The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) (18 page)

Ignoring the pain in her head, only part of it caused by the blow and the remainder of it to be laid solely at her husband's feet, she dressed in one of her new gowns. In deference to the cut behind her ear, braided her hair and tied it with a simple ribbon. The idea of coiling the mass up and prodding her aching head with a dozen hairpins was unwelcome at best.

As she entered the dining room, Michael and Lord Wolverston both rose. Lord Wolverston smiled at her warmly while Michael just leveled her with a cool and assessing stare. His raised eyebrow sparked her ire anew. 

“Lady Ellersleigh, you look charming as always.”

Accepting Lord Wolverston’s compliment with a gracious nod, Abbi thanked him. Turning to Michael, she offered a cool hello. “Good evening, my lord.”

Michael smiled back at her, though his expression was hardly warm. His eyes traveled over the thick braid of her hair, down to the ribbon fastening it that rested just beneath her breasts. Even angry at him, that look brought a blush to her cheeks.

“Good evening, my lady wife,” he said, and his tone was civil, at least. “I assume you have sufficiently recovered from your unfortunate accident this afternoon?”

At his cool tone and remarkable understatement of the events, Abbi offered an icy smile. “Quite recovered, my lord. Hale and hearty as ever,” she shot back. He might leave her breathless, even witless at moments, but she wouldn’t cow to him and his high-handed ways.

Taking her seat at the table, she accepted the wine gratefully and did her utmost to ignore the tension in the room, especially as she and Michael were the root of most of it. As the meal progressed, she noted there was a fair amount of tension between Michael and Spencer. It seemed to ebb and flow between them. At times, they were fast friends but at others, there was an enmity between them that left her puzzled.

For his part, Lord Wolverston’s attempts to keep the evening civil were not well met. Every pleasant word from him elicited an opposing response from Michael. The acid from Michael only seemed to spur Lord Wolverston on. For every cutting reply or monosyllabic response, Lord Wolverston would become more charming and delightful.

In all, the meal was interminable. Tense, fraught with angry undercurrents and general misery, Abbi found herself wishing that it would just end. Her head ached, and she could sense that if it didn't end soon, the men would come to blows.

Mrs. Wolcot served the bread pudding she’d made for dessert. It was certainly only a token for Lord Wolverston’s benefit as she had yet to warm to Michael at all. Abbi pleaded a headache and made her escape. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I’ll retire for the evening.”

Michael rose, and the tension between them faded in the face of genuine concern. “You should be resting in bed... After such a blow to the head, coming down for dinner was too much for you.”

“I'm hardly such a delicate flower, Michael,” she replied, forgetting for just a moment how angry she still was with him. “I'm simply fatigued.”

“You're certain?” he demanded, even as he reached toward her and tilted her head toward the light. “Any nausea? Impaired vision?”

Pushing his hand away firmly, Abbi spoke resolutely. “Good night, my lord. Good night, Lord Wolverston.”

Watching her go, Michael frowned, his lips firming into a hard line. He was still concerned about her injury, but there was something else that was weighing just as heavily on his mind. “Spencer, please refrain from flirting with my wife.”

Spencer smiled beatifically. “Was I? How very interesting… I was under the impression that we were having civil discourse over dinner.”

Michael turned toward him then, raising an eyebrow. “You never engage in civil discourse with anyone, Spencer. It’s practically a declaration of your affections… Admittedly my experience of wives has been limited to those belonging to others, but I find myself less than inclined to turn a blind eye to someone attempting to seduce my own right before my eyes.”

Spencer’s smile broadened and he leaned back in his chair, grinning as he sipped his wine. “Do you know that I haven’t seen you jealous of a woman since… Well, since Melisande. You haven’t cared enough for any female to be possessive of one since we were boys. I find that fascinating.”

It infuriated Michael, primarily because he knew it was true. “I don’t give a bloody damn what you find it.”

Spencer nodded, still smiling as he leaned back in his chair with a look of supreme satisfaction. “Perhaps some assurances, then? I have no designs on your wife, my friend. In truth, I feel that she would be less than welcoming of any advances as she can hardly take her eyes off you… This is quite unlike you, Michael.”

Michael sank down into his chair. With his elbow propped on the table, he rested his head in his hand and with his other hand, pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache of his own. When it failed to provide noticeable improvement, he resorted to alcohol instead.Draining his wine in one gulp, he then stared dismally into his empty glass. “She’s maddening. Willful. Stubborn. Reckless. It's as if she has no idea of the danger she's in.”

Spencer's reply wasn't flippant or superior. For just a moment, the years of animosity between them faded to nothing and they were once again boyhood friends. “And you’re terrified you’ll fail her as you believe you failed Melisande?”

That comment had Michael’s head coming up, ready to do battle. Just as quickly, he relented. Spencer wasn’t assigning blame. Melisande’s death was perhaps the one thing that Spencer didn’t blame him for. “Must we revisit ancient history?”

Spencer shrugged. “Not so ancient. It appears to be very present with you… daily. More so than I had realized. No one blamed you but you. No one was to blame for that tragedy except Alistair and Lady Eleanor. They have both paid dearly now—isn’t it time you stopped?”

Uncomfortable with the topic of conversation and with his own rising emotions, Michael settled back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why the sudden concern for my conscience, Spencer? I’m stunned you’ll admit I have one.”

Spencer didn't take the bait. Rather than revert to form and keep their bickering alive, he said the most unexpected of things. “I've many things to ask your forgiveness for. I allowed myself to believe the worst of you when I should have known better, and for that I am sorry.”

Michael reached for the bottle of wine, and finding it empty, placed it back on the table with a soft thud. “Contrition doesn't suit you.”

Spencer shrugged, “I'm beginning to care less and less about what others think would suit me. I’m willing to admit that I’ve been a judgmental ass, and for that… Can’t you be willing to accept that you did little to dissuade me from believing the rumors of your profligate reputation?”

It was true enough. Once Spencer had decided that he was dissolute rake, Michael hadn’t bothered to correct his views. He’d made it a point of honor to needle his friend and even exaggerate his exploits. “Fine. That still doesn’t explain your present concern.... The state of my relationship with Abbigail is none of your affair.”

Spencer leaned forward, steepling his hands beneath his chin. “You have a chance at happiness with her, Michael. Much the way Rhys is now happy with Emme… And I am envious. Not of your lovely wife, for she is completely yours, whether you realize it or not, but of that happiness. Envious as I am, I do not begrudge it, and would do all that I can to help you hold onto it.”

“And what of Larissa? Do you mean to pursue your happiness with her?”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Michael rose from the table, retrieved a bottle of brandy from the sideboard and poured liberal amounts into two glasses. As he passed one to Spencer, he met his friend’s gaze. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I know just how capable you are of always playing the gentleman. I might not have put it together without Abbigail's insight, but I've noticed it before... the way you look at her.”

Spencer rose, draining the glass, and pointedly not addressing the statement. “I should seek my bed. And if you are a wise man, you will seek yours and your wife’s favor.”

Watching Spencer walk from the room, Michael quickly finished the remainder of his drink. The issue of Larissa was hardly finished. The lovely redhead was still fragile and finding her footing in the world, but when she did, Spencer was in for trouble of the kind only a willful woman could bring about in a man’s life. As for seeking his bed and his wife’s favor, it was good advice and he would follow it.

Climbing the stairs, he moved toward the master chamber at the end of the hall and the welcoming light visible beneath the door. At least she wouldn’t be feigning sleep.

Entering the chamber, he saw that she was in bed, wearing both her night rail and a thick wrapper in deference to the chill. She held a book in her hands, and as he walked in, she glared at him atop it.

“You behaved like a wretched, spoiled boy tonight,” she accused.

“True enough,” he admitted as he began removing his neckcloth. “I find that I am less than pleased to see you hanging on my friend’s every word. I believe the appropriate term for what I am experiencing is called jealousy… As I have not experienced that emotion since I was, in fact, a wretched and spoiled boy, it’s a fair assessment.”

Clearly disarmed by his admission, she closed her book, resting it on her lap. Her brows furrowed as she frowned at him. “I simply cannot make sense of you.”

He smiled, removing his jacket and then his boots. Clad only in his breeches and shirt, he moved toward the bed and his wife. “That is a fate we share, Abbigail. I struggle to make sense of you on a daily basis… and fail.”

Her shoulders went back, her chin coming up in warning. She was spoiling for a fight. “I cannot see why. I am perfectly logical.”

That was a debate he wasn’t about to be drawn into again. Taking the book from her, he placed it on the small stand beside the bed. “Can we not save our arguments for daylight hours?”

Her eyebrows raised in suspicion, she asked, “And what would you reserve our night time hours for, my lord?”

Michael leaned forward, pressing his lips against the satiny skin of her neck, just above the pulse that beat there. It quickened beneath the heat of his mouth and regardless of her ire, he knew she was not unaffected. “For efforts that will leave us too exhausted to pursue our daylight arguments.”

A sigh escaped Abbi’s parted lips as she leaned back against the pillows. “You could charm the devil.”

“The devil doesn’t need charming, just you… And the rewards,” he said, parting the laces of her night rail until his fingertips grazed her bare skin, “Are much sweeter.”

Abbi’s eyes closed, her back arching as she moved into his touch. Michael smiled, leaning forward to press his mouth to the skin he’d just bared. Pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along her rib cage, over the swells of her breasts. Tempting as her pert nipples were, he was in no hurry.

Perhaps jealousy was his motivation. He could admit, at least to himself that it probably was. But he wanted her weak, breathless, pleading, and shuddering beneath him. He wanted her undone by passion, and he wanted to be the one who wrought her downfall.

Slow, languorous strokes of his fingers over her skin; each one dipping lower, parting the fabric of her clothing further; elicited soft sounds of pleasure. Her hands moved up, clutching at his shoulders through the linen of his shirt. As his hands moved over the soft mound of her belly, drifting toward the dark thatch of curls nestled at the apex of her thighs, she parted her legs, eagerly welcoming him.

Rather than slip his hand between her parted thighs and partake of the warmth she offered, he instead stroked the tensed muscles of her legs. Moving past her knees, he altered the pressure slightly, dragging his hands back up to her hips, his fingers pressing deeply into her flesh.

Abbi groaned. “Michael, why are you tormenting me this way?”

He kissed her then, his lips moving over hers firmly, tracing her lips with his teeth and tongue. When their lips parted, he smiled down at her. “Not torment, my dear wife, there is a method to the madness… the longer I delay your pleasure, the greater it will be for us both.”

~*~*~

Abbi’s skin burned where he touched her. Each stroke of his skilled fingers upon her flesh only fanned the flames. Impatient to feel him against her, inside her, she tugged at the fine linen of his shirt, her hands delving inside, moving over warm skin and firm muscle. As his fingers burned a tender path along her inner thighs, her nails scored his shoulders, tugging him closer, demanding more.

He was frustrating, infuriating, maddening and in all those things, still she burned for him. With only the slightest touch or a single, knowing glance, he could set her body ablaze.

Moisture gathered between her thighs, her body aching for the release that he could offer. Still, he didn’t touch her as she longed for him to. He teased, his hands dancing over her skin, but stopping just short of the places where she ached the most.

“Michael, if you don’t—.”

She didn’t finish the statement. His hands bracketed her wrists, pinning them to the bed, and he was atop her, his weight pressing down, the hardness of his body imprinting upon her. Her breath seized in her lungs as she stared up into his midnight eyes. There was no hint of playfulness, only heat.