Julia London (37 page)

Abbey did not lift her gaze from the arm of the chair for a long moment, but slowly, uncertainly, nodded her head. “I will,” she murmured. “I will meet you. He cannot keep me prisoner—the king’s
army
cannot stop me!” With that less than hearty avowal, she glanced up, smiling tremulously at her cousin.

Harrison Green was the untitled nephew of an influential duke who had gained a reputation among the
ton
for throwing the bawdiest of routs. The number of people in attendance that night attested to the immense popularity of his affairs. Abbey was acutely aware of the stares in her direction as she and Galen pushed through the throng. Tension began to knot in her stomach as her eyes swept the crush. She shuddered to think what Michael would do if her found her here with Galen. Even though they lived in the same house—at least she thought they did—she had not seen him since their altercation in the drawing room, but she knew the Black Plague went out every night.

“Lady Darfield!”
The cheerful voice belonged to Lady Delacorte, who was pushing unceremoniously through the crowd, dragging her husband behind.

“Madam, what a pleasure to see you! Oh, I had so hoped you’d be able to attend our little gathering last evening,” she said as she reached Abbey.

Abbey’s eyes flew wide upon realizing she had forgotten the invitation. “Lady Delacorte, I am so sorry! You must
forgive me for being so rude!” Abbey cried in genuine horror at her faux pas. Lady Delacorte arched a penciled brow.

“Please, my dear, there is no need for an apology! Lord Darfield explained the entire situation quite clearly,” the woman smiled. Abbey froze. Surely Michael had not publicly derided her, surely not.

“The entire situation?” she asked weakly.

“What my wife means is that Lord Darfield explained you had unfortunately discovered a previously unknown allergy to shellfish, madam,” Lord Delacorte said, politely lifting her hand to his mouth. Her relief was great; Michael had not yet denigrated her, at least not to the Delacortes.

“Shellfish. Quite so, I’m afraid,” she murmured.

“Oh, he is
such
a charming man! We met him at the buffet just moments ago—odd, but he did not mention you had come.”

So he was here. There was no escaping it; the slim hope she had harbored that she would not see him this evening had been dashed before she had barely stepped foot into the house. Abbey forced a faint smile. “Ah, well, he does not know …”

“What my dear cousin means to say is that she thought she would be waiting at home for my late arrival, madam. As I am a bit early, we had hoped to surprise the marquis,” Galen said, bowing low.

“Yes, that’s it!” Abbey said nervously. “May I present my cousin, Mr. Galen Carrey?”

“What fun, a cousin!” a voice boomed behind them. A very rotund fellow dressed in a peacock-blue satin coat moved unsteadily toward the small group.

“Lady Darfield, Mr. Harrison Green,” Lord Delacorte intoned. Green’s beady blue eyes lit up, and he clumsily switched his glass of champagne to his left hand so he could greet her properly. Abbey gently pulled her hand away from his thick, wet lips.

“Mr. Green,” she said demurely.

“Lady Darfield, what a tremendous pleasure. Your reputation precedes you, indeed it does, but it does not do you
justice,” he said. Once again Abbey started. What did he mean by that? Had he heard something about her?

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, fully expecting the slightly drunken man to say Michael had accused her of lying.

“Forgive me, madam. They say you are a true beauty, but I think that does not begin to describe—”

“Before you begin to describe, sir, please remember she is the wife of the Marquis of Darfield,” Galen bluntly interjected.

Green’s bushy brows rose in feigned affront. “Of course she is, my good fellow, but can’t a man admire?” he asked, pausing to stifle a drunken belch. “You need not be so protective, for I can assure you, Darfield will not let me forget to whom she belongs!”

“Oh no, he is quite proud of his treasure,” Lady Delacorte agreed as Green slurped his champagne loudly. A slow blush crept into Abbey’s cheeks. How would she ever live through this charade? She glanced helplessly at Galen, who smiled reassuringly.

“If you will excuse us, I promised to see Lady Darfield directly to her husband.”

“Of course. We’ll chat later, my dear,” Lady Delacorte said.

“Oh, yes, let’s do just that,” said Green, who then tottered off to replace his empty glass. Abbey nodded graciously to the Delacortes and gratefully obeyed Galen’s grip on her elbow.

“Don’t fret,” Galen muttered, pausing to acquire two glasses of champagne. “There must be five hundred people here. We can easily avoid him.” Abbey strongly doubted that. She followed Galen into the ballroom, wondering what had possessed her to so brazenly risk Michael’s considerable wrath.

Her anxiety was only heightened in the ballroom. She could feel everyone’s eyes upon her. Nervously she smoothed a strand of hair from her face and tried vainly to keep her attention on her glass to avoid making eye contact with anyone. She was incredibly self-conscious of her gown and hair; she felt as if she were in a cage, on display for the entire
ton
to
see. What were they thinking? Did they know about the rift between her and Michael? Did they eye her with disdain or mere curiosity?

She was studying the tips of her toes when her brain registered a conversation occurring nearby. The silky voice of a woman was saying, “Michael never did care much for the Season, you know. I had to practically drag him to Harrison’s rout last fall.” Every muscle in Abbey’s body knotted. There were dozens, probably hundreds of Michaels in England alone. It was a coincidence. “He certainly prefers the quiet of the countryside. He emphasized as much to me a few weeks ago at my country house near Blessing Park.”

Abbey jerked her head up and died a silent death. Lady Rebecca Davenport was standing a few feet away with two other women, dressed in a shimmering pale-yellow gown. Silvery white curls graced her crown, and she was openly looking at Abbey with a smile of superiority on her very pretty face. Stunned, Abbey realized she had been meant to overhear the exchange. But that was not nearly as stunning as the realization Michael had gone to
her
when he had disappeared from Blessing Park. Her stomach sank—how dare he accuse her of betrayal! A pain ripped through her that left her shaking. The Malevolent Marquis talked from both sides of his mouth! He had
lain
with that beautiful blond goddess while she was dreaming of him!

That
bastard!

Dismayed, Abbey turned her back to the blonde. God forgive her, but she would have liked to strike the smug smile from that woman’s face.

“This was a
horrible
idea,” she muttered to Galen.

“Would you prefer another solitary supper in your rooms?” Galen responded. “Smile. Try not to look so distressed.” He took the champagne from her hand. “I will get you a fresh drink.” He slipped away. Abbey tried to do what he said. Her smile was frozen; she was miserably self-conscious and was so engrossed in her efforts to look perfectly normal that she did not hear
him
approach and had to catch a colonnade for support when he spoke.

“Your judgment is grossly impaired, madam,” Michael said coolly. Determination suddenly failed her, and Abbey squeezed her eyes shut, summoning her strength. She would very much liked to have run and avoid looking at those gray eyes, but caught between him and the dance floor, she had no escape. With every ounce of courage she had, she turned toward him. He was standing so close that she almost collided with his brick wall of a chest.

The faint smell of his cologne drifted over her. She unthinkingly inhaled; dressed in black, he was undoubtedly the most handsome man in the entire room. Her knees started to quiver, and she slowly lifted her gaze past the white satin neckcloth, firm chin, the dark rose lips set in an implacable line, and his eyes. Beneath the dark curl that draped his forehead, he stared down at her with eyes of cold, hard granite. Abbey’s stomach fluttered. It seemed as if she could do nothing but stare dumbly.

His eyes narrowed; he took a step closer, almost touching her. “How dare you defy me. I should drag you from here and lock you away at Blessing Park for disobeying me.” His voice was silky, contradicting the deadliness of his expression.

His arm came up, trapping her against the colonnade. Nothing had prepared her for this. She had convinced herself she was angry with him and despised him for his inconstancy. Lady Davenport’s contrived confession certainly had not endeared him to her. But the sight of him quite literally took her breath away. There was no denying how much she loved him, nor how it destroyed her to see the cold distance in his eyes. She stubbornly lifted her chin.

“You cannot keep me a prisoner, Michael. I have done nothing wrong.” She sounded terribly weak and unsure.

“I beg to differ. You lied to me. You disobeyed me. And now you push my patience to its limits.” His gray eyes flashed with pure loathing. It was more than she could bear, and she abruptly turned away.

Michael leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “What’s the matter, darling? Can’t look me in the eye?”

Abbey folded her arms protectively across her middle and turned her head slightly, away from him. “I prefer not to. What I see there sickens me,” she answered softly.

“It sickens
you
?” he asked testily.

“If you had granted an audience when I requested, I would have been more than happy to answer your unfounded accusations. And then, perhaps,
you
could have answered a few of mine. But I hardly think this is the place, Michael. I would ask that you just leave me be,” she whispered hoarsely.

“Leave her, Darfield!” Galen’s voice shattered the tension between them. Gripping two flutes of champagne, he glared at Michael. A muscle in Michael’s jaw flinched and he slid his granite gaze back to Abbey, locking with hers, piercing through to her very soul, silenty accusing her.

“I fully intend to,” he retorted caustically, and, with a scathing glance for Galen, walked away. Abbey exhaled slowly. Why hadn’t she gone straight back to America when she had first learned of her father’s lie? Why had she allowed herself to fall so hopelessly in love with him?

She slowly became aware of Galen’s soft voice. “Little one,” he was saying, “drink your champagne. He won’t bother you again, he will not risk a scene here. Listen, I am going to the gaming room. It will be easier if I am not with you. Come now, drink your champagne. Don’t let him ruin this evening for you. Relax and enjoy yourself.”

She nodded dumbly, unable to speak, her eyes riveted to the floor. Galen grabbed her hand and squeezed it before disappearing into the crowd. Standing alone at the edge of the dance floor with dozens of eyes on her, Abbey waged a battle against a tide of emotion that threatened to sweep her under.

Across the room, Michael sipped his champagne, languidly gazing at his wife. He should have left her alone, but he could not deny himself the chance to be near her, to inhale her sweet scent. As much as he distrusted her at the moment, he also missed her terribly. To him, it was nothing short of miraculous that a woman could affect him so, but he had no idea how
much until he had seen her on Galen’s arm. Bloody hell, she looked forlorn. And thin. But he had seen her look that way before, and for all he knew, it was part of her act. She had disobeyed him, had flouted his doubts in his face by coming here with Galen. God, but he ached with uncertainty.

Daniel Strickland, a rake renowned for his attraction to married women and, moreover, his success with them, strutted over to her and bowed very gallantly over her hand. Michael tensed. Bloody hell, he had never known how excruciating it could be to watch other men fawn over his wife. His chest tightened with jealousy as he watched Strickland lead her to the dance floor. Abbey glided on Strickland’s arm, her dancing effortless. Good God, how long before his men found Strait? Carrington’s solicitor was the one person who held the key to her innocence.

Or her guilt.

Michael remained rooted to his post at the column as he watched man after man escort Abbey onto the dance floor. He made polite but contrived conversation with those who braved his dark look. No one who approached stayed at his side long; it was clear that he was in no mood for light banter. After a while, the whispers about him grew to an almost fevered pitch as Harrison Green’s guests watched the Devil of Darfield watch his wife. If the
ton
had not noticed the rift between them before, they certainly did now.

As he could not bear to see another man touch her, Michael had all but decided to leave, when Routier’s tall, lanky figure stepped through the arched entry of the ballroom. Spotting Abbey, the villain glanced furtively about the crowded room. Michael suspected it was in search of him, and moved into the shadows. After scanning the room for several moments, Routier, with a decided smirk on his face, strolled casually to the far side of the room where Abbey was standing. Michael quietly finished off the glass of champagne he had been nursing for the last half hour.

Abbey was escorted from the dance floor by a man who smelled to high heaven under his heavy coat. She made a polite excuse of needing the retiring room and, moving quickly away from the dance floor, did not notice Malcolm Routier until he spoke.

“Good evening, Lady Darfield.”

Startled, Abbey lurched, glancing up at Routier. “Mr. Routier,” she said coolly.

“I was hoping to find you …”

“I prefer not to dance, sir,” she said weakly.

Routier’s thin brow elevated slightly. “Forgive me, madam, but I think it is customary for a lady to bruise a man’s tender ego
after
she has been invited to stand up.”

Abbey winced at her unforgivable gaffe. “Oh, dear God, how perfectly horrid of me! Please accept my apology—I was not thinking,” she said lamely.

“I took no offense.” He smiled charmingly. The champagne she had been quaffing all evening had dulled her senses. It was mildly alarming to forget words, but the numbing effect it had on her was worth the discomfort. And in the fog that surrounded her, she thought that Routier actually seemed a very nice man.