Julia London (12 page)

Sebastian’s thin shoulders drooped. “On my mother’s grave, it certainly was not from a lack of trying,” he said wearily. Michael raised a brow at his normally stoic secretary.

Sebastian glanced warily at his lord. “You see, my lord, the calf was finally birthed today, and the Havershams, naturally having been infected by her excitement at the impending birth, had very closely followed the progress. Unbeknownst to me, she sent word to Lady Haversham this morning, telling if she truly desired to assist in such a birth—at which, by the by, Lady Darfield seems to be quite practiced—to come at once. Well, Lady Haversham
did
come, and the two of them assisted that old milk cow to bear a healthy calf, and now, naturally, they are celebrating,” Sebastian said weakly.

“Naturally,” Michael ground out. “If you are telling me what I
think
you are telling me, sir, I am seriously considering sending you out on the
La Belle
next week as a deckhand.”

Sebastian groaned. “I did
everything
in my power, my lord, but she is, well, she is rather
willful
at times, and the truth of the matter is, she takes such joy in the simple pleasures of life that it is really rather hard for one to
resist
her—”

“Putting aside, for a moment, the fact that she is a
marchioness
, and therefore expected to adhere to certain standards of behavior, I trust it has not gone unnoticed by you that she is also a young woman. Are you telling me that it is not within your power to restrain a young woman from birthing calves and
playing darts
?” Michael asked acidly.

“Or changing wagon wheels,” Sebastian muttered miserably. Michael clenched his jaw tightly shut to keep himself from exploding. Sebastian’s misery was apparent. Sebastian, who had been with him forever, who was always so damned unflappable, was telling Michael that he had not been able to control a slender young woman! Michael sighed and tried to summon a little pity. She was, after all, a hellion. No one knew that better than he.

“I want to see her directly after breakfast, Sebastian. Do you think you can persuade her to do
that
?”

Sebastian sighed heavily. “I will certainly try, my lord,” he muttered helplessly.

Michael nodded curtly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I intend to bathe and go to bed,” he snapped, and marched out of the room. Behind him, Sebastian downed his port and slumped wearily against the chair cushions.

When Michael’s boot hit the soft blue carpet at the top of the stairs, he thought he heard muffled laughter. He stopped abruptly and listened for a moment, but heard nothing. With a shake of his head, he started for his rooms, then heard it again. He cocked his head to one side. It was coming from the library directly in front of him. He listened carefully and could hear the feminine and cheerful giggles behind the solid oak door. The little hellion seemed to be having a soirée in there.

Impulsively he knocked on the door. His rap was followed by a moment of silence, then the muffled flurry of movement. His irritation mounting, he knocked a little more forcefully. The door opened just a fraction, and Abbey peeked out from behind it with laughing violet eyes and a smile on her lips that faded rapidly when she saw him.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked coolly.

Abbey blinked. “Uh, well, yes, thank you. I, uh … we … weren’t expecting you.”

“That’s obvious,” he remarked sarcastically, and slipped his boot in between the door and its frame.

“Was there something you needed?” she asked cautiously.

“You and I are going to have a discussion in the morning, madam,” he said icily.

“Oh! Certainly!” she replied politely, then smiled enchantingly. She might as well have punched him in the gut, so powerful was the effect of that smile on him.

Michael swallowed and glanced past her, trying to peer into the room. He put his hand against the door and pushed a little, but Abbey held fast.

“What are you about?” he demanded.

Abbey’s eyes darted quickly over her shoulder then back to him. “Nothing of interest. We are sewing.”

“Who is
we
?” Michael asked as he pushed again, this time managing to open the door a little wider. Abbey took one step back, but would not budge from the door.

“Well … Sarah. Sarah is here. And Lady Haversham, too. And then we invited Cook …” She laughed nervously.

Cook?
Stunned, Michael inched inside, wedging his shoulder between the door and frame, and peered about the room. He was greatly astonished at the sight that greeted him. Sarah was sitting cross-legged in an overstuffed chair, her head bent over a cloth in which she pushed a needle up and down, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a servant girl to loll about with her mistress. More surprisingly, Lady Haversham sat at a table, and the broad back across from her belonged to none other than Cook.

The room itself had been transformed from a library into a sitting room, and looked as if it had been hit by a cyclone. Papers, books, and magazines were strewn across every conceivable surface. A basket of sewing articles on the floor next to the green settee was open, and its contents spilling carelessly over the sides. Cushions were tossed about the floor and a dozen or more candles flickered light about the room. Two vases stuffed full of hothouse flowers graced a low table between the chairs. There was something so utterly feminine about the room that he did not want to enter; it seemed almost sacrosanct. Instead he nodded curtly to Lady Haversham.

“Lord Darfield! I daresay I was beginning to despair that you would
ever
return to your lovely wife!” she called, and waved a handkerchief at him in greeting.

“As you can see, madam, I have returned,” he said abruptly, then looked down at Abbey. Her violet eyes were sparkling as if she harbored some happy secret.

“I shall expect a word with you directly after breakfast,” he said stiffly.

“Yes, that’s what I understood you to say,” she said agreeably.

He glanced one more time about the room, then gave her a curt nod and stepped back. In a moment’s hesitation, he quickly changed his mind and stepped forward again, intent on telling her at exactly what time he would see her. But she closed the door so quickly that it collided with his forehead.

“Damnation!”
he muttered angrily, rubbing his forehead.
A burst of laughter on the other side of the door brought his head up, and irrationally he believed that those women were laughing at his expense.

“Damnation!” he muttered again as he marched down the hall to his rooms.

Abbey was not ready for another one of Lord Boorfield’s interviews. She had really begun to enjoy herself at Blessing Park, but his return had cast a gray pall over everything. She believed she had come to terms with his callous indifference and did not want to see him. But when she had opened the sitting room door last night, she was dismayed to discover the small kernel of desire that had taken root so many years ago and sprouted within her had not diminished in the least.

Especially after His Insufferable Arrogance had kissed her two weeks ago.

As she dressed, she mulled over what she would say. She had heard enough gossip from Lady Haversham to know that he was very much sought after among the ladies, a tidbit she found terribly disquieting. Lady Haversham had even suggested that the widow, Lady Davenport, was his lover. That had not surprised her; he had said as much himself. In fact, Abbey had deduced that Lady Davenport must be the reason for his aversion to this marriage—perhaps he felt love for the widow. Lady Haversham said she was a celebrated beauty, a petite blonde and closer to Michael’s own age. Abbey, on the
other hand, was too tall, her eyes too wide for her face, and her unruly hair unfashionably dark. It was no wonder that Michael preferred the beautiful Lady Davenport to her.

She finished dressing and paced in front of the cavernous fireplace to avoid the inevitable. She had to be logical about this. If she returned to America now, it would be in disgrace. Michael loved another, but had honored his commitment to marry her. She apparently had landed at an inopportune time; Michael probably had thought to end his liaison before he married. Perhaps he had not considered he would be married so soon.

Perhaps he needed time to resolve the matter of Lady Davenport before he could give himself to her. It certainly explained his desire to lead separate lives. However, if there was any hope that he could love her again, she would gladly give him the time and space he needed.

She resolved to abide by his terms. He had said she must ask his permission for all purchases. She would certainly agree to that. She really did not care much for fashion, and she could not possibly imagine anything she might need. If he needed to control her allowance as was the practice, then so be it.

He had said he wanted an heir. Now, that was a little stickier. She could not bear the thought of carrying his child when he loved another. She would suggest at least a year should pass so that he would have ample time to finish with Lady Davenport. Besides, she hardly knew him. Shouldn’t they find some middle ground on which they could coexist peacefully before parenting children? Not to mention that the thought of his powerful body coupled with hers almost sent her to her knees with fear.

And if he wanted, she would go and not look back, even it was the least desirable option for her and would mean her disgrace. Even so, she refused to listen to the part of her that argued she was not ready to give up on the man she had loved all her life, even if it meant a battered pride.

She was ready to give him everything he wanted—no,
demanded
. In the meantime, she would live as she had the last
two weeks, enjoying the wealth of diversion Blessing Park offered, staying well out of his way, and striving to increase her indifference to him. He, on the other hand, could take the time he needed to end his relationship with Lady Davenport.

Pleased and admiring of her ability to muddle through to a workable plan, Abbey went to the breakfast room.

She appeared in the doorway wearing a beguiling smile and a cream day dress covered with a pattern of tiny violets. She felt remarkably fresh despite the early hour and even a little giddy when she saw Michael sitting at the table. He was clad in a dark-blue coat and dove-gray pants that matched the color of his eyes. He looked extremely beautiful this morning, but she was strong enough to ignore that.

“Good morning, Michael!” she said cheerfully.

Good God
, Michael thought, she actually looked happy to see him as she rocked gently back and forth with her hands clasped demurely behind her back. Lord, but she had a strong effect on him. His gaze swept over her. He had been with many pretty women in his time, but something about her eyes, something about the way she looked at him made him weak. He was not weak, he reminded himself angrily.

“May I join you?” she asked politely. He barely nodded his consent and surreptitiously eyed her feminine figure as she settled into a chair. Her breasts strained against the muslin cloth as she reached across the table for sugar. A vision of those breasts—bared—danced uninvited in his mind’s eye.

All right, perhaps he was a
little
weak.

Jones entered through a side door and looked genuinely pleased to see her, an occurrence, Michael thought as he buried his head behind his paper, that was highly unusual.

“Good morning, Lady Darfield! Shall I bring you the usual?” Jones asked in a too-cheerful, singsong voice.

“That would be wonderful. And please, Jones, tell Cook that yesterday’s pastries were her best yet! Simply divine!”

“I will relay your compliment, madam. Cook will be pleased.”

Behind his paper, Michael raised a brow. Since when did
anyone dare speak to Cook this early in the morning? And since when did Jones have more than two words to say?

Uncharacteristically, Jones tapped a finger on the other side of Michael’s paper. “And for you, my lord?” he asked in a cool tone.

Surprised, Michael lowered the paper. “Porridge.”

“Porridge,” Jones repeated irritably, and disappeared through the side door.

Michael scowled and buried his head behind the weekly again. He tried to ignore Abbey. He tried to absolve Jones for being smitten with her. He tried to pretend he did not smell the enticing scent of lilac and tried not to count the number of sugar cubes she dropped into her tea. He had much more important things about which to speak with her.

After a rather sleepless night, he had decided that some of his displeasure was his own doing. She did not know all the social dictates of this country, and he certainly had not bothered to explain them to her. He suspected some of her outrageous behavior during his absence had been directed at him for leaving. The most logical course was to have a firm discussion with her. brooking no argument, and give her a fair chance to behave properly. He would magnanimously forestall throttling her for the time being. He thought, given the circumstances, that he was being a model of charitable behavior.

“No more than two, Abbey. Five cubes is quite excessive,” he heard himself say—much to his own surprise. There was a moment of silence, and he waited for the barrage to begin behind the cover of his paper.

Instead, she began to hum softly.

Against his better judgment, he lowered his paper so he could see over the edge. She was still smiling. Damn that smile! He jerked the paper up again. Several moments passed. He sat rigidly, not comprehending what he was reading, and wondering what in the hell she was doing.

“Michael?”

Her pleasant voice startled him. Slowly he brought the paper down an inch. He would have sworn by the way her eyes
sparkled that she was laughing at him. Bloody hell, she was beautiful when her eyes sparkled like that.

“I trust your business was taken care of?” When he did not answer, she spoke again. “There is quite a lot of correspondence that has arrived in the last several days. If you would like, I would be happy to respond to those you think appropriate.” His eyes narrowed. At last, here it was. Whatever she had up her sleeve, it was about to unfold.