When Gifford had decided to accept Anthony's wager he'd also decided that, rather than staying in a hotel, he would prefer the greater privacy afforded by hiring a house. The mere thought that his nightmares might lead him to make a fool of himself in public had made him shudder. It was ironic that his own house in
Bath hadn't been available to him. But neither Gifford nor his brother had lived in England for years, and his uncle, who took care of Gifford's business affairs, had leased the house to the large family of a distant maternal relative. Gifford had no personal knowledge of those particular relatives. He intended to make a formal call upon them, but he had no intention of imposing upon them—or of living in their pockets. Instead, he had asked Admiral Pullen to seek out suitable quarters for him in Bath.
It had never occurred to him that in doing so he had provided the admiral with a perfect opportunity to do some matchmaking. Did Pullen really think Gifford's wager with Anthony was no more than a ruse to enable him to search for a wife? Or had the admiral simply decided it was time his protege wed, and taken advantage of Gifford's arrival to select Miss Abigail Summers for the questionable honour of becoming his lady?
Gifford could only hope Abigail had been so flustered she hadn't noticed the admiral's broad hints. He most definitely wasn't looking for a wife—no matter how amiable or good at housekeeping the lady might prove to be.
He was in Bath solely to prove he was capable of doing nothing more adventurous than stroll down to the Pump Room every morning for a month without kicking over the traces from the predictable boredom.
But he privately acknowledged to himself his stay in Bath would also give him a chance to consider his future. Would he go to sea again? Or was it time to take
up his position as head of the Raven family with all the responsibilities that entailed?
'Perhaps it will be harder for you to avoid an adventure in Bath than I'd anticipated.' Anthony's low-voiced comment interrupted Gifford's thoughts. 'The next month might turn out to be quite entertaining.'
Gifford frowned at his cousin's obvious amusement. 'I see no reason for you to assume that,' he said coldly.
Chapter Two
Abigail walked home slowly, partly because of the heat, but mainly because she needed time to compose herself. Miss Wyndham would be especially interested to hear about such fascinating new arrivals. Abigail couldn't suppress the information, but she did want to present it in such a way that she didn't call any undue attention to herself. It was essential she didn't blush or look self-conscious. Miss Wyndham had a lively interest in romance, and she would tease Abigail good-humouredly if she believed she was smitten with Gifford Raven.
But when she arrived at the house, she discovered Miss Wyndham had a much more important visitor.
'Abigail! You've been gone so long! Charles has come to stay!' Miss Wyndham exclaimed, the moment Abigail entered the drawing room.
'Miss Abigail, how do you do?' Charles Johnson rose from his chair to greet her. 'You look as charming as always.'
'Thank you, sir. I hope you're well?' Abigail allowed him to kiss her hand, but retrieved it as quickly as possible.
'In fine form, Miss Abigail,' he declared. 'And all the better for seeing my favourite aunt and her lovely companion.'
'I'm your only aunt!' Miss Wyndham protested, her eyes bright with pleasure. She was in better spirits than Abigail had seen her for weeks.
'Very true. But you could be my only aunt and an old harridan I never venture near from one year's end to the next. Or—you could be my own, gracious and charming aunt whose society I long for whenever we are apart.' Charles swept an extravagant bow towards her.
'What a rascal!' Miss Wyndham was flattered and delighted by his fulsome compliment. T didn't expect to see you until the autumn. When you wrote, you mentioned you'd be spending the summer in Brighton. I'm so glad to see you. So thoughtful. Isn't he thoughtful?' she appealed to Abigail. 'To choose to spend time with a tired old woman when he could be cutting a dash with his friends.'
'Very considerate,' Abigail agreed drily. It seemed to her there was an undercurrent of anxious hopefulness in Miss Wyndham's voice, as if the old lady didn't quite believe her own words, but very much wished they were true.
Charles Johnson was in his mid-twenties. He always dressed in the height of fashion, and he boasted that he moved in the most elegant circles. He had expensive tastes, but his only source of income was the heavily mortgaged estate he'd inherited from his father several years earlier. Though he referred to Miss Wyndham as his aunt, she was in fact his great-aunt. Miss
Wyndham's younger sister had been his grandmother, but he hadn't made Miss Wyndham's acquaintance until after the deaths of his parents and grandparents a few years previously. He was Miss Wyndham's sole surviving relative.
Abigail managed the household accounts. After every visit by Charles Johnson she was forced to budget very frugally for the rest of the quarter. She'd tried, tactfully, to suggest to Miss Wyndham that Charles was a grown man, capable of supporting himself, but Miss Wyndham had brushed her reservations aside. Abigail suspected that, deep down, Miss Wyndham was afraid that Charles was taking advantage of her, but it distressed the old lady to think her only relative might have no genuine regard for her. Miss Wyndham preferred to believe that her great-nephew's visits were motivated by thoughtfulness rather than financial necessity.
It wasn't Abigail's place to disillusion her employer, especially when she had no evidence for her suspicions except for Johnson's willingness—if not eagerness—to accept his great-aunt's generous gifts of money.
On this occasion, his unexpected arrival did have one beneficial effect. Miss Wyndham was so entranced by the London and Brighton society gossip he regaled her with she entirely forgot to ask Abigail if there had been any other newcomers to Bath that day.
Gifford strolled into his room. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on to the bed, then went immediately to open the curtains and the window. The bed-
chamber was appallingly stuffy. It was only just past nine o'clock. He was unlikely to scandalise Miss Summers with his actions at this early hour.
He and Anthony had spent the day with Admiral Pullen. The admiral and Gifford had reminisced about the past, and they'd all told stories of their individual adventures since they'd last met—though Gifford's account had been heavily edited. He'd expected Pullen to continue with his clumsy matchmaking efforts. He'd been ready to deflect any unwelcome encouragement to pursue Abigail Summers—but the admiral had barely mentioned her during the rest of the day. Quite contrarily, Gifford had ended up frustrated by his lack of information about her. He didn't want the woman— but he was curious about her.
It belatedly occurred to him that, although she'd been agonisingly embarrassed, she hadn't seemed shocked by what she'd seen. Her discomfort appeared to have been caused simply by the fact that she'd inadvertently spied on him. Apparently his actions hadn't scandalised or even greatly alarmed her. She'd made no arch references to his nudity. She hadn't simpered knowingly at him.
His pride was sore because she'd seen him act so stupidly, but he couldn't help being impressed that she hadn't succumbed to missish theatrics. On the other hand, he cautioned himself, it wouldn't do to feel unnecessarily positive towards the woman Admiral Pullen had apparently selected to be his bride. Gifford naturally resisted all efforts to push him towards matrimony. He decided that Abigail's absence of maidenly delicacy was probably a reflection of her practical,
housekeeper's soul. No doubt she had been more worried about bloodstains on Mrs Chesney's carpet than the fate of his possible victim.
Having settled with himself that Abigail's unquestionable fondness for beeswax polish and fuller's earth rendered her completely unattractive to him, Gifford looked across at her window.
To his surprise, she was in her room and, like him, she had left her curtains open. His hands stilled momentarily in the process of undoing his cravat. Then he stepped to one side and wat
ched her from behind the partial concealment of the curtain.
It was hardly the act of a gentleman, but what was sauce for the goose...
Abigail was very busy doing something, but at first he couldn't quite make out what. It was only when she gave up on the attempt that he realised she'd been trying to wedge a chair under the door handle. He frowned, and drew back a little as she turned halfway towards the window to set the chair aside. Then she stood in the middle of the room, her hands on her waist, and gazed around at the rest of the furniture.
Her pose drew attention to curves which were normally disguised by the long lines of her high-waisted dress. She had a very trim waist, and the fall of her skirt indicated her hips might be pleasingly rounded beneath her modest gown. From where Gifford was standing Miss Summers was desirably slim in certain places and provocatively curvaceous in others. He wished very much she was wearing only her nightgown to carry out her peculiar activities or, better yet, nothing at all. That would only be fair, Gifford decided,
since she'd already seen him make a fool of himself in a state of complete undress.
The mental image of Abigail wearing no clothes had a surprisingly powerful physical effect upon him. Gifford frowned and conjured instead a housewifely picture of her scouring the floor with fuller's earth and sand. It was a mundane activity which should have dampened his arousal—unfortunately he couldn't get his fantasy Abigail to put her clothes back on while she scrubbed the floor.
In the meantime, the real Abigail advanced briskly on a small chest of drawers. Gifford watched in amazement as she tried to push it along the wall. It was obviously too heavy for her because, after a few moments of unavailing effort, she stopped pushing and turned round. She half-leant, half-sat on the chest as she rested, and tipped back her head to draw in several deep, cooling breaths. Gifford's muscles tensed, partly from an instinctive desire to help her—but mainly because of the distracting way her posture drew attention to her full breasts. After a few moments she turned her back to him and removed all the drawers from the chest. When she'd finished, she tried to move the carcase again. This time she succeeded. She wedged it across the door, then replaced all the drawers and dusted her hands together in an obvious gesture of satisfaction.
Gifford hastily hid behind the curtain. It was far too warm for so much exertion and, as he'd expected, Abigail walked over to her window to cool down.
What the devil was she up to? Surely she wasn't protecting herself from him? If that was the case, she
would have been better off closing the curtains than barricading the door. Gifford absently stripped off his cravat as he pondered the problem, then unfastened and removed his collar with an enormous sense of relief. He'd spent years living and fighting in restrictive uniforms. It was always a pleasure to discard unnecessary garments.
He believed Abigail was a practical woman. She'd displayed resourcefulness in removing the drawers to make the furniture easier to handle. It had taken quite an effort for her to move the chest of drawers. She must believe she had good cause for her unusual actions.
Gifford frowned. He didn't like the idea that Abigail felt the need to lock herself into her room at night. Apart from anything else, it wasn't safe. If there was a fire—having lived half his life at sea, Gifford was acutely sensitive to the dangers of fire—Abigail would be trapped.
He stared into the shadows of his unlit room as he considered the situation. There was little he could do tonight, but tomorrow he would search for some answers. Perhaps he would start with Admiral Pullen. He didn't think it would take much to prompt the man into talking about his favourite Miss Summers. Gifford's only problem would be to avoid giving the impression that he had any kind of romantic interest in Abigail— but it wouldn't be the first time he'd played verbal chess with a flag officer.
* * *
Abigail took one last breath of the evening air before she reluctantly closed her curtains. She had no idea what time Captain Raven would retire to bed—though not as early as this, she was sure—but she didn't want any repetition of the previous night's awkwardness. It was better to be stiflingly hot than give the impression she was either vulgarly curious or shockingly immodest.
A large moth blundered around her room, banging against walls and ceiling before it finally flew too close to the candle. She sighed. She was now a prisoner in her own room until morning.
Miss Wyndham's rooms were on the first floor. She rarely ventured either upstairs or down, and most of the time Abigail had the entire second floor to herself. But when Charles came to visit he also had a room on the second floor. His manner towards her made Abigail feel uncomfortable. When Miss Wyndham was present he was always punctilious in his attentions to Abigail— though never to such an extent that his great-aunt might feel jealous. But when he and Abigail were alone there was a subtle change in his behaviour. It was clear he regarded her as his inferior. Her feelings were of no more consequence to him than those of a housemaid. Once on the stairs he had pressed himself a little too close to her...
Abigail's skin crawled at the idea of him touching her more intimately. She hoped she was being overcautious, but she knew she would be the one who would pay the price—in more ways than one—if her suspicions were ever proved correct. It would be her word against Charles's. The poor companion versus the
handsome, favoured young relative. It would be easy for him to claim she'd made brazen advances on him— and difficult if not impossible for her to prove otherwise.
It was a pity the key to her bedroom had gone missing shortly after Charles's last visit. She felt ridiculously melodramatic, blocking her door with the chest of drawers, but she hadn't been able to wedge the chair satisfactorily under the handle. She laughed a little ruefully at herself. She was acting like a heroine from a Gothic novel. But if she lost her good name, and the security of her position with Miss Wyndham, she would have nothing.
She sat on the edge of her bed and fanned herself. There was no chance she'd sleep well tonight. She was too hot, and her mind was too full. She glanced towards the closed curtains. She wondered what Captain Raven was doing. Would he sleep peacefully—or would he have another nightmare?
She remembered his naked body, illuminated by the candlelight. She'd been startled, scared, excited, and ultimately embarrassed by her unconventional interactions with Raven. But he'd never made her skin crawl.
'Miss Summers. Good morning!'
Abigail looked up, surprised by the interruption. She'd been sure she wouldn't be disturbed.
She had left Miss Wyndham and Charles at home, engaged in a session of mutual flattery. They'd had no need of her presence. Miss Wyndham was unlikely to be interested in other visitors to Bath today, so Abigail
had chosen not to visit the Pump Room. Instead she'd retreated to her favourite lending library.
'C-Captain Raven,' she stammered. He towered over her. With his piratical eye-patch and tangible aura of danger, he seemed quite out of place among the calf-bound volumes. 'I had no idea you are fond of reading,' she said breathlessly.
'Very. May I?' He gestured gracefully to the vacant space next to her on the bench.
'Please sit down,' she said. Her mouth was dry with nervousness. But she was also excited by the unexpected encounter. No one could accuse her of soliciting another meeting with him, so she had no reason to feel awkward or self-conscious. Perhaps she might even be able to enjoy her conversation with him today. He was certainly the most interesting man she'd ever met.
'Thank you.' He sat down beside her.
His legs were so long, she thought distractedly. He was so tall and uncompromisingly male. He made the space around him shrink, yet at the same time he introduced an indefinable air of wildness into the room. She could sense distant horizons and unfamiliar hazards.
She was too nervous to look into his face. Instead her gaze was drawn to his hands. They were well-shaped, strong and tanned.
As she watched, he reached across and took the book she'd been
reading out of her nerveless grasp.
It didn't occur to her to protest. She was held in thrall by his self-assurance and her memories. He'd held a dagger in the hand that now held her book. She had a vivid picture of him poised naked in the dramatic
candlelight. He didn't belong in these sedate surroundings. He belonged on the open seas, battling the elements with all the fierce strength at his disposal.
'Did you ever sail in a hurricane?' she asked, without thinking.
'Twice,' he replied. 'Once as a midshipman. Our masts went by the board on that occasion.' He grimaced at the memory. 'We nearly broached. We were lucky to survive. And once when I was captain of the Unicorn."
By now Abigail had lifted her gaze to his face. She was intrigued by the brevity of the second half of his reply.
'You didn't lose your masts when you were captain,' she deduced.
'No.' Raven smiled slightly. 'But that was more by good luck than any particular skill on my part. You are familiar with nautical terms, Miss Summers?' he changed the subject.
'A little. Admiral Pullen tells me stories.'
'Ah, yes, so he said.' Raven nodded. 'Now.' He glanced down at the book in his hand. 'What were you reading when I arrived that caused you to frown so direfully?'
'I wasn't frowning!' Abigail exclaimed, instinctively trying to retrieve the book.
'With respect, Miss Summers, you were frowning,' Raven replied, holding the book out of her reach.
Abigail's stomach fluttered nervously. It almost seemed as if he was flirting with her, but she found that very hard to credit. Most gentlemen under the age of fifty hardly seemed to be aware of her existence.
She folded her hands in her lap. She was determined not to let Raven provoke her into an undignified tussle for the book.
Gifford's Lady Page 3