Julia London (19 page)

Abbey frantically wondered what was going through his mind and wished desperately she had her passage to America in hand. She assumed he was too honorable to think he could agree to her suggestion, but at the same time, she assumed he surely wanted to. She suddenly felt a need to make it easy for him. “I do not want to stay with you,” she said bluntly.

He raised a brow as if surprised by that fact. “Don’t you indeed?” he drawled.

“No, I do not! Now that I know the truth, I cannot abide this ridiculous pretense!”

His brows bunched across the bridge of his nose. “You seem to have done rather nicely at Blessing Park, madam. You have all that you need: a dog, a garden, and friends. What more could you possibly want? Certainly not to toil away on some farm in Virginia,” he said evenly. Abbey wanted to scream that at least in Virginia, people
loved
her, but she bit her tongue on that point.

“I can’t possibly imagine what would cause you to object!” she insisted.

“Abbey, you do not seem to understand the basic concept that I will decide what is best for you. Your notion of returning to America without a farthing to your name is unacceptable. Furthermore, we are quite married now, and there are many legal restrictions on what you can or cannot do. It is my obligation to see to your welfare,” he said stubbornly, wondering once again why he could not seem to say that he did not want her to go. Not yet.

Abbey jerked her gaze to her half-eaten trout. The only thing this man could think of was obligation, and she was trying to
free
him of an unwanted obligation. She was obviously a burden to him, an idea she could barely stomach.

“I understand clearly,” she said icily, and pushed away from the table. A footman rushed around the table to assist her, but Abbey was already on her feet, and collided with the poor servant in an effort to quit the dining room.

Michael was much quicker and surer than either one of them, catching her before she could get halfway to the door. “That will be all,” he barked to the servants. With a firm grip on Abbey’s elbow, he propelled her through the door, down the hallway, and into the main study.

Leaning against the door with his arms folded across his chest, Michael regarded her sternly. “Suppose you tell me what you are about,” he said calmly.

Abbey planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “What am I
about
? About
you
, and
me
, and a
horrid
deception! About your sense of
obligation
! About releasing you from that
obligation
and leaving your sight!” she shouted angrily.

“You are not returning to America,” he said authoritatively.

Abbey gasped her outrage. “Do you not understand? I am
releasing
you! It’s what you want! You are the most
frustrating
man!” she fairly shrieked. Michael pushed away from the door and began to stroll casually toward her. Abbey darted around a couch in front of the hearth, keeping the furniture between them. A slow, lazy grin spread across Michael’s lips as he steadily changed course.

“Madam, you do not know the meaning of the word frustrating,” he said smoothly.

“Ha! I know the meaning of rude and arrogant, and you are both! To think I actually felt
sorry
for what you have suffered! I am returning to America, for I will
not
stay here like some poor, burdensome relation!” she insisted as she slowly circled the settee, staying just out of his reach.

Michael’s mocking grin deepened. “Burdensome relation? Is that what you think I believe?”

“I know it is!” Abbey cried, and felt the well of tears begin to build in the back of her throat. A burden, all right, a situation made all the more painful because she
loved
him—as much as she ever had, ever would, and more than she had ever dreamed possible. Aware that he moved, she darted quickly to one end of the couch. Michael stood at the other, his powerful legs braced apart, his hands on his hips.

“I merely said I had an obligation. Every man has obligations. Why should that upset you?” he asked calmly.

Abbey shuddered. It was not that so much as it was merely an
obligation
to him and
love
to her. She had her pride, and her pride told her to go, to leave him to Lady Davenport. Instead of answering him, Abbey whirled and started for the door. In three powerful strides, Michael caught her by the shoulders and twisted her around to face him.

“You will not go to America,” he said hoarsely.

Abbey recognized the look in his eye, and turning her head, managed to get her arms between them. If he kissed her like he did last night, she would lose all control.

Michael only pulled her closer. “Don’t resist me!” he breathed, his breath tickling her ear.

Abbey’s resolve was crumbling rapidly, and she suddenly felt hopeless. She was so weak where he was concerned that she was, at that very moment, contemplating spending her life with a man who did not love her. A man with a pretty mistress. When Michael cupped her face in his hands, Abbey could control herself no longer. The rejection she had suffered in the last weeks erupted deep within her, and she blinked back hot, angry tears.

“I don’t want to be an
obligation
! I don’t want to be a constant reminder of my father’s trickery! I don’t want to see you look at another woman and wish you had been free to marry her! I don’t want to
love
you like I do and see that distant look in your eye.” She choked, appalled and horrified at what she had just said, and began to weep uncontrollably.

Speechless, Michael stared down at her, then cradled her head against his chest while grief flowed in torrents from her slender body. He tenderly stroked her hair while she cried, a protective arm around her shoulders. He never wanted to see such pain in her eyes again, and at the moment, he believed he would do anything to ensure he never did.

“You are not thinking clearly,” he finally murmured against the top of her head, acutely aware that he was not, either.

“
Please
d-don’t make me stay!” she stammered. His heart broke at the wretched sound of her voice.

“Abbey, you’ve been through too much recently, and you aren’t being rational. I think it better if we postpone this conversation until another time, until we have thought clearly about our options.”

“I
am
being rational, and there are no other options.” She sniffed.

“We will not discuss it now,” he insisted, and slipping a forefinger under her chin, tilted her head up so he could see her face. Abbey sniffed; the path of her tears stained her cheeks. He was overcome with a peculiar desire to soothe her, and he gingerly touched the wetness before bending to kiss the tears from her cheeks.

Abbey stood very still as his lips brushed her skin. He slid his lips to hers, painting them gently with his tongue, very tenderly asking her to open. It was a kiss so unlike the others, so sweetly seductive, and more than any woman could resist. When her lips parted of their own accord, he slipped inside slowly, gently urging her with his hands and lips to want him.

The warm, gentle desire behind his kiss rocked her toward oblivion. She felt as if she were spiraling downward and clung to him to keep from slipping into that oblivion. His hard frame was pressed against the full length of her; she could feel every sinewy muscle, could feel her body attempting to meld with his. When she at last realized what she was doing, what she was
feeling
, she began to panic and suddenly wrenched her mouth free. She could not do this. She could not feel the strength in his arms, the urgency behind his kiss, or the taste of his mouth without losing every last remnant of common sense she had.

“It’s been a rather long day,” she said apologetically.

Michael paused to brush the errant strand of hair from her face before respectfully stepping away. “A truce, then. Perhaps you would enjoy a game of billiards? It would be a pleasant diversion,” he asked as he moved toward the hearth.

Abbey considered that. She could not speak of America at the moment without dissolving into schoolgirl tears again. A
game of billiards would keep her mind occupied—and his as well—until she had regained her courage and could speak to him, make him understand.

“I think I should warn you that I am prone to wagering,” she said softly. Surprised, he gave her a sidelong appraisal, at which she smiled tremulously.

“Should I be so bold to inquire if you intend to cheat, madam?”

Abbey’s smile deepened. “I
never
cheat at billiards.”

“Aha. Unless you are losing, I suppose.”

“Very badly,” she said nodding.

Michael’s laugh was full and deep. “Terribly inappropriate for a marchioness, but in this instance, I will allow it,” he said, and motioned toward the door. Abbey self-consciously smoothed her hair, then preceded him through the door, her brocade skirts swishing softly behind her with the gentle swaying of her lips. Michael rolled his eyes heavenward in a silent prayer for strength.

As he was beginning to grow accustomed to her unique talents, Michael was only mildly surprised that she played the game quite well. With one hip propped against the railing, he leaned against his cue, watching Abbey slowly circle the game table, her brow wrinkled in concentration and her elegant hand trailing along the polished railing. Settling on a shot, she leaned across the table, revealing the enticing crevice between her breasts. Michael missed the fact that she sank her intended ball until she straightened and beamed at him. Her next shot gave Michael the opportunity to admire her softly rounded hips.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered unthinkingly under her breath when the ball scudded wide.

Michael chuckled. The little hellion had a foul mouth, a trait he was quite sure she learned at sea, and quite tame considering the total of what she likely had heard all those years.

“How much have you won?” he asked as he eyed the four remaining balls.

“You do not know?” she asked, surprised. “One thousand pounds.”

Michael glanced up from chalking his cue. “Quite certain of that, are you? I had thought it one
hundred
pounds.”

“You should really pay closer attention. It is one thousand pounds if it is one.”

He smiled inwardly; he
would
pay more attention if she were not so damned captivating.

“It is hard to keep one’s mind on the game when one is so distracted by such … skill,” he said absently.

Abbey looked terribly pleased by that counterfeit compliment.

“One thousand pounds you say?” he continued as he circled the table and studied the lay of the four remaining balls. “Are you brave enough to raise the stakes?”

Abbey giggled irreverently. “I should think I have nothing to fear, since I have won one thousand pounds. Perhaps I should ask if
you
are brave enough to raise the stakes,” she challenged.

A charming, lopsided grin broke his face. “I assure you, madam, I have courage enough.”

His confidence was truly seductive. She studied him under the veil of her lashes as she pretended to consider his offer. He slowly circled the billiard table, intently studying the remaining balls. He had removed his coat long ago and had rolled up his sleeves, revealing his granite forearms. His waistcoat hugged his trim waist, and his black trousers looked as if they had been painted onto his powerful hips and thighs. Abbey exhaled a soft schoolgirl sigh as she admired his lean figure; he had never looked more relaxed to her, and certainly never more handsome.

“Well?” he prodded.

“What did you have in mind?” she asked demurely.

He grinned devilishly. “I’m afraid,” he drawled, “what I
have in mind would offend your tender sensibilities. However, I have a second wager you might consider.”

Frankly, Abbey was more interested in the wager that would offend her sensibilities, but responded nonchalantly, “I’m listening.”

“If I sink the remaining balls with one shot, you will wait a period of three months before you decide to return to America,” he said, and lifted a pointed gaze to hers.

Abbey hesitated—that was hardly the wager she was expecting. Three months? Three months of wanting him, of loving him, with no return of her affections?

“Why?” she blurted.

“Why?” He hesitated, only for a moment, then shrugged and looked at the table again. “Three months gives me ample opportunity to clean up the last details of your father’s will and is sufficient time to ensure there is no danger of losing your dowry,” he remarked casually.

His response, while not surprising, was hugely disappointing. Abbey wanted to kick herself for romanticizing every kind word he said to her. Each time she did that, the plunge back to reality took a harder toll on her. He plainly did not want her; but he needed time to fix the business aspect of their marriage. He loved Lady Davenport, not her, she reminded herself. She was his blasted obligation.

“And if you don’t?” She was irritated that her voice squeaked like that of a small child.

“You may decide tomorrow, and I will not stand in the way of your decision.” His gaze did not leave her as she looked at the table. She frowned; she could not see how he could sink all four balls in one shot. What did that mean? It meant he wanted her to go, obviously. Or did he truly think he could do it, which meant he wanted her to wait three months? She glanced at Michael, who was expressionless, then back to the table. Good
God
, but she was going to have to get a serious grip on herself and stop these childish ruminations! She should return to America right away—it would destroy her to stay.
He does not love you! He hardly knows you!
she chided
herself.
Three months is a long time to love a man who loves another. Three months is a long time to hang on every little word, hoping for something you will not find
.

“All right,” she said stupidly.

“Quite sure?” he asked as he leaned across the table and lined his cue behind a ball. She did not answer; she was frozen, her eyes darting from ball to ball as she tried to understand how he would do it. “Abbey?” he asked again. She jerked her gaze to him and nodded slowly. Michael turned his attention to the table.