Judging from her shocked glance, however, he needn’t have worried about hers. Good God, did she really not know what she did to him?
That was probably just as well. Mustn’t have her guessing that she tempted him. Women built cottages on less expectation than that. Bad enough that he’d have to be around her for weeks without being able to touch her.
“Actually,” she said, blushing, “I was talking about more mundane wifely duties.”
“I have a housekeeper, a butler, and other servants for those. I will expect you, however, to accompany me to the occasional social engagement to maintain the illusion. I’d want to start tonight by taking you to the theater. Nat and I were supposed to attend with his fiancée and her mother, but now—”
“Yes—what about your brother? How will you explain his disappearance?”
“I’ve already taken care of that.”
“You can explain away an absence of days, weeks, even months?”
“It won’t be months.” Please, God, don’t let it be months. How could he endure months of her teasing, her flirting, her alluring forbidden lips…“I’ve charged my best investigators with finding him. We suspect Nat has fled to the Continent. That’s where he usually goes to avoid me after one of his…mishaps. Undoubtedly he figures it’s easier to hide from me there.”
“Is it?”
“It depends on how good a trail he left behind. But he won’t evade the runners forever. I’m hoping for a few weeks at the most.”
“You wouldn’t want me to get too used to being Lady Ravenswood,” she bit out.
“I wouldn’t want you inconvenienced any more than necessary.”
“How very considerate of you.” She lifted a shaky hand to pluck the lilac from her hair, then held it to her nose as if sniffing it gave her solace. “And what happens if I refuse your proposition?”
He wished he could just give her the money. But that would prove disastrous for everyone, probably even her. In her typical naiveté, she thought she could simply step into her father’s shoes in America. It wouldn’t be that easy.
Better to let her think him an officious bastard for forcing her to agree to his terms than a “nice man” she could twist around her finger. “If you refuse, then I hope you have another source of funds, because you won’t have a penny from me.”
Her eyes began to flash and her shoulders to shake. “You would actually refuse to give me money after your brother—”
“Yes. And you can’t return to America without it. You certainly can’t start up a business.”
“But I could tell everybody in England about my awful mistreatment at the hands of the Law brothers.”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” he said in the coldest voice he could muster. “I am not a wise man to cross, Miss Mercer. Besides, who do you think people here will believe—you or me?”
She paled. “I thought you were worried about scandal.”
“I am. But if you don’t do things my way, there will be a scandal regardless. So I have nothing to lose by offering this. While you have much to lose by refusing.”
An angry flush crawled up her neck. “This is blackmail!”
“Indeed it is.”
She gazed at him a long moment, as if trying to assess his intent. Then taking him by surprise, she reached over to clasp his hand. “You wouldn’t force me into this—I don’t believe it. You’re too much of a gentleman, too good—”
“I am not good.” He shook off her hand as if it were poison. She mustn’t think she could get around him by engaging his sympathies. Quickly, he rose to put some distance between them. “What I am is determined. When it comes to my family, my country, or my king, I will do whatever it takes to protect them.”
“Even if it means forcing me to continue a farce I’m uncomfortable with?” she whispered in an aching voice.
He stared down at her, struggling to maintain his cool façade. “Uncomfortable or no, you’ll end up richer and better situated with my scheme than if you cling to your pride and try fending for yourself.”
Hurt etched deep lines in her golden brow as she gazed up at him.
Unable to witness her distress any longer, he turned away. “Come now, you know this is best. Even if I gave you every penny my brother stole—and I won’t—you’d have to struggle to reestablish your father’s business without its being legitimately yours. You’d have to return to Philadelphia under an embarrassing cloud of speculation.”
“I don’t care about that.”
He whirled to face her. “No? You don’t care if they claim that the viscount tossed you aside because you were common? Or worse yet, if they imply you were never married at all? Hasn’t it occurred to you that your hasty return to America might rouse speculation that you’d been my mistress rather than my wife, and a rejected one at that?”
Judging from her horrified look, it hadn’t. “You, sir, are an awful man!” she cried, apparently at a loss for how to refute his argument.
“That I am. But my shortcomings needn’t stop us from playing this scheme out to the end.”
She rose, her face a rigid mask. “You think not? All right, I’ll agree to your outrageous request if you meet one condition.”
“What?” he asked, instantly on his guard.
Her green eyes grew icily distant. “You must kiss me to seal the bargain.”
Chapter 5
Never question your employer’s choices regarding the dispersal of his funds. How he spends his money is a more private matter than how he spends his nights.
Suggestions for the Stoic Servant
Although Abby could almost smell Lord Ravenswood’s alarm, she stood her ground.
“Isn’t that a rather strange condition?” he asked in a strained voice.
“You want me to pretend to be your wife, yet you find me repulsive. That will make the farce even harder, don’t you think?”
“I don’t find you repulsive,” he snapped.
“You recoiled when I touched your hand moments ago. What do you call that?”
He glanced away, and the tension in her belly tightened unbearably. She hated to force this, but she had to know this one thing. Her instincts regarding him had led her astray once. So this time she needed some sign that the gentleman she’d grown to care for in America wasn’t a complete fiction. She’d trusted the gentleman; she didn’t quite trust the viscount.
But if he could bring himself to kiss her, if he had any vestige of warm feeling toward her, then she might bring herself to trust him…at least with regard to this charade.
He finally returned his chilly gaze to her. “You’ll agree to my terms if I kiss you?”
She hesitated. But what choice did she have? Without money, she couldn’t go back to America. And there was Mrs. Graham to think of, too, both of them trapped in an unfamiliar city. “If you kiss me, I’ll agree.”
“You can’t simply take my word for it that you don’t repulse me in the least?”
“Not when your actions say otherwise.” She steadied her nerves. “Believe it or not, my lord, I don’t actually enjoy public humiliation. Last night’s events provided me with enough of it to last a lifetime, so the prospect of enduring more every time you jerk away from my touch before God and everybody isn’t exactly appealing.”
“I see.” A sudden flare of heat in his face was her only warning before he moved forward to capture her chin in a firm grip. His eyes shone down at her like steel through crystal. “Remember that you asked for this,” he rasped. Then he lowered his mouth to hers.
She’d expected a brief brush of his lips, the absolute minimum he could get away with. What she got was beyond her experience…lips more fluent than language, stroking and caressing and molding, melting her bones into water and heating her blood to steam. Dear heaven, what had happened to the cold viscount, the aloof man of property and position who had no use for a wife?
This was the man she’d dreamed about, the man she’d come to England to marry.
The aroma of bergamot burst through her senses, overlaid by scents of lilacs and garden soil. Then she couldn’t smell anything, for she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The kiss went on and on, tender and urgent and thrilling. He bound her so thoroughly in its spell that she became a willing slave to his mouth, praying the bliss never ended.
But it did, of course. And much too soon.
He drew back, his eyes unreadable. Yet he still clasped her chin, still loomed close enough that his quick, coffee-scented breaths fanned her face. “Satisfied?” he clipped out, as if that were all he could manage.
“That’s not exactly the word I was thinking of.” Not when her heart pounded hard enough to shatter her breastbone and her muscles seemed to have been replaced by rubber.
A stark hunger glimmered in his face as he tightened his fingers on her chin. “I meant—have I sufficiently met your condition?”
“I-I…yes. It appears you can tolerate touching me after all.”
“Despite what you think, it would be better if I couldn’t, my dear.” He regarded her mouth regretfully, his thumb tracing the line of her lip. “You might find that more difficult, but I would find it infinitely easier.”
With that enigmatic comment, he released her chin and stepped away.
When his lordly mask dropped instantly back into place, she wanted to cry. Once more he wore that impersonal expression that so infuriated her. Yet the warmth of his fingers lingered on her jaw, his taste lingered on her lips, and pleasure mingled with agony in her breast.
Had she simply imagined the passion behind his kiss, the tenderness in his touch? Or worse yet, was he simply more adept at simulating deep feeling than she’d realized? Which man was the real Lord Ravenswood—the English friend who’d just kissed her or the haughty stranger who faced her now?
Either way, maintaining this charade of a marriage was going to be a lot harder than she’d thought. Because if that was the real man who’d just kissed her, then she was in deep, deep trouble.
Too late to back out, however. She’d made her demand, he’d met it, and now she had to hold up her end of the bargain.
“Sit down, Abby,” he commanded. “We have much to discuss.”
Despite everything, a thrill shot through her. Even in America, he’d never used her Christian name. And though she knew he did it only because of their bargain, it sounded so sweetly intimate on his lips that it reminded her of the kiss they’d just shared. She sank onto the bench obediently, relieved to have something solid beneath her shaky frame.
“You’ll need gowns, of course,” he began, “in a variety of colors and fabrics as well as—”
“Excuse me, but shouldn’t I keep wearing mourning?”
He scrutinized her current gown, making her squirm under his critical appraisal. “I don’t consider unrelieved black bombazine suitable attire for even my sham wife.”
“Oh.” Though the Seneca in her had rebelled at the unnaturalness of wearing mourning for so long, she’d done so because Philadelphians expected it. Wouldn’t the English do so, too? “Are you sure people won’t think I’m a disrespectful daughter if I throw off mourning too quickly?”
“Not if they don’t know. They’ll only hear what I tell them about your father, and I needn’t reveal how recently he died.” He smiled. “But if you really want to—”
“No.” Then realizing how callous that must sound, she added, “Mama’s people only believed in mourning loved ones for ten days. Then they had a feast to send the deceased on. Even when Mama’s own father died, she preferred to show her grief as the Seneca do. She always said the best way to honor the dead was to celebrate the living.”
“She must have been a very wise woman.”
She smiled. “She was. And speaking of my mother, my lord—”
“You needn’t call me ‘my lord,’ Abby. You’re my wife now, not my servant.”
It surprised her that his lofty lordship didn’t expect her to preserve the distinctions of rank at all times. “Then what do I call you?”
“Normally you would call me Ravenswood. But since we’ll have a difficult enough time convincing people we’re actually married, you’d best be more intimate and use my Christian name, Spencer.”
“All right. Spencer.”
A smoldering heat crossed his face, then vanished. “You were saying about your mother…”
“How will you explain her and my lineage?”
“However you wish.”
“I wish you’d tell the truth, but since I know that isn’t preferable—”
“The truth is always preferable, my dear. It’s just not always wise. But in this case, it’s both.” His solemn expression showed he was serious. “If I remember correctly, your mother was a chief’s daughter. I see nothing to hide in that.”
Papa’s family had seen much to hide. Hard to believe that a man of his lordship’s station would feel any differently. “It’s not my mother’s class I’d expect you to hide, my lord.”
“Spencer,” he corrected.
“Spencer. It’s my mother’s race that I thought you might take exception to.”
He sat down on the bench, and this time he was the one to clasp her hand. “Let us be straight on one thing. I’ve spent nearly half my life with people of all races and creeds. I’ve encountered ‘savages’ more wily than English spies, African women rivaling French courtesans for beauty, and Sikh lords as peace-loving as Quakers. I long ago learned not to make assumptions about people—including other Englishmen—based on their surface qualities. So your mother’s race is of no concern to me.”
“But it will be to other people.”
“Other people will take their cue from me. It is all in how it’s presented. If I present your mother as an exotic Indian princess, then that’s how they will regard her. I promise, Abby, I won’t subject you to any humiliation.”
In his typical arrogance, he actually believed that he could control what people thought of her mixed blood. She wasn’t nearly as sanguine as he, having had too many slurs thrown her way as a girl. But he would learn such a thing for himself soon enough.
“All right,” she murmured. “I’ll let you handle that as you see fit.”
“Good.” Releasing her hand, he rose. “I’ll have a dressmaker summoned to fit you for new gowns. You’ll need at least five for day and six for night, not to mention—”
“Please don’t spend a great deal of money on gowns I’ll only wear for a while.”
“I can easily afford to dress you while you’re in London.”
She rose, too, her pride pricked by his assumptions. “I’m not some pathetic waif who needs your charity, you know. If not for your brother, I could pay for these things myself. So I’d prefer a more modest wardrobe.”
His eyes narrowed. “No viscountess of mine shall dress in anything less than the finest, madam. What I want I get, and right now what I want is to prevent my peers from speculating about my treatment of my wife. Is that clear?”
Embarrassment burned in her chest. No doubt the haughty wretch thought her so inappropriate a wife that he must spend pots of money to make her presentable. Very well, if that’s how he wanted it…“Then I’ll need more than gowns. I’ll need bonnets to match all outfits, slippers for evening, half boots for day, extra reticules to suit different occasions, a couple of shawls, two pelisses at least—”
She broke off, annoyed by the smile growing on his face, then added, “Oh, and let’s not forget chemises and petticoats and two nightdresses. Or are you only concerned with my public apparel? I suppose it would be all right with you if I went to bed naked since nobody who could ‘speculate about’ your wife would see.”
His smile vanished. “The servants might see. Not to mention…” He hesitated, a dark awareness flickering in his gaze as it drifted down her body. Then, as if realizing where his gaze had traveled, he jerked it up. “I’ll make sure you’re given appropriate attire for every occasion, including sleep.”
So, she thoug
ht with perverse satisfaction, the idea of her naked affected him. Apparently his reaction to their kiss hadn’t been feigned in the least. He might not find her suitable as a wife, but he did seem to desire her. That should anger her, except that she could tell he didn’t like it one bit. It must really annoy him to desire a vulgar American like her.
A mischievous impulse seized her. “What about drawers—are they generally worn among females of your set? And corsets. Will you require me to wear them, too? Or do you prefer the female form to be natural, so to speak? I did notice when I wore the corset that it pushed my chest up so—”
“There will be no corsets.” His peremptory tone left no room for argument. “As for the rest of it, do as you please. I’ll pay for whatever you order—just tell the dressmaker what you want. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Whirling away, he strode off as if he couldn’t escape her fast enough.
“The dressmaker won’t have my gowns ready for a few days, Spencer,” she called after him, not prepared to end the game just yet. This was too much fun. “What should I do in the meantime? Wear my black gowns?”
He halted to face her, irritation furrowing his brow. “I hadn’t considered that.” He stared off across the neat beds of blooming daisies swarmed by bees and butterflies. “I suppose you can have my stepmother’s old gowns altered.”
“You have a stepmother?” she asked, startled.
His expression grew shuttered. “I did. Dorothea lives in Italy now, I believe. I haven’t seen her in years.”
“Is that why neither you nor your brother mentioned her while you were finding out everything about my family and finances?”
He shot her a stony glance. “Dora and I didn’t get along after she was estranged from my father, so I rarely talk about her.”
“Oh.” No wonder he’d said that estranged wives weren’t that uncommon.
“She and Nat were close, so he sometimes mentions her, but I suppose he was too busy pulling the wool over your eyes to tell you the family secrets.” Pain laced his flip words. His brother’s betrayal had wounded him more deeply than he’d let on. “And that reminds me—I must go. I have to meet with the solicitor about all this mess. Not to mention arrange for the dressmaker and hire you a lady’s maid—”
Married to the Viscount Page 7