Married to the Viscount

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “I think he does—in his own way. God knows I’ve always found the man too haughty for words, but when he’s with you, he…softens.”

  Abby shook her head morosely. “He won’t after tonight. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t put me on the first ship to America.”

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  Abby stared down at her hands, remembering how Spencer had kissed her last night. “Sometimes I do. But sometimes…Well, it doesn’t matter. After tonight, he’ll hate me.”

  “If he does, he deserves nothing but censure.” Lady Clara squeezed her hands tightly. “Don’t let that arrogant scoundrel bully you, do you hear? You are doing him a favor, no matter what he claims.”

  “But if I hadn’t listened to his brother—”

  “Stuff and nonsense. His brother wronged you, not the other way around. If you want to return to America, then demand your money and threaten to expose everything to the press if his lordship doesn’t give it to you. But don’t let him push you around. He has no right to do that.”

  Drawing her hands from Lady Clara’s, Abby stared at the woman’s fierce expression. Abby had been so caught up in her mortification that she’d forgotten whose idea this was. It certainly wasn’t hers. She hadn’t wanted to play this charade; she hadn’t asked to be deceived and manipulated. That was all his and his brother’s doing.

  She tipped up her chin. “That’s true—he doesn’t have the right, does he? And I’ll tell him so, too.”

  “Good for you.”

  Abby frowned. “But not here. Not with all those people out there watching.” She glanced beyond Lady Clara to the mirror, and her heart nearly failed her. Dear heaven, she looked awful. Her hair had completely fallen. Her ringlets were a straight curtain about her face, her eyes were bloodshot, and her nose shone as rosy as a tippler’s.

  “I can’t talk to him looking like this.” She shot Lady Clara a desperate look. “I can’t go back out there. Not until I appear at least moderately dignified. I have to go home before I can face him or anybody else. Will you take me?”

  Lady Clara hesitated, then nodded. “But remember what I said—don’t let him bully you. Because the minute you give a man an inch, he’ll take more than a mile. And frankly, Abby, you can’t afford to have anything more taken from you.”

  Chapter 11

  When your employers leave the house to attend a ball, be waiting with liquid sustenance upon their return. Anything can happen at a ball.

  Suggestions for the Stoic Servant

  Spencer paced the edge of the ballroom, too frustrated to do anything else. He couldn’t forget Abby’s expression when she’d gazed on that ridiculous scene on the dance floor. He’d had more of an impulse to laugh at the tumble than anything. Until he saw her misery-ravaged face. Then she was gone before he could even think to stop her.

  And now she’d apparently closeted herself off somewhere with Lady Clara. No one could tell him where, and it was driving him mad.

  Evelina approached, but before she even reached him, he growled, “Where is she? Where’s Abby?”

  “Lady Clara took her home. I am to say she’s indisposed. Will you make the announcement or will I?”

  “You make it,” he snapped and turned for the door. “I’m going after her.”

  Evelina blocked his way. “Not if you’re planning to lecture her.”

  He glared at the generally angelic Evelina. “What I do with my wife is my concern.”

  “You bullied her into wearing that fichu, so I shan’t let you chastise her for it.”

  “I don’t plan on chastising her, for God’s sake. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Just remember when you speak to her that we’re not all as smooth and collected as you. She’s tried very hard to be what you wish, and right now she feels like a failure.”

  Her words brought him up short. Had he really seemed so exacting, so demanding that something like this could send her fleeing his presence in shame?

  The scene in her bedchamber earlier came back to him—his insistence on the fichu, his comments about her hair. He’d instructed her on things she hadn’t needed instruction on and had neglected to tell her what she desperately wanted to know.

  No wonder she refused even to tell him she was leaving.

  He looked at Evelina’s determined expression and softened his voice. “I promise not to lecture her, poppet. Now will you let me pass?”

  “After I say one more thing.” A faint blush rose on Evelina’s cheeks. “In future, you might consider not flaunting your…former paramours in front of her.”

  “Former paramours?” he asked in bewilderment. Then memory slammed into him. “But Abby didn’t know who Genevieve was.”

  “Your idiot friend Captain Blakely told her.”

  Bloody hell. He had even more to apologize for than he realized. He could kick himself for talking to Genevieve, though it had been innocent enough.

  Evelina went on. “I’ll admit it was wrong of Mother to invite the woman in the first place, but she was peeved that you’d turned my engagement ball into a ball for yourself, and she did it out of spite. If I’d known, I would have discouraged it.”

  More mistakes to lay at his door. Good God, would this night never end? “I shall make amends to my wife for conversing with Genevieve in her presence,” he said tightly. “Anything else?”

  Evelina swallowed, as if suddenly remembering that she never did things of this sort. “That’s all.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “It’s enough, isn’t it?”

  “She deserves your respect, you know, even if she’s not your true—” She broke off suddenly.

  His eyes narrowed. “My true what, Evelina?”

  “Your true love.” Evelina squared her shoulders, then soldiered on. “I know you probably married her because you took pity on her situation with her father, but that doesn’t lessen your obligation to be a good husband.”

  Once again, he wondered if she might know the truth. Could Lady Clara have told her, or even Abby? But if that were the case, why would she pretend not to know?

  Unless…

  “Have you spoken to Nathaniel since the betrothal dinner, Evelina?”

  She paled, though she didn’t flinch from his steady gaze. “How could I? You had him whisked away to Essex before I could even see him.”

  He stared at her a moment longer. But it seemed impossible that she could be in league with his brother. The honest Evelina would never approve of Nat’s stealing a dowry. No, she was probably just upset about all that had happened.

  “Very well,” he said. “I have to go. Tell your guests that my wife fell ill and I took her home, all right?”

  She bobbed her head.

  He left after learning from the butler that Lady Clara and Abby had departed only a short time before. Good. He didn’t want her to suffer in unwarranted misery longer than necessary. Evelina was right—Abby had tried hard to please him, and all she’d gotten to show for it was humiliation, the very thing he’d promised to spare her.

  Well, he’d make it up to her somehow. Tomorrow he’d go buy her something special—some jewels or a fancy gimcrack or some such. Women liked those fripperies. And then he would engage her a dance master and a tutor. That way she’d feel better prepared for future social events.

  But first he had to talk to her. To apologize. To soothe her wounded feelings and promise he’d be more careful of them in the future.

  Fortunately, Lady Clara had already left by the time he reached home. He was in no mood to deal with both of them tonight. Bad enough he had to deal with Abby. The woman was a sensitive little thing—she’d probably be crying.

  But he knew how to handle storms of female emotion. He’d had plenty of experience dealing with his former mistresses’ tearful complaints—this couldn’t be much different.

  As McFee took his things, Spencer asked, “Where’s my wife?”

  “In her bedchamber, my lord. Mrs. Graham said she was retiring
for the night.”

  Bloody hell, she was really upset, wasn’t she? Well, he wasn’t about to put this off until tomorrow while she let her misery eat at her.

  Swiftly mounting the two flights of stairs, he strode down the hall to her bedchamber. Then he stopped short. Mrs. Graham stood guard outside. She moved to block the door the moment she saw him.

  This was becoming absurd—all these women trying to protect Abby from him. As if he would actually try to hurt her. “I need to speak to my wife,” he told the flame-haired Scotswoman.

  “She don’t want to speak to you. I’m to tell you that she’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  “This cannot wait until morning. Step aside.”

  “No indeed. In any case, she’s already in her nightdress, so you can’t go in there. Wouldn’t be proper.”

  He started to retort that he could see his wife in anything he pleased, then remembered that Abby’s termagant servant knew the truth about the situation. Devil take them all. “Fine. I’ll use the connecting door.” He turned toward his own bedchamber.

  “It’s locked,” she called out. “Just like this door here.”

  Now they were locking his own doors against him? Fury roiled up in him, swift and sure. “McFee!” he bellowed down the hall to the stairs. “Get up here now!”

  His butler rarely ran anywhere, but the man had worked for Spencer long enough to know when his master had urgent need of him. McFee reached Spencer scant moments later, gasping for breath. “Yes, my lord?”

  “The keys to my wife’s bedchamber, if you please,” he said, holding out his hand.

  With a bob of his head, McFee fished out his key ring, then fumbled through it. Mrs. Graham looked on smugly as McFee went through all the keys once, then again.

  At last the butler looked up with a barely contained look of alarm. “I…I…my lord…they seem to have…um…disappeared.”

  “That’s what happens when you doze at your post, Mr. McFee,” Abby’s servant said with fiendish delight. “I wasn’t about to have my girl helpless in a room where his lordship could come and go as he pleased, so I took the liberty of relieving you of them keys yesterday morning.”

  McFee’s face lost his usual reserve. “You harpy from hell,” he said with more venom than Spencer had ever heard him use. “How dare you presume to take my keys out of my coat and—”

  “That’s enough, McFee,” Spencer broke in. This was getting them nowhere. He forced himself to address Mrs. Graham calmly. “I commend your concern for your mistress, madam, but in this case you’re going about protecting her all wrong.”

  “Am I?” She stuck out her chubby chin. “That girl came in with eyes red as my hair. Seems to me any man who’d send his wife home all ravaged by tears don’t deserve nothing more than a curt word and a fare-thee-well. Which is what I’m giving you.”

  “I didn’t send her home—she came home on her own, without giving me the chance to apologize. Do you really think your mistress is better off crying in her room than hearing an apology from the person who brought her to tears in the first place?”

  Uncertainty filled the woman’s face. “An apology, is it?”

  “Yes. I know I did wrong. I want to make amends.” His voice tightened in spite of his efforts to control his temper. “But I can hardly do that standing out in the hall, can I?”

  “Listen to the man, lassie,” McFee said beside him. “He may be a Sassenach, but he’s an honorable one. He will treat your lady properly.”

  Mrs. Graham looked from Spencer to McFee and back. Then she sighed and reached inside her apron pocket to draw out two keys. “All right then,” she said in a whisper. “Long as you tell her that you had to wrestle me down to get them.”

  As Spencer took the keys, McFee muttered, “Now there’s a thought.”

  He left McFee and Mrs. Graham squabbling in the hall. Entering his own room, he unlocked the connecting door into Abby’s bedchamber. When he walked in, she was sitting on the tester bed facing the fireplace, her back to both doors. She was brushing her hair in long, sensual strokes that sent the silky strands rippling over her shoulders. Her thinly clad shoulders.

  Devil take it, he’d forgotten what Mrs. Graham had said she was wearing. That muslin nightdress might as well be glass for all it hid of Abby’s sweet charms. Especially when she shifted to put her profile to the fire. When the outline of her breasts showed clearly through it, his pulse thundered in his ears. Bloody hell.

  Tamping down on his inappropriate response, he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Then he locked it to make sure her meddling servant didn’t come charging in to interrupt him in the midst of his apology.

  “What did he say?” she asked, probably expecting Mrs. Graham.

  “He said he was sorry,” Spencer told her hoarsely. “He said he hadn’t meant to ruin the ball for you. He said he wanted to make it up to you.”

  Leaping from the bed, she whirled to face him. “You!” Horror filled her features as she clutched the neck of her nightdress in her fist. “How did you get in here?”

  “It’s my house, remember?”

  Anger flashed in her eyes. “Only too well. You never let me forget it.”

  That’s when he noticed her reddened eyes and nose. Remorse flooded him. “Oh, God, Abby, I didn’t mean to make you miserable.”

  “You didn’t.” Her mouth trembled as she drew into herself, wrapping one arm about her waist. “I did it to myself by letting you tell me what to do. Well, not anymore, do you hear?”

  “No, not anymore.” He’d do anything to wipe that haunted look from her face. “We’ll call a halt to balls and other such events for a while. I’ll engage whomever you need—tutors, dance masters, governesses…whatever you want. As for the clothes, dress as you please.”

  “Really? Even if I look like a fille de joie?” she said with fierce sarcasm. “Even if I don’t dress my hair remotely like the refined Evelina?”

  “I was wrong about the hair and the clothes and the rest of it.” And if he had to take cold baths twice a day for the next few weeks, he’d smile and endure her gowns no matter how provocative they were.

  Though none of them could be worse than what she wore now. That nightdress might go up to her chin, but on its way it skimmed every curve with loving care. And with her hand around her waist pressing the fabric against the front of her, he could even see a shadow of the nest of curls between her thighs.

  Breaking into a sweat, he jerked his gaze up to her face. “There’s nothing wrong with how you dress, Abby.” At least not in public, he added silently.

  “But there’s a great deal wrong with how I act.”

  “If there is, it’s only because I didn’t prepare you. I’m sorry I broke my promise not to subject you to any humiliation. I swear I didn’t realize that…I didn’t know…”

  “That I had absolutely no knowledge of the rules for your society? I seem to recall telling you that.”

  “And I didn’t listen. But I will from now on.”

  She shook her head. “There will be no ‘from now on.’ I can’t do this anymore.”

  Panic seized him. “Of course you can. All you need is a little polish and—”

  “And what? Society will welcome your stupid American wife with open arms? No, I don’t need this.” She tipped up her chin, eyes glittering. “Tomorrow morning you will write me a draft for five hundred pounds. That’s only a tenth of what your brother took from me—that’s all I ask from you until you find him. It should be enough to pay my passage back to America and enable me to take lodgings somewhere while I look into continuing Papa’s business.”

  Good God, she was serious. She really meant to leave. “Abby—”

  “If you don’t give it to me,” she went on, “I’ll visit that Lady Brumley woman and tell her the whole story. I know she’ll believe me. And then you’ll have your scandal.”

  He felt as if she’d walloped him in the chest. “You hate me that much?”


  A stricken look crossed her face. “I don’t hate you.” Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. “I just…need you to know that I mean what I say. I can’t continue this charade. I don’t belong here. I can’t help you.”

  “Yes, you can. You’re the only one who can.” He came toward her in a daze of disbelief. He acted on instinct, having lost all his bearings. He only knew he had to keep her here in London. With him. “You mustn’t leave, not yet. I won’t let you.”

  “You can’t stop me, Spencer. For a while I let you convince me that I had no choice, but now I know better.”

  Frantically he wracked his brain for some argument to persuade her why she must remain. “What about Evelina? You may not care about bringing scandal down on my family, but what about hers?”

  She swallowed. “There won’t be any scandal if you just give me five hundred pounds and let me go.”

  “You think not?” He laughed harshly. “You don’t think people will talk when my wife leaves me after living with me less than a week? How am I to explain it?”

  “Tell them I discovered that we didn’t suit.” Her voice grew bitter. “After tonight’s fiasco, they’ll have no trouble believing that.”

  Determined to call her bluff, he marched up to her, fists clenched at his sides. “I won’t do it. I won’t give you a penny. I won’t let you leave without seeing this through. Go tell that gossip-mongering witch whatever you wish. Anything she writes can’t be worse than what they’ll say about me if you leave.”

  She glared up at him. “Fine. Don’t give me any money then. Clara said I could live with her until your brother returns. Once he does, I’ll file suit against him for my dowry and see how you like that.”

  Bloody hell, now she had Lady Clara on her side. His anger faded into frustration. Everything he said merely strengthened her resentment against him.

  “What do you want from me?” he bit out, an unfamiliar desperation seizing him at the thought of her leaving. “Do you want me to beg, is that it? Do you want to bring the ‘all-knowing Lord Ravenswood’ to his knees so you can pay him back for tonight’s humiliations? Because if so, you’re certainly succeeding.”