The Outcast Earl (10 page)

“No, my lord. I was just preparing—”

“Never mind it, Grady. Pack this all up and take it upstairs. And a table, too, please.”

Grady blinked, a response that Charles paused to consider. Had he surprised the ever-efficient organiser?

“What is it, Grady?” he asked impatiently.

“I’ll arrange it now,” Grady said quietly, delivering his master a curious look.

Charles raised his eyebrows. “I’ll be upstairs, Grady,” he returned, intrigued by the butler’s reaction. Charles took the stairs two at a time. Had something happened in the hour since she’d left the library? Without pausing, he stepped through the door of Lady Arlington’s room and scanned it quickly.

A maid was pressing a cool cloth to the sleeping woman’s head. Abigail stood nearby, leaning against the window past the bed. Charles tipped his head to dismiss the maid and strode through the room. Abigail had heard him coming, of course, and a brief look of inscrutability crossed her face before she donned a brief smile and straightened.

Watching Abigail lift her face to meet his gaze, Charles said abruptly, “Are you unwell?”

Abigail shook her head. “No, I was just thinking…” she began, then broke off.

“You were thinking we should marry tomorrow by special licence and have done with all this nonsense?” Charles suggested.

“No, not exactly,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I was just thinking of how very cleverly my father has managed things—how he’s managed to get his own way in the end, after all.”

“I’m perfectly satisfied with how things are coming to pass,” Charles objected immediately. “In this case, perhaps his way will be the best for both of us.” He leant down and took her mouth firmly, pushing his tongue into the corners of her mouth until she moaned slightly and opened her lips a bit wider. He slid his arms around her in a full embrace, clasping her to his hard body.

It had not been long since he’d kissed her, but the delicious taste of her mouth and warm lips brought a hunger to his gut and he nearly sank to the floor when her acquiescent curves shivered against him.

He had to stiffen his lips in order to draw them from hers, and he watched in fascination as she licked her own. “Perhaps I’m a bit down,” she confessed. “I suppose I am accustomed to being surrounded by family and servants whom I’ve known for decades. You and your staff have been perfectly welcoming and lovely, and everything is so much better than it might have been, but…” She halted, tipped her head. “But my aunt is unconscious, Jenna has been awake for long enough to nonsensically feel she ought to beg pardon for breaking an arm when being thrown from a carriage, and the coachman, John, is more distraught than either of them over the entire incident.” She paused and grimaced. “I just feel very isolated. Alone.”

“You are not alone,” Charles growled, his insides warring between understanding and a slight feeling of hurt over her confession. How could she miss the very people who had deceived her, lied to her, and essentially delivered her body and soul into the hands of a stranger? He leaned his forehead against hers. “However, I take heart from the simple fact that you have confided in me. Trust me?”

Abigail blinked. “Yes,” she whispered. “I really do. Odd, isn’t it? We met, what, last night? And you weren’t exactly welcoming—you were too busy giving orders.”

“It’s what I do best,” he assured her, smiling crookedly. Lifting his head, he watched the door open to the butler and a retinue of servants and luncheon, as if in demonstration. Only then did he remember the maid, but when he turned to look, the girl had discreetly disappeared. “I’m certain you’ll soon find it to be the natural order of things,” he continued. “Come, eat. You’ll feel better, and we’ll sit together and keep an eye on your aunt once we’ve finished.”

He felt immensely justified and relieved when Abigail smiled at him and presented her hand.

Chapter Four

The hours following the luncheon in Betsy’s room were unsurprisingly difficult for Abigail. She remained sitting at her aunt’s side, often clutching both of the elder woman’s hands in her own as the doctor, Mrs Carlton or Meriden in turn worked to keep her still. Several times she seemed to know Abigail, and would begin to reach for her, only to recall massive pain in her head and lift her hands upward.

Still, they managed to convince her to swallow some broth and tea before Dr Franklin administered more laudanum and Betsy fell into another deep sleep. Abigail remained sitting on the edge of the mattress, tense and carefully watching her aunt, as the others left. A maid came in and settled herself in a chair on the opposite side of the bed, John stepped in to ask softly after his mistress and left again before Meriden returned.

She felt him come up behind her, but did not turn, even when he touched her shoulder and said quietly, “You need to be away for a little while. You can check on her again when you dress for dinner, and when you come down to the drawing room.”

Abigail shook her head, rubbing Betsy’s hands. “I won’t be able to nap. I’ll just stay here.”

Behind her, she felt Meriden still and stiffen, but then he said, quite reasonably, “And what good do you think you’ll do by holding her hands while she sleeps, other than perhaps driving yourself sick with worry and concern?”

Shrugging a bit, Abigail sighed. “I suppose no good. But why do you have to be so bloody rational about it?” she asked.

Meriden touched the ribbon in her hair gently. “Come on then, up off the bed,” he coaxed, then after a pause, simply leaned over and picked her up.

Gasping, Abigail released Betsy’s hands and grabbed him, absurdly grateful that he was touching her and resenting her traitorous body all at the same time. She glanced at the maid, who seemed blind and deaf to the display. “What—” she began, but Meriden frowned at her and made a shushing noise.

“Not in front of your aunt,” he chided, and turned to carry her from the room.

Abigail stilled obediently, at least until they had gained the gallery. Then she struggled as her resentment surged, but Meriden simply grasped her more firmly and headed down the hall. “Mine,” he reminded her, striding past Mrs Carlton and a maid near the top of the stairs.

“Not yet,” Abigail breathed furiously, pushing ineffectually on his shoulders and kicking the air with her slippers. “And if manhandling me is the best behaviour you can summon when I can’t promptly set aside a task, we’re going—oh!” She stopped and stared as Meriden shouldered a door open and stepped through it. “Oh, my,” she whispered, suddenly very still.

“You were here last night,” he reminded her acerbically.

“I didn’t see
that
last night,” she replied tartly, gesturing to the painting over the fireplace, her eyes fixed on it as her heart beat faster. “Not with that one candle and only the coals from the fire,” she went on softly, but then paused and flushed.

Meriden watched her closely, further exacerbating her embarrassment. After a moment, he shrugged. “She is Marie-Louise O’Murphy by Francois Boucher, painted in 1752. She was one of Louis the Fifteenth’s mistresses.”

“But-but-but she’s—” Abigail stuttered.

“But she’s what?” he asked, clearly amused now.

“Not dressed,” Abigail uttered fiercely, then glanced sharply at the sofa she had so casually reclined upon the previous evening. The styles were similar, but… “At least it’s not the same sofa,” she muttered after a moment.

“Now that’s a thought.” Meriden chuckled, and Abigail glared at him. “She was a lovely subject. Boucher did excellent work. I’m told Louis the Fifteenth greatly appreciated it. Curiously enough, Boucher did paint his own wife on that same sofa, though years later. And clothed.”

Abigail blinked. “It’s positively indecent,” she said firmly.

“Do you think?” Meriden returned easily. “Do not fear for my reputation. I have not and will not entertain in this room—indeed, you may be the only one beyond the servants to visit it.” Abigail looked around curiously but saw nothing else uncommon before turning her attention back to Meriden. “I must say, it may be one of my shortcomings, but I am hopelessly determined to see you in just that position, and soon. I trust you will be an extraordinary improvement, even on the always beautiful Marie-Louise.”

“I won’t!” Abigail immediately objected.

Meriden smiled at her indulgently, reached out and tugged on her hair ribbon, watching her pile of braids fall down around her shoulders. Letting the ribbon dangle down over her bodice, he chuckled. “Oh, you will, you know. Not today, I’ll give you that. But you will.”

Abigail drew a deep breath, her chin firming. She knew she was being argumentative, but there was a fascinating contradiction of innocence and lewdness in the portrait. “I’ll thank you not to make assumptions about my modesty—”

“On the contrary, I’ll thank you not to make assumptions about something you obviously know nothing about,” he interrupted abruptly, capturing her chin with his fingers. “After that missish display of outrage over Marie-Louise, there can be no doubt of your innocence in such matters.” He smiled as she blushed. “Do not be ashamed of it,” he murmured huskily, drawing predictably closer. “Innocence is a treasure of immeasurable value, something to enjoy but once. I consider it an honour indeed to be entrusted with yours, whether you wished to give it to me or not. And that brings us back to the point you were attempting to make in the gallery.”

Blinking, Abigail tried to remember.

“I do not consider handling you to be a behaviour of last resort,” he informed her abruptly. “Indeed, I find the notion of handling you to be a far superior method to arguing with you, so you should indeed expect it.”

Inhaling sharply, Abigail met his eyes in sudden, passionate defiance.

“Superior?” Without a second thought, she jerked her chin from his hand, raised a foot, and stomped it down hard on the top of his boot, then jabbed an elbow into his chest, hard.

He stepped back, caught off guard by her impetuous dismissal. Furious, she stuck her chin out and retorted in acidic tones, “It is time for you to stop these foolish threats, my lord Meriden. You are less of a man than I hoped if getting your own way all the time is so important that you must threaten me. And you are certainly less intelligent than I expected if you believe such bullying is likely to change my behaviour even one whit!”

Meriden recovered quickly, in time to pay close enough attention to her words to see them for the challenge she intended. Abigail watched the blood rise in his face, but then he paused and, oddly enough, smiled.

“You really do not know me very well at all,” he said, with a remarkable calmness that Abigail was sure ought to have worried her more than it did. “Indeed, I have to remind myself that it’s been less than a day. So perhaps you did feel safe in issuing such a silly ultimatum. But rest assured, it is about to backfire on you spectacularly.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Abigail said impatiently, crossing her arms in front of her.

“No apology is forthcoming?” he inquired coolly.

“No apology is warranted,” she objected forcefully.

Without a word, he leant forwards and picked her up. Two seconds passed until she deduced his intentions but, by the time she had begun struggling in earnest, he was already sitting on the green sofa. In short order, she found her skirts caught between the legs of his breeches, and her face downward on the sofa with one of his arms firmly on the centre of her back, holding her to the cushions.

Abigail struggled valiantly for a few moments, but it was quickly apparent to her that his physical strength and patience would win any immediate battle. She stilled and said bluntly, “You’ve made your point. You can overpower me and will do so if it amuses you.”

“You question my manhood and my intelligence in the space of ten seconds and no apology is warranted?” he asked, clearly sceptical. “I think you had best abandon any silly notions you have in your head about me or us, or how our marriage will or won’t work, Abigail. Because I told you—warned you—last night that I was not bluffing. Let me be clear once and for all, beyond any sense of misunderstanding.”

Without a moment of hesitation, he laid his free hand over Abigail’s rump. Even through her skirt, petticoat and long chemise, Abigail felt the heat of his skin and froze. She’d never had a man touch her there, and why would she have? The disbelief that entered her mind grew when he rubbed his hand back and forth over the stretched fabric and squeezed thoughtfully for a moment. Heat formed inside her stomach and between her thighs, the feeling she’d identified earlier as
want
. What did she want?

“I do not wish to suggest that you cannot argue with me, talk back to me even. I must say, I already find it immensely enjoyable to have someone with enough wit and nerve to engage my mind. But I will not accept blatant disregard for your own health and welfare, unwarranted insults about me or to me, or considered, deliberate attempts to avoid my company.” With that statement, he raised his palm and brought it down hard in the middle of her bottom, then repeated it when she gasped and began to struggle again. “Those are the behaviours of a wilful, misbehaving child, and will be treated as such.” He landed a few more smacks on her struggling rear and continued scolding her. “Such behaviour in the schoolroom would have undoubtedly earned you a thrashing from your governess. In her absence, I am happy to continue the tradition.”

Abigail groaned. Of course, he was right, and he hadn’t even mentioned her elbowing him and stomping on his foot. If she had done so to a nurse, governess, parent or even a sibling in her parents’ home—no matter her age—she’d have been whipped at the very least. Of course, she’d learnt the move from Fiona as a way to defend herself against impertinent and unwelcome advances, not to exact petty revenge against those who were merely being obstinate. Meriden was her betrothed, though. Worse still, he hadn’t even been touching her when she’d accosted him. If anyone had a right to be physically intimate with her, or to look after her own welfare in the absence of her family, it was he.