Married to the Viscount (13 page)

“Of course.” Spencer spoke the lie with perfect ease, curse him. Then he offered Abby his arm. “Come, my dear. I’m sorry you’ll have to miss the rest of the play, but we’ll attend another time.”

She hesitated, but arguing with him about the ball in front of Evelina and Lady Tyndale was pointless, since she’d have to watch every word she said.

So she took his arm, murmured her good-byes, and let him lead her out to the waiting carriage. She held her tongue only until they were situated inside and headed home. “Spencer, I can’t possibly be presented at a ball. I still have too much to learn about London society.”

“It’s not that different from American society.” Drawing the shade up, Spencer stared out into the London street. “You said your father had you tutored in social graces and such—
you won’t need more than that. And if you do, just follow Evelina’s lead. She always behaves correctly.”

His praise of Evelina gave her pause. “She
is
very elegant, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And pretty, too,” she said with an edge in her voice.

“Quite pretty.” His gaze swung back to her. “But so are you.”

Just not pretty enough. “Yet you think I should emulate her.”

He looked annoyed. “Only if you’re confused on some matter of correct behavior. Otherwise, follow your own instincts.”

“You don’t understand. I don’t have any instincts here. America and England aren’t the same, no matter what you say. And I haven’t even been to a ball since before Papa became ill. The dances have surely changed, not to mention—”

“Abby?” he interrupted.

“What?”

“You do realize why I kissed you tonight, don’t you?”

All thoughts of balls and dances fled Abby’s mind. Dear heaven, she didn’t want to talk about their kiss. He’d ruin it. She’d rather hug to herself the knowledge that for a few fleeting moments he’d found her desirable enough to forget she wasn’t the sort of wife he wanted. “You kissed me to squelch the rumors about me and Nat.”
Please let that end the discussion
, she prayed.

No such luck. “So you understand that the kiss was all a sham.”

Anger burned up through her. How dared he try to take from her the one sliver of satisfaction she’d had since her arrival? “It was
not
all a sham. I know enough about men to know when they’re…feeling things for a woman.”

She thought she saw bleakness in the steel-gray eyes, but it
must have been a trick of the street lamps, for when she looked again, he merely appeared annoyed.

“All right,” he said tersely, “I’ll admit I felt desire. But surely you know that a man can feel that physical urge for many women. I would have reacted the same if you had been any other beautiful woman pressed up against me.”

Curse him for that. Why couldn’t he have just left it alone? Unshed tears burned the back of her throat, but she’d never let them fall. She’d never let him know how much he’d hurt her. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.” She steadied her voice. “That’s true for women, too. I daresay I would have responded the same to any handsome man with a talent for kissing.”

She gained some satisfaction from the anger rising in his face. But her satisfaction was hollow, since his anger only stemmed from his foolish male pride and nothing else.

“I see,” he bit out. “Then we understand each other.”

“Yes, what a relief.” She tipped up her chin with a bold smile. “I may be naive, my lord, but I’m not entirely without experience of the opposite sex. I’ve been kissed a time or two.” What a complete lie. “I’m well aware that men often kiss women without meaning anything by it.”

“Good. So long as you understand.”

He actually sounded irritated. No, she must have imagined it. Why should Spencer be irritated? As usual, he was getting everything he wanted.

Including her attendance at a ball, since clearly the arrogant scoundrel would drag her there no matter what she said. Fine, let him drag her. She’d hold her head high as she fumbled her way through it. And if it turned into a disaster and she embarrassed him before all his friends, so much the better. Let
him
suffer some humiliation for a change.

Chapter 8

The prudent servant heeds his employer’s commands even when they are wrongheaded, shortsighted, or utterly foolish.

Suggestions for the Stoic Servant

S
pencer had spent the entire morning in the office of Sir Robert Peel, the new home secretary. He’d spent the afternoon in his own, dealing with urgent matters of state. So shortly after sundown he was relieved to see his friend and subordinate, Morgan Blakely, enter. He could use a diversion right now, and Blakely always provided one.

Unfortunately, this evening’s diversion was far from diverting.

Blakely dropped a folded newspaper onto Spencer’s desk and stabbed his finger at a headline—
Viscount Marries Exotic American Beauty
. “I can’t believe I have to hear about this from Lady Brumley’s column,” Blakely said, though his eyes twinkled. “You old slyboots, how dare you get leg-shackled without telling your friends?”

Spencer waved Blakely to a chair as he scanned Lady Brumley’s account. Though the Galleon of Gossip had dedicated the entire column to news of his marriage, she wisely hadn’t mentioned her suspicions about Nat.

But she’d vastly exaggerated his and Abby’s romantic
connection. Spencer winced as he lifted his gaze to Blakely. How much of the truth should he reveal? All of it? Could he trust Blakely’s discretion?

His friend sat back with an expectant smile. “Spill everything,
mon ami
. Clara sent me to ferret out the details, and she won’t be satisfied with less than the entire story, from first meeting to wedding.”

Spencer frowned. “You should tell your nosy wife to mind her own business.”

“I already did. She ignored me as usual. She figures you owe us inside information after how you threw us together three years ago.”

“I was under the impression you were both happy about the marriage that resulted from my machinations. Is the bloom finally off the rose?”

“Hardly.” Blakely grinned smugly as he folded his hands over his belly. “Clara is enceinte again.”

“Ah.” Spencer managed a smile through his sudden stab of envy. “Then congratulations are in order. And do tell your wife how much I admire her willingness to bear children to a rascal like you.”

Amazing how calm he sounded. That came of years saying whatever the situation warranted, regardless of his feelings. Not that his congratulations weren’t genuine. But he couldn’t help his resentment—this would be Blakely’s second child, no doubt one of many. Some men led charmed lives.

Which reminded him…“Sir Robert said to tell you that testing is complete on your brother’s pistol design. Let Templemore know that the Home Office intends to have pistols made to it for all the officers.”

“That should please him,” Blakely said. “He’s inordinately proud of his designs.” He shook his head. “Though I think these days he’s even more proud of his burgeoning family. Juliet is enceinte again, too—can you believe it?”

Devil take the man, he seemed determined to stay on the
subject of children. “I’m sure it was bound to happen given the way those two go on. Now about those pistols—”

“And since you’ve finally gotten around to acquiring a wife,” Blakely cut in with a conspiratorial wink. “I suppose we’ll be hearing a similar announcement about impending children from you before long.”

The blow came too suddenly for Spencer to prepare himself, and the subsequent pain that lanced his chest knocked the breath from him. He hadn’t even considered that people would expect him and Abby to be thinking about children.

But of course people were expecting that. He was getting on in years. Most men of his rank and wealth took wives for precisely that reason—to bear their heirs.

Some of his distress must have shown in his face, for Blakely frowned. “Sorry, old boy, I forgot that you don’t much like children.”

“It’s not that.” His farce of a marriage was suddenly too painful to endure. Perhaps he
should
tell Blakely the truth. He trusted the man with his life. Besides, Blakely already knew about the subterfuge with Nat. Spencer had sent word to him about it the first night of Nat’s defection so that Blakely could handle the magistrate. He might as well hear the rest. “Actually, ours is not that sort of marriage.”

Blakely’s smile faded. “What sort do you mean?”

“It’s not a love match, despite what Lady Brumley wrote. It’s not really a match at all.”

Spencer told Blakely the entire sordid tale, leaving nothing out except why he dared not make the marriage a real one. And he certainly didn’t mention his persistent physical attraction to Abby. That was merely the normal reaction of a man who’d been without a mistress for too long. Yes, surely that’s all it was.

“Thankfully,” he finished, “Miss Mercer has agreed to play my wife until I can find Nat. It’s very good of her, con
sidering that Nat stole her dowry. And that I’m blackmailing her into it.”

“It’s not blackmail when she’ll come out of the scheme twice as rich as before.” A frown touched Blakely’s brow. “Take care, my friend—hasn’t it occurred to you that you have only her word about the dowry?”

He bristled at Blakely’s implication. “Apparently you were a spy longer than was good for you. Not everyone is sly and deceitful.”

“Apparently
you
were not a spy long enough. How do you know she’s not some fortune hunter seizing this opportunity to become a wealthy viscount’s wife? Or even cheat you out of five thousand pounds?”

“She wouldn’t. It’s not in her character, trust me.”

Blakely looked unconvinced.

Spencer planted his elbows on his desk. “You’ll meet her tonight. After that, if you can still tell me she’d use deception to gain a man in marriage or steal what doesn’t belong to her, I’ll eat my hat.”

“Very well. And once you’ve settled things with your brother? What will you do with her?”

“Travel to America, sever the marriage by pointing out that it’s not legal, and leave her there. Society will then only know of her as my estranged wife.”

“And when you decide to marry in truth?”

He wasn’t about to reveal that he never planned to marry—Blakely would plague him with even more questions than Abby would. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. At the moment my main concern is avoiding a scandal.” He narrowed his gaze on his friend. “By the way, will you be able to maintain my deception about Nat and a footpad? Will the magistrate and his officers cooperate?”

“Hornbuckle didn’t like it, but he agreed to it. And his officers are very loyal to him…and to you.”

Spencer relaxed. “At least that’s taken care of.”

“Have you no idea where your brother is now?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got Bow Street men scouring the countryside and others investigating Nat’s old cronies in London in the hope that one might lead us to him.”

“In the meantime, this American becomes more firmly entrenched in your household every day.”

“Let me worry about Abby,” Spencer snapped. Then he softened his sharp words with a smile he didn’t feel. “After all, you’ve got a real wife to worry about, not to mention an unborn child. You’ve no time to fret over
my
troubles.”

“True.” Blakely rubbed his chin. “And speaking of Clara, how much can I tell her?”

Spencer hesitated. It might be good for Abby to have a woman on her side who knew the entire situation and could advise her. “If you trust Clara’s discretion, tell her all of it. But make her understand that she must not speak of it to anyone else.”

“You know Clara—she’s not a gossip,” Blakely said. “But if it makes you feel better, you can caution her again yourself tonight at the ball.”

“All right.” Spencer looked at his watch. “Speaking of that, I’d better go.” He rose. He had to get home to dress. “I’ll see you there.”

Blakely rose, too. “I look forward to meeting this interesting American whom you claim is incapable of using deception to snag a viscount.”

“Now see here,” Spencer bit out, “suspect Abby’s motives if you must, but don’t inflict those suspicions on her tonight. She’ll be anxious enough as it is without having to endure your contempt.”

“I’ll be perfectly amiable, don’t you worry,” Blakely promised. His eyes darkened. “Besides, amiability is far more effective than contempt in eliciting information from a subject.”

Spencer gritted his teeth, but knew he’d never talk his friend out of at least questioning Abby to determine her character. Fortunately, Blakely knew how to do it without rousing suspicion.

They walked out together discussing other matters, but as soon as Spencer entered his carriage, his mind had time to wander. To his consternation, it wandered back to his unwise attraction to his sham wife.

Last night’s maneuver at the theater had been a mistake—he saw that now. Why had he assumed he could kiss Abby and remain unaffected? Even before her arrival, she’d plagued his thoughts constantly. And their fleeting kiss in the garden should have shown him how susceptible he was to her.

Yet he’d stupidly indulged himself last night anyway. Now he couldn’t go ten minutes without reliving the heady pleasure of having her in his arms. All he could think about was his need to kiss her, caress her…make love to her.

He’d nearly done it last night, before God and everyone. She had this annoying ability to turn him into a slobbering fool whenever she approached. How did she do it? He’d never lost his head over a woman before, not even his last mistress—an exotic Frenchwoman who knew every way to please a man. How did one little American with rosemary-scented breath and an impudent, teasing manner make him forget everything but his need to plunder her delicious mouth?

Knowing she shared the attraction only made it worse. He had no right to take advantage of her willingness. Abby had a life to go back to after this was over. That’s why he must keep his roaming hands to himself.

And keep from kissing those lips too sweet for prudence. Yes, that was the secret—never kiss Abby. Kissing Abby always led to disaster.