Married to the Viscount (11 page)

“I don’t think—” Then he caught the glint of mischief in her eyes.

Why, the little minx was teasing him. Releasing her hands, he threw himself back against the squabs. “You enjoy having me at your mercy, don’t you?”

She flashed him a decidedly impish smile. “After being told by the great Viscount Ravenswood that he’d rather deceive all his friends than be truly married to me, I’m entitled to my fun, don’t you think?”

“When you put it like that, I suppose so.” If she only knew
how eagerly he would embrace being “truly married” to her under different circumstances.

As they rode in silence, he indulged fantasies of that imaginary state. Every morning he’d wake up to her in his bed. After breakfast she would send him off with a tender kiss like the one they’d shared in the garden. At night she would transform his social duties into excuses to dance with her and hold her. Not that he’d need excuses if she were his wife—they could have their own private parties in his bedchamber with their only music the sounds of hot, naked lovemaking.

Ah, how glorious Abby would look naked, spread out on his bed. Her breasts—those same cursed breasts peeking above the edge of her gown to torment him now—would be the color of warm honey and just as sweet. The nipples would be a rosy brown, puckering up at the touch of his tongue—

“Spencer?”

“Yes?” He silently thanked her for dragging him from
that
idiotic fancy.

“What have you told Nat’s fiancée and her mother about me?”

“That you’re my wife. That I vowed Nat to secrecy about it, but had been waiting until you were free of family obligations before I brought you from America.”

She lifted one delicate eyebrow. “And they believed that nonsense?”

“Whether they did or not, they’ll say what I tell them to say to whomever asks.”

“I swear, why does everyone put up with your ordering them about? You make them do what you want with the most high-handed disregard for what
they
want.”

He’d been accused of worse. “Don’t you do the same when necessary? For instance, with Mrs. Graham—”

“You must be joking. Mrs. Graham do what I tell her? Only if I trick her into it.”

“So what did you tell her about this?”

“The truth, of course. No point in lying about it—she’d sniff out the truth no matter what I tell her.”

“And she had no problem with the scheme?”

The late afternoon sun pierced the unshaded windows to gild her pensive expression. “Actually, she’s delighted to have me play at being your wife.”

“But I got the distinct impression she didn’t approve of me.”

“Oh, her approval waxes and wanes according to your intentions,” she said archly. “As my husband, you can do no wrong; as my betrayer, you’re the devil. Since at present you’re my husband, she’s kindly disposed toward you.”

“Even though it’s only a role.”

She sighed. “She’s hoping that the role will become a reality.”

Alarm seized him. “But
you
understand—”

“Yes, Spencer, I understand,” she said tightly. “Never fear—I’m not as naive as my servant. I realize this will never be anything more. Though you didn’t help her notions any by having your butler move my things to the bedchamber adjoining yours.”

“I have my own servants to consider—keeping a secret among so many will be virtually impossible, so it’s better to let them think you’re my wife in every respect. If you’d asked, I would have cautioned you not to confide in Mrs. Graham.”

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t have worked. I lack your talent for lying. The minute she asked me for details—”

“You would tell her it’s none of her concern. She’s your servant—it’s her duty to follow your orders without question.”

“I see.” With a swish of satin skirts, she shifted in her seat.
“Just as it’s the duty of your family—and those soon to be your family—to do what you tell them without question?”

He stiffened. “I have their best interests at heart. Because they know that, they allow me to guide their actions.”

“Do they? Nathaniel seems to have missed that point.”

He curled his fingers into the seat, struggling not to show that she’d struck a nerve. “Not for want of my trying to explain it to him.” He cast her a false smile. “Let me worry about my family, all right? You just concentrate on playing your role convincingly.”

“I think I’ve got the harder job,” she said with a sniff.

“Come now, how can you complain? Serving as wife to a grouchy old statesman is every young woman’s dream.” When his sarcasm gained him a small smile, he added, “And anyway, think how hard it would have been if you’d married me in truth. You’d have years of my high-handedness to look forward to.”

“Perish the thought.” She tipped up her chin, eyes alight. “And thank you for reminding me that this is fortunately temporary.”

“You’re welcome.” The coach joined a long line of other coaches and slowed to a crawl. “We’re nearly to the theater, my dear. Prepare to act your part.”

She shot him a quizzical glance. “But you told Lady Brumley we had to pick up Lady Tyndale and her daughter.”

“I had to get rid of the woman somehow, didn’t I?”

With a roll of her eyes, she sat forward on the seat. “You certainly have a penchant for lying.”

“It’s common in my business, I’m afraid.”

Her pretty eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “I thought statesmen were supposed to be honest.”

“Not that business, my dear. The spying business.” The coach shuddered to a halt. “Don’t bandy this about, but I was once a spy and later a spymaster.”

“Really?” She shook her head as the footman opened the
door and pulled down the step. “I should have known. It explains why you’re so good at the lying. You’ve had plenty of practice.”

He climbed out, then helped her down, bending low to murmur, “Some gentlemen fence, some play cards…I lie.”

She shot him a chastening look. “And so very well, too,” she said sweetly.

After that, speech was impossible. Thanks to Lady Brumley, they’d arrived too late to avoid the crowds. Half the
ton
seemed to be entering Covent Garden, and even more of them were jammed into the theater’s vestibule once they got inside.

He guided Abby through a throng of highly ornamented, heavily perfumed, and ostentatiously dressed patrons toward the grand staircase that rose to the lobby of the lower tier of boxes. Staving off any questions with a dire look at anyone who neared them, he planted his hand in the small of Abby’s satin-sheathed back to lead her along. But he could scarcely keep from smoothing his fingers lower, following her gown’s descent to the perfectly rounded bottom. Good God, this was going to be a bloody long night.

Then they reached the stairs, and the crowd forced him to let her ascend ahead of him. Wonderful. Now her sweet behind was at eye level where he could imagine it unveiled, the soft globes wiggling as he kissed each in turn, then reached between her thighs to find the dewy flesh—

This was insane. What idiocy had possessed him to concoct this scheme of a pretend marriage? No French torture could torment him more than Abby prancing before him with all her charms. Her utterly forbidden charms.

Thankfully, he was able to thrash his randy imagination into submission while they navigated the corridor running behind the boxes. By the time they entered his own box to find Lady Tyndale and Evelina already there, he’d achieved
the closest approximation of normalcy any man could manage with a fetching female hanging on his arm.

“Allow me to present my wife, Lady Ravenswood,” he told his companions. “Last night you weren’t properly introduced.”

Fortunately, Lady Tyndale and Evelina were too well-bred to comment on their first bizarre meeting. They murmured polite greetings and left it to him to carry the conversation. But apparently Evelina still regarded the American woman as a rival, for she studied Abby with wary eyes.

At last the music started and the curtains were lifted, signaling that they should take their seats. The farce proved as trifling as Lady Brumley had claimed, but Spencer wasn’t paying attention anyway. He was too busy watching for Abby’s reaction.

Despite her impudent claim about theaters in America, her eager concentration on the stage demonstrated that she’d rarely attended. Every witty thrust prompted her to smile; every ridiculous contrivance elicited her murmur of surprise. Unlike the faintly bored countenances of the other ladies, Abby’s face was as malleable as the actors, showing all her delight.

He felt vaguely envious. How long had it been since
he
had relished each moment or taken such heedless pleasure in even the most absurd theatrics? Probably not since he was a boy, when he’d thought the world his oyster. That seemed so long ago.

At last the farce ended, prompting her enthusiastic applause. Thank God that was over. He’d have to find another way to entertain his wife, one that didn’t sink him into maudlin remembrances. Odd how only Abby made him do that. Then again, only Abby made him want the impossible.

No doubt about it, Abigail Mercer was a dangerous woman.

As the interlude began, some friends of Lady Tyndale’s entered the box to talk to Evelina and her mother, leaving Spencer and Abby to themselves. At first Abby didn’t seem to mind. She asked Spencer about the theater, the other patrons…whatever took her fancy.

After a few moments, however, she turned to whisper, “Why does Lady Evelina keep staring at me?”

“I suppose she’s still clinging to her silly notion that you are Nat’s mistress come from America to prevent his marriage. She thinks I’m only pretending to be married to you to protect him. I told her it was absurd.”

“Are you absolutely sure she believed you?”

“If she didn’t, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Well, I can.” She picked up her beaded reticule. “Look there, her mother and her friends are leaving the box. I’ll simply go explain to Lady Evelina about Nathaniel.”

“You most certainly will not.” He stayed her with one hand.

“Why?”

“I don’t want her to know the truth about us.”

“I’m merely going to explain that I’m not Nathaniel’s mistress.”

“You can’t talk about mistresses to a well-bred Englishwoman. It violates every propriety.”

“To speak in a forthright manner violates propriety?” She rose to stare at him with thinly veiled amusement. “No wonder you English lost the colonies. What with all the lying and the ‘propriety’ and the evasions, how do you ever get anything done?”

As she crossed the box to sit down beside Evelina, he stared after her in fascinated amazement. Americans were mad—that’s all there was to it.

Evelina stiffened, refusing to look at Abby, but that didn’t deter his brazen wife. “Lady Evelina,” she said cheerily, “I’m
so glad to finally get this chance to talk to you. I need your help, you see.”

“Yes?” Evelina said, venturing a glance at her perceived rival.

“Being new to London society, I don’t know all the niceties of polite behavior. I was hoping you’d teach me, since your fiancée told me you were the perfect English gentlewoman. He said I could do no better than to emulate you.”

Evelina looked intrigued. “Nathaniel said that?”

“Oh, yes. Hardly a day passed that he didn’t sing your praises. ‘Lady Evelina is the most beautiful creature in England’ and ‘Lady Evelina is the soul of kindness and generosity.’” She shot Evelina a shy smile. “I confess he made me envy you. I want to make my Spencer as proud of me as Nathaniel is of you, but I don’t know how to go about it. Being American, I’m a complete dunce when it comes to such matters.”

Spencer saw an odd confusion pass over Evelina’s face, before she eyed him speculatively, as if to gauge his reaction to Abby’s subterfuge. Could the girl possibly suspect the truth about his situation with Abby?

No, that was ridiculous. Why should she?

Then the fleeting impression faded as Evelina turned back to Abby. “What would you like to know?”

Spencer relaxed when the two women began conversing about fan use and servants and a lot of nonsense everyone knew, even Americans from Philadelphia. How clever of Abby to pretend otherwise to put Evelina at ease.

By the time the music played, signaling the beginning of the first act of Oliver Goldsmith’s
She Stoops to Conquer
, Evelina and Abby were already calling each other by their Christian names and chatting amiably, as young women were wont to do. Then Lady Tyndale returned to take her seat, and Abby left Evelina’s side to join Spencer.

When she sat down, he murmured, “Nicely done, my dear.”

“You see, my lord?” Her eyes sparkled up at him. “Sometimes you can achieve better results by telling the truth.”

He arched a brow. “So my brother actually did say all those things about Evelina?”

With a smug smile, she faced the stage. “Not in so many words, of course. But a little shading of the truth can be permitted in this instance, don’t you think?”

His laughter was still echoing as the first act began.

Spencer had never seen Goldsmith’s popular play. Normally he considered theater-going in the same vein as any other duty—he went there to placate his relations. Just as he attended the opera to observe what civil servant was involved with what singer in case such a tidbit might be useful in the future. Or showed up at a ball for appearance’s sake.

But tonight, thanks to Abby, he watched the play merely for enjoyment, a decidedly unique experience. He noticed the clever repartee and double meanings. He paid attention to the characters and who was deceiving whom, who was in love with whom. By the time the fourth act neared to a close, he even found himself wanting to see what came next. When was the last time
that
had happened?

Then Abby turned to him, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Spencer, I thought I could wait until the break, but I can’t. I have to find the ladies’ retiring room.”

“Of course,” he murmured, all thought of the play forgotten. “I’ll take you. Better to go now anyway, while there’s no crowd.”

They slipped into the passageway with her apologizing the whole time until he lied and said he needed some air himself. He waited for her near the entrance to the retiring room, feeling rather pleased with himself. The night was going better than expected. She was enjoying herself and had befriended Evelina. That was a good start.