“Even though it’s only a role.”
She sighed. “She’s hoping that the role will become a reality.”
Alarm seized him. “But you understand—”
“Yes, Spencer, I understand,” she said tightly. “Never fear—I’m not as naive as my servant. I realize this will never be anything more. Though you didn’t help her notions any by having your butler move my things to the bedchamber adjoining yours.”
“I have my own servants to consider—keeping a secret among so many will be virtually impossible, so it’s better to let them think you’re my wife in every respect. If you’d asked, I would have cautioned you not to confide in Mrs. Graham.”
She shook her head. “It wouldn’t have worked. I lack your talent for lying. The minute she asked me for details—”
“You would tell her it’s none of her concern. She’s your servant—it’s her duty to follow your orders without question.”
“I see.” With a swish of satin skirts, she shifted in her seat. “Just as it’s the duty of your family—and those soon to be your family—to do what you tell them without question?”
He stiffened. “I have their best interests at heart. Because they know that, they allow me to guide their actions.”
“Do they? Nathaniel seems to have missed that point.”
He curled his fingers into the seat, struggling not to show that she’d struck a nerve. “Not for want of my trying to explain it to him.” He cast her a false smile. “Let me worry about my family, all right? You just concentrate on playing your role convincingly.”
“I think I’ve got the harder job,” she said with a sniff.
“Come now, how can you complain? Serving as wife to a grouchy old statesman is every young woman’s dream.” When his sarcasm gained him a small smile, he added, “And anyway, think how hard it would have been if you’d married me in truth. You’d have years of my high-handedness to look forward to.”
“Perish the thought.” She tipped up her chin, eyes alight. “And thank you for reminding me that this is fortunately temporary.”
“You’re welcome.” The coach joined a long line of other coaches and slowed to a crawl. “We’re nearly to the theater, my dear. Prepare to act your part.”
She shot him a quizzical glance. “But you told Lady Brumley we had to pick up Lady Tyndale and her daughter.”
“I had to get rid of the woman somehow, didn’t I?”
With a roll of her eyes, she sat forward on the seat. “You certainly have a penchant for lying.”
“It’s common in my business, I’m afraid.”
Her pretty eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “I thought statesmen were supposed to be honest.”
“Not that business, my dear. The spying business.” The coach shuddered to a halt. “Don’t bandy this about, but I was once a spy and later a spymaster.”
“Really?” She shook her head as the footman opened the door and pulled down the step. “I should have known. It explains why you’re so good at the lying. You’ve had plenty of practice.”
He climbed out, then helped her down, bending low to murmur, “Some gentlemen fence, some play cards…I lie.”
She shot him a chastening look. “And so very well, too,” she said sweetly.
After that, speech was impossible. Thanks to Lady Brumley, they’d arrived too late to avoid the crowds. Half the ton seemed to be entering Covent Garden, and even more of them were jammed into the theater’s vestibule once they got inside.
He guided Abby through a throng of highly ornamented, heavily perfumed, and ostentatiously dressed patrons toward the grand staircase that rose to the lobby of the lower tier of boxes. Staving off any questions with a dire look at anyone who neared them, he planted his hand in the small of Abby’s satin-sheathed back to lead her along. But he could scarcely keep from smoothing his fingers lower, following her gown’s descent to the perfectly rounded bottom. Good God, this was going to be a bloody long night.
Then they reached the stairs, and the crowd forced him to let her ascend ahead of him. Wonderful. Now her sweet behind was at eye level where he could imagine it unveiled, the soft globes wiggling as he kissed each in turn, then reached between her thighs to find the dewy flesh—
This was insane. What idiocy had possessed him to concoct this scheme of a pretend marriage? No French torture could torment him more than Abby prancing before him with all her charms. Her utterly forbidden charms.
Thankfully, he was able to thrash his randy imagination into submission while they navigated the corridor running behind the boxes. By the time they entered his own box to find Lady Tyndale and Evelina already there, he’d achieved the closest approximation of normalcy any man could manage with a fetching female hanging on his arm.
“Allow me to present my wife, Lady Ravenswood,” he told his companions. “Last night you weren’t properly introduced.”
Fortunately, Lady Tyndale and Evelina were too well-bred to comment on their first bizarre meeting. They murmured polite greetings and left it to him to carry the conversation. But apparently Evelina still regarded the American woman as a rival, for she studied Abby with wary eyes.
At last the music started and the curtains were lifted, signaling that they should take their seats. The farce proved as trifling as Lady Brumley had claimed, but Spencer wasn’t paying attention anyway. He was too busy watching for Abby’s reaction.
Despite her impudent claim about theaters in America, her eager concentration on the stage demonstrated that she’d rarely attended. Every witty thrust prompted her to smile; every ridiculous contrivance elicited her murmur of surprise. Unlike the faintly bored countenances of the other ladies, Abby’s face was as malleable as the actors, showing all her delight.
He felt vaguely envious. How long had it been since he had relished each moment or taken such heedless pleasure in even the most absurd theatrics? Probably not since he was a boy, when he’d thought the world his oyster. That seemed so long ago.
At last the farce ended, prompting her enthusiastic applause. Thank God that was over. He’d have to find another way to entertain his wife, one that didn’t sink him into maudlin remembrances. Odd how only Abby made him do that. Then again, only Abby made him want the impossible.
No doubt about it, Abigail Mercer was a dangerous woman.
As the interlude began, some friends of Lady Tyndale’s entered the box to talk to Evelina and her mother, leaving Spencer and Abby to themselves. At first Abby didn’t seem to mind. She asked Spencer about the theater, the other patrons…whatever took her fancy.
After a few moments, however, she turned to whisper, “Why does Lady Evelina keep staring at me?”
“I suppose she’s still clinging to her silly notion that you are Nat’s mistress come from America to prevent his marriage. She thinks I’m only pretending to be married to you to protect him. I told her it was absurd.”
“Are you absolutely sure she believed you?”
“If she didn’t, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Well, I can.” She picked up her beaded reticule. “Look there, her mother and her friends are leaving the box. I’ll simply go explain to Lady Evelina about Nathaniel.”
“You most certainly will not.” He stayed her with one hand.
“Why?”
“I don’t want her to know the truth about us.”
“I’m merely going to explain that I’m not Nathaniel’s mistress.”
“You can’t talk about mistresses to a well-bred Englishwoman. It violates every propriety.”
“To speak in a forthright manner violates propriety?” She rose to stare at him with thinly veiled amusement. “No wonder you English lost the colonies. What with all the lying and the ‘propriety’ and the evasions, how do you ever get anything done?”
As she crossed the box to sit down beside Evelina, he stared after her in fascinated amazement. Americans were mad—that’s all there was to it.
Evelina stiffened, refusing to
look at Abby, but that didn’t deter his brazen wife. “Lady Evelina,” she said cheerily, “I’m so glad to finally get this chance to talk to you. I need your help, you see.”
“Yes?” Evelina said, venturing a glance at her perceived rival.
“Being new to London society, I don’t know all the niceties of polite behavior. I was hoping you’d teach me, since your fiancée told me you were the perfect English gentlewoman. He said I could do no better than to emulate you.”
Evelina looked intrigued. “Nathaniel said that?”
“Oh, yes. Hardly a day passed that he didn’t sing your praises. ‘Lady Evelina is the most beautiful creature in England’ and ‘Lady Evelina is the soul of kindness and generosity.’” She shot Evelina a shy smile. “I confess he made me envy you. I want to make my Spencer as proud of me as Nathaniel is of you, but I don’t know how to go about it. Being American, I’m a complete dunce when it comes to such matters.”
Spencer saw an odd confusion pass over Evelina’s face, before she eyed him speculatively, as if to gauge his reaction to Abby’s subterfuge. Could the girl possibly suspect the truth about his situation with Abby?
No, that was ridiculous. Why should she?
Then the fleeting impression faded as Evelina turned back to Abby. “What would you like to know?”
Spencer relaxed when the two women began conversing about fan use and servants and a lot of nonsense everyone knew, even Americans from Philadelphia. How clever of Abby to pretend otherwise to put Evelina at ease.
By the time the music played, signaling the beginning of the first act of Oliver Goldsmith’s She Stoops to Conquer, Evelina and Abby were already calling each other by their Christian names and chatting amiably, as young women were wont to do. Then Lady Tyndale returned to take her seat, and Abby left Evelina’s side to join Spencer.
When she sat down, he murmured, “Nicely done, my dear.”
“You see, my lord?” Her eyes sparkled up at him. “Sometimes you can achieve better results by telling the truth.”
He arched a brow. “So my brother actually did say all those things about Evelina?”
With a smug smile, she faced the stage. “Not in so many words, of course. But a little shading of the truth can be permitted in this instance, don’t you think?”
His laughter was still echoing as the first act began.
Spencer had never seen Goldsmith’s popular play. Normally he considered theater-going in the same vein as any other duty—he went there to placate his relations. Just as he attended the opera to observe what civil servant was involved with what singer in case such a tidbit might be useful in the future. Or showed up at a ball for appearance’s sake.
But tonight, thanks to Abby, he watched the play merely for enjoyment, a decidedly unique experience. He noticed the clever repartee and double meanings. He paid attention to the characters and who was deceiving whom, who was in love with whom. By the time the fourth act neared to a close, he even found himself wanting to see what came next. When was the last time that had happened?
Then Abby turned to him, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Spencer, I thought I could wait until the break, but I can’t. I have to find the ladies’ retiring room.”
“Of course,” he murmured, all thought of the play forgotten. “I’ll take you. Better to go now anyway, while there’s no crowd.”
They slipped into the passageway with her apologizing the whole time until he lied and said he needed some air himself. He waited for her near the entrance to the retiring room, feeling rather pleased with himself. The night was going better than expected. She was enjoying herself and had befriended Evelina. That was a good start.
When she came out, they headed back upstairs, chatting about the play until they reached the corridor behind the boxes. Trying not to disturb the other patrons, they fell silent as they hurried down the passage.
Then someone approached and they moved aside to let the person pass. That’s when they heard the conversation wafting out of a nearby box.
“She’s not his wife,” said a female voice. “How can she be? An American of dubious heritage? Ravenswood would never marry so low. And has anyone actually heard him claim her as his wife?”
Cursing the fates that had allowed them to overhear such nastiness, Spencer tried to hustle Abby past the open box door, but she shrugged off his hand to stand frozen, her eyes wide and hurt.
“Someone at the betrothal dinner told me he wouldn’t explain her at all,” said another female. “So she must be his mistress.”
“Don’t be absurd,” a languid male voice put in. “Ravenswood would never introduce his mistress to Lady Tyndale and Lady Evelina. No, it’s probably his brother’s mistress and Ravenswood is acting as a cover for the rascal.”
Now Spencer stood frozen, mostly because he couldn’t believe their idiocy. Bad enough that Evelina had thought it, but the rest of them? It was ridiculous.
“Ravenswood has certainly been keen on the marriage between Lady Evelina and his brother,” the addlepated female said. “He’d do anything to make sure it takes place.”
“Even marry some chit from America?” another addlepate asked.
“Of course he didn’t marry her,” the addlepated male retorted. “Ravenswood probably claimed that the American girl is his fiancée to explain her abrupt appearance at the betrothal dinner. I daresay that’s how all the confusion about her being his wife arose. Still, it’s beyond the pale for him to flaunt her before his future relations here.”
Spencer wanted to smash his fist right through the thin walls to grab one of the unfeeling gossips by the throat, but he knew better than to give them such satisfaction. Then he caught sight of Abby’s face. Bloody hell. He had to get her back to his box where she couldn’t hear such poison.
Suddenly, one of the women said, “Oh, dear, the act is ending. Come on, Lucille, let’s go and find an orange girl before the crowd comes out. I’m dying for citrus.”
He and Abby were trapped. They couldn’t make it past the box before the women came out. Then again…perhaps he should put all this silly gossip to rest for good.
Pushing Abby against the corridor wall, he stared down into her surprised face. “Play along,” he whispered.
Then he kissed her.
At first he was too intent on listening for “Lucille” and her friend to be much aware of what he was doing. But soon other sensations crowded in to distract him. Abby’s mouth, soft as roses and sweet as nectar. Abby’s scent, a tantalizing blend of rosemary and wine. Abby’s breasts, full and warm and crushed against his chest.
He scarcely heard the gasp of shock behind him as he pulled back to stare at her. He was already lost in the widening wonder of Abby’s eyes and the breaths stuttering from between her parted lips. Her seductive, parted lips…
And before he could stop himself, he was lowering his mouth to hers again.
Chapter 7
A beautiful woman can tempt even the most discreet employer into indiscretion.
Suggestions for the Stoic Servant
In an instant, Abby forgot about the cruel gossip and poor Evelina and all the other things plaguing her since her arrival. Because Spencer was kissing her, really kissing her. And it was fascinating…amazing…and completely unexpected.
It was so unexpected that when his tongue pressed between her lips, she opened her mouth just to see what would happen. Then his tongue swept into her mouth in an intimate and very unexpected caress, and a thrill blossomed low in her belly. Hardly conscious of it, she flattened herself against him, breast to thigh, and a growl of satisfaction rumbled low in his throat, like the thunder god signaling the coming storm.
And heavens, what a storm. His mouth seduced hers in a possession as wickedly satisfying as thunderclouds conquering the sky on a hot summer day. Every nerve in her body sparked like lightning, every pulse pounded like a hard, beating rain. He drowned her in his scent, his touch, his strength, until she knew only the thrusts of his tongue and th
e tightening of his powerful arms about her waist.
Then things got really interesting. Through the thin layers of skirt and petticoat and chemise, she felt his male arousal rise against her softness, an unyielding proof of his need. She couldn’t help it—this evidence of the incautious Spencer she’d known in America delighted her.
Half drunk with excitement, she lifted one hand to clutch his neck, crushing his starched collar. With a heartfelt groan, he kissed her deeply, savagely, his scent fogging her brain until she sagged against the wall to keep from dropping to the floor.
Never had she known such a kiss—mouths caressing, tongues entwined, hot breaths mingling with hot breaths until neither knew where one began and the other ended. His storm fed hers, raining pleasure over her parched earth so sweetly that she didn’t even react when his hand swept up to cover her breast. With the expert ease of an accomplished seducer, he kneaded it through the satin.
Then someone cleared his throat. Abby started, tearing her mouth from Spencer’s and pushing his hand from her bodice.
The storm had passed, but Spencer seemed to have trouble registering that fact. His other hand still gripped her waist possessively, and his eyes glittered a promise of more storms to come.
“Bloody hell, Abby,” he whispered as shock and wonder filled his features. “Bloody, bloody hell.”
“My lord, we are not alone,” she whispered.
He stiffened. She could practically see his sanity return, see him absorb where they were and who was watching. Releasing her abruptly, he faced the onlookers, whose expressions ranged from horrified to amused. Then with a low curse, he snagged Abby’s hand and towed her down the corridor toward his box.
Now that the music had risen, people were pouring out into the passageway. They shot Spencer curious looks as he hurried Abby past, but he ignored them, his face set in grim lines, his expression warning off any who approached. Abby had never seen him so out of control. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or alarmed by this intense reaction.
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