Secrets of a Perfect Night (6 page)

“Right.” Warmed by his exertions, Adrian blew out a breath. It all but crystallized in the air. The day was cloudy, the temperature still well below freezing. Rejoining Abby on the village side of the ford, he and Tom sorted the shovels and bags.

“I can carry something,” Abby insisted. Neither Adrian nor Tom appeared to hear. She inwardly humphed. Tom ended carrying both shovels over his shoulder, and took Bolt’s small bag in one hand. Adrian hefted his case; at his wave, she turned and preceded him up the slope.

The air was clean and crisp. Halfway up, she paused to look through a gap in the downs that revealed a long view to the southeast. White rolling hills stretched to the horizon; the sight was dramatic, primitive, almost eerie in the heavy silence.

Adrian was following in Abby’s footsteps, head down as he trudged. He saw her hems too late and walked into her. Wrapping his free arm around her, hand splaying across her midriff, he steadied her, locking her, shoulder to hips, back against him.

He felt the sudden hitch in her breathing, felt the tension that shot through her. Her back to his chest, he held her flush against him—and didn’t want to let go.
The sensations that streaked through him were oddly familiar, a startlingly clear echo he couldn’t place.

“I was just looking at the view,” Abby gabbled, her eyes no longer seeing. “It’s…magnificent, don’t you think?”

She was breathless, a direct consequence of not being able to breathe. If she did, she would press herself against his hand, and against his rocklike body. She wasn’t a fool—she held her breath.

“Hmm…” The deep, masculine murmur came from above her right ear. “Magnificent…”

His tone left her wondering just what he was describing. Hanging grimly on to her wits, she pulled forward out of his hold. His hand fell from her, but reluctantly. Abby mentally shook herself. “We’d better hurry—the light’s already dimming.”

Gathering her skirts, she took two quick steps—and slipped.

On a rock.

“Oh!” She landed in another drift. This time when Adrian, his teeth-gritted silence far louder than words, hauled her upright, her ankle failed.

“Oooh!” She winced, hopped, then tried to hobble.

“
Stop
!”

There was so much fury in the word that, somewhat to her disgust, she did. She met Adrian’s eyes—they smoldered with a warning she’d have to be blind to mistake. He waved Tom over; they reorganized their loads. Tom took the case from Adrian and passed over the bag.

“Here.” Adrian thrust the bag into Abby’s hands.

Bemused, she held it—then swallowed a shriek as Adrian bent and lifted her, bag and all, into his arms.

“There’s no
need
!” She all but flapped. “It’s only a little way more. I can manage—”

“It’s more than a hundred yards, and the way you’ve been
managing
, you’d probably cripple yourself. Now, shut up and let me concentrate.”

She had no choice—he wasn’t going to put her down. Abby held on to Bolt’s bag and let her gaze wander—anything rather than look at Adrian’s face and risk meeting his eyes. She tried to concentrate, too—on anything other than how easily he carried her, how easily he managed her, which naturally led to how strong he was, and other, even less helpful thoughts.

Tom hurried ahead and raised the alarm; by the time they reached the cottage, Agnes was waiting, ready to ring a peal over her. Abby silenced Agnes with one sharp look; Agnes sniffed and directed Adrian up the stairs.

Abby waited to be set down at her bedchamber door. Adrian paused before it, Agnes reached around and opened it, and he strode straight in.

“Adrian!” Abby ground out the warning between her teeth.

He set her on the edge of her bed. “We’ll need to get her boot off,” he said to Agnes. Agnes nodded—they both ignored Abby’s outraged shriek when Adrian flipped her skirts up to her knees.

The boot slipped off easily enough.

“It’s only just jarred!” Abby flipped her skirts back down. “You’re both overreacting.”

Adrian flipped her skirts back up again. His hands closed about her ankle—Abby sucked in a breath. He manipulated her foot carefully. “Does that hurt?”

“Ah…” Abby blinked, then managed, “Only a little.”

She couldn’t help but think of their feet sliding over each other, repetitively caressing in the dark warmth two nights before.

“Best keep a cold compress on it for an hour or two, just to be sure.” Agnes bustled to the door.

“No!” Abby did not want to be left alone with Adrian, in her bedroom, in her stockinged feet. She didn’t know whether she trusted him, but she certainly didn’t trust herself. “I’m not going to sit up here with a cold compress on my ankle.”

Adrian shrugged. “All right.”

He swooped, and she was in his arms being carried back downstairs. He carried her to the parlor, set her on the sofa, then shuffled an ottoman into position before her and set her injured foot upon it. Agnes hurried in with the compress; Adrian took it and molded it about her ankle.

“There.”

He nodded in approval, then sat beside her.

Abby said nothing—she didn’t trust herself not to scream.

After a pregnant moment, the reprobate beside her inquired, “Would you like your book?”

“Please.” The word nearly strangled her, but she got it out.

He rose, fetched her book, and handed it to her. She accepted it with a nod, opened it, and started to read.

He resumed his seat beside her—and watched.

Abby had intended to sulk for the rest of the evening, but when, after dinner, Adrian discovered her chess set and challenged her to a match, she forgot. The fact that her ankle had not swelled and she was therefore back on her own slippered feet and no longer consigned to being carried by him on a regular basis contributed considerably to her improved equilibrium.

The fact that she beat him twice and lost only once completed her recovery.

They retired for the night in perfect accord. She came down the next morning in her usual sunny and equable frame of mind.

“How did you come to be living here?” Adrian asked as she joined him at the breakfast table. “You didn’t say.”

“Bryan married.” Abby paused to take a sip of tea.

Bryan was Abby’s older brother; Adrian remembered him, but they had never been friends. Bryan was younger, and much more straitlaced, than he.

“His wife’s name is Ester—of the Dorset Pooles. Shortly before the wedding, Great-aunt Threve died and left the cottage to me. It seemed the perfect solution—I didn’t want to stay at the Hall, forever under Ester’s feet.”

That, Adrian could understand. “So Bryan and Ester are at the Hall—”

“And their family—they have three girls.”

Sitting back, his coffee cup in hand, Adrian watched Abby butter a slice of toast. “So what do you do with your time? Still wander the moors looking for flowers?”

Abby nodded. “I do indeed. I still paint—I paint what I find, then…”

She trailed off; he caught her eye and lifted a brow.

She studied him, then shrugged. “I paint for the Royal Gardens at Kew—for their records. I’m the artist for Dartmoor—all the moor species.”

Adrian considered her, considered what she’d just revealed. Only the very best of botanical artists were invited to contribute to the records of the Royal Gardens. He sipped his coffee, watching her from over the rim of the cup. “I’d like to see your studio.”

Gushing wasn’t his style. She would have squirmed if he’d praised her, but he knew she would hear the sincerity in his voice. She tilted her head, still studying him, then nodded. “Yes, all right. I’ll take you up after breakfast. I want to check on my pigments, anyway.”

Half the attic had been converted into an airy studio, although presently the shutters were tight over the wide windows. While Abby poked at her pots, Adrian wandered the room, studying the sketches on the big tables, the finished paintings on the walls.

Seeing them, he would have guessed her prominence even had she not told him. The works were vibrant in color, elegant in form, and painstakingly detailed, executed with an unwavering eye for accuracy. He recognized various flowers. This, he thought, as he looked around, was what had become of the Abby he knew.

He’d always treated the moor as his private riding range, the wild country at one with his heart. He’d first started stumbling over Abby when she’d been six. Out on her pony, she’d be searching for wildflowers, for
roots and bulbs. A grubby urchin, she’d often appeared, her hands streaked with dirt from where she’d scrabbled among rocks and boulders. But she was as fearless as he when it came to the moor, equally at home in its wildness.

Over the years, they’d met often, although they never made arrangements to meet. They’d see each other somewhere and stop to chat, to talk. Early in their acquaintance, Adrian had realized that Abby’s brother made fun of her obsession. Her parents ignored it. He had simply accepted it as part of the Abby he knew.

And here she now was, one of the select few contributing to the records of the Royal Gardens.

He couldn’t have felt more proud of her if he’d taught her to paint himself. Turning, he caught her watching him, and smiled. “It’s truly impressive, Abby.”

She was pleased—he could see it in her eyes, in the smile that curved her lips. She shrugged and set aside the pot she’d been cleaning. “I enjoy it.”

They went downstairs. As one, without need for any words, they headed for the front door. Adrian opened it—they looked out—he shut it quickly. Their eyes met; they both grimaced.

A raw wind was blowing, laying a coating of fine ice on the snow. There was no sign of any thaw. Leaving the kitchen to Agnes, Bolt, and Tom, they retreated to the parlor. They spent the rest of that day, and the next, snug in its warmth, reading, playing chess, talking, remembering, making plans for Bellevere.

Over the last, Abby was reticent. To her mind, he
should be making such plans with the lady he was preparing to marry. She was tempted to ask outright who that lady was, but her courage failed her. The Adrian who sat beside her on the sofa was not the same Adrian of long ago. He had changed—he was certainly more complicated. And definitely more dangerous, especially to her equanimity.

“I haven’t been to Bellevere since your father’s funeral, so I really can’t tell you any more than you know yourself.”

“But you must meet the Crochets in the village—I’m sure Mrs. Crochet must bewail the conditions.”

“What she bewails is the fact the house isn’t used—I’ve never heard her say anything about it falling apart.” Abby waited only a heartbeat before saying, “Actually, there was something I meant to ask—you mentioned yesterday that Farnsworth has had another book published. Have you read it?”

She’d discovered he read extensively, even more than she. She’d give her eyeteeth to have the free run of his library. In lieu of that, she picked his brains, giving her endless topics with which to distract him.

On the fifth day after the blizzard, the temperature rose. Tom was out early clearing the front path. Millie Watkins arrived midmorning with the news that the village was stirring. Abby was therefore not surprised when she glimpsed the Reverend Mr. Felix Bosworth picking his way up the front path.

She opened the door and waved him in. “Good morning, Mr. Bosworth. Out checking your flock?”

“Indeed, indeed, my dear Miss Woolley.” After
stamping his shoes free of snow, Bosworth stepped over the threshold. A man of average height, somewhat corpulent, with thinning dark hair brushed across his balding pate, he took Abby’s hand between his and beamed at her. “I came here as soon as I heard the way was clear. I could not possibly know peace until I assured myself that you and your dear aunt were in good health.”

“On that score, I can set your mind at rest.” Retrieving her hand, Abby shut the door and gestured to the parlor, unable to stop herself from adding, “It was only an average blizzard—we get them every year.”

“Indeed, indeed.” Mr Bosworth had been the incumbent of the small village church for three years, so could hardly claim ignorance. He bestowed an unctuous smile on Abby as he followed her into the parlor. “But with two delicate ladies living alone, you know, one always has to wonder…”

Whatever it was Mr Bosworth had wondered, the thought was dispelled—thrown to the winds—when his protuberant eyes alighted on the lounging male figure slowly coming to his feet, leaving the small sofa where he’d been sitting close by Abby.

Abby fought to hide a smile. Since retrieving his case, Adrian had been gracing the house dressed to the nines, the epitome of a stylish London gentleman—a rakish, dangerous, exceedingly handsome one. When, goaded by the effect his appearance was having on her, she’d twitted him over it, he’d informed her he’d come straight from a house party and his town rig was the
least
elegant attire he had with him. That had shut
her up. She was quite certain she didn’t need to see him in evening dress.

His appearance had apparently robbed Mr. Bosworth of speech, which was nothing short of amazing. Mouth opening and closing, the reverend simply stared.

Adrian regarded him impassively, then one brow slowly rose.

Abby stepped into the breach. “Mr. Bosworth, allow me to introduce Viscount Dere. He was on his way to Bellevere when the storm struck, and took refuge here with us.” To Adrian she said, “The Reverend Mr. Bosworth.”

“Dere? Oh!” The slight hesitation before Mr. Bosworth offered his hand declared he’d heard the stories. He smiled insincerely when Adrian shook his hand, then he looked about. “Your aunt, Miss Woolley?”

Abby looked about, too. “She was around…” Now she thought of it, Esme had been playing least in sight for the last few days. “I think she just stepped up to her room—”

As if on cue, Esme rushed in, waving her crochet. “Found it—oh! Good morning, Mr. Bosworth. Is the way clear then?”

“Indeed, indeed, dear lady. Why…”

For the next twenty minutes, Mr. Bosworth entertained them with details of all in the village. He made frequent references to his hope that the thaw would be sufficiently advanced to permit of a good attendance at Sunday service. For some reason, he glanced at Dere
when making this pronouncement; Abby was at a loss to understand the reverend’s point. Adrian, as far as she could tell, was bored.