Julia London (32 page)

“Especially given your husband’s circumstances.”

Abbey bristled beneath her smile. “I beg your pardon?”

Routier showed his affected smile again. “I beg your forgiveness. I spoke without thinking.” He nodded curtly and moved her toward the center of the dance floor.

Abbey looked up at the glowing chandeliers to avoid looking at Routier. The champagne she had drunk still had her feeling mellow, and when she looked at the twinkling light twirling above her, she could not suppress a smile.

Or the dizziness. She dragged her gaze from the lights to Routier’s stiff collar and frowned.

“Are you unwell Lady Darfield?”

“No, I just made myself a bit dizzy.” When he grinned,
Abbey noticed for the first time that his genuine smile was rather nice.

“If I may be so bold, madam, I think you the loveliest woman in the room,” he said softly. A warm, uncomfortable flush crept up Abbey’s neck and to her cheeks, and she slid her gaze away, landing unintentionally on Michael, who was leading a very pretty blond woman around the dance floor. The two were engaged in a deep conversation, and Abbey could not tear her eyes away. When Routier moved himself between her and Michael, she tried to see over his shoulder.

“Lady Davenport,” Routier said dryly.

“Pardon?” Abbey croaked, jerking her gaze to him.

“Your husband is dancing with Lady Rebecca Davenport.” Abbey could not believe her ears.
That
was Lady Davenport? He was dancing with his lover? Dear God, she was as pretty as Abbey had feared.

“Who?”
she blurted before she could think.

Routier smiled wickedly. “Have you met her?”

Abbey was acutely embarrassed, aware that Routier was watching her reaction very closely. “Actually, I have not had the pleasure,” she murmured miserably.

Routier’s wicked smile deepened. “No, I would think not.”

Abbey resisted the urge to look at Michael again and, instead, stared at Routier’s ruffled chest. “So you attended the governor’s soirée in Bombay, Mr. Routier?” she asked in a feeble attempt to change the subject.

A slight smirk cracked the corner of Routier’s lips. “I did. Do you not recall the governor’s affair?”

Abbey shook her head. “Only vaguely. I was very young.”

“As I recall, you were ten or eleven years of age. But what I recall in particular was that you had fixated on an older gentleman, one who wore a turban,” he said.

Abbey could not help laughing. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am.” He smiled. “Your father told me later that you were quite determined to see what was under that turban but found the soirée a rather daunting place to unmask him, so to speak. So you marched up to him, declared your intent, and
offered to meet him on the docks the next morning before you sailed.”

“I arranged to meet a perfect stranger on the docks?” She giggled.

“So I have been told. But it was all for the sake of science,” he said with mock solemnity.

“My father”—she smiled as he whirled her about—“was not always, how shall I say, as
insistent
with me as he should have been.” She chuckled, shaking her head.

Routier smiled thinly, his eyes taking on an odd glint. “But he was insistent you marry Darfield, wasn’t he?”

His remark surprised her. She assumed that Michael had told him the circumstances of the marriage the day he had come to Blessing Park. “I suppose,” she muttered. Michael and Lady Davenport had come back into view and were nearing them. Michael had not noticed her; he was too engrossed in his conversation with Lady Davenport. Abbey began to feel queasy.

They neared the edge of the tiled floor as the dance wound to a close. Mr. Routier smiled and bowed deeply.

“Thank you, Lady Darfield.” He paused and peered curiously at her. “You look a bit flushed. Shall I fetch you some water?” he asked, and tucked her hand in his arm, leading her toward the refreshment table before she could answer.

Abbey felt a hand grip her elbow. “If you are through dancing with my wife, Routier, please excuse us,” Michael said behind her. Routier’s yellow eyes turned hard as he glanced at Michael over Abbey’s head. Michael was looking at him with no expression at all.

Routier smiled at Abbey. “Thank you again, Lady Darfield.” With a curt nod of his head, he stepped away. Michael gripped Abbey’s elbow and immediately began to propel her toward the French doors leading onto the balcony.

“Enjoy your dance?” Michael asked coolly. He seemed perturbed, which Abbey found highly amusing, given that he was just dancing with his lover.

“I tolerated it. And did you enjoy yours?”

Michael frowned slightly as he pulled her onto the balcony
and pushed her toward a dark corner. “I would not even call it tolerable,” he muttered.

“Is something wrong?” Abbey asked, growing a little irritated with his sudden cool demeanor.

“Yes, something is wrong, Abbey. I have not kissed you all damned evening,” he said, and jerked her to him, claiming her mouth in a bruising kiss. Having heard the tinge of jealousy in his voice, she melted in his embrace, whimpering with pleasure in the back of her throat. His mouth slanted over hers with an urgency she understood very well, and as his hands began to travel up her side, Abbey pulled back.

“Michael,”
she scolded him, then smiled seductively.

He groaned and brought her hand to his lips. “Will there ever come a time I don’t want you?” he whispered hoarsely, then slowly lowered his head to hers, lingering there for a moment, in a very light, very provocative kiss.

“Bloody hell, I hope not,” she whispered when he finally lifted his head.

Michael laughed and led her further into the shadows. “You seem to enjoy dancing.”

“I like dancing with you. I don’t like dancing with other men.” She wanted to tell him it was hardly gratifying to see him with other women and positively infuriating to see him with Lady Davenport.

He laughed low and slipped his arms around her waist. “I don’t either,” he agreed, and claimed her mouth again before reluctantly leading her back to the ballroom and a waiting throng of men eager to dance with his wife.

At a little after four in the morning, Sam elbowed Michael and inclined his head toward an exhausted Abbey. Standing apart from any of the remaining guests, she was leaning against the wall with her arms folded across her middle, that ever-present strand of hair over one eye. She could barely keep her eyes open and wearily covered a deep yawn with her gloved hand. Michael winked at Sam, then casually strolled toward her. She attempted a weary smile.

“Tired, sweetheart?” he asked. She nodded.

“I will take you home,” he said softly, gently brushing the hair from her eyes. “I think we’ve made enough of a splash for one evening.”

As the coach rolled through the fog-shrouded streets, Michael gazed at Abbey, fast asleep against his chest. He had never thought himself a jealous man, but when he had seen her in the arms of so many other men, the seeds had taken firm root. In his mind’s eye, he could still see her clearly in Routier’s arms, looking up at the chandeliers and smiling that dreamy smile of hers. That was
his
smile, reserved for him alone, and he resented Routier having the opportunity to be graced with it. Had he been within a foot of them, he might have snatched Abbey from the blackguard’s arms and handed over a very irate Rebecca. He had not visited her, nor had he answered her pathetic letters since he had ended their liaison. Rebecca had gone from hurt to angry over the last few weeks, and when she had actually seen Abbey, she had bared her fangs. The realization that Michael was never coming back to her had made for a rough exchange.

Abbey sighed in her sleep and shifted against his chest. He glanced heavenward.

When the coach rolled to a halt in front of his home, Michael helped her from the coach. She staggered against him when her feet hit the pavement, and he immediately swept her into his arms and carried her inside and up the stairs to his chamber, calmly ignoring her sleepy protests. He dismissed Damon, lay her in the middle of his bed, and quickly shed everything but his trousers. Then he moved back to the bed, admiring the sweep of her lashes against her skin, the relaxed line of her lips, her arm dropped carelessly across her waist. He gently rolled her onto her side and swiftly unfastened the row of tiny buttons down her back. She did not open her eyes, but she smiled sleepily as he removed her jewelry.

“Lady Delacorte said, ‘You simply must come to supper Wednesday next,’ ” Abbey said, quietly mimicking the rotund woman’s chirp. “ ‘The Earl and Countess of Middlefield will be in attendance, and they’ve just returned from
America, my dear. I am quite sure you would enjoy hearing their news.’ ”

Michael smiled to himself as he removed her shoes and stockings. “And what did you say?” he asked as he leaned over her to slide the gown from her smooth shoulders.

“I told her I was flattered, but that I had to consult with my husband’s secretary. Lady Delacorte said, ‘Why, of course, Lord Darfield is in great demand.’ ”

“Mmmm,” Michael said idly as he leaned down to kiss the satin skin of her shoulder.

“But then she clarified she was asking
me
and not you.” Abbey giggled. Her light, tinkling laugh was too provocative, and Michael moved over her, covering her body with his own.

“So that’s the way of it, is it? You make a successful appearance among England’s elite, and suddenly I am relegated to lonely suppers while you gad about?” he asked, kissing the hollow of her throat. Abbey sighed softly at the touch of his warm lips and tenderly stroked his hair.

“The way of it, my handsome lord, is that Lady Delacorte and her countess can rot,” Abbey said, giggling as Michael tried to kiss the smile from her face.

Later Abbey lay with her back to Michael’s chest, her arm draped across his thickly corded one that possessively held her to him. The evening had gone well, despite some of the rude ogling and untoward questions. Michael had enjoyed himself and she had enjoyed most of it too. But the best part was that it was finally over.

“Abbey?” Michael asked against her hair, his voice heavy with sleep.

“I love you, Michael. You have made my life perfect,” she whispered.

He grunted, unable to choke out a proper reply. But in his heart he acknowledged that those words made a grand evening perfect. He was truly glad to be home.

Abbey’s life was perfect until the next afternoon. After a late and leisurely breakfast with Michael, Abbey retired to her chambers to put a dent in the correspondence over which Sebastian was nearing apoplexy. She had made good progress when Jones interrupted to tell her that a gentleman, Mr. Galen Carrey, had come to call.

Galen was standing at the window of the blue drawing room, nervously fingering his dark-brown neckcloth when Abbey bounced in.

“Galen! You surprise me again!” She laughed, opening her arms to embrace him.

“I missed you at Blessing Park, little one.” He smiled, returning her warm embrace. He released her and stood back, smiling appreciatively as he eyed her sea-green and cream gown. “I must say, London seems to agree with you.”

Abbey smiled self-consciously and led him to the settee, where she settled daintily, her hands folded in her lap. Galen sat beside her.

“Have you been in London long?” she asked.

“Just a few days.” He shrugged. “I concluded my business
in Portsmouth and went straight to Blessing Park, then I followed you here.” Galen looked at her hands and drew one into his and clasped it, studying it intently. He was expressionless, and Abbey wondered if his deal had fallen through.

“Well?” she prodded. “Was it concluded successfully?”

“One could say it was.” He kept his eyes on her hand as he spoke.

“Oh, Galen, that’s wonderful! So you have a post now, do you? As captain?” she asked excitedly.

Galen slowly released her hand and leaned forward, propping his forearms on his thighs, and stared at the floor. “Abbey, I have some important news. Perhaps you could dismiss your footman?” Abbey lifted her brows, silently questioning what he could possibly have to say that could not be said in front of Hanson. “I rather think it best if you heard it alone,” he muttered, his eyes still on the floor.

An odd sense of foreboding swept through her. “But what—”

“I can assure you it’s a matter of some … delicacy. I’m only thinking of you.” He lifted his gaze and looked at her with such concern that Abbey’s heart skipped a beat. Her first thought was that something had happened to Aunt Nan or one of the girls. She tried to read his expression, but he quickly averted his eyes again and clasped his hands tightly together.

Abbey glanced over her shoulder. “Please excuse us, Hanson.” She waited until the footman had quietly closed the door. “Oh, God, what has happened? Has something happened to Aunt Nan?”

“Oh, no!” He laughed nervously. “It’s just that the news I have is rather important … for you as well as for me.”

A vague sense of panic pricked her. “What is it?” she asked slowly, quite certain she did not want to hear his answer. Galen had been waiting for his news with enthusiasm, but at the moment, he looked sickened, as if he could not bear to say it aloud.

“Well, it’s very hard to say, really, something of a long story. I wonder if you were aware that your father and I were estranged for some years.” Abbey blinked. “He considered
me to be a bit irresponsible,” Galen quickly explained, “and I was, in my youth. But that changed, and happily, in the last three or four years, the captain and I reconciled.”

“I had no idea,” Abbey admitted truthfully. She could recall her papa complaining about Galen’s irresponsible ways, a terrible row or two between them, but no estrangement had been mentioned. And if there was some sort of rift between them, she could not, for the life of her, imagine what it had to do with anything now.

Galen took a deep breath. “He took me in after my father died and was like a father to me himself, you know. I very much respected him, Abbey, I truly did,” he said softly, his gaze riveted on the Oriental carpet between his feet.