Miss Foxworth's Fate (2 page)

Was there actually a single man in all of England who could make her feel things and need things and...and...

She glanced down at her body. Was there a fire in there that the right man could light?

She closed her eyes for a moment. She was not
totally
inexperienced. She’d been kissed. Quite a few times. Occasionally with her cooperation. But there’d been no spark, no flutter in her belly.

Young Johnny Mountwell had even shown her his cock. Many years ago, of course. She’d been fascinated at how it had grown larger under her gaze, and when she’d reached out her hand to touch it, it had swelled even more.

But when he’d asked her to actually put her mouth on the damned thing, she’d responded with something like “Eeeeuuuuwww”, and it had shriveled before her eyes. Johnny hadn’t spoken to her since.

That had been more than six years ago, and here she was, with no more than a few kisses and a forbidden glimpse at an aroused youth to keep her company at night. It was poor companionship, when she knew she yearned for more.

More than the feel of a man’s hardness pressing against her in the waltz. More than the fumbled attempts at kisses that had left her unmoved and wiping her mouth surreptitiously afterwards.

She sighed and pulled the bell to summon her maid. She must dress for the evening to come, and knew that being late wasn’t an option.

Tonight they were to attend a demonstration of mesmerism at Lady Rachel Greenhough’s home. At least it held slightly more interest for Abby than another endless ball or soiree, and perhaps there might even be some guests interested in something other than who was engaged to who. Or whom. Or whatever.

Her maid arrived, and together they turned Abby into a lady fit for an evening’s entertainment. Her dark red hair was twisted into a sleek coil, with a few long curls placed delicately across her white skin, lying comfortably on her bosom.

A simple emerald pendant and matching earbobs brought out the green sparkle in her eyes, and her plain gold silk gown made her hair glow with rich, deep slashes of fire. She was unfashionable, and she knew it, but cared not one whit.

Men chorused the charms of the latest petite, blue-eyed blonde, and few had time for a statuesque, brazenly red-haired woman past the first flush of youth.

Her breasts were revealed by the low décolletage that barely covered them, a fashion she dared wear thanks to her advanced years. Not that it mattered, of course, because odds were good that she’d end up chatting with some scientifically-minded people, most of whom, she’d found, were settled, married, and past the point of looking down a woman’s dress.

Thankfully.

With an appreciative murmur of gratitude to her maid, Abby picked up her Norwich silk shawl with the golden fringe and tugged her long white evening gloves smooth.

Her reticule clinked a little, not because it held a vinaigrette full of smelling salts, but because it contained a small fold of paper and a pencil, along with her small comb and a little vial of perfume. She never knew when the opportunity might arise to jot down an interesting comment or an idea that demanded pursuing.

She made a little moue at herself in the mirror.
Face it, my girl. You’re as close to a bluestocking as a woman can get without actually being one.

It was with that rather depressing thought still in her mind that Abby and her aunt arrived at the Greenhough’s town house, their carriage waiting patiently for its turn to disgorge its passengers into the capable hands of the Greenhough’s footmen.

The home itself was lovely, decided Abby, elegant, fashionable, yet possessing a touch of something indefinable that made it a home.

And after meeting Lady Rachel, it was clear that she herself was the touch.

“Welcome, Lady Foxworth, Miss Foxworth. I’m so glad you could join us this evening. My husband’s around here somewhere...” She glanced off distracted. “Drat the man. Never manages to get the idea of where he should be and when.”

The happy smile that accompanied these words took the sting out of them and Abby smiled back. “Thank you so much for inviting us this evening. I am looking forward to the lecture.”

Lady Rachel grinned. “I’m glad you are, Miss Foxworth. Because unfortunately, no matter how I tried to convince him otherwise, a
lecture
is certainly what it will be.”

“Him?” inquired Eugenia politely, giving Abby an unwelcome nudge with her sharp little elbow.

Abby sighed as Lady Rachel chuckled. “My brother, Ma’am. Philip Ashton. He’s our lecturer for this evening. I can only apologize in advance if his discourse should bore you into oblivion. I love him, of course, but such a dull dog. Buries himself in the country all alone with his experiments and that sort of nonsense. I had to verily drag him by his coattails to participate this evening.”

“How did you convince him, Lady Rachel?” asked Abby, more from a desire to be polite than a desire to learn the answer.

“I told him I’d come down and personally blow up his laboratory. And since I nearly did once before when we were little, he took my threat
very
seriously.”

Abby and Eugenia both laughed at this frank statement.

“But I must tend to my duties, and let you ladies take your seats. If you’ll follow Matcham?”

Taking leave of their hostess, Abby and Eugenia dutifully marched behind the stout butler and found themselves seated in a large room, which might well function as a ballroom on other, more formal, occasions.

Tonight, however, lines of chairs had been assembled, much as for a musicale, but there were no instruments in sight, just a raised dais.

They allowed Matcham to seat them front and center, and chatted quietly as the rest of the room filled up with whispering, laughing, talking guests.

“I don’t think I‘ve ever seen Sir Philip Ashton in town,” whispered Eugenia to Abby, under cover of the general conversation. “But I’m almost positive he’s single.”

Once more, Abby sighed, praying for patience, and she returned some inoffensive comment. Hopefully this wouldn’t be one more name added to her aunt’s long list of potential husbands for her.

At last the doors were closed and a servant went around extinguishing many of the candles, leaving only those that illuminated the dais.

Abby felt a shiver up her spine as the room was plunged into mysterious shadows.

Then a man stepped from those shadows and mounted the dais.

He was uncommonly tall, dressed well but in a modest style, had overlong dark hair tied back behind his neck, and what appeared to be a fine pair of legs beneath smart evening breeches.

Abby looked up from her assessment of him, and met his eyes.

Her world stopped dead.

Chapter 2

The tall man was cursing fluidly at his third attempt to tie his cravat in some sort of acceptable style.

“Here, lad, let me do that for you.” The informal comment came from the graying valet folding clothes neatly in the suite in the Greenhough’s town house that was presently being occupied by Sir Philip Ashton.

Philip surrendered the chore with relief. “What the hell would I do without you, Fred?” he grinned.

“Like as not you’d have found yourself a wife to take care of this for you,” answered the man wryly.

“Oh no, not you too.” Philip tipped his head back as Fred’s nimble fingers folded, tweaked and tugged on the cravat. “I’ve had quite enough of that from Rachel, thank you very much.”

“And Lady Rachel’s in the right of it. You know very well it’s time you thought about settling down.”

Philip snorted and straightened himself, glancing in the mirror at the now-respectably tied fabric beneath his chin. “We’ve been through this
ad
nauseum
, Fred. I
am
settled. I
am
content. I have Sally in the village to take care of any...needs I may have...”

“Yes. And damn near ruined her for the rest of the lads, you have. All that nonsense about having a woman for pleasure, and then making sure
she
gets her jollies out of it, too.”

“Look, I did try to explain it all to them. Don’t you remember the time I spent trying to tell those dimwits that there was more to a woman’s body than just her...just her...”

“Her female bits? Yes, lad. And damned embarrassing it was, too. I couldn’t nip down for a pint for two weeks after that. Shocked the hair clean off half of them, you did.”

Philip frowned. “But it was only fair, Fred. And it adds to one’s own pleasure too, you know.”

“I’ll take your word for it. And you haven’t even been down to Sally’s since I don’t remember when. No, it’s time for you to find the real thing, Sir Philip.”

When Fred assumed his sternest face, Philip knew it was time to throw in the towel and admit himself defeated. The problem with having a valet who’d known him since he was three was that there was no chance at all of winning an argument with him.

“Look,” said Fred, obviously taking pity on him. “Go downstairs, put on your show with your mezzy-whatsit, do the pretty with the guests, and then we can go home. Lady Rachel’s happy, you’re on your way out of town, and your laboratory is still, hopefully, intact and spared a visit from your sister.”

Philip sighed.

He loved his home and his scientific experiments almost more than life itself, but deep down inside, he was forced to admit that there
was
something missing. He couldn’t share the thrill of a new discovery with anyone, even though Fred tried hard to be supportive.

His bed was cold at night, and he had his hand for company. Sally, the good-hearted whore, was usually around for when things got
really
bad, but it wasn’t enough. There had to be something more, something...someone...

He shrugged and nodded. “You win, Fred. I’ll suffer through tonight. Though damn it, if Rachel parades a stream of giggling idiots in front of my face afterwards, I’ll hold you responsible and tell them where you’re sleeping, instead of me.”

Fred chuckled. “Well, now, Sir Philip. I’d not be adverse to that idea...”

“You’re a terror, Fred. Don’t wait up for me. God knows how long this will take, and I’m sure you’ve already got an eye on some buxom maid or another.”

Fred had the grace to blush.

*~~*~~*

Philip stood behind the curtains that opened onto the dais in his sister’s ballroom and felt decidedly silly.

All these theatrics were sure to deter from the scientific discussion he was about to present. But damn it, he was doing it for Rachel, and she’d decided that the occasion warranted all this hoopla.

He wasn’t even an expert mesmerist, for heaven’s sake. He’d read Dr. Mesmer’s work, even glanced at Father Hell’s contributions, and dismissed the cleric’s magnetism association completely. Magnetism was an area that fascinated him, but not in connection with mesmerism.

He’d had some small successes, helping a stable boy deal with the pain of a broken leg by just talking to him softly, drawing the crying lad’s focus away from his injury and onto himself, as he’d let a small pocket watch swing slowly to and fro in front of the boy’s eyes.

It had worked, and he’d had other occasions to practice the same sort of thing. But he doubted that he’d exercised any kind of control over anyone’s mind. That was
far
beyond his abilities.

The light behind the curtains was dimming, and that, he knew, was the signal for him to step through and commence his presentation.

Drawing a deep breath and releasing it slowly, he calmed his mind and pushed the curtains aside.

Dazzled for a moment by the remaining candles, he received an impression of thousands of faces staring at him, and his heart missed a beat.

Then his eyesight cleared, and he saw it was merely a few dozen, the jewels of the women glittering as the soft light glanced from their finery. His lip tried very hard not to curl as he acknowledged that this would
not
be a scientifically oriented evening.

Rachel had been right. Theatrics were definitely in order.

With an inner sigh, he moved into the light and casually glanced around. His gaze halted at the front row, and his heart thumped. Once.

Loudly.

A pair of extraordinary green eyes met his.

And the breath left his body.

*~~*~~*

Abigail stared.

His eyes. His eyes, some kind of odd blend of blue and gold, were devouring her. There was no other word for it.

She forgot where she was, who she was, and every little thought in her brain lay down and went to sleep. Her mind blanked. Dear God.
Now
she had flutters in her belly, and the man was three or more feet away from her. What on earth would happen if he touched her?

It seemed like years before he dragged his gaze away and began his presentation, but for Abby, the damage was done. She wanted him. Wanted, in her grandmother’s inappropriate words, to lie down, toss up her skirts and spread her thighs for him.

She shivered.

“Are you chilly, dear?” asked Eugenia, leaning over and whispering softly in her niece’s ear.

Cold? She’d never been hotter in her life.

She just shook her head a little at her aunt, anxious not to miss a word of his lecture.

He spoke fluidly and effortlessly, his rich voice casting a spell over his audience, most of whom had come simply out of curiosity. Within a few minutes, however, Abby and the rest of the crowd were hanging on his every word.

He touched on the history of mesmerism, the theories behind it, both pro and con, the confusion that surrounded its practice, and the realistic results of experiments that had been performed using the various techniques involved.

Abby tried hard to focus, to concentrate on the science he was expounding, but for once in her life, failed dismally.

All she could think of was the pounding of her heart and the growing dampness between her thighs as his eyes brushed hers.