The Outcast Earl (29 page)

Abby shook her head, then took a deep breath. “Maybe it’s a boy thing. After all, you had to learn about all this. Regardless, I’ve seen the portraits in the gallery. Your children will have black hair, the same as you and your father and all fifteen previous earls, or your cousin will say you’re not their father.”

“True,” he murmured. “Although there’s no doubt in my mind they will be my babies. I’m not planning on giving you nearly enough time or opportunity to find another man to let into your body.” The words were deceptively quiet, but Abby seemed to know that he was anything but casual about it. He’d been unable to prevent his body from tightening at the mere thought. “So what was that last thing Aunt Betsy had to say?”

“Mistresses.” Abby pursed her lips and Charles grinned inside. He was not the only one feeling a bit possessive, and he was happy to use her feelings on the subject to his advantage.

“What about them?” he asked, drawing her back against him.

“Mostly, to not let you spend a fortune on them after we’ve aged and I am no longer a young, attractive woman, and how they are barely a step up from brothel prostitutes. Also, if you ever have one of
those
vile creatures, I’m never to permit you to touch me again because they’re disease-ridden and you could pass it to me.”

Abby’s voice was dry and candid, and Charles laughed. “Never done it, and never will. I’ve seen the effects of syphilis, mine, and there’s no way in hell I’d risk it.”

“Mistresses can have it too,” she pointed out.

“True,” he admitted, then pursed his lips for a second. “This is a ridiculous conversation to have with you, because it’s irrelevant to our situation, but when a nobleman goes out and chooses a ladybird, he generally keeps her around long enough to make it worth the dent in his bank account. Only the young or stupid ones fuck around with whatever skirt takes their fancy. So for the sake of imparting full information to you, I have never had a lover with syphilis or any other illness, and I’ve never had any children with one. I know this because my father and grandfather educated me from an early age to be clever about it. The details are irrelevant and do not apply to you, except that I want you to trust me to take the best possible care of you. Bringing that baggage into our bed would be exceedingly disrespectful to you, not to mention dangerous.”

Abby nodded.

“As for the future,” Charles murmured, “I have no plans or intentions, for the foreseeable future, of looking elsewhere. For as long as you are in my bed, you will have my full attention. The only thing you need worry about is getting enough sleep at night.”

“Aunt Betsy said that would be what you would say. Until I am big and pregnant and uncomfortable and so on.” Abby bit her lip.

“Is that what this is about?” Charles asked, sliding his hands around Abby until they cupped her stomach. “When I mention the foreseeable future, Abby-heart, I mean for at least as long as you can conceive and carry my children, and probably longer. I can’t speak about your Uncle Arlington’s dick, but I will tell you that the mere thought of you swelling big with my baby inside you is enough to make me want to take you upstairs, tie you to the bed again, and send you through a series of orgasms at least as intense as that one last night.”

“If you tie me to the bed again, I can’t touch you in return,” Abby said, straightening and turning to face him.

Charles felt a surge of arousal roll through him at the thought of her hands, warm and silky as they’d been that morning, stroking down his bare skin. He bent down and tasted her mouth, her lips cool from the gazebo’s chill. “Let’s get you inside and have some warm tea, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Once your fingers are warmed up, you can touch me to your heart’s content.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Do,” he invited, taking her arm. Abby raised an eyebrow at him and smiled, a challenge that surprised him. What, exactly, was she planning? And did he even care? If her hands were on him, it would be good.

* * * *

Aunt Betsy had come down by the time they had returned to the house. She joined them for the late tea in the library. Abigail, sat beside Meriden, waited patiently, but even after the teacart had been removed, Betsy stayed. And stayed. Finally, even Meriden excused himself and wandered down the room to his desk, and Betsy gave Abigail a tiny glare.

Realising belatedly that her aunt wished to speak with him privately, Abigail sighed. She asked Betsy about Jenna, then excused herself, closing the door as she left. How long the two would be closeted together, Abigail didn’t know.

With a sigh, she retreated to the boudoir. Given their discussion in the gazebo, she was unsurprised to find that the replacement Meriden had ordered for the room’s original bed was a voluptuously wide daybed, with a back cushioned in crushed gold velvet. It would be a fabulous place to nap and read, but he couldn’t have been clearer. He didn’t expect her to sleep there. The boudoir itself was still fairly impersonal, with its seating area of chaise and chair near the hearth, the daybed beneath the window, sturdy escritoire, bookcase, and long sets of mirrors. It was generously sized, and meant to be her space.

The next room, however, was clearly where Meriden’s thoughtfulness—or his experience with passion—had taken hold. Besides the piped-in water and the excessively large tub positioned over a lovely mosaic of ceramic tiles in one corner of the room, tall wardrobe cabinets lined the walls, providing more than enough storage for even the most expansive wardrobe. There was a large dressing table with a three-sided mirror and padded bench, and a comfortable chair and footrest. Looking around, Annie’s expectations were also clear. She’d brought Abigail’s brushes in and arranged them neatly, along with her jewel case, crystal flasks of soap and lotion and perfumes.

Annie had even conspicuously left out a pair of scissors on the dressing table.

Abigail still blushed to think of it. Annie’s eyes had widened dramatically and she’d rushed to bring forward a gown from the closet. Abigail hadn’t explained the loops around her wrists, but Annie had clucked and shaken her head, muttering at the master’s impertinence.

Was she silly for not jumping forward with both feet, or was Abigail wise to look carefully before she leapt into an emotional abyss she had not expected?

At one time, Abigail knew she would have said it was wise to look first, but now she wasn’t so certain. Even if she looked, there was no honourable way to escape her fate, and Meriden refused to accept that she do anything less than accept the sort of passionate, intimate marriage he intended them to have. It would not be a marriage of simple convenience, and Abigail knew her heart and mind would be hopelessly attached, and soon—if they weren’t already. She had no desire to return to her parents’ oversight. In particular, her mother’s betrayal had decidedly forfeited any future interference. There would be no way to hide her anger or its cause from Fiona.

The only reasonable outcome, and Abigail was by no means confident in its possibility, was to ensure Meriden was as heartstruck with her as she was with him.

Abigail had always been told—and believed—that noblemen didn’t want their wives hanging on their sleeves. Her father certainly had no desire to take her mother with him on short business trips, or to escort her to wedding parties he could avoid. They barely spoke except on absolutely urgent business, and she couldn’t imagine her father alone in a gazebo with her mother, talking about the colour of a baby’s hair or the nature of a man’s indiscretions.

She wondered idly how they expected to rub along in the country once Genevieve was married, then shrugged as she returned to the boudoir. One thing was for certain—no matter how alone she felt, she would not have them staying at Meriden House for any length of time, disrupting what she saw as an almost idyllic space.

Sighing, Abigail settled on the daybed, fingering the book she’d left under one of the pillows earlier. The daybed was comfortable. She grinned. And she had an hour before Annie would come to help her dress for dinner. It was time to improve her education.

Charles Wessex—the grumbling, badly behaved earl society believed more likely to cut a royal duchess than bow to her—had promised Abigail she could touch him. It was her chance to give him the mind-numbing pleasure she’d been experiencing, and she had no intention of allowing him to break that promise.

* * * *

Her hands were practically itching by the time Betsy had finished with her tea, three and a half hours later.

With only the three of them for dinner, Abigail had felt perfectly comfortable wearing another gown of daring décolletage. This time, by mutual accord, Meriden had clung to her side. She’d smiled at him reassuringly when he’d growled in her ear that he’d never let her leave the house in such attire. “Am I trying to?” she’d even teased, holding out her hands in helpless fashion.

He’d stared straight at her breasts, despite Aunt Betsy’s cackle from across the room. Now, he kept her anchored firmly beside him as Grady came in to remove the teacart. Betsy asked the man to send up Mary, and Grady abandoned the cart to escort her up the stairs himself. Abigail watched carefully, despite her awareness of the man beside her. Betsy was improving day by day.

“She wanted to leave on Wednesday morning,” Meriden offered, “and in that pathetic deathtrap of your father’s. I refused, naturally. To keep her from taking it into her head and ordering it up at dawn on Wednesday while we were still abed, I sent it back to London with one of my couriers just before dinner. Her coachman is fully capable on the box, so I’ll be sending the lady and your maid up to Northumberland in my own coach with my driver to spell and drive the carriage back. If needed, I’ll send him back up in December to drive her to London.”

He rose and helped her from the settee, wrapping her arm through his. “You won’t have to,” Abigail assured him. “As soon as Libby’s husband—that would be Lord Anthony Morewell, third son of His Grace of Weymouth—finds out about this mess, he’ll have a tantrum that rivals one of yours. And then he’ll send her down in his own coach or call on his father for a conveyance.” She paused and smiled at Meriden’s indignant look. “Although you might want to send a letter up with your coachman to explain things to Lord Anthony directly… Betsy isn’t likely to expound to his satisfaction. Libby says he’s relentless in getting the details, and he’s not going to be happy about this, as it worried Libby. I don’t want him blaming you for the accident. Let my father deal with the angry nephew.”

“Understandable,” Meriden agreed, watching as Grady and Aunt Betsy reached the top stair. “I convinced her that she’d need to rest on Wednesday after a full day of activity, but she insists she’s leaving Thursday, early. Two full days should get them there.”

They waited in the hall by unspoken mutual accord, listening as Betsy’s door closed firmly and just a little too loudly. “My mother would be horrified.” Abigail smiled. “As a chaperone, Aunt Betsy is more like a devil on my shoulder rather than a Spanish
duenna
.”

“A reality for which I am extraordinarily thankful, trust me,” Meriden returned in a low tone. “While absconding with a young woman from her guardian
duenna
is within my capabilities, the bandit role strikes me as more criminal than romantic. I much prefer the white knight rescuing a damsel in distress or the conquering warrior carrying off his spoils of war.”

Abigail shivered and turned to the stairs. Grady would return by the service stairwell. There was no reason they couldn’t go up. Meriden must have agreed because he climbed beside her, oddly companionable. It felt, she realised, very comfortable, even if he was constantly looking down at her breasts, barely tucked into the silk wrapped over them.

“I don’t,” she said firmly, “want this gown ruined.”

“Annie will be waiting in your rooms,” he murmured. “You can remove it there, and then join me in our chamber.”

Abigail sighed, but nodded. There was, she felt, a certain awareness between them. Unlike the previous night, it didn’t feel as though an explosion was building. Instead, it was more of an intention—an expectation. Meriden, she realised, was providing her with the intimate companionship she’d spent the afternoon mourning, and establishing something oddly like a bedtime routine. Did he know what he was doing, or was it a natural extension of his protective, watchful relationship with her?

It didn’t matter, really. The important point she needed to remember was that Charles was doing it because he cared, not as a means to his own end.

Abigail didn’t hurry through her night-time routine, but neither did she dally. Annie brushed Abigail’s hair thoroughly, but didn’t comment when Abigail said to leave out the braid. Instead, a wide ribbon pulled the hair back from her face, with the satin bow knotted on the top of her head.

Annie promised to be waiting the next morning—they would all be heading to the church—then left Abigail in the dressing room.

Stepping across the room, Abigail opened one of the wardrobe doors and studied the contents, finally drawing out a garment from her trousseau. She’d not expected to wear such things until summer, and even then expected to wear them over equally silky nightdresses, but Meriden’s expectations had been an education, however mockingly she said the word to herself.

Besides, she mused wryly, by the time summer arrived she was likely to be swelling with child, and the garment wouldn’t fit.

She slipped the silky peach over her shoulders, pleased that it perfectly matched the ribbon in her hair. It was, she thought, one of the finest things she owned. If donned over the matching negligee and if the tiny hooks down the front were fastened properly, it was perfectly acceptable for wearing in front of footmen, watermen, butlers and the like. She rather thought Meriden would prefer it as she wore it now, however. Without the negligee, and hanging open down the front to her feet, it was undeniably breathtaking.

Lace adorned the last two inches of the fitted sleeves. It was tailored to her waist, curving out over her hips and falling with elegant luxury over her legs and calves to the floor. On the back, she knew, the corset was edged with a lacy stripe that ended near her bottom and spread out a gleaming train of silk to the floor behind her.