Julia London (23 page)

“What are you thinking?” Michael asked.

Sam reluctantly continued. “Could she be lying? I mean, is there not a possibility she could be mixed up in something? After all, you don’t
know
her, not really.”

Michael’s chest tightened at the suggestion. “No! Absolutely not. In the first place, I have had her thoroughly investigated. In the second place, I would know if she had lied.”

Sam looked doubtful.

“Sam, that woman can’t hide a thing. Every emotion she ever has is as clear as a picture if you only look in her eyes,” he insisted. “She could not hide an illicit arrangement with Routier. I will send a note to my solicitor in the morning and have him get Bow Street on it,” he said, settling gingerly
against the pillows, grimacing with pain. “In the meantime, I do not want her out of my sight,” he added with a yawn.

Sam grinned.

“What’s so damned funny?” Michael snarled, his ill humor worsening by the minute as the light dose of laudanum Stephens had given him clouded his mind.

“It wasn’t so very long ago that you never wanted to see her again. Now you do not want her out of your sight,” Sam observed happily.

Michael glowered at him. “Thank you for that astute observation, Hunt. I have an obligation to protect her, or have you forgotten she now carries the Ingram name?”

“How could I possibly forget that monumental fact?” Sam laughed.

“I should hope you are quite finished amusing yourself.”

“All right, all right!” Sam laughed. “I’ll leave you be.” He left, chuckling as he walked out of the room. Michael frowned deeply. He did not like that Sam could see right through him, not one bit.

He was awakened from a peaceful sleep a short time later by the creaking of the door being opened slowly. He jerked upright and gasped at the stab of pain. The glow of a candelabra filtered silently into his room, and he relaxed, assuming it was Jones or his valet, Damon.

But to his surprise, it was Abbey who slipped through the door behind the light. With a candelabra in one hand and a violin and bow in the other, she took several steps into the room and peered toward the bed.

“Are you awake?” she whispered cheerfully when she realized he was watching her.

“I am now,” he said dryly.

She pushed the door shut with her foot and crossed the room until she was standing next to him, holding the candle high. She leaned over and inspected his face.

“Sam said you were not shot after all, that it was only ’a
deep gash.’ I was fairly convinced it was a bullet. Those hunters must not have seen you behind the tree,” she said.

Michael did not say anything to that; a dim shadow of doubt scudded through his mind.
You don’t know her, not really
, Sam’s voice echoed.

“The doctor said you will be fine, perhaps a bit sore,” she announced.

Michael smiled lazily. “Have you come to nurse me back to health, then?”

Her laugh was melodic. “You would not want me nursing you. I can birth a calf, but when it comes to humans, I am quite hopeless. Ask Withers,” she said, then flashed a cheerful smile.

Michael warmed at the sight of it; he was already feeling better. If she would just sit on the edge of the bed …

She moved away from the bed.

“I don’t believe knowledge of a cow’s anatomy will help me. Perhaps you would play for me instead?” he asked as he struggled to stack some pillows behind his back.

“What?” she asked, then glanced at the violin in her hand. “Oh! I was playing for Sarah and Cook—well, really, I was learning to play from them. They are teaching me a Scottish dance to play at the wedding of Sarah’s brother. He’s a groom in your stable, you know.” Of course Michael knew that, but said nothing, admiring her as she wandered about his room and examined his belongings. “It’s next month. They are having the wedding here, did you know? Withers said next month should be exceptionally fine for a garden wedding. It took me two full days to convince him that we could rope off the roses just so, and no one would touch them. That man lives in constant fear of someone touching his roses! Doesn’t it seem lovely? A garden wedding?” She sighed wistfully as she leaned over a dresser to inspect a small portrait of his sister.

“I was on my way to bed,” she continued, seemingly unaware that he was not participating in the conversation, “and although Jones said you were not to be disturbed, I thought a look wouldn’t be so very harmful. I thought I would see for myself that you are quite all right. That shot came terribly
close to you, I think.” She stopped her perusal of items on his vanity and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “I am sorry if I woke you,” she added softly.

“I’m not.”

She smiled happily. “Well. Jones was rather emphatic when he said you needed your rest.
Quite
emphatic, really, so I suppose I should go,” she said as she started toward the door, pausing to inspect some of his things on the hearth mantel.

“Won’t you play for me?” he asked.

Startled, she glanced over her shoulder. “Surely you don’t want to hear music now.” She laughed.

“On the contrary, I would very much like it,” he insisted.

“Jones said—”

“The devil take Jones.”

Delighted, Abbey smiled. “All right,” she said, placing the candelabra on a writing table, “but you must promise to bear Jones’s wrath when he learns of this. What shall I play … Vivaldi?”

Michael nodded, pleased that she had selected one of his favorite composers. She placed the violin beneath her chin and plucked at one of the strings.

“I’m afraid it may sound a little peculiar. It’s difficult to appreciate it without the whole orchestra, or at least a pianoforte to accompany,” she said as she tightened one of the strings, and drew the bow quickly across, tuning the instrument. “You must imagine the rest. It’s really not so very hard; I do it all the time. Just pretend there is an orchestra behind me, picture it in your mind, and you will begin to hear the music,” she said sincerely. She turned around, her back to him, and with her bow, she gestured to the left. “Here are the strings,” she said, and gave him a winsome grin over her shoulder. “I am the guest soloist this evening, so there are very
few
violins.” She laughed gaily.

She pointed to her right. “Here are the cellos, the bass, and, or course, a viola to play tenor to my soprano.” She winked conspiratorially at Michael, then waved her bow to the wall. “There are the horns, and there the percussion. You won’t
hear them, because we are performing a concerto for violin.” She turned to face him, curtsied deeply, then rose slowly and carefully placed the bow across the strings of her instrument. The candelabra cast dancing shadows on the wall behind her, as if an orchestra did accompany her.

“Maestro, if you please,” she said, and drew her bow.

Michael was startled by the first notes she played. A slow, flowing rhapsody filled the room and sent a shiver down his spine. He grew flush from the rich sound; the strains that rose from her strings were possibly the sweetest notes of music he had ever heard. In awe, he felt himself drifting away, and turned his gaze to the wall as he listened to the soulful sounds, imagining Abbey in a concert hall with an orchestra behind her. Her skill was incredible; he was astonished and moved by what he was hearing.

He slowly dragged his gaze from the wall to Abbey. She was smiling at him, and he blushed—
blushed!
Without missing a beat, she asked sweetly, “Do you hear the music?”

He did not know if he even nodded. Entranced, he watched with admiration as the tempo of the music began to increase, and the low, sorrowful notes transformed into higher, more robust tones. She turned away from him, strolled to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and stood bathed in faint moonlight as her bow moved with fierce speed and grace across the strings. Her expression was remotely serene; she seemed lost in the sea of music she was creating.

When she drew the final passionate note, she threw her head back and her arms wide, the bow in one hand and the violin in the other, as if she were listening to the last stanza of her imaginary orchestra.

It absolutely took his breath away.

She slowly lowered her head and smiled brilliantly.

“Did you hear it?”

Michael swallowed hard the emotion that had built within him. “Come here,” he commanded roughly. She floated toward him and knelt at his bedside.

He reached for her, cupping her face with his hand. She
lifted sparkling violet eyes to his and leaned into the palm of his hand.

“Did you hear it?” she whispered.

“I heard it,” he choked as his chest filled with a peculiar ache. He stared into her lovely face, marveling that she had learned to play like that for him.

It the most priceless gift he had ever received.

In a few days, when Michael had regained his strength, he, Sam, and a contingent of men scoured thousands of Blessing Park acres for clues. Their very thorough search, however, turned up nothing. Sam theorized that it had been nothing more than an errant shot fired by hunters too far into Ingram property. Given that there was no evidence to support his own, darker theory, Michael did not argue, but he remained unconvinced.

He ensured Abbey was never without a guardian, whether she was aware of it or not, and for her own safety, Michael explained his suspicions and misgivings to her. She thought his theory patently amusing but, at his stern look, had promised solemnly to abide by his wishes and remain at Blessing Park. She returned to her sitting room and dashed off a note to Galen in Portsmouth, explaining that Michael had asked her to remain at the manor, but that she was very much looking forward to his visit.

On a cold, rainy day, Michael and Sam spent a good part of the afternoon sequestered in his library with work. But as usual of late, Michael found it difficult to concentrate. His
fondness for Abbey was growing. She was so utterly beguiling and unusual, it was impossible not to be drawn to her. And since that day in the meadow, he had been overwhelmed by an instinctive need to protect her from harm.

The fiercely protective feeling only intensified as letters and invitations began to pour in after the
Times
announced their marriage. The sight of missives from the very people who had once deliberately shunned his family disgusted him. In spite of the very proper salutations, he knew what they wanted. They wanted to see the mysterious Devil of Darfield’s bride, so that in the privacy of their parlors they could postulate about her background, connections, and suitability as a member of their very elite circle. They wanted to discuss her at dinner parties and weekend soirées across England, and God help her if she did not measure up to their lofty expectations.

So it was with trepidation that he had agreed to her request to have the Havershams to supper that evening. It was clear she considered the eccentric couple friends, but he was torn between his desire to please her and his need to protect her. The hopeful look in her violet eyes convinced him too easily, a phenomenon that he realized was happening more frequently. Abbey affected him as no other person had in his life, and as extremely disturbing as that was, he seemed powerless to change it.

Sam noticed it, too. “Bloody hell, Darfield, you’ve added that column three times. Since when have you had trouble with math? I always thought of you as something akin to a walking abacus,” he remarked with a friendly grin.

“Since about a month or so ago,” Michael replied dryly as he examined the ledger in front of him.

“Just a month or so ago you were a very confirmed bachelor with a distinct gift for math. Today you are married and couldn’t add two and two if your life depended upon it.”

“Circumstances beyond my control ended my bachelorhood; I rather doubt it has affected my ability to add.”

Sam chuckled into his cup of tea. “It seems to me you are besotted.”

“Besotted!” Michael protested. “God, Hunt, I am not
some lovesick schoolboy. However, I will admit that I am pleasantly surprised to learn that Abbey is not the little hellion I remember.”

Sam snorted. “That’s rather an understatement. If you ask
me
, I think you find yourself with a wife that far exceeds any expectation you could have even dreamed.”

“I do not believe I asked you,” Michael remarked, but could not help grinning in unspoken acquiescence to Sam’s assertion.

Abbey dressed carefully for the supper party that evening. Although he had relented, Michael had not wanted the Havershams to come. She could only conclude that he doubted her ability to host. After all, she did not have what he would consider proper training, not like the other women he had known. It was ridiculous, of course, since she had hosted at her father’s side and had attended more posh affairs than she cared to remember. But she would rather be drawn and quartered than disappoint Michael in any way.

This would be a perfect supper party.

She had spent the afternoon going over the details with Cook, Sarah, and Jones. They had all sought to reassure her that is was a simple matter to have the Havershams to supper, but Abbey was adamant that the affair be flawless. Given the Havershams’ delight in anything Eastern, she had decided upon an Egyptian theme. She even helped Cook prepare the Egyptian meal and an assortment of eastern pastries, all the while ignoring Jones’s very vocal belief that a marchioness did not work in the kitchens.

In the red drawing room, she and Sarah hung diaphanous strips of red and gold silk across the drapes, and brought cushions down from her sitting room to scatter about the floor. When they were done, the room had a decidedly Egyptian look about it.

She dressed in a gown of lilac-colored velvet and chiffon, trimmed in gold, that accented her eyes. Another creation of her cousin Victoria, a piece of the velvet cloth swathed diagonally
across her breasts, wrapped around her middle, then around her hips. From there, the chiffon skirt drifted to the floor, ending with a small train. It was an exotic, form-hugging style that accentuated her rounded bosom, narrow waist, and slender hips. When she finished dressing, Sarah squealed with delight.