Wicked Wyckerly (16 page)

Barton!
The gall of the cockroach. The man hadn’t a ha’penny to his name beyond some rocky fields in the north. His family was nothing and no one. A mere baronet couldn’t possibly help Abby get her family back. Knowing the man, Fitz was sure he wouldn’t even try. Barton had tailor bills greater than any dowry Abby might have inherited.

If mild-mannered Barton was the man Pemberley’s daughter was drooling over, they belonged together. At least Barton wouldn’t terrify the child as Fitz obviously did.

Setting his mouth grimly, he danced his wistful miss to the end of the line, and broke in beside Abby and Barton. “There you are, m’dear,” he said cheerfully. “We’ve been trying to catch your attention all evening.”

Sacrificing whatever debts Barton would have torn up, delighting Miss Pemberley, who looked as if she would expire of pleasure, Fitz caught Abby in a whirl of music and carried her off, leaving the baronet stuck with the wealthy wallflower.

18

“Is exchanging partners proper in London?” Abigail asked, not at all comprehending how she had suddenly traded a polite baronet for a glowering earl. It was no wonder his partner had looked relieved to be traded if Danecroft had glared at the child as he glared at Abby now.

“It’s perfectly proper when you’re wasting time on penniless fools.” Now that he had what he wanted, the earl seemed oddly preoccupied. He glanced from her to the people around them as he led her through the remaining steps of the dance.

Why had he switched partners if he merely wanted to study the crowd? There for a little while she had foolishly thought she was succeeding at attracting noble suitors. She had hoped Danecroft had noticed, but she was coming to understand that he survived by scheming, so she must be part of some devious plan of his. It was unfair that he looked so handsome and artless while gulling others.

“I scarcely had time to judge Sir Barton as a fool,” she said tartly. “And only penniless suitors are likely to be interested in me.” Danecroft might be a toplofty earl, but he was the only person in this ballroom she had seen wallowing, half-dressed, in pig slop. Somehow, that made it easier to be herself with him.

“I cannot believe you’re relying on Hoyt to choose your partners.” His green eyes flashed as he finally focused on her. “He has about as much understanding of human nature as your rhubarb.”

Abby laughed at his ill humor. “That may be so, but Lord Quentin speaks well, and he knows everyone, so he might be a little more useful than rhubarb in this matter.”

“No, he isn’t. If I planted him in a field, he’d no doubt produce a crop of little Hoyts, but he wouldn’t produce a respectable suitor for you.”

The music ended, and he swung her to the edge of the dance floor. Ignoring Lady Belden bearing down on them, the earl hustled Abby toward a crowded anteroom where tables of delicacies awaited hungry guests. He ordered punch for both of them, and expertly guided her toward a corner hidden by a massive armoire, while still not looking at her. She might think she’d developed warts and a rash from the way he avoided her resplendent appearance. This was
not
how the Cinderella story was supposed to go.

“This is rude,” she objected. “I have promised the next dance to Mr. Atherton. Lady Belden will be exceedingly upset if I am disrespectful of our hostess’s son.”

“I know Nick. He’s no doubt with his latest conquest at the moment. His mother would have to find him first, grab his ear, and drag him onto the floor. I’m saving both of you from the humiliation of a scene. If Quent set you up with him, it only emphasizes my point. He doesn’t understand people.”

“And you do?” she asked politely, trying to fathom his sudden interest in her dance partners. Or why he observed the room while he talked with her.

“Exactly. Let me see your dance card.”

Out of curiosity, she offered it to him. Danecroft looked so serious and concerned that she suffered an inappropriate thrill at his interest. It was almost a relief to hand the card to someone she’d like to consider a friend.

“No, no, and no!” He shook his head in disbelief, and the recalcitrant strand of golden brown hair fell across his brow. “They’ve collected a fine set of family names, admittedly, but none of these fellows will suit. I can’t imagine one of them helping you win back your siblings.”

Their gloved hands touched as she tugged the card away from him, and she fought a shiver of desire. She
wanted
Danecroft to look at her. She wanted him to see her as Cinderella and not a plain farm girl. And that was utterly absurd, as he was making quite clear by scarcely noticing her existence. “I could make the return of the children part of the marriage settlement,” she said with what she hoped was confidence.

Finally, he glared down at her. She couldn’t tell if the flare of his nostrils was fire-breathing anger or male lust as he glimpsed the scandalous amount of flesh revealed by the cut of her gown, but she felt the brush of his gaze like hot coals. Before she could catch her breath, he jerked his attention back to her face.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he asserted firmly, not sounding like a man overcome with desire. “Once a man has your blunt, he can do anything he wants with it. You need a man who likes children and doesn’t need your money. Come along, let’s see what I can do.”

In amazement, Abby set aside her empty cup. She knew she couldn’t expect an earl to look upon her as marriage material. And maybe he had forgotten the burning thrill of their kiss, but she hadn’t. She was nearly breathless from just touching his coat sleeve as he led her across the room. She had to fight an urge to swat him.

She swallowed hard and tried to divert her thoughts by hoping Danecroft could find someone for her who was a bit like himself. She liked that the earl didn’t tower over her as Lord Quentin did. Danecroft was tall and broad-shouldered enough to make her feel feminine and sheltered, but not so large as to intimidate. And he seemed to have her interests in mind, which was more exciting than all the money and titles around her. If she must have a husband, she wanted one who could be her friend, she decided. She feared it might be difficult to form friendships with men who wanted only her inheritance. Danecroft was right about that.

“Ah, here is Longacre. His children are grown. In fact, the younger son has legal offices in the city. He even has property in Oxfordshire. You can talk rhubarb together.”

A man with children her age was a little daunting, but Abigail eagerly looked for this paragon who might be the answer to her problems.

Danecroft led her to a rotund older man who was happily munching on
foie gras
. Abby tried to swallow her disappointment. She hoped she wasn’t so shallow as to choose a husband by looks alone. And at least Mr. Longacre was no taller than the earl. But she had hoped . . . perhaps just a little more dashing? She was dismayed at the extent of her petty selfishness.

“Miss Merriweather, may I present Mr. Albert Longacre of Oxfordshire. He has only one daughter left to marry off, am I correct, sir? Longacre, this is Abigail Merriweather, Lady Belden’s protégée. The marquess remembered her in his will, so she has come to see town before returning to her estates out your way.”

“How’dye do, Miss Merriweather.” Longacre wiped his greasy hand on his handkerchief and, rather than pull on his glove again, used the linen to cover his palm as he bowed over her hand. “Most happy to meet you. Believe I knew your father. Sad, that he was taken so young.”

Mr. Longacre was old enough to
be
her father. Abigail didn’t know if she could do this. Uneasily, she clenched her hands in front of her, trying not to bunch up her gown in the process. “He mourned the loss of my stepmother. I like to think he is happy to be back with her.”

“Or with your mother, eh what? Wonder how that works, if a man has two wives precede him to heaven? Does he have to make a choice when he gets there?”

Abigail didn’t want to be a man’s second choice to find out. She liked that he wondered about such things but felt only relief when Longacre’s unmarried daughter arrived, eager to be introduced to an earl, and Danecroft made their excuses and dragged Abigail away.

“Didn’t know the old goat was so maudlin,” he muttered.

“But you were right that he would otherwise be a good choice,” she said, hiding her dismay. “He reminded me very much of my father, who, by the way, would infinitely prefer my stepmother to my mother if given a choice. My mother was a bit of a tartar. I believe he married her for the house.”

Fitz sent her a look of frustration, and she tingled inappropriately at all that heated concentration on her. Despite his glare, for the first time all evening, she felt relaxed enough to smile and have a good time.

Fitz thought his head might explode if he didn’t shake some sense into the prim little spinster who had turned his eyeballs inside out wearing a gown her mother would never have approved. He was having difficulty staying focused while his sweaty palms ruined his gloves. He had to look anywhere except at Miss Merriweather’s bosom, or he’d be dragging her off the dance floor in search of a bed, and she was not the sophisticated type of woman one bedded without consequence. He tried to remember her vicious hoe and ugly bonnets, but her image in the ball gown was branded into the back of his skull.

Her smile nearly brought him to his knees.

“If your mother was anything like you,” he said in a grim tone she didn’t deserve, “I can assure you that your father married her for more than a strawberry field. Do you have any idea of how ravishing you look in that gown?”

“Did you notice that Mr. Longacre was more interested in the food than my gown?” she retorted.

The necklace on her plump, white bosom shook when she was irritated, and Fitz ground his teeth in frustration while trying not to look. “That’s the whole point! Feed him rhubarb tarts, and he’ll do anything you ask.” Like avoid her bed, was his hope. A fat old man shouldn’t have any interest in ravishing his young bride.

Just the thought of
any
man taking Miss Abby to bed really was enough to make his overheated head explode like a cracked kettle. So an old man seemed the safest choice to prevent his head from shooting off his shoulders.

“And I’ll be back to raising four children alone again, after he eats himself into an early grave. I don’t mind being married for my money and my managing ways, but is it so difficult to believe that I might marry someone who would at least
like
to accompany me into old age?” Dropping Fitz’s arm, she picked up her skirt and started back to the ballroom. “You are no better than Lord Quentin, seeing only one part of the whole. At least his lordship’s choices appear to be young enough to stay around for a while. Do you propose to marry a woman twice your age just because she’s wealthy and her lands lie near yours?”

“I’ve given it some thought,” he said crossly, “but I need heirs.”

He caught up with her and slowed her down before she stormed into the ballroom with all flags flying and every male in the place went cross-eyed.

“And what if I want children of my own?” she countered. “I’ve always wanted a family. I think I would be a very good mother. Are there any barristers in here?”

“Barristers?” he asked in incredulity. “Dry old sticks won’t give you children.” Although now that she mentioned it, dry sticks wouldn’t be interested in her bed either. His head was definitely in the wrong place.

“Must a man be old to be a barrister? What are the qualifications?” she demanded.

Now she was the one who sounded cross. This was not going well. He could usually twist a woman around his little finger with a few well-placed suggestions. But he kept trying to be
honest
with this one.

Quentin stepped into their path. “A little quarrel?” he asked silkily. “Miss Merriweather, shall I escort you to your next partner?”

“Why don’t you match her up with Cox?” Fitz asked in exasperation. “All he wants is a wife to convince his family he doesn’t fly light. Or maybe Dobbs, who has four brats of his own and probably won’t notice four more.”

When Abigail looked interested at the mention of Dobbs, Fitz wanted to pull his hair. He glared at her. “He has no funds of his own, and his salary at the ministry isn’t sufficient to feed the four mouths he already has. Don’t saddle the poor man with more.”

Fortunately, she had the wisdom not to argue.

Quentin, on the other hand, looked smug, took the lady’s hand on his arm, and nodded toward the dance floor. “Fitz, you are scheduled to dance the waltz with Lady Mary Barron. She has a generous trust fund from her grandmother, as well as any marriage portion her father will bestow on her.”

“And she no doubt plans to donate it all to the church,” Fitz growled. He bowed to Miss Abby, who sent him a look of concern that he resented. “Enjoy yourself, Miss Merriweather, but do not consider one of those fellows on your dance card. They’re not worthy of you.” He stalked off.

Lady Mary looked like the queen for whom she’d been named. Her thin lips were drawn tight like a prune, her hair was scraped back from her face, and he swore, she had no eyebrows. She followed his shoes and counted her steps as he attempted to steer her through the dance. He inquired if she was enjoying the season, if she’d met anyone interesting, if she practiced needlework, and by the time the music ended, he was desperately asking if she had any younger sisters. The only reply he received to his inquiries was a tight smile and a nod or shrug.

Well, he’d wanted a quiet woman. He ought to hare off right now and find her father. He had a strong suspicion the lady’s family were closet Catholics willing to trade her dowry for his vote on the Irish question, but he didn’t much give a fig if they were Buddhists and wanted a temple as long as he had money in his pocket and could take Penelope out of London.

Maybe he could call on Lady Mary in the morning and see if she was a little more lively at that time of day. Or if her tight smile hid snaggled teeth. Or maybe it didn’t matter. She was female and presumably had all her working parts. Plus a dowry and a father wealthy enough to buy what he wanted.

He would have to spend a lifetime chained to a woman who probably prayed in bed. And by the time he spent all her dowry paying his debts, he wouldn’t be able to afford a mistress.

He noticed Miss Merriweather laughing with the normally taciturn Blake Montague, and his brain finally reached the boiling point. Blake would use her money to buy his way into the army and get himself killed, and Fitz would lose both his best friend and the woman he wanted for his own.

Which was how he knew his brain had finally exploded. He wanted Miss Merry for his wife, in his bed, chatting about strawberries, cuddling
his
children. Why should any other damned man in this room have her when she could be his countess?

He’d still be bankrupt, but if her dowry was large enough for him to hire an estate manager and replant a few fields, maybe he could scrape by with his gambling income. What were his creditors going to do, sue the residents of the family mausoleum and put their corpses in Newgate? The lawyers had assured him that since his name wasn’t on any of the debts, they couldn’t fling him in debtors’ prison, yet. If he didn’t do the honorable thing and pay up, he would never have credit anywhere, ever again, but since he’d never had any to begin with, that would hardly hurt.