Secrets of a Perfect Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Indeed. Hawsley House is large and fully staffed.”

  Lips compressed, Abby turned her sights on him. “And just what are your plans?” she inquired.

  Adrian smiled at her—for the first time that day, he let his intent light his eyes. “I’d thought to ask your advice on refurbishing Bellevere. God knows, no gentleman should ever have to undertake such a task on his own.”

  “Gracious heavens, no!” Esme declared. “Just imagine—nothing would match.”

  Adrian inclined his head, but kept his gaze on Abby’s upturned face. “And, of course, I’m keen to get the house fully livable again, and I’m afraid it won’t meet my standards until the refurbishing’s complete.”

  Abby wondered if she was interpreting him correctly. “So you won’t reopen the house, and hire more staff, until the refurbishing’s done?”

  “Precisely.”

  His lips curved just a little; Abby tensed.

  “Until the refurbishing’s completed to my satisfaction and all is in place, as it should be, at Bellevere, I really can’t see any point in returning to the moor.”

  Abby returned his steady gaze with a narrow-eyed look, but her heart had sunk. Adrian knew her far too well—he knew she could never bear to be the reason he didn’t come home. Why London, she had no idea, but she couldn’t see how it would change things. Leaning back, she returned his cool smile. “I see. So—when do you wish to leave?”

  As soon as humanly possible was the real answer; although Adrian disguised that admirably, Abby sensed his impatience. She still couldn’t see the reason for it, so remained constantly on guard.

  They arrived at Hawsley House in Curzon Street late one afternoon after three days on the road. Although Abby had visited the capital and the gardens at Kew on a number of occasions, this was her first excursion into the heart of the ton. As Adrian handed her from the carriage and they followed Esme up the front steps of his town house, she inwardly approved the relative quiet and cleanliness of the fashionable quarter.

  Once past the imposing front door, she discovered she also approved the clean, almost austere lines of Adrian’s house—there was no gilt and nothing fussy in sight. Except for the spray of flowers on a side table, and indeed, they provided a nice splash of color against the otherwise severe decor.

  Adrian’s gaze alighted on the flowers, and he gave his characteristic almost-smile. “Ah—how fortunate. Mama is here.”

  Janet, Vicountess Dere, was delighted to see them; she greeted Abby like a long-lost daughter. “My dear, it’s been too long!” Releasing her from a scented embrace, she added, “I’ve heard of your success with your paintings and often wondered.” She beamed at Adrian and offered her cheek, which he dutifully kissed. “Visitors in January—darling, you are so thoughtful.”

  Esme and Janet knew each other of old; Abby was not surprised when, next morning over the breakfast table, she discovered Adrian now had two allies instead of one.

  “Your aunt and I are going visiting old friends, dear—you must let Dere entertain you.”

  Abby smiled sweetly, and risked not a glance at he who, she knew, would be only too happy to entertain her. To her surprise, he took her to a fabric warehouse, where they spent the morning examining swatches, then repaired with a selection to his library to match possibilities against Bellevere’s needs.

  Helping him refurbish Bellevere—ostensibly the reason she was there—was, Abby decided, a safe enough “entertainment.” When it came to Bellevere, Adrian was all business; while focused on his plans for the house, he was relatively single-minded. Reasonably safe.

  The next day he whisked her off to a carpet showroom, and then to a furniture maker. The day after that, it was wallpapers, paints, and mirrors. The next day was rainy and miserable; they spent the morning in his library arguing over color schemes, then after lunch, Adrian drew out a sketch of the floor plan of Bellevere and they started marking in all they’d agreed to order.

  It was then, with the sun breaking through the clouds to shine palely through the library window, slanting across the pad Abby held on her lap as she sketched a study of the formal drawing room as it now existed in her mind, that she realized how deeply enmeshed in the rejuvenation of Adrian’s home she’d become.

  She glanced across the room to where he sat behind his desk, marking items on the plan. His devotion to the house wasn’t feigned; their present activity wasn’t something he’d devised purely to tempt her to him. As she studied his concentration, her lips twisted, lifted; she looked down at her sketch. He might have used the need to refurbish Bellevere to bring her to London, but…she doubted he had any idea how much the activity appealed to her, much less how his devotion to that cause endeared him to her. Persistence and dedication were not attributes she’d previously seen in him; they were abundantly plain now.

  Indeed, she was seeing a different Adrian, one considerably changed from the young man she’d known. In his hellion days, his gambling, drinking, and womanizing had scandalized the ton; now he seemed a pattern card of the gentlemanly virtues—a devoted son, a caring master, a man who valued his home. She had yet to see him even mildly intoxicated, other than on the night of the blizzard, and that had been more her fault than his. After dinner every night, he did not go out to carouse or game as many gentlemen of his station would; instead, he repaired to his library. She’d looked in and found him reading—reading books she wanted to read.

  From chance remarks and Agnes’s reports, she’d learned that that was his general habit; he wasn’t donning any sheep’s fleece for her benefit.

  She glanced at him again, at the silky brown hair shining in the weak sunlight. It was sometime before she returned to her sketch.

  The following day dawned fine; Adrian offered to drive her to Kew so she could look around and catch up with the curators. She agreed with alacrity, but as they rolled along in his new curricle, she wondered if he’d be bored. He wasn’t, neither did he hover beside her, as any other gentleman of her acquaintance would have, much to her irritation. Instead, while she talked to the curators and two of her fellow artists, Adrian wandered off; when she was ready to leave she had to go and find him, and drag him away from an exhibition of cacti.

  To her considerable surprise, Abby found herself enjoying her stay in the capital.

  As this was January, the ton was essentially “not in residence.” Those with country estates had yet to return and would not for some weeks. The town was largely devoid of fashionable matrons and gimlet-eyed dowagers; parties were few and balls rare. Those who remained enjoyed a more relaxed ambience, a less structured existence. With the demands of society absent, it was easy to live much as one pleased.

  That freedom suited Abby—she inveigled Adrian to drive her around town and stop here and there so she could sketch. She rarely had the opportunity to sketch buildings; it would be a shame to pass up the chance.

  One morning as she busily sketched Horse Guards, she realized Adrian, seated beside her in the curricle, had become very still. She glanced his way. He was holding one of her sketch books, staring at a page. His expression was unreadable. Then he looked up, and his eyes met hers.

  A moment passed, then he asked, his voice low, “Can I have this one?”

  Puzzled, Abby shifted to look at which one he meant.

  It was a sketch she’d done of Bellevere—a series of sketches of elevations, different faces of the old house. She’d done them when she’d first thought of sketching the buildings in London as an exercise to prime her hand.

  She had done the sketches from memory, which meant he was looking at Bellevere as it had been, not as it was.

  Her impulse was to say, “Yes, of course”—her inner artist prompted her to lean closer and check over the work, then she nodded. “If you like.”

  He looked at the sketch again, then handed her the book. “Sign it.”

  Placing it atop the book she was working on, she did, then closed the sketchbook and handed it to him. “Keep it s
hut until we get back to the house. I’ll cut it out for you.”

  They returned to Hawsley House to find Janet and Esme bubbling. “There’s to be a dinner party tonight at the Coombe-Martins’,” Janet informed them. “We’re all invited.”

  Abby gazed at her. “Oh.” She’d packed her best gowns; until she’d seen the toilettes of the London ladies, she’d thought them quite good enough. But now, with a dinner party to face…She blinked. “I really don’t think—”

  “Dere—you must take us to Madame Folliot’s this afternoon. Esme wishes to look at the latest fashions.” Janet switched her gaze to Abby. “You must come, too, dear. Bruton Street is one place not to be missed on a visit to the capital.”

  Suspicious though she was, Abby could not decline the viscountess’s invitation. So she went—only to find herself bullied into trying on, and then presented with, a day dress, two evening gowns, and an absolutely sinful ball gown of aquamarine silk with a gauze overdress. It did not escape her notice that Janet looked to her son for approval for each dress.

  Janet brushed all Abby’s protests aside with a glorious smile. “My dear, you’re almost a goddaughter to me and it’s been years since I had the pleasure of buying such gowns. Pray indulge an old lady in this.”

  What could she say? Abby accepted the gifts prettily—and threw a glance at Adrian, one that promised retribution. Unfortunately, with the dinner that evening, she had to wear one of her new gowns, mind her manners and take his arm, and lean on him constantly for social support. He came to her aid with his usual charm and elegant flair; when she climbed into bed that night, she was too pleasantly entertained to give thought to his comeuppance.

  The next day they spent finalizing fabrics and ordering linens; the following day saw them at an emporium specializing in silverware, crystal, and plate. Abby felt a fraud as the owner, having ascertained Adrian’s rank, put himself at their disposal and proceeded to lay before her his best patterns.

  After twenty minutes, Abby sent him to fetch a particular decanter she’d glimpsed in a distant display case; the instant the man was out of earshot, she turned and frowned at Adrian, lounging against the display case beside her. “Your viscountess should be making these decisions,” she hissed.

  Adrian turned his head; his eyes met hers. “She is.”

  The steadiness of his amber gaze, the unshakable conviction infusing his calm tone, shook her as nothing else had. She couldn’t think what to say, how to deny it—then the owner was back and she had to turn to him and pretend to examine the decanter.

  She refused to make any firm decisions on patterns and plate—so Adrian made them for her, unerringly selecting precisely those designs she would, in fact, have chosen; he’d been watching her more closely than she’d realized. Irritated, annoyed, and distinctly shaken, she said not a word on the drive back to Curzon Street.

  They entered Hawsley House to be met with startling news.

  “The Wardsleys are holding a ball! Not a small one, either.” Janet waved them to chairs as she poured them cups of tea. “Arabella Wardsley called not an hour ago—their daughter Helen has contracted a very favorable alliance with Lord Dunbarry. He’s cousin and heir to the old Duke of Selkirk, and His Grace will be passing through London next week, so everyone who is anyone is invited to a ball in honor of the betrothal.”

  Janet sat back, eyes alight. “Just imagine! Whoever would have anticipated a major ball at this time of year?”

  Abby smiled weakly, and wondered if Adrian somehow had.

  The true extent of his machinations was brought home to her that evening when, on retiring to her chamber, she found on the table beside her bed a new, leather-bound, gilt-tooled volume of John Donne’s poems. She was sitting on the bed, the book in her hands, swept away by the sheer power of the words before she knew it.

  The candle flickered as she neared the end of one beautifully evocative piece. Sighing, she closed the book, then hesitated. After a moment, she opened the front cover. She hadn’t bothered before; it seemed obvious who had left the book for her.

  She was right.

  When she read what he had written, she shut the book and closed her eyes, and fought to calm her heart, to extinguish the hope that, without her knowing it, without her permission, had, she now realized, been growing steadily stronger every day.

  “Damn him.” How dare he put her through this? Again.

  Abruptly opening her eyes, she laid the book aside, stood, and walked from the room.

  The house was silent. Everyone else had retired, but she suspected Adrian read until late. She reached the main staircase and descended. The light glowing beneath the library door confirmed her guess; squaring her shoulders, she straightened her spine, then opened the door and walked in.

  She paused to shut the door behind her, then continued across the expanse of carpet to the large desk behind which Adrian sat. He wasn’t reading tonight but occupied with accounts; he’d looked up at her entrance, then watched her approach, but as she neared, he looked back at his ledgers.

  “What is it?”

  Abby stopped before the desk and glared at his bent head. “You’re seducing me!”

  “Hmm.” He blotted an entry. “Is it working?”

  Abby stared at him. “You’re supposed to be the expert—can’t you tell?”

  He glanced up and met her gaze. “I’ve never seduced a woman into marriage before, so no, I can’t.”

  With that, he went back to filling in figures. Abby glanced around for something to hit him with—her eye alighted on a heavy brass paperweight.

  “Don’t even think of it.”

  She looked back at him—and her temper rose another notch. He hadn’t even glanced at her—she hated it that he knew her so well!

  She knew him well, too.

  Folding her arms, she considered him; when she had her voice firmly under control, she stated, “Adrian, I don’t understand why you’ve developed this fixation on having me as your wife, but you will simply have to accept that it is not going to happen. I am not going to marry you.”

  With maddening precision, he laid aside his pen, blotted his last entry, then closed the ledger. Then and only then did he look up at her.

  “You—or no one, Abby.” He met her eyes, ruthless determination in his. After a moment, he added, “Your choice.”

  Abby stared at him. Stared and stared, but nothing changed. He did not waver. Did not add any word, any gesture, to soften his words or give them any other meaning. Her, or no one.

  All that he meant, the completeness and finality of his vow, rolled through her.

  A minute ticked by. Then she drew in an unsteady breath, inclined her head, turned, and walked from the room.

  Five

  NO POWER ON earth will induce me to marry Adrian Andrew Hawsley.

  Abby could remember saying the words; she’d meant them, too.

  Standing at the window of her bedchamber, she stared unseeing at the courtyard below, still wrapped in early morning shadows. She could clearly recall marching into her father’s study after learning from Adrian of the plot to force him to marry her; at that moment, she hadn’t known who she’d been more furious with—his father, hers, or Adrian. Or herself. But she’d known what she had to do and she’d held to her line. Not until it had all blown over and Adrian had returned to London did she allow herself to even acknowledge her shattered heart and her broken, trampled dreams.

  Until Adrian had spoken so bitterly against marrying her, she hadn’t even admitted to herself that she’d dreamed—dreamed of him recognizing and desiring her love, desiring her. What they’d shared on that single afternoon on the moor had opened her heart and unlocked her soul. Her love had blossomed and grown. The fact that he’d never thereafter referred to the interlude had not concerned her—she’d expected him to take some time to come to grips with what now lay between them. Instead…

  At the time, after the first rush of grief, she had consoled herself that perhaps Adrian did i
ndeed love her, but that their fathers’ ill-advised plan had set his back up—as it naturally would. If so, he would eventually calm down, accept the truth in his heart, and return to her.

  So she’d waited.

  He hadn’t returned.

  Not until, on New Year’s Day, he’d arrived and fallen at her feet.

  Abby grimaced. There was no point pretending she didn’t love him—he knew she did. That wasn’t the question that lay at the heart of their coil; it never had been. There had only ever been one question—one denial—that had kept them apart.

  She remained staring out of the window until the stirrings in the house warned her it was time to get dressed. Lips firming despite her abiding uncertainty, she turned into the room.

  No power on earth could induce her to marry Adrian Andrew Hawsley—except, perhaps, love.

  He’d said he was returning to the moor to pick up the pieces of his past and rebuild, determined to make a better fist of it this time.

  If that was truly so, then perhaps she could do the same.

  He’d found the sketch she’d done of the drawing room in its new finery; Adrian came to the breakfast table with the leaf in his hand.

  “Why, this is marvelous!” Janet threw her a dazzling smile. “Can you do sketches like this of the other rooms, too? It would be so nice to see what Adrian’s thinking of doing.”

  It would, indeed, be nice to know what Adrian was thinking of doing; Abby let her gaze touch his face just long enough to see the smug triumph in his eyes before inclining her head. “If you wish.”

  The request would give her something to do to fill her days.

  She started immediately after breakfast, settling in the window seat in the library where the light was excellent. She glanced up as Adrian took the chair behind the desk. “I won’t disturb you, will I?”

  He arched a brow at her; their eyes held for an instant. “I’ll manage.”