Though she didn’t want him fathering children only out of a sense of duty.
“Abby?” Clara said, breaking into her thoughts. “Shall I bring some people?”
“Yes, of course. Bring them tomorrow, as many as you can manage. I’ll make sure I gather the herbs, clean out the room, and buy the bottles and such today.”
They settled the details of the project, and then Clara left. But long after she was gone, Abby sat on the sofa musing over their plans. If Lady Brumley was right, the Mead might give her entrée into society. And Clara could help her learn the niceties of social behavior. They could start discussing it tomorrow while they worked on the perfume.
Everything else was falling into place, too. As soon as her gowns arrived, she’d be able to show Spencer she could dress appropriately. And he’d sent word earlier that he’d engaged a dance master, so soon she’d be able to dance appropriately. She was well on her way to demonstrating her ability to be his wife.
Except in one respect. He seemed determined not to chance any repeat of last night’s “playing.” Considering how easily he could avoid her by hurrying off to his office, she might never get to be alone with him again. She had to find a way to keep herself in his thoughts even while he was gone. She needed something to remind him of her…like a picture or a scent or—
She sat up straight and nearly crowed aloud. The Mead. Of course. A slow smile crossed her face. I even smell you in my dreams sometimes.
She’d make sure he smelled her in more than his dreams. He’d smell her at work, in Parliament, and yes, while he slept. All she had to do was slip into his bedchamber and sprinkle a little Mead on his cravats and his pillow—not so much that it was noticeable, but enough that the faint scent would work itself into his memory.
Now she had to sneak into his room without being seen…
Chapter 14
What your employer does not know will not hurt him.
Suggestions for the Stoic Servant
Irritated that he had to return home in the late afternoon, Spencer descended from his carriage at his town house. But a summons from the king could not be ignored, and he must change into more formal clothes for the meeting.
What a bloody nuisance. The House of Lords was discussing the prime minister’s latest idiotic plan in this afternoon’s session, and Spencer should be there to hear it. Instead he was dashing about London.
He only hoped he didn’t run into Abby. He’d already spent half the morning mooning over her like a besotted half-wit, remembering the texture of her skin, the fine surprise in her eyes when he’d brought her to her release, the luxurious pleasure of plundering her mouth and her breasts and her…
He cursed under his breath. He had to stop this. The last thing he needed was to meet the king with his mind in his breeches. Dealing with the petulant King George required keeping one’s wits about one.
“McFee!” he bellowed as he hurried through the front door.
The butler appeared, looking uncharacteristically flustered as he thrust a notebook into his pocket. Now that Spencer thought about it, he often caught McFee with a notebook. How odd. Though perhaps that was how the stalwart Scot kept the house in such good order.
McFee halted in front of Spencer, his face smoothed into a respectful demeanor. “Yes, my lord?”
“Tell James I need him upstairs. I have to dress for an appointment with the king.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
As the butler walked away, a proud smile cracking his usual reserve, Spencer sighed. Like all his servants, McFee gloried in having a master worthy of meeting with the king. Well, at least someone enjoyed Spencer’s least favorite duty. Normally the home secretary took care of these audiences, but Sir Robert was in Manchester, so the task fell to Spencer, who barely tolerated His Majesty’s whims.
It had been different when the man’s father was king. During the periods when George III wasn’t plagued with madness, he’d possessed a great deal of good sense and a love for his people that his son had never managed to muster. In contrast, George IV was a vain fool more concerned with fashion, food, and females than with his country.
But though Spencer chafed at the necessity for coddling the debauched king, he knew his duty. He always knew his duty.
Reminding himself he had but an hour to make himself presentable for His Finicky Majesty, Spencer hastened up the stairs and along the hall. Idly he noted the new purple cast to the corridor. Ah, pots of lilacs decorated the console tables, reflected all along the way by the mirrors. When had his housekeeper starting filling the place with flowers?
But another surprise awaited him in his bedchamber when he opened the door. His sham wife was bent over his bed, her sweet bottom jutting up in a most tempting position.
After half a day of imagining her in that position, among others, it was all he could do to keep from closing the distance between them, throwing up her skirts, and taking advantage of the fetching picture she presented.
Devil take her. Why was she here? Hadn’t he told her they should never be alone together in either bedchamber? Angry to find her ignoring the very commands meant to preserve his sanity, he slammed the door shut behind him.
She jumped and whirled around so quickly that whatever she held in her hand slipped from her fingers to shatter on the wood floor.
As a powerful scent of rosemary and citrus engulfed them both, she stared woefully at the shards lying at her feet. “Oh, dear…Spencer, I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect you—I’ll fetch a broom at once.” She took a step forward, and glass crunched under her flimsy blue slippers.
“Don’t move!” He cursed himself for the impulse that had made him cause her to drop whatever had been in her hand. Taking two swift steps through the glass, he lifted her in his arms, then carried her past the danger.
“What are you doing?” she asked as she flung her arms about his neck to hold on.
“That glass will tear your slippers to shreds, not to mention your feet.”
Her tender gaze was too adoring by half. “This is becoming a habit—your hauling me about in your arms.”
“Can I help it if you always need rescuing?” he said gruffly.
“I wouldn’t need rescuing if you weren’t always taking me by surprise.” She tightened her hold on his neck in a blatant invitation. “Not that I’m complaining. I like being rescued by you.”
He caught his breath, achingly aware of her soft, fragrant weight. Her full mouth held a teasing smile, and her eyes sparkled with gaiety. For a second he actually considered tossing her on his bed and taking advantage of the sweet surcease she offered.
Then the door opened and his valet walked in. “Oh, I b-beg your pardon, my lord,” the man stammered, already backing out.
“It’s all right, James.” Hastily Spencer set Abby on her feet and forced himself to pull his hands away. “Lady Ravenswood had a little mishap. Fetch someone to clean up this glass, if you will.”
“Yes, my lord,” James said and left them.
Disappointment flickered in Abby’s eyes. But when he did nothing but stand there clenching and unclenching his hands to keep from reaching for her again, she sighed and turned away to stare at the glass. “I should clean it up myself.”
“That’s what I have servants for.” Then he added more harshly, “What were you doing in my bedchamber anyway?”
The question seemed to throw her into a quandary. She fiddled with her apron strings. “Well, you see…I…um…was bringing you a little present, that’s all.”
“A present?”
“A bottle of the Mead.” She waved her hand over the strewn glass, then babbled nervously, almost guiltily, “I thought you could use it to sweeten your breath or soothe your stomach or whatever you wished. You could even use it as a scent if you—”
“I don’t use scent.”
She swung a perplexed gaze to him. “That’s not true. I’ve smelled bergamot on you many times. You must use some sort of scent. That’s why I…
um…thought of giving you a bottle of the Mead.”
He took insult at being lumped in with those idiot gentlemen who perfumed their clothes and hair and bodies. “I assure you, I’m not some dandy trying to smell like a flower garden. I don’t use scent. You’re mistaken in what you thought you smelled.”
“If you say so,” she said with a stubborn tilt of her chin. “In any case, I’ve destroyed the only bottle I had left. I’m making more tomorrow, but I won’t bother to make you any, since you don’t ‘use scent.’”
Was that sarcasm in her voice? Probably. She never seemed to believe him. “I’m sorry I made you drop your only bottle, but I didn’t expect to see you when I came in here to change clothes.”
She blinked. “Why are you changing clothes?”
“I’ve been summoned by the king.”
“The king of what?”
Good God, she was serious. “England, my dear. We have one, remember?”
A blush stained her cheeks. “Yes, but I didn’t think he bothered with regular people…that is…I-I didn’t realize…I mean, I did, but…well, you’re quite an important man then, aren’t you?”
“Only when the home secretary is away on business. One of my duties is taking his place, and that includes meeting with the king when His Majesty requests it.”
He waited for her reaction, expecting the same one his servants always had—pride in the connections they vicariously shared by being part of his household. Even as his sham wife, she was bound to feel the same.
So her frown took him by surprise. “It’s rude of him to expect you to drop everything and run about for his pleasure. You probably have more important things to do.” Planting her hands on her hips, she looked him over with feminine indignation. “And what’s wrong with what you’re wearing anyway? Why should you dash off to change clothes just because he can’t stand a plain and honest coat?”
He burst into laughter. He’d been thinking much the same thing, but dared not voice his complaints aloud to anyone. Leave it to Abby to do it for him. “He’s the king. He can order people about as he pleases.”
“Really? Well, that’s very obnoxious of him.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how you English put up with royalty. You ought to boot them all out and run the country yourselves like we do in America. We believe all men are created equal. You’re just as good as he is, you know.”
“Careful, my dear, you might want to keep that opinion to yourself,” he said dryly. “They still hang people for treason here.”
She lifted her hand to her neck in abject horror. “They could hang me for speaking my mind?”
“If your mind is treasonous, yes.” A wicked urge seized him, and he bent low to add, “But don’t worry—I’ll make sure they only lock you in the Tower with the rest of the hardened criminals.”
She gaped at him. Then awareness dawned in her eyes. “Why, Lord Ravenswood, I do believe you’re teasing me.”
“Not at all.” He struggled to keep a straight face. “We Englishmen take our treason quite seriously. Why do you think the king has summoned me? To discuss what to do with my troublesome American wife who’s preaching sedition in the streets.”
“Is that so?” With a coy smile, she sidled up close to him. “And you would suggest that they put me in the Tower, would you?”
“We have to protect our populace from dangerous sorts like you Americans.”
“Fine. Put me there if you must.” Her eyes danced. “But only if you agree to visit. I’m sure you’d find it amusing to see me in chains after all the trouble I’ve been.”
A vivid image of her in chains flashed into his mind. Then it turned into a lewder image of her naked in chains, offering up her eager mouth while his hands took wanton liberties with her breasts and her splayed thighs and the sweet hot place—
Good God, she was driving him mad. He should know better than to tease her—teasing led to flirting, and flirting led to other things.
He turned away abruptly to mutter, “I doubt that the king allows visits to criminals in the Tower.” With a shuddering breath, he brought his unruly urges under control. “James will be back any minute to help me change clothes, so you’d best go.” Before I chain you to my side for the rest of my life.
He shook off that dangerous thought. “And the next time you wish to give me a ‘present,’ hand it to McFee and he’ll see that I get it.”
“Why?” she challenged. “Are you afraid that if you let me loose in your room I’ll ruin something else, something that doesn’t belong to me?”
“No. I’m afraid that I will.” When he glanced over to find her staring at him in bewilderment, he added harshly, “Just go, will you? I have to dress.”
“But I wanted to talk to you about the Mead—”
“Not now, Abby. I don’t have time.”
“Oh, all right.” She sniffed. “I see that your king isn’t the only one who thinks he can order people about as he pleases.”
As she stalked toward the door, all wounded dignity and feminine outrage, he actually contemplated running after her to beg her forgiveness with kisses. Instead he watched woodenly as the door closed behind her, leaving him once again alone.
Not for long, however. As he stripped off his coat and waistcoat, his valet returned with a broom-bearing servant in tow. The servant set about cleaning up the glass immediately. James, who carried a pail of steaming water, approached Spencer with his face full of excitement.
“An audience with the king, is it?” James said. “We’ll have you looking bright as a new-polished penny in a thrice, my lord.”
Spencer sighed. Time to return to acting as if a royal audience was an honor rather than an onerous duty. “I hope so. I’ve only got an hour.” He peeled off his limp shirt.
“Shall I shave you before you dress?” James asked.
“Considering that His Majesty thinks facial hair is rude, I suppose you’d better.” Spencer ran a hand over his faintly whiskered cheek and jaw. “Just don’t nick me. Bleeding in his presence is probably illegal.”
His valet laughed. “Don’t worry, my lord, I’ll be gentle as a lamb.” James poured hot water into a basin and set out the shaving implements. Normally, Spencer paid no attention to James’s machinations, but today he couldn’t help noticing that James poured some liquid from a bottle into the shaving water.
Spencer flicked a finger toward the bottle. “What’s that?”
“Bergamot oil, my lord. Just enough to soften the skin.”
He stared at his valet. “Do you always use it when you shave me?”
“Of course. Every gentlemen should have a bit of scented oil in his shaving water—so the soap don’t dry him out. And it has a pleasing scent, too.”
So Abby had been right. He’d berated her for making him sound like a dandy, when all the time she’d simply been following her nose. Feeling like a cad, he sank into the chair that his valet indicated.
Spencer had never been so out of his depth as he was with Abby. He couldn’t open his mouth without either hurting her feelings or turning her flirtatious. It was bloody annoying. Like last night, the way she’d looked when he’d left her after their outrageous and unwise fondling. Most women would have chastised him for taking such liberties. But not Abby, oh, no. She wanted more. She always wanted more than he could offer.
How he wished he had it to give to her.
And how he wished she hadn’t broken that bloody bottle in here. The room reeked of it, keeping her in his mind constantly. He glanced over to the servant who was sweeping up the glass. “Be sure to scrub that floor when you’re done with the sweeping. And use something to get rid of the smell. It’s potent enough to choke a man.”
And sweet enough to turn him into a slavering slave at the feet of the woman who smelled of it. Chains—hah! If anybody wore chains these days, it was he. He couldn’t spend one moment without thinking of all the ways he wanted to make love to her. Forget the Tower—he’d like to chain her naked to his bed while
he taught her exactly what happened to women who teased men without a thought for the consequences…
“I’ll fetch your clothes now,” James murmured, having finished shaving him.
Jerked from his erotic fancies, Spencer groaned. He had an erection. Again. Devil take it, he had to stop thinking of her, before James returned and noticed his bulging trousers. Otherwise, changing clothes would be bloody embarrassing.
He must think of something else. The king. Yes. That would deflate any man’s ardor. He reviewed what concerns the king might wish to discuss. He pondered tactics for dealing with His Majesty. He contemplated the latest bill in the House of Lords. That dampened his lust enough to get him through dressing.
Until James tied his cravat. Suddenly, his image of Abby rose powerfully in his mind once more. Her scent seemed more intense than ever, as if that damned bottle of hers were being waved right under his very nose.
Bloody hell, this was insane. His mind was playing tricks on him. But if she did this to him when she wasn’t even around, how would he ever manage when he had to be near her? He had to get the woman out of his house and back to America before she eroded his resolve completely.
Making a mental note to consult with the runners yet again for any news of his brother, he stood there holding his thoughts of her barely at bay, praying that the scent of her would pass before he left the house.
But it didn’t. It seemed to follow him everywhere. He couldn’t purge her from his brain, not in his carriage, not at the palace, and not even when he stood before the king himself. Abby’s essence had infected him.
“Lord Ravenswood?” said the regal voice, and he realized with a start that he hadn’t been paying attention to what the king was saying.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Do you think we are wise to take this trip to Edinburgh in August? We would be the first king since Charles II to set foot in Scotland, you realize.”
“That’s true.” Spencer dragged his wayward thoughts back to the matter under discussion. “Your Majesty must determine what you wish to accomplish with such a trip. Do you want to ascertain the concerns of the Catholics regarding Emancipation? Or merely to assure the Scots of the Crown’s good will? In the first case, the trip is pointless, because you can do that here. But in the second, it might be beneficial.”
Married to the Viscount Page 18