the village, then out along the lane to Bellevere. She kept an eye on the storm clouds; the weather across the moor was unpredictable at best, but the clouds seemed to hover, edging closer perhaps but not racing across the desolate expanse. Tonight, she estimated, then they’d have more snow. Adrian had been right to grasp the opportunity to visit Bellevere; they might again be immured for days.

  The fact that she now deemed that a thoroughly desirable happening was not one she allowed herself to dwell on.

  Her first sight of Bellevere, as always, stole her breath—it was one of the few large houses built right out on the moor, partially sheltered by a low ridge at its back. Built of red bricks, mellowed now with age, with tall chimneys crowned with ornate pots, the house stood as if it had been planted into the earth and was now a part of the landscape. Mullioned windows reflected the day’s gray light all along the Elizabethan facade. As they drew nearer, the Georgian wings with their cleaner lines came into view. The sweeping front drive separated the wide lawn from the front steps; all the gardens were tucked away behind the house, enclosed and protected from the weather.

  From the first glimpse, Adrian had slowed the mare, drinking in the sight of his home as if checking the reality against his memories. The snow in the forecourt lay pristine and undisturbed; they were the first to visit since the snowstorm. Very possibly the first to come to the front door in years.

  Adrian tied off the reins and handed her from the gig. Abby shook out her skirts, then, her hand in his, climbed the snow-encrusted steps. Adrian hesitated, then tried the front door, but it was securely bolted. He rang the bell; they both listened and heard it peal in the distance.

  Footsteps approached, slowly and rather warily. Bellevere was too far from the village for the Crochets to have heard the news. Then the bolts were shot back, the door cracked open, and Crochet looked out. Abby saw Mrs Crochet peering past her husband.

  They hadn’t seen their master in seven years, but they recognized him instantly. Mrs Crochet gave an uncharacteristic squeal of delight; Crochet simply beamed. They entered and Crochet shut the door. Abby stood quietly in the shadows of the paneled hall as Adrian greeted his caretakers, explaining his presence and his intention to resume permanent residence.

  “If only I’da known,” Mrs Crochet wailed. “All the holland covers are still on.”

  Adrian smoothly reassured her, explaining that today he would just look over the house. “I’ll return to Mallard Cottage this afternoon. Bolt’s there. I’ll transfer here once you’ve had a chance to reprovision accordingly.”

  Mrs. Crochet nodded. “Aye—that’ll be wise. We’ve most things put by, but there’re some items I’ll need.” She smiled brightly at both Abby and Adrian. “I’ll clear the family parlor and the dining room, then, and get the kettle on, and when you’ve had your look around, if you just pull the bell in the parlor, I’ll bring you in a nice lunch.”

  Beaming, she bustled away to the kitchens. With a nod, Crochet left to tend to the gig. Adrian turned to Abby. “Would you like to wait in the parlor?”

  “No.” She stepped to his side. “I’ll come with you.”

  They went through the downstairs rooms first, Adrian pausing in his father’s study to locate paper and pencil. The huge reception rooms were in remarkably good condition. The conservatory would need to be completely remodeled but once done, the views across the enclosed gardens would be magnificent. As for the library…

  “This will have to wait until spring, when we can open all the windows.”

  Nose wrinkled at the must and the quite incredible dust, Abby nodded. They climbed the wide staircase together, pausing on the landing to exchange a glance, then peek inside the visor of the suit of armor that stood in the landing alcove. Abby giggled; Adrian grinned. They went on.

  The accommodations upstairs were extensive. Adrian took copious notes, examining fragile furnishings and demanding Abby’s opinion on what should be replaced. In the viscountess’s boudoir, after admitting that, in her opinion, the entire room would need to be redone, she glanced around his shoulder at his list. “It’ll take a small fortune to do all that.”

  He glanced up; their eyes met. “So?”

  She blinked at him; his lips curved. “I have been doing something other than bolstering my reputation over the past years, you know.”

  Abby straightened. “I didn’t know”—she strolled to the door, then glanced innocently back—“but I suppose you had to do something to fill your days.”

  He grinned and followed her. “Just so.”

  The words thrummed along her nerves; Abby suppressed a reactive shiver and led the way out.

  On finishing the main suites, they descended to the dining room and consumed a light repast, then returned upstairs. “The minor rooms can wait.” Adrian turned to the nursery stairs. “The essentials first.”

  Abby trailed in his wake. She leaned against the doorframe of the schoolroom and watched him wander, touching dog-eared books, running a fingertip over the model of a galleon. A kite hanging in a corner caught his eye; she watched as his face lit, the wonder of boyhood revisited.

  She wouldn’t have missed these stolen moments for the world. As they’d passed through the rooms, she’d seen glimpses of the boy and youth she’d known—precious fragments of memory come alive again, glowing for one fleeting instant. She grasped each image, anchoring it in her memory. Memories were all she would shortly have left—of him, of what had been.

  If he rated the nursery as essential, his nuptials could not be far off. She wondered, again, what the lady he had chosen was like, what manner of woman she was, whether she would understand him, his inherent wildness, whether she would understand she moor and how much he needed to be here.

  That last, to her, was very clear. Adrian at Bellevere was a different man from the dangerous London rake. It was as if the crisp wind off the moor stripped away his mask, leaving the real man revealed. Not that the real man was any less dangerous—quite the opposite, in fact, especially to her. She reminded herself of that as, at his insistent beckoning, she followed him into the next room.

  Continuing to voice her opinions on demand, she seized the opportunity to study him. He was fascinating in a way she hadn’t imagined him being—he had changed, so was unknown in some respects yet so very familiar in others, hence comforting and challenging at once. The contrast appealed to her artist’s soul. His
resolution was new, a definite sign of maturity, evolving from his youthful wildness and stubbornness. And it was focused, too, although she wasn’t quite certain on what—his future, and Bellevere, and…something else. Perhaps she who would share the house with him?

  As she ambled in his wake, she inwardly frowned. Whoever the paragon was, he was keeping her identity a close secret. Did the lady actually exist, or was she reading too much into his behavior?

  They reached the principal suite. The furniture was swathed in dust covers, but appeared in relatively good repair. Adrian prowled the room; Abby perched on the bed and watched him.

  “Why have you come home?”

  Across the room he met her eyes. “I got tired of it all, tired of accomplishing nothing—or at least, nothing that lasted, nothing of any significance.”

  Abby frowned as he went into the dressing room. “But I thought you’d made your fortune.”

  “Increased my fortune.” His voice floated out to her. “I’ve been dabbling in business to good effect, and my Sussex and Kent estates are thriving. But neither of them ever felt like home.” He reemerged. “So here I am, returning to pick up the reins and rebuild, older and hopefully wiser.”

  She eyed him as he strolled toward her, an oddly intent gleam in his eye. “Rebuild what?” she asked as he stopped beside her.

  He tilted his head, studying her face. “A home, a family.” His eyes met hers and held. “To put down roots, here, on the moor.”

  Abby’s heart leapt, then plummeted, like plunging off a cliff. She forced herself to nod, stand, and lead the way from the room.

  His determination had rung in his voice, shone in his amber eyes. The image that had flashed across her mind was a vision of her personal Holy Grail, but…the one thing she could swear to about his intended bride was: It wouldn’t be her.

  “It must be getting late.” She threw the words over her shoulder. “We should start back.”

  “The gallery.” He was just behind her. “After that, we can call it a day.”