Secrets of a Perfect Night (15 page)

That, and the blatant aura of sensual danger he projected so unconsciously. He must, she felt, have always been thus.

The fact he was smiling apparently sincerely at the lady in blue alerted her. Then she mentally shook herself.

Adrian had just opened his heart to her, or as near to it as made no odds. She had heard his sincerity, felt his need. She understood him now. As the dance drew her and Mr. Fitzhammond down the room, she relaxed and smiled gloriously.

To Adrian, she was salvation. He wanted her not for any logical, practical reason, but for a deeply emotional one. He needed her love. With her, he could open his heart and allow that vulnerability. She could see that now. Just as being with him, loving him, had been and still was the one situation in which she could truly be herself, the complete woman without any part of her hidden or constrained, so it was for Adrian, too. She was the one with whom he could love and be loved, and so be free and whole. She could, and would, free him from the emotional prison his fashionable rake’s life had become.

He needed her. He needed her to love him; he wanted her to be his, his alone. And he would be hers. Hers alone.

Forever—for the rest of their days.

Her heart was singing, just waiting to fly. The dance brought them back up the room.

Adrian was no longer where he had been.

Abby’s smile dimmed. She glanced about. Sheer luck had her looking toward the main door just as the crowd parted, affording her a glimpse of broad, black-coated shoulders and shining brown hair following a fleeting flash of blue out of sight.

Abby’s heart clenched, then chilled and sank. She suddenly felt giddy, and ill. She’d refused to go apart with him. Had he…? Her steps faltered—she nearly tripped.

“Here—I say!” Mr. Fitzhammond was instantly solicitous. He drew her out of the set.

“Th-thank you,” Abby managed. Her heart was in her throat. “I…need to sit down.”

“I’ll find a chair—”

“No—perhaps the withdrawing room…” She smiled weakly at Mr. Fitzhammond. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just…” She turned away. “I’m so sorry about the dance…”

She vaguely heard Fitzhammond’s reassurances; she barely saw the people she passed. The colorful crowd she had earlier admired was now a nightmarish sea. She fought her way through it. She found herself at the door through which Adrian had passed. She neither stopped nor thought; in a daze, she stepped into the front hall and looked to her right, in the direction Adrian had gone.

Wide stairs rose in a single sweep to the next floor. Lifting her skirts, Abby climbed them. At the top, she paused, pressing a hand to her chest, trying to ease the pain there. It couldn’t be true—he wouldn’t hurt her—not again, not now. Heart pounding, she looked about; a flicker of candlenight beyond an open door drew her down one corridor.

Beyond the door lay an elegant parlor; she might have thought it deserted but for the shadows thrown on the opposite wall. Abby peeked around the door. The room was long; Adrian stood before the fire at the other end. Before him, facing him, stood the lady in blue.

Adrian held the lady’s hands clasped in his; he was looking into her face with rapt attention. She was speaking excitedly, her tone just above a whisper.

Abby slipped into the room. Clinging to the shadows along the room’s side, avoiding the heavy furniture, she edged nearer, finally halting in the deep
shadow at the end of a large bookcase. Adrian’s back was angled to her, but she could see the lady clearly.

How bold she was, smiling up at him like that, her face shining with delight, with a teasing light.

“So, my lord, the babe will be born by midsummer. Now, say yes—
do
say yes!
Please
?”

Adrian chuckled, warmly, fondly. “What can I say?” He lifted her hands to his lips. “My dear, I’d be delighted.”

The lady squealed with happiness, then threw her arms around Adrian’s neck. He closed his arms around her slim figure, and bent his head—

Abby tried to choke back her anguished cry.

Adrian heard. He turned, the lady in blue held protectively to him.

His amber eyes locked on Abby’s.

Adrian’s impulse was to smile and hold his hand out to Abby—the stricken look in her face, in her wide eyes, struck him to the heart. He froze. For an instant, time reversed, and they were seven years younger, but now he saw what he hadn’t seen then. Saw the hurt, the pain. Saw in Abby’s eyes the helpless question:
Again
?

With another choked cry that shredded his soul, she whirled and fled, blindly dashing for the door.

“Wait here!” Leaving Pamela by the fire, Adrian strode after Abby. Gaining the door, he looked, then cursed and broke into a run. He’d forgotten. This was Abby—she recognized few of the constraints of lady like behavior. She didn’t scurry—she ran. Flat out.

She reached the stairs well ahead of him. Heart in
his mouth, he saw her plunge down. She’d break her legs, her neck—

He reached the top and flung himself after her, taking stairs three at a time, closing the distance.

She hit the marble floor and skidded, caught her balance and flung a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder. She saw him, and took off like a hind for the front door.

He caught her—grabbed her around the waist and yanked her back against him—just as she reached the threshold. He calmly nodded to the butler, startled out of his usual impassivity enough to stare, and turned Abby back in to the house. “Upstairs,” he murmured into the curls by her ear, with what he considered commendable restraint. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Her tone gave him warning—she struggled furiously. Adrian relaxed his hold not at all, then he sighed, stooped, and lifted her in his arms.

“
Adrian
!”

She continued to struggle; he tightened his hold and started toward the stairs.

“Put me down this instant!”

He glanced at her, at her stormy face, at her eyes filled with righteous fury, and hurt. So much hurt. Her breasts swelled as she drew in another breath. He inclined his head to their right. “Wave to the interested people.”

“Wh—” She looked. Shock snatched her breath. The three double glass doors leading to the ballroom were
lined with faces, some scandalized, others intrigued—all eagerly drinking in the action.

She sucked in a breath and shrank against his shoulder. “For God’s sake,” she hissed, “put me down.”

He shook his head. “You had your chance—we’ll play the rest of this scene my way.” He started up the stairs.

Abby cast one last glance at the ballroom, at the hundreds of eyes watching them avidly. She moaned. “Just think of the scandal!”

“With my reputation?” He caught her gaze. “Why worry?”

She held his gaze, searched his eyes. He arched a brow at her, then looked up the stairs.

“I don’t want to meet your mistress.”

“Pamela Waltham is not my mistress. I haven’t had a mistress for years.”

He reached the top of the stairs.

“Who is she, then?”

“She’s one of Frederick Ramsey’s sisters.”

After a moment, she ventured, “The late Frederick Ramsey—the friend who shot himself?”

He nodded. “Pamela married Robert Waltham, who’s down in the ballroom waiting for her to come back. He’s probably now wondering what she’s doing, seeing as she was supposed to be with me.”

“Why is she supposed to be with you?”

“I’ll let Pamela answer that.”

Silence greeted that terse statement.

He did not put Abby down until they reached the parlor hearth. Her corresponding silence struck him as fragile. So very vulnerable.

He felt the same way. “Miss Abigail Woolley—Mrs. Pamela Waltham. Pamela, Abby will soon be my viscountess. Please tell her what I just agreed to.”

Pamela’s face lit. She looked from him to Abby, delight in her eyes. “Oh, how
wonderful
!” She clapped her hands, then caught his eye. “Oh—what I just asked.” She turned to Abby. “I asked Adrian if he would stand godfather to our first child. It seemed so appropriate, you see, because it was Adrian who managed the fund—the fund Freddy’s four friends set up when he died to see to our welfare and our dowries—and without that, I couldn’t have married, well, at least not so well, and probably not Robert, whom I do love so terribly much—and so, you see, Adrian is in a way
responsible
—”

“Yes, yes—thank you, Pamela.” With a hand on Pamela’s shoulder, Adrian steered her to the door. “Now you’d better hurry down, because I’m sure I saw Robert on the way past the ballroom and he was looking a trifle anxious.”

“Was he? Well, I’d better go.” Pamela peered around him to beam at Abby. “I’ll look forward to speaking with you again, Miss Woolley.”

Abby forced a smile in response to Pamela’s cheery farewell. Adrian all but thrust Pamela out the door, shut it, and locked it. Abby’s smile faded as he turned and stalked toward her.

She couldn’t tell what was in his mind, but his face was hard, his features set, his amber eyes glowing. As he neared, she had to quell an urge to flee. To where? She’d never reach the door.

And she owned him an apology. Clasping her hands,
she lifted her chin. As he closed the last yards between them, his physical presence broke over her like a wave. She had never seen him so focused, so intent. Was he really that angry that she’d doubted him?

He halted before her, raised both hands, and framed her face.

Eyes the color of molten amber captured her gaze.

“I love you, Abby. I would never,
ever
, do anything to hurt you. Not knowingly, not willingly. I know, now, that I did in the past, but I didn’t know, didn’t understand, not then.” He searched her eyes. “Eight years ago…you were so young. That was such a special moment—I felt it, but I didn’t know what the feeling meant, and it frightened me. Even so, if I’d had any inkling…but I never realized, never imagined you loved me. You were sixteen. I was so much older. If I didn’t understand what love was, how could you?” His lips twisted self-deprecatingly. “Well, so I thought.”

Abby raised her hands to touch, then cradle his as they gently held her face. His heart was in his eyes as he held her gaze.

“Our fathers were wrong in trying to force our marriage, but they weren’t wrong in thinking we would suit. I never meant to hurt you, but I know I did. Can you forgive me?”

Emotion blocked Abby’s throat, so she let her eyes speak, absolving him of the past, turning to the future.

Adrian read the message, drew in a shuddering breath, then bent and touched his lips to hers. “We need each other, you and I. I want you—I need you—I love you—and I always will.” Closing his eyes, he
rested his forehead against hers. “For God’s sake, put me put of my misery—say you’ll marry me.”

A moment passed, then he drew back, to look into her face, to hear her answer. Her eyes met his, then her lips lifted, her eyes lit with a joy that held all the answer he needed. Yet her reply when it came was quintessentially Abby.

“When?”

A smile curved his lips—he felt a joy to match hers rise within him, felt the weight of his loneliness, his rakish life, lift away. He released her face, drew her into his arms, and bent his head. “Soon.”

Her lips were parted when they met his; he slid into the honeyed warmth and drew her sweetness deep. She slid her arms up and wound them about his neck, and held him to her, pressed herself to him.
I love you
. She had said it with her body often enough for him not to need to hear the words. But he needed, wanted, to have her reassure him in the way he most coveted, by wrapping him in her arms, holding him to her heart while she took him deep inside her.

He let his hands slide, down over her hips, caressing the smooth globes of her bottom. He gripped, kneaded, then lifted her to him so she could feel his erection hard against her soft belly. She sighed into his mouth, then drew him deep again, tangling his tongue with hers. She pressed herself to him, flagrantly urging him on.

Setting her on her feet, he held her tight within one arm while he searched and found her laces. Practice had long ago made perfect; they were loose in less than a minute—the neckline of her gown gaped. With
out breaking their kiss, he eased back, angling so he could slip his hand beneath the loosened bodice and lift her breast free.

He closed his hand about its warmth, let his thumb brush its peak. Abby gasped. She pulled back and looked down. He ducked his head; an instant later she moaned and clutched his shoulders.

Adrian feasted, teasing, taunting, then suckling while her fingers sank deep and her body bowed to his. He repeated the torture with her other breast until both were swollen, peaked and aching. Straightening, he took her mouth again in a long, urgent, heated kiss.

They were both breathing raggedly when he drew back. Abby clung tightly, eyes almost closed. “Adrian?”

The word was a sob; her tone stated very clearly she wasn’t sure what answer she wanted.

Planting a kiss beneath one ear, Adrian closed his hands about her waist and backed her. “Where’s the benefit in marrying a master seducer if you don’t get to enjoy my skills?”

He felt the fight she waged to gather her thoughts. “But…here?”

“We’re already damned—if we do or we don’t.”

An instant’s hesitation followed, then, “How?”

He reached out and snagged a straight-backed chair. “Just follow my instructions.”

Abby tried not to notice how deliciously wicked he sounded, how his voice seemed to whisper through her mind, to rasp along her nerves. She heard a thump, and caught a glimpse of the chair he set down behind him, then he turned back to her, and kissed her.

Thoroughly. Her head was spinning when he drew back just enough to whisper, “Lift your skirts in the front.”

She was so shocked—so tantalized—by the order, she didn’t immediately move. Adrian’s lips cruised along her jawline. “I’d do it myself,” he murmured, “but if I didn’t rip them, I’d crush them beyond all hope of passing muster when we return downstairs. Master seducers never forget such things.”