by Erica Monroe
He blinked. Where had that possessive thought come from? He wanted to tup her, of course, but he had no right to claim her.
Abigail turned around to say something to Smithers. Damned if the old man didn't grin back at her.
A smart man might have admitted defeat when his servants had so clearly outplayed his hand. Michael had never been considered a smart man. He'd disappointed them so much in the past they ought to know better.
He wouldn’t become attached to Abigail, no matter how much they wanted him to. No matter how much he wanted to spend more time with her. She was here for two weeks, and then she’d leave. She’d forget about him as she moved on to a bigger conquest.
The servants wandered off under the auspicious claim they had work to do. Most likely, they'd end up at another window, spying on his walk with Abigail. Incurable sods.
“Ready?” He asked, extending his arm to her.
She nodded, resting her hand on his arm. “I'm not sure I understand why you want to spend the day out of doors.”
He smiled at her quizzical expression as he opened the door out into the garden. “Come now, Abigail, haven't you ever played in the snow?”
She held back. “Shouldn’t we be concerned about Clowes?”
“My men have received intelligence that Clowes is in St. Giles,” he said. “But I’ve got two patrollers guarding these grounds. In addition, Smithers is equipped with a pistol. He’s a crack shot, though you’d never know by the way he comports himself.”
“That old man?”
“That old man used to be in the Army before he joined my family’s staff.”
Her brows rose. “Somehow I cannot picture that.”
“Smithers was a Lieutenant,” he said. “Served in the war against old Boney, but he got injured in battle and the Army dismissed him.”
She frowned. “Poor Smithers. Now he’s in an entirely different type of service.”
“I’m sure he’d greatly prefer facing a field of angry frogs than deal with me,” he said dryly.
He stepped from the porch into the snow, motioning for her to follow. Cold smacked him in the face, alerting every one of his senses. This was what he loved about winter: no matter how deadened he felt inside, the raw frigidity always made him feel alive.
There was no wind today, only the constant chill. For now, at least, the snow had ceased falling. They stood at the edge of the garden; the brick path barely visible under a blanket of white. Icicles hung from the sagging branches of willow trees. His mother's rose bushes had frozen, the sharp thorns without bite. No one had been out yet. A yard of fresh snowfall stretched before them.
Abigail’s hand tightened on his arm.
He urged her forward. “It's not so bad once you get used to it.”
She cast him a disparaging glare. “I have been in snow before, you know.”
Damnation, how he enjoyed every sneer from this prickly miss. Abigail Vautille had more piss and vinegar in her little body than half the sergeants he knew. If she'd been born male—and of surer footing—she would've made a damn good patroller.
He grinned as her scowl deepened. “It's harmless. Just a bit of fluff.”
“I hate fluff,” she muttered darkly. “And I don’t act without purpose.”
He grinned. “Haven’t you ever done something for the fun of it? Because you want to know how it’ll feel?”
She yanked the hood of her cloak tighter around her head. “I don’t have time for fun.” Her voice dripped with disdain he’d only ever heard from the working class. “If I don’t bring in money, then my sister starves.”
He made a mental note to send Smithers to London Bank. An anonymous transfer to the Vautilles of fifty pounds or so—not so substantial that she’d refuse, but large enough to keep her set up for a few months.
It’d be the best damn use of his father’s money yet.
Patting her arm, he softened his smile. “Come now, love, you left Bess in good hands, didn’t you?”
She tilted her head up, scrutinizing at him with wide eyes. “You remember my sister’s name.”
Good. She wasn’t immune to his charm. He had begun to doubt his prowess. Hell, she made him doubt everything he knew.
“Of course I remember. It was important to you.” God bless his weird memory, which cataloged names and dates with unerring accuracy.
He led her down the path. Turning his head, he peered behind his shoulder at their footprints. The memorandums on his desk requiring action faded away. There was only the wild, reckless outdoors around him.
And her. He couldn’t breathe without smelling the lavender of her soap. He couldn’t proceed without hearing her footfall after him, irregular in step but somehow managing to keep pace with him. Though the air had begun to warm as the sun emerged from the clouds, he was certain that the heat flowing in his joints could be traced to the sight of her decked out in that velvet maroon cloak which covered half of her bodice, too.
“It’s not a particularly large garden,” he said apologetically. “I wish I could show you Vauxhall in the spring, when everything is in bloom and there’s fireworks.”
“This will do fine,” she replied. “I don’t imagine I’d fit in well at Vauxhall.”
He tilted his head toward her, taking in her rich clothes and the gloves that covered scarred hands. Though he’d dressed her in finery and treated her as a queen, in her eyes she’d always be the same gutter girl.
“That’s the beauty of Vauxhall,” he told her. “Everyone fits in there. There’s something for you no matter what class you’re from.”
She stepped around a downed branch from one of the trees, holding her rosy skirts up with her right hand. “I suppose I’ll have to revise my earlier view of it. But you still haven’t told me the point of this outing.”
He clucked his tongue. “Originally, I simply wanted to take a stroll in the fresh air. Now that you’ve admitted you don’t know how to enjoy yourself, I have a new goal.”
Eying him suspiciously, she dropped his arm and took a step back. “And what, pray tell, is that?”
He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back on the balls of his feet. “To make you have fun. Why, I’ve lived my entire life seeking pleasure.”
“Your reputation precedes you,” she noted wryly.
“Ah now, we said we wouldn’t rely on the words of others.” He waggled a finger at her. “Tabula rasa and all that, love.”
“It’s not that I don’t know how to have fun,” she clarified. “But rather that there’s no point in it. The world is cruel. I see no reason to pretend otherwise.”
“Perhaps a wager then?”
“Absolutely not.” The cloak slipped backward from her vigorous headshakes. “Gambling got us into this bloody mess to begin with.”
“Not for blunt. For…something else entirely.” He grinned wolfishly.
She retreated from him. “I haven’t given you my answer yet.”
Well, that settled it. Whatever desire he harbored for her, she certainly didn’t share it. “You keep saying it like that, and my ego’s going to get damaged.”
She arched a brow at him. “Given how much you love yourself, I highly doubt that.”
“I was merely going to say, that if by the end of the afternoon, you’re having fun, then I win. I’d like you to recite from a book of my choosing.” He had a few volumes of particularly bawdy poetry that ought to bring a blush to her face.
“Ah. I suppose that’ll do.” She inched closer to him, her hand extended. “And if I win, I should like you to admit that Candide is a fabulous book in a three-paragraph essay with detailed drawings.”
“Cheeky lass.” He shook her hand. “It’s a done deal.”
“Now for your first challenge…” He stooped down, intending to pack the loose snow up into a ball to fling at her.
But before he could launch his assault, something cold and wet hit him. He straightened up, loose snow sliding down off his wool greatcoat. The larger part o
f her snowball clung to his coat, a veritable bull’s-eye.
Mischievous wench.
Abigail stood back from him, her gloved hands slapping against her knee. Her laughter rang out, reminding him of church bells before Christmas mass. Her giggles claimed it was time for celebration, for a new dawn was upon them.
Bollocks. He didn’t wax poetic. He was a man, damn it, and men kept stiff upper lips. Men weren’t undone by golden-haired pixies, no matter how radiant her face was when she finally smiled.
He swept downwards, scooping up a handful of snow and packing it between his palms. While she remained doubled over, gasping for breath as she laughed, he aimed a snowball straight at her side.
Excellent aim, if I do say so myself.
She ceased laughing, wiping the snow off her coat. “I’ll have you know I’m not responsible for any damage you do to your sister’s garments.”
He swallowed as warmth flooded through him. The damage he might do to that dress would be way worse than snow. With his bare hands, he’d rend that fabric in half—
Another snowball smacked him square in the jaw.
He swiped at the snow, his chin numbing from the cold. “Hey, now!”
She leveled her shoulders and narrowed her eyes. “I’m a damn good opponent. If you want a war, I’ll give you a war.”
From her outstretched palm a third snowball flew, landing on his chest. When had she time to make the damned things? His coat would be drenched soon.
He dived for shelter behind the solid wood bench, but not soon enough. A snowball hit him in the thigh.
“Can’t be beaten by a girl,” he muttered, mocking his father’s words every time Frances walloped him as a child. The Old Bastard had underestimated the sheer pugnaciousness of the female race, just as he had underestimated his son.
Balling up the snow in quick, solid handfuls, Michael created a small stockpile of snowballs. He darted to the side, scanning for sight of Abigail. Her voluminous skirts peeped out from behind the trunk of a large oak tree a ways down the path. She’d made good time, but with every purposeful stride, she left tiny footprints in two wide lines for him to follow.
He evaluated the garden as he’d once considered the paths he had to take as a foot patroller, judging on shortest distance, easiest route, and likely problems. If he remained huddled behind the bench, he’d likely be unaffected by her assaults. But he’d gain no tactical advantage, as his snowballs would smash to the ground before they reached her.
“Well, one must live dangerously,” he declared, with a wistful glance at his bench haven. Smithers would decry his blatant disregard for his coat, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
He popped up the collar of his greatcoat so that it lined his neck, creating an extra layer of warmth atop his neckcloth. Scooping up as many snowballs as he could carry, he braced himself for an onslaught of cold. He half-wobbled, half-pushed up from the ground and set off at a run down the path.
One, two, three snowballs slammed into his chest. Damnation, she had wicked aim. Peals of laughter joined with the sound of slapping slush as she darted back behind the tree. How was she so speedy in that huge skirt, with her knock-knees and her injured hand?
He’d thought this would be an easy battle.
He should’ve known nothing with Abigail Vautille was ever easy.
Darting closer, he came within spitting distance of her tree. She skidded away, flinging a snowball at him as she did so. He bolted after her, sliding as the hard-packed snow underneath him became slippery. One snowball slipped from his hands, landing on his feet.
“So much for a worthy opponent,” she teased, flashing him a grin that stopped him dead in his tracks.
Come now, man. Use your head. No, not that one. Your other head.
With fatal accuracy, he launched a snowball straight at her chest.
“Oh!” She jumped back, as water splashed across her bodice. She brushed at her bosom with her gloved hand.
He gulped. He ought to look away. He ought to imagine anything but how her nipples must be pebbling from the cold—
Smack.
She struck him again.
“You’re staring,” she chided, but the satisfied flush to her cheeks bespoke her pleasure at his attentions.
He slid one hand behind his back, a giant snowball clenched in his fist. Sidling up to her, he ran a finger down the fur trim of her cloak with his free hand. “But why would I ever want to look away when you present such a delectable treat?”
She became more rigid but didn’t step back. Blinking several times, she stood there slack-jawed.
He’d finally stunned her.
So, he reached out, flattening sleet against her bodice. She squealed, but he kept his hand on top of it, mushing the wet ball and sliding it around until it covered the entire front of her dress.
She jumped back from him. He followed her. Around and around the tree they ran, chasing each other. He kept his strides short, his pace slower, so that he never quite caught up to her, the appeal of the game being in their giggling chase.
It was always the chase with him and women.
But he didn’t want to chase anymore. Maybe he wanted her to come after him. Maybe he wanted something more: an equal exchange of bodies and minds.
He came to a grinding halt, leaning back against the tree. She paused next to him to catch her breath. Her cheeks flushed from exertion, and her nose was tipped red from the cold. He’d never seen her blue eyes shine so brilliantly.
“Are you enjoying yourself yet?” he asked.
She straightened up, making a show of smoothing her snow-coated cloak. Lifting her chin, she challenged him with her gaze. “Absolutely not.”
“Then perhaps we ought to take a stroll down the path,” he suggested, extending his arm to her. “Have you ever made snow angels?”
“I cannot think of any possible reason why ‘snow’ and ‘angel’ should be in the same sentence.” Refusing his arm, she marched out into the snow, each step deliberate. After she’d proceeded halfway down the path, she turned around, hands on her hips. “Well? Are you coming?”
He hadn't been staring at her arse as she walked down the path. No, of course not, he'd been a complete gentleman, as befitted their newfound friendship. If she believed that...he had a share in London Bridge he'd sell her.
He shrugged, exaggerating the movement to take off focus from the fact that his face mostly assuredly appeared guilty. “You have never lived until you’ve made a snow angel, my dear Abigail.”
“I highly doubt that.” She motioned for him to follow her.
He trotted off after her, the cold slapping his face with every step. He was alive, invigorated, and utterly determined to win this bet. There were a few poems of John Wilmot’s with her name on them.
10
She'd lost the bet.
Defeat ran through Abigail's body, undeniably forthright. The knowledge accosted her when she traversed the path, linked arm-in-arm with Strickland, his booted feet sinking into the snow with august grace she'd never possess. Her chest blazed with each breath. She’d pushed too hard, chasing him around. Once they parted ways, she’d fall into bed and not move for the next twelve hours. But for now, she forced herself forward, pretending that she wasn’t exhausted.
She wouldn’t let him see her weakness.
Devil take him! Even in her fatigue, she thrived out here. The garden had become a magical wonderland.
She'd expected to hate all of this. Winter was not a time to frolic outdoors; winter was a time to huddle by the fireplace until the very last ember died out. She now understood why aristocrats flocked to balls and Christmas parties in their comfortable carriages with their fur muffs and thick cloaks. They'd never experienced bone-chilling cold.
Clad in the fur-trimmed maroon cloak and the lush pink day dress, she was for the first time in her life warm after a snowstorm. Even the drips of snow that clung to her dress didn't affect her. And in the absence of cold, she
knew she'd lost her sanity. Her body heated from the inside out thanks to his damnably merry presence. His affable grin fired her heart, flushed her cheeks until she was sure the whole world must know her joy.
So, she painted a scowl upon her face, and tried to summon back the ever-present darkness. She ought to be scared, for Clowes was out there, and in all her life she'd never met anyone has evil as Clowes.
But as Michael tugged her along, she couldn't help but give in to glee. She felt safe here, safer than she’d ever been.
He led her down the winding path, past flower plots with shrubberies dividing the sections. Surely, he must need a gardener to tend to these plants—Smithers seemed to have to enough to do, though she still couldn't fathom how one man generated as much mess as Michael did. But for all the work Michael piled on the aging butler, Smithers still found time to ask about her day. She’d quickly come to look forward to their talks.
Michael claimed the garden was small, yet by her estimation, it was longer than the Larker factory and twice the width. She'd already counted two trellises that would be overflowing with ivy in warmer weather; four statutes, constructed in marble and stone, of random Grecian gods; three floral arches that led to alcoves with wooden chairs. A miniature man-made pond had been placed off to the right, set into a stone circular enclosure. Overlooking the pond was a hexagonal pavilion of smooth stone with etched intricate designs in an ancient alphabet—Greek, she guessed, since the ton was obsessed with classical architecture. Better to remain buried in lofty recreations of the past than confront the poverty in their own present.
Without any ado, Michael dropped to the ground in front of the pavilion. He lay on his back, paying no attention to the wet, white powder that now coated his coat and breeches.
Quizzically, she nudged him with her foot. “Should I be concerned for your mental well-being?”
He stretched in the snow, arms out, legs spread wide. “I told you I'd teach you how to make a snow angel. Come, lie down beside me.”
Her gaze flicked from the ostentatious pavilion to his recumbent form. “You must be bamming me.”