Julia London (13 page)

“Oh no, madam, oh no.
No!
” he said emphatically, shaking his head. He put the paper in his lap and stared at her in a silent challenge to continue.

“As you wish,” she said with an agreeable smile.

Surprised again, something that so rarely happened to him, he had to concentrate on keeping his expression bland. He was about to ask her what she was up to when Jones bustled into the room.

“Cook is happy you are pleased with the pastries,” he announced joyfully. “She has made you a special treat this morning. Raspberry tarts!” He proudly held up a plate piled precariously high with pastries for her to see. Delighted, Abbey gasped and gleefully clasped her hands together.

Michael’s eyes darted first to Abbey, then to Jones. “Cook made raspberry tarts before dawn?” he demanded.

Jones answered with a scowl and plopped a bowl in front of him without ceremony. “Porridge,” he drawled disapprovingly.

“Oh, these are delicious! Would you care for one?” Abbey purred.

Vaguely irritated and unsure as to why, he muttered, “No. Thank you.” Abbey made a little sound as if she were perplexed by his response, then devoured her tart. Ignoring his porridge, Michael watched her blissfully reach for another tart and devour it, too, smiling at him all the while. After daintily dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin, she carefully put aside her teacup, stood, and reached for the plate of tarts.

“Just where do you think you are going?” Michael demanded. Her eyes widened in innocence.

“If you will excuse me, I have rather a full day in front of me. Oh! You mean the tarts. Sarah is quite fond of them, so I thought to take some to her. Unless, of course, you would prefer them.”

“I do not want any tarts,” he said with a growl.

Abbey shrugged indifferently. “Very well then. Good day.”

Michael could not think of what to say as she turned from the table and stopped to examine some fresh-cut flowers before starting for the door.

“Wait!” he barked. Abbey glanced over her shoulder at him. “Did you not understand that I wanted a discussion with you?” he snapped.

Abbey smiled cheerfully. “I quite understood. I suppose I thought we just had it.”

“No, we did not. Sit down,” he commanded, trying gamely to ignore the unnerving sparkle in her eye and forcibly reminding himself of the role she had played in the agreement.

Abbey placed the tarts on the table, then dutifully sat and folded her hands demurely in her lap. Her lovely face watched him expectantly.

Michael’s pulse began to quicken. “Abigail—”

“Abbey.”

“Abbey,” he conceded. “Pay close attention to what I say. I have been remiss in not explaining certain things to you. There are … activities … a marchioness does not engage in, no matter what the circumstance.”

“Indeed? I had no idea!” she said with genuine surprise, then frowned slightly at Jones, as if he had also been remiss in not explaining to her.

“To begin with, a marchioness does not”—he could hardly say the words—“
play darts
at the local inn, no matter how skilled she may be.” Abbey blinked.

“Or change wagon wheels. Or birth calves,” he continued evenly.

Abbey’s brilliant violet eyes began to darken. There was no hiding a single emotion in those eyes; they were a window to
her very soul. And at the moment, her soul was clearly irritated.

“Pray tell, what does a marchioness do?” she asked coolly.

“She amuses herself with gentle activities. Embroidery, the pianoforte, riding, etcetera.
Not
manual labor, and most certainly
not
barroom games.”

She considered that for a moment, then asked with feigned innocence, “Do you mean to say there are
rules
a marchioness must follow?”

“Not
rules
exactly.”

“Then how should one know what a marchioness must do?”

Michael rolled his eyes and glared at the ornately plastered ceiling. He had the distinct impression he was being trifled with, or the girl was too artless for her own good. “There are certain dictates, societal norms, if you will. Standards that members of polite society are expected to follow,” he tried again.

“Are you expected to follow them, as well?”

“Of course.”

“Hmm … you mean something like a card game. There are certain rules, and if one does not follow them, one loses.” She nodded helpfully, then turned a beguiling grin to Jones. “Unless one
cheats
, of course!” she added. Jones chuckled but stopped abruptly when Michael glared at him.

“I wasn’t exactly speaking of cards, Abbey. No one dictates what members of the
ton
will do, but there are expectations.” She looked puzzled. He began to rub his temples.

“Then perhaps you mean rules that govern a solicitor? Like the law?” she asked.

“No, I do not mean that, either,” he said behind clenched teeth.

Abbey frowned slightly and tapped a manicured nail against her bottom lip. “Then are you referring to procedures that govern the working of something, like a ship? There may not be exact
rules
to guide a ship, but one must certainly
guide
a ship in such a manner that one does not sink it,” she said, as if playing a game.

At the sideboard, Jones nodded enthusiastically and looked hopefully at Michael, who drew a long, tortured breath.

“I hardly mean guiding a ship, Abbey,” he said impatiently, despite his best effort to remain calm.

“Then how does a marchioness
know
what is expected if there are no rules or procedures?” she asked again.

“There are no
rules
. Abbey. No rules!” he snapped irritably, helpless to explain himself.

Abbey was silent for a brief moment. “I see,” she said cheerfully.

He certainly hoped she did. He returned to rubbing his temples.

“Then the
ton
can really do whatever they please?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes!” he ground out.

“Thank you, this has been very useful.” she said amicably, and stood to go.

Michael, quite unaccustomed to having to explain himself to anyone, was speechless at how she had twisted his words against him. The scent of lilac drifted over him as she swept by and suddenly, he could not let her get away so easily. “Just a moment, Abbey.”

She paused at the door. “Yes?”

“I forbid you to play darts, birth cows, or change wagon wheels. Those are
my
rules. You will behave in a manner befitting your station, do I make myself clear?”

“You mean my station as a marchioness?” she asked carefully.

“Yes, that of a marchioness,” he said, his patience wearing thin.

Abbey cocked her head prettily to one side. “You make yourself quite clear.”

“Now, what have you planned for today?”

“Oh. Embroidery, the pianoforte. Nothing remarkable,” she replied sweetly.

“You will remain at Blessing Park. Do not visit the Havershams and do not go to Pemberheath,” he snapped. An unmistakable
cloud of disappointment covered her violet eyes, and Michael instantly regretted being so churlish.

“As you wish. Good day, my lord.” She closed the door softly behind her.

Jones immediately turned from the sideboard and uncharacteristically bestowed a hateful glare on Michael. “If I may be so bold, sir—”

Michael still had not recovered from his decided inability to explain himself and was very much taken aback by the remarkable utterance from Jones. “You may not!”

“A little kindness would not be too much to ask, I should think. She is deserving of it.”

“My God, Jones, I think you should fetch a physician. For a moment I was certain I heard
you
instruct
me
on how to treat a woman!” Michael said incredulously.

“My humblest apologies, my lord, I would never instruct you on how to treat a woman,” Jones said smoothly. Michael nodded smugly and turned back to his porridge. “I was referring to your wife.”

The spoon froze midway between Michael’s bowl and his mouth.
“Jones!”

But Jones was already out the door, leaving Michael to stare into his coagulated porridge. In frustration, he dropped his spoon and stared at the door to the breakfast room, silently willing her to come back and chiding himself for being weak.

Michael eventually made his way to the library to look for the correspondence the silly chit had mentioned. It was not in there as he expected, so he went to the main sitting room. He opened the door and faltered. The room had been completely transformed. The furniture had been moved to the middle of the room, forming cozy circles around tables heaped with books. Gone were several of the old portraits that had hung on the wall, and those that remained had been rearranged. He was not sure, but he thought several smaller objêts d’art were missing, as well. The French doors that led onto the terrace were open, and a soft breeze, unusually warm for late winter, lifted a sheet of paper on one table. Those doors, to the best of his recollection, had
never
been open. The room, now airy and
bright, was a stark contrast to the dark, solemn room to which he was accustomed. A maid paused in her dusting and dropped a polite curtsey as he slowly came across the threshold.

“What happened to this room, Ann?”

“Lady Darfield rearranged it, my lord. She thought it too formal.”

“I see,” he muttered. He walked slowly to the mantel, where a silver tray stacked high with letters sat next to a vase of fresh-cut flowers. He took the bundle and absently began to sift through them. Invitations, business letters, more invitations. He suspected the whole Southampton region was eager for a look at the new Lady Darfield, assuming, naturally, that Lady Haversham had been her usual loquacious self with a piece of news. Yes, his neighbors were probably in a frenzy by now, what with his quick and unplanned marriage. No doubt flagrant rumors of inappropriate behavior on his part were circulating freely.

The sound of laughter coming from the gardens snapped him back to the present. Unless Withers had completely lost his mind, someone was in the gardens who should not be, and he had a good idea who.

He dropped the papers on the tray and marched through the open doors onto the terrace.

Abbey was below him on a grassy lawn. She had changed into a plain black skirt and white blouse. Her mahogany hair was knotted simply at the nape of her neck, and soft curls drifted down her back. Atop her head she wore a strange, floppy straw hat that looked like a giant fruit basket. A dog, one that looked to be from his kennels, was chasing a ball Abbey tossed for him. Withers was there, too, working in the garden. He seemed oblivious to her presence until Abbey said something that made the big man throw back his head with laughter. Michael would not have believed it had he not heard it himself. What was it about her that had his normally humorless staff swooning?

He stood silently watching the scene below him for several minutes. Abbey tossed the ball and in a lilting voice urged the
dog to bring it to her. Once the dog had returned the ball, she gathered her skirts in one hand, revealing a very shapely calf, and skipped about the lawn, keeping the ball from the dog before throwing it again. Michael inhaled a slow, deliberate breath before moving toward the stone steps leading to the garden.

Abbey and Withers did not notice him approaching down the main path. By the time he reached them, Abbey was breathless, her cheeks stained the color of Withers’s roses. A familiar and unwelcome longing tugged at Michael as he sauntered toward them.

She still had not seen him when she sent the ball sailing. It ricocheted off a tree and knocked squarely into Michael’s leg. In a whirl of skirt and satin hair, Abbey turned to retrieve it, laughing, but drew up short when she saw him.

He was aware his expression was one of stone. He clasped his hands behind his back and shifted his weight to one leg as he regarded her behind cool gray eyes. She glanced anxiously at Withers, who grunted as if he were afraid Michael might touch one of his precious roses. She approached him slowly to retrieve the ball.

“Would you like to join us in a game? You will find it’s quite invigorating, particularly on such a glorious morning.”

“I think not,” he responded coolly. He picked up the leather ball and tossed it to her. She caught it deftly in one hand, tossed it carelessly in the air, and caught it again.

“Is there something you wanted?” she asked, and nervously flipped the long tail of silky hair over her shoulder.

“No,” he managed. He might have thought of something more profound to say, but he was mesmerized. He realized he was staring and abruptly shifted his weight to the other leg and glanced upward. “Fetching hat,” he remarked dryly.

Abbey wrinkled her nose. “Do you really think so? I think it rather hideous,” she said as she pulled the hat off her head and examined the outrageous fruit decoration.

Michael raised one brow in silent question as to why she would wear a hat she thought was hideous but said nothing.
The dog, having wandered over in search of his ball, began sniffing Michael’s boots with abandon.

“That dog should be in the kennels,” he remarked, for wont of anything better.

“Harry? Unfortunately, he has been expelled from your kennels.”

“I beg your pardon?” Michael asked, shifting his gaze to her.

“Do you see his paw? He was injured in a steel trap. The kennelmaster was set to put him down, but I couldn’t bear it. He’s rather a cheerful hound, and but for his mangled foot, he does quite nicely.” She patted her thigh and the dog wobbled across the lawn in a half lope, half walk, blissfully unaware that one front paw was permanently disfigured and faced the other at a right angle. Abbey squatted down to pet the dog, and Michael could see the voluptuous line of her thigh against her skirt and her breasts straining against her blouse. He forced himself to look at the ground. He was mad, quite raving mad. He was standing there admiring the pirate girl, for chrissakes!

“He is useless,” he muttered impassionately.

Abbey peered up at him with one hand across her eyes to shade the sun. “He may well be useless for the hunt, sir, but he is quite a good companion.” She stood up and brushed her hands lightly against her skirt while his gaze swiftly swept her figure. His jaw clenched tightly, and for some inexplicable reason, he could not summon his tongue. She waited patiently, looking about, anywhere but at him. After several, long, painful moments, she nodded politely and started to turn from him.