Reckless Viscount (29 page)

She was instantly awash in a maelstrom of emotions and sensations too complicated to define.

Without a word, he kicked the door shut behind him. In spite of his silence, the almost violent tension in his demeanor shouted across the room to Abbigael. She was compelled by the fierce energy that surrounded him. There was something about him that made her heart ache as if a tight fist seized hold of it.

He pulled a hand from the depths of his pocket to brush the knuckles back and forth along his jaw. A gesture Abbigael was coming to associate with moments when he struggled with his inner thoughts.

“Irish,” he began, cleared his throat, then began again, “Abbigael.”

She waited in the center of the room, naked and vulnerable, but he didn’t continue.

On a rough exhale, he shoved his hand back through his hair. Then in a burst of raw force, he crossed the room to her in two long, swift strides. He wrapped an arm around her waist and gripped the back of her head. His kiss was hot, hard and animalistic. There was no seduction, no gentle manipulation or subtle coaxing.

Only need.

He pulled away from her only long enough to shed his own clothes, then he reached for her again, bending her into his body, his eyes bright and frightening

Abbigael surrendered.

He laid her down on the bed. As his body covered her, she softened and accepted his weight, drawing her arms around his shoulders and parting her legs.

When his mouth pulled on hers and he entered her fully, without preamble or finesse, she dug her fingernails into his skin and arched beneath him. She lifted her knees around his hips and forced him deeper. Her hands gripped his buttocks and she rolled her hips to meet his, gasping when it triggered the inner sensation she craved.

He groaned against her lips and nipped at them with his teeth, then drove into her harder and faster. Their movements turned frantic and wild. Their heavy breath was interspersed with velvety moans as they stormed toward a shared release that threw Abbigael into a shattering world of beauty and darkness, fury and ecstasy.

Her breath slowly eased to a normal rhythm as the muscles in her thighs trembled when she eased her legs down to the mattress.

Leif’s forehead rested on her shoulder. His moist breath fanned across the crest of her nipple, bathing the sensitive peak in warmth.

After a moment, he lifted his head. The dangerous storm had passed from his features and the jaunty expression of the devil-may-care rogue was securely back in place.

Abbigael’s stomach fluttered.

“Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you,” she replied automatically.

“Excellent. Would you like some breakfast?”

“Langley said that Mrs. Hempstead would put something together.”

“Perfect. I will see that she includes some of her wonderful sweet bread. The woman is a virtuoso when it comes to pastries.”

“Would you prefer to eat up here or go downstairs?” she asked, wondering why she couldn’t just ask him what she really wanted to know. Where had he gone so early that morning? And why had his mood been so ferocious upon his return?

“Downstairs would be best.” He glanced aside at her open trunk. “This room is not exactly suited to dining.”

He pushed himself up from her body and began to replace his hastily discarded clothing. Once again, she felt consigned to the bed, much like a paid courtesan, as he made his escape.

Well, not this time.

Abbigael rose from the bed and brushed past him to walk naked to the wash stand. She chose to ignore the way Leif stopped buttoning his shirt to watch her short progression with avid interest. She ignored it, but she was fully aware of it.

“Do we have any particular plans for this evening?” she inquired with feigned nonchalance as she dipped a cloth in the water basin. She wrung out the excess water before swiping the cloth across her belly then sliding it between her legs.

“What? Ah…no.”

She smiled in satisfaction at his stuttering response. Setting the cloth aside, she turned and bent over to lift her filmy undergarment from the chair. When she straightened to stretch her arms over her head and drag the chemise down over her body, she heard him shift and clear his throat.

“No plans tonight, but the Blackbournes are throwing a ball in our honor on Wednesday.”

“Wednesday.” She turned in surprise, forgetting her motivation for the moment. “But that is only five days away. A ball cannot be arranged in such a short time.”

Leif’s glittering stare flowed over her body, the thin undergarment doing nothing to shield the shape of her body from his sight. Every inch of her skin warmed under his intense regard.

“Anna can do anything she sets her mind to, and she has decided we need a proper introduction to society as man and wife.” He lifted his eyes to meet hers and offered a small grin. “Are you ready to be paraded about on the arm of a reformed libertine?”

Abbigael’s lips quirked upward in a smirk of amusement.

“Reformed?”

Leif’s grin widened. “As far as anyone else needs to know.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

In the days that followed, Abbigael was kept busy as Anna stopped over for a few hours every day to go over details for the ball. When Abbigael asked why the rush, the countess explained, “The quicker we put a romantic spin on the events of your dramatic elopement, the sooner we can put the more unpleasant speculation to rest.”

“What speculation?”

The countess leaned forward to pat her hand with a half-smile. “Trust me, you’d rather not know.”

“Will anyone even be able to attend on such short notice?”

“No one will be able to resist. Your marriage has become the talk of the town. People will be clamoring for a chance to view the new couple. Which is why you and Leif must both be prepared to show everyone that yours is a true love match. It’s a perfect setup really—the wickedly irreverent rake reformed by the love of a pure and innocent young woman. I promise the ton will eat it up.”

Abbigael had some doubt in the countess’s plan succeeding, but she did see the wisdom in presenting a strong front to society’s leering curiosity.

Though she spent much of her time holed up with the countess in the morning room, sometimes she would wake up before Leif had a chance to dash off to do whatever it was he did during the day. Or she might catch him watching her as she crossed a room. And she would see a shadow of the tortured energy that had consumed him the morning after Vauxhall.

Just as she’d open her mouth to ask him what troubled him, he would interrupt with a light quip or teasing remark and the shadow would be safely tucked away again.

It bothered her to know he was so unwilling to share his thoughts with her. On the other hand, she rather understood it.

It was not easy to be vulnerable to someone else, as she was discovering. Although in her case, the vulnerability was more physical than emotional as she learned that she had a demanding sensual appetite when it came to her husband. Every moment with him was a revelation. Every hour an adventure into realms of sensuality she never would have imagined she’d travel. There was so much she discovered about herself while in his arms. She had no idea she could feel so safe as she released her inhibitions and followed her sexual instinct. No matter how her body responded or what she demanded from him when her desire reached its height of fury, he was there, willing to push her higher. No hesitation, no judgment.

She quickly came to understand why married couples so often went on holiday following their wedding. It was so very difficult to make it through even a few hours without yearning for his company and wishing they were still abed.

And he was so attentive, so patient, so focused on her during those long and dark hours.

She tried, and hoped she was able to return at least some of the pleasure he lavished on her every night, but she worried about that as well. She so badly wanted to feel as if she brought something more valuable to their union than her inheritance.

By the state of his townhouse, Abbigael guessed he had been in a strained financial situation for a long while. The luxurious boudoir she had seen her first night was the only room that boasted any extra comfort or the slightest bit of opulence. The rest of the house, although clean and well maintained, was nearly as Spartan as Leif’s personal bedroom. His understated decorating style was apparent throughout the house, and even though the furniture was threadbare and the drapes thinned and faded from multiple washings, the home was comfortable in its way.

Aside from that, on one day when she had been left to her own devises for a few hours, she had wandered into a room Leif appeared to be using as a study. The old scarred desk was covered in architectural blueprints, both aged and new, for a grand old estate titled Dunwood Park. Judging by the large number of drawings and amount of scribbled notes running along the edges of the papers, this was a project her husband had put a lot of time and thought into.

Abbigael yearned to ask him more about it but never seemed to find enough long moments when they were alone together, unless it was in the bedroom. And then there was very little conversation.

She was convinced there was so much more to her husband than what he presented to the world. He already knew her darkest secret, and she hoped that in time he would trust her enough to share himself with her.

Perhaps it was too soon for such expectations. And something far more vitally concerning was brought to her attention one afternoon two days before the ball.

When her father arrived in town.

Leif had only recently begun to occupy his study on a regular basis as he pulled out years and years of plans and notes he had made for the renovation and restoration of the Neville family seat in Sussex. He was going over a few ornate drawings of the seventeenth-century orangery that sat half-finished beyond the overgrown gardens that he had sketched years ago during a fit of romanticism. His perusal of the old drawings was interrupted by the impatient knocking at the front door.

He suspected immediately who had come to call. Anyone else who might stop by without notice would have been familiar with Langley’s particular pace and would have known to simply knock and wait.

This caller was not so tolerant.

While he waited, Leif carefully tucked his drawings back into the worn leather portfolio and stacked everything neatly to the side. Then he glanced to the corner of the room and was grateful to see that the liquor service held a few options. He wasn’t sure yet what the occasion might call for.

He stood and came around to lean against the front of his desk just as Langley appeared in the open doorway to announce the visitor.

“My lord, Sir Felix Granger of Dublin, Ireland requests an audience.”

Leif had to smile at the servant’s old-fashioned formality.

“Of course, Langley, do show the gentleman in.”

As Abbigael’s father strode past the butler and into the room, Leif tried to take his measure. Women, he had learned to pin with amazing accuracy in just more than a glance. For the most part, they were fairly transparent and often only needed certain things when it came to him. Men, however, were a different animal altogether.

Abbigael clearly took after her mother in her fair coloring and slight stature.

Sir Felix was a fit-looking man somewhere in his mid-fifties. His eyes were dark and his brown hair was colored with only a few strands of grey, giving him a distinguished appearance. The very picture of a proper British gentleman—he who gave nothing away in his expression or manner. His eyes held no particular light and did not stray far from what was directly in front of him. All Leif could ascertain was that the other man was intent on his purpose and he was well accustomed to shielding his nature.

A true politician, Leif thought ruefully. He abhorred politics.

Pushing off from his desk, Leif stepped forward with an outstretched hand, keeping his expression pleasant and relaxed.

“Sir Felix, welcome. I am Lord Neville.”

The handshake was the perfect length and strength as dictated by society for a formal introduction. Leif found himself growing amused. Suppressing his involuntary mirth, certain it would not be appreciated quite yet, he gestured to the liquor service.

“Can I get you a drink?”

The older man’s eyebrows lifted just a tick higher on his broad forehead.

“It is not yet even two o’clock, my lord,” he replied with a touch of incredulity at having to state the obvious.

Leif shrugged off the statement. “Something else then?”

“No, thank you.” The man held rigidly to his manners despite the fact that Leif could see he was becoming annoyed. “I am not here to socialize, as I am sure you are well aware. I understand my daughter is in residence. If she could join us, please.”

As he spoke, Sir Felix perused the room and chose a high-backed leather chair set in front of the cold fireplace as far from the desk as possible. He took very properly paced strides to the chair and settled into it with his back straight, his hands parallel on the arm rests and his feet braced wide in front of him, looking very much like a man who knew his objective and would not welcome distraction.