Wicked Wyckerly (29 page)

She supposed she shouldn’t be ordering aristocrats about, but she didn’t have time to consider niceties. If tomorrow was to be her wedding day, she would have rhubarb tarts prepared for her new husband. The kitchen garden had a lovely neglected clump of rhubarb.

A childish war whoop rang out from the direction of the balcony over the portico. Remembering what she’d last seen the children doing, Abby threw up her hands, turned around, and raced back toward the front door. “Mr. Atherton, Mr. Montague, wait!”

Too late, she winced as a fall of dirty water sprayed from above onto the front steps that Fitz’s friends were just crossing.

“They’re helping the maids scrub the floors,” she murmured apologetically as they shook dirty water from their hats and glared at the sound of small voices crying,
“Oops, sorry!”
from above.

At least the bulk of the water had drenched only the stairs, which sorely needed cleaning anyway.

“Now I remember why we would not suit, Miss Merriweather,” Mr. Atherton said mournfully. “Fitz seems to have an affinity for small creatures, and I do not.”

She bit back a laugh. That they were not angry proved Fitz’s good judgment in choosing his friends. “But you are still welcome as guests whenever you wish to come this way,” she assured them. “I hope we will have a governess in place by then.”

“I know a general I could recommend,” Montague said, keeping a wary eye above. “I’ll send a few spare soldiers as well.”

“We will return shortly, Miss Merriweather.” Tipping his hat, Atherton took the stairs two at a time.

Oh dear, half London would be here shortly. How long would they need to be housed? Would it be possible to marry quickly?

Holding her blushing cheeks, Abby raced back inside to warn Cook that hungry hordes would be upon them shortly.

32

He should have given Abby more warning, Fitz knew. He had already ascertained that she didn’t like surprises. She liked to mull things over before she made decisions. And he’d pushed her. He knew he’d pushed her. And now he was springing a dozen guests on her.

He feared he would find her with bags packed, waiting on the doorstep, when he rode up.

Even
he
suffered some trepidation at hosting a wedding party on such short notice. He’d hared off to London like his usual footloose self without verifying all the guest chambers still had beds. And the village inn was very small.

“My sisters like Miss Merriweather, and they just want to help, Fitz,” Quent assured him, riding beside him as the carriages rolled slowly up the hill. “And maybe they’re a little curious about how an earl lives, but they won’t gossip.”

Remembering the long line of debt collectors and the mouse-eaten upholstery, Fitz shook his head. “They will be much disappointed.”

“They’re young and bored. Nothing disappoints them except their suitors. We grew up poor and know how to fend for ourselves. Set them to cleaning, and they will be quite entertained. It’s Lady Belden you should worry about. She is glaring daggers at us. I don’t think she intends to surrender without a fight.”

Lady Belden had brought her solicitor, not a good sign. Greyson, the children’s executor, had brought his partner, Sir Hunter, a barrister—an even worse sign. When they were combined with his own men—there were as many lawyers as guests.

Still, Fitz grinned. “Lady Bell isn’t a problem. I’ll tell the children she’s their new grandmother and will set them on her as soon as she walks through the door.”

Quent barked with laughter, startling all in the parade into staring. He was still chortling when they turned their mounts up the drive to the house.

To Fitz’s utter and absolute amazement, a row of orderly staff garbed in stiff black and white awaited him on the steps. At the top of the stairs, the children were clothed in . . . he narrowed his eyes and tried to figure out what they could possibly be wearing, since he’d not yet succeeded in retrieving their belongings from their irate guardians. Whatever they wore, they were neat as pins, and the nanny stood behind them, assuring that they stayed so, even though they bounced with excitement. He thought the nanny held Penelope back by the bow on her dress.

He was feeling more chipper by the minute. He scanned the small assemblage for his Abby.

And couldn’t find her.

She couldn’t have gone far, but irrational panic filled his chest.
What if she’s changed her mind?

Abby paced the bedchamber Fitz had shown to her four mornings ago, the one meant for his countess that she’d slept in since his departure. He’d had her wardrobe sent down, so she had lots of lovely gowns from which to choose. She was wearing a pale green frock she didn’t think he’d seen yet. The crisp silk rustled around her feet as she paced.

She wasn’t his countess. She couldn’t go down and pretend to welcome a wedding party as if she were the hostess here. Neither could she go down and stand in line as if she were a housekeeper or a servant.

She was a guest. She’d sent the children down because they wouldn’t have stayed upstairs, but she simply could not go. It wasn’t right. She didn’t know if it would ever be right. She had no notion how to go on.

She opened the bedchamber door and tried to force her feet to march down the hall. She wanted to greet Fitz. She didn’t want to greet his guests. She’d rather hide in a wardrobe.

Heavy boots pounded up the stairs.

Was he angry? She wasn’t used to men being angry with her. She wasn’t used to men paying a whit of attention to her.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he looked as terrified as she felt. She’d never seen her dashing Fitz look so rattled. He was usually cheerful and smiling, even when he was preparing to beat someone to a pulp. She held her hand to the base of her throat and stared at him.

He didn’t pause. He raced down the hallway, grabbed her by the waist, and swept her into her chamber, slamming the door behind him.

“Don’t change your mind now, Abby,” he said urgently. “Please don’t say you’ve changed your mind now. I know I’ve pushed you. I’ve been a despicable scoundrel. But I
know
this is best.”

She couldn’t reply for the kisses he was pelting across her face, leaving her as breathless as his words. She couldn’t
think
when he pressed her like this. Her mouth eagerly sought his, and everything she had ever thought she knew flew right out of her head.

She threw her hands around his neck, and he eagerly sought her mouth, and she remembered very distinctly why she had agreed to this insane marriage that would never ever work. It evidently had nothing to do with good sense and everything to do with lust and friendship and her utter adoration of this man who had come to her rescue. And a modicum of convenience.

“We have guests,” he finally gasped, coming up for air a few minutes later. “I’m crushing your gown. I’m sorry. Why weren’t you downstairs?”

He didn’t release her but let her feet touch the ground again. Abby leaned her head against his shoulder and listened to his heart beat as loudly as hers.

“Because I can’t
do
this. I don’t know how to be a countess,” she pleaded, hating herself even as she said it, but the words came straight from her heart. She had to make him fully understand how unsuitable marriage to her would be, before his reckless impulses drove him to something he might regret later. “Lady Anne or Lady Mary would shower you in riches, pave your way through the Lords, and their families will be more useful than my horde of hellions. I should never, ever have allowed you to take this step.”

He grasped her upper arms so tightly she feared he would leave bruises. His narrow-eyed glare was almost frightening, except that she knew it came from his own fear.

“For once in my life, I would like to have what
I
want. I don’t want Lady Mary or Anne. I don’t want their damned families. I don’t even want the Lords. I want you. I want Penny to have you. I want this house to have you. I want your common sense. And I want this.” He kissed her again.

How could she argue with a declaration like that? Her knees were already weak from the fierceness of his kiss. She couldn’t have said no even had she wanted. And she was too mindless to want anything except Fitz and his wild proclamations of desire.

The sound of voices carried up the stairs. The carriages were unloading.

He set her back half an inch but didn’t release his grip. “Marry me, Abby. I have the license and the vicar and I’ve even brought guests for our wedding dinner.”

“Wedding
dinner
?” she said faintly, overwhelmed now that the moment had arrived.

“A special license dispenses with the need to wait until morning for the service,” he said with a touch of wariness. “We can wait, if you wish, but I thought you might prefer that our guests take their leave as quickly as possible.”

“Oh, yes, of course. And they will wish to leave quickly,” she said with a little more certainty now that she faced practical matters and could think about breathing again. “Only a few rooms have been aired, there are mice in the walls, and although we’ve done the best we could, the larder is not stocked well enough for more than a meal or two.”

Fitz hugged her. “Does this mean you will marry me tonight?”

As if she could answer otherwise while he held her like this. Folding her fingers into his coat, Abby nodded. “I am terrified,” she whispered.

“So am I,” he murmured into her hair. “I fear I will be a terrible husband and an even worse earl. But if I have you by my side, I know I’ll be doing the best I can. Will you come downstairs now and pretend this is your pretty house and that we entertain only the village?”

She gulped and nodded. “Is Lady Belden very angry?”

“She would gladly lop off my head, but only because she is concerned about you. You must assure her that you have exactly what you want.” He tilted her head up so he could study her carefully. “Marrying me is what you want, isn’t it?”

She nodded and even managed a smile. “Yes, please.”

“Then you will explain to me how you found Mrs. Worth and all the maids and made them look as if they actually belong here,” he demanded, taking her hand and placing it on his arm to lead her downstairs to their guests.

“That’s a long story. I will explain later, although you will see once you have time to study the household ledgers.” Talking about things she understood and could control, Abby happily followed Fitz to the guests filling the rotunda below.

“I should spend a few days with my accounts instead of riding back to London, should I?” he asked with a suspicious eagerness.

She cast him a narrowed glance, but he was smiling seductively, and her insides quivered. He was actually thinking of beds, not accounts. And now she would not be able to stop thinking of beds either.

“Yes, perhaps you might,” she said faintly, before the children came galloping up the stairs to grab their hands and tug them down to see all the lovely gifts their guests had brought.

Abby blushed mightily as they descended the stairs and every head turned to stare, but Fitz gripped her hand so warmly that she could scarcely think of anything else. And the children were so happy that she let the moment carry her forward.

Tonight, she would be a married woman.

A
countess.
She tried not to faint at the thought.

33

Bless his bride’s defiant heart, Fitz thought. Instead of a formal salon, Abby had chosen the garden terrace off the glass-walled gallery for their nuptials. Flowers had apparently been dug up from all around town to adorn pots on the low stone walls outside. A few rusting lawn benches had been scrubbed and provided with cushions for the ladies in the audience. The men could pace and smoke and lean against the walls and murmur among themselves if they chose.

And the children could run rampant through the newly threshed weed field, darting in and out among the evening shadows of the hedges as they chased one another about.

Even the few straggling creditors determined to catch Fitz at home had a place to lurk near the distant corner of his office. And his
servants
lingered inside the gallery, hovering over the banquet table while remaining part of the audience.

Fitz had a hard time grasping that he actually had servants, much less a threshed field and a table with food on it. Abby had created miracles in his absence. He was eager to hear her version of how this had all come about, but he was more eager to see her walk through the French doors and into his arms.

He should have warned her that all was not well with the children’s executor. And that Lady Bell was having second thoughts about handing over the inheritance. And that Montague had not found the stone-throwing scoundrel at Tattersall’s. They were building a future on quicksand.

After all they’d done, he could see no other choice but to go forward with the wedding and gamble on his abilities to tilt the odds in their favor. He didn’t wish to ruin Abby’s pleasure in this moment with worries. She was frightened enough as it was.

Waiting for his bride, Fitz nervously smoothed his neckcloth, then forced his idle hands behind his back while his once numb heart raced in anticipation. This would work. It had to. He was gambling his life on it.

Lady Belden and Quent’s youngest sisters had arranged a gown for Abby, Fitz knew. He’d even gone into personal debt to have one of his old coats refurbished for the event. He’d chosen a black frock coat to match his pantaloons, à la the Beau’s recommendation, but his waistcoat was silver, with pearl buttons he hoped Abby would unfasten shortly.

He hoped she would appreciate the meager wedding gift he’d left in the chamber they would share in a few hours. He’d not had a lot of time to learn his bride’s preferences, and he didn’t have a great deal of money for jewelry, so he’d done what he could to please her. He wanted his beautiful Abby happy on their wedding night.

He had only to think of the night ahead for his unruly cock to grow thick and press against the tight placket of his pantaloons. His guests might as well not exist. A blithe June breeze ruffled the ladies’ hats and scarves, and the men were jostling one another and joking, but his shoulders tight with tension, Fitz couldn’t drag his gaze from the doors.

Even the children grew quiet when Quent escorted Abby onto the terrace. The skirt of her gown was a lovely sky blue silk to match her eyes. She wore matching ribbons instead of a cap to set off her sunset hair. A narrow azure bodice concealed the pearly flesh of her bosom. Fitz had to clench his molars to keep his tongue from hanging out at the voluptuous vision drifting across the terrace, her worried gaze fixed only on him. She was
his
now
¸
and he almost popped his buttons in pride.

Abby drew closer, and all sensible thought departed his head. He could see straight through the translucent material barely concealing the upper curve of her breasts. Lady Belden was probably laughing up her sleeve as she watched him slaver lasciviously over his own damned bride.

The gown had almost no sleeves, and Abby wore only short gloves, leaving her firm, rounded arms and much of her shoulders bare. She might as well be wearing her shift. He wasn’t going to survive through dinner without making an embarrassment of himself.

She hesitated, and Fitz banished his unruly parts to hell while he bent over her hand and planted a reassuring kiss on her fingers, dissolving her uncertainty. Curling his gloved palm proudly around hers, and holding tight, he drew her forward to face the waiting vicar.

She gripped his hand as the vicar began the ceremony. She had every right to be terrified. She was giving up everything for him. That she trusted a scoundrel like him humbled him to his very toes. He meant to take very, very good care of her.

That’s what he promised to himself as he repeated the vows that would bind them as a couple into eternity.

In a daze, Abby watched Fitz unfasten the buttons of her glove so he could peel it off to place his ring on her finger. His head bent close, and his broad hand held hers gently. His caress and his proximity reminded her of the night to come . . . tingling all her nerves.

Self-consciously, she forced herself to think of the lovely ring he’d produced from his pocket rather than the mysteries of the bedchamber. How could he afford a ring? Perhaps it was part of the entailed estate.

As long as she thought of practical matters, she wouldn’t expire of nervousness in front of their audience. She wished she had family here, but her father had been an only son, and her mother’s few relations had always been distant. The children banging their heels against the wall were her family. She would do anything for them, and although they weren’t old enough to do the same for her, Fitz would. She knew that with all her heart and soul.

He gazed deeply into her eyes as he slid his ring on her finger, leaving her breathless with desire . . . and love. She loved him so dearly, she did not even need to hear him declare the same. She had never believed she could feel like this, and she wanted to weep with joy that she had found a man to treasure.

She blinked back tears and smiled brilliantly when her new husband bent to kiss her. The vicar’s blessings flew right over her head. She hadn’t heard a word that was said.

Lady Sally began playing the out-of-tune pianoforte in the gallery as they turned as a married couple to greet their guests. Lady Belden bent to kiss her cheek and murmur congratulations. Released from the nanny’s hold, the twins raced to grab Abby’s legs.

Fitz laughed and bent over to pick up Cissy.

He’d just begun to straighten when an arrow flew past his shoulders. It bounced off the glass gallery windows with a loud crack.

Lady Belden screamed. Terrified, Abby dived to pull the children to the ground, heedless of her beautiful wedding gown. Montague vaulted over the terrace wall and melted into the shrubbery in pursuit of the villain.

With a grim expression around his eyes, Fitz merely picked up the arrow, detached the note, and read it.

With a gesture of disdain, he shoved the paper into his pocket before helping Abby up again. “A love note from an admirer,” he shouted cheerfully to their audience. “The ladies will sorely miss me now that I’m off the market.”

Lady Belden smacked him on the back of his head with her parasol and soared into the house in high dudgeon. Startled, not knowing whether to laugh or not, Lady Sally and Lady Margaret hastened to follow the marchioness.

Frowning, her heart still racing with fright, Abby noticed that even indolent Atherton had slipped into the shadows in the direction of the creditors, while Lord Quentin had disappeared entirely. Fitz’s friends were covering his back while he played the part of host. She had seen him put up his fists and run after the stone-throwing culprit, but for her sake, he set aside his natural impulses in order to act as host and newly wedded husband.

Abby thought she understood why Lady Bell had smacked him on the back of the head. Such charm and insouciance could be infuriating—if one didn’t know the depths seething beneath the surface smoothness. As Abby did.

So for Fitz’s sake, she shoved aside her fear, planted a smile on her face, and helped Penny and Jennifer up from the terrace stones. Tommy glanced uncertainly from his new hero to the woods where the arrow had originated. “Cakes,” she said to distract him. “And rhubarb tarts.”

The older children instantly forgot their shock and raced for the door, while Fitz carried the twins. If Abby hadn’t seen it for herself, she’d think nothing untoward had happened at all. His chiseled lips held a cheerful smile while he bounced the twins, then set them down inside so he could deftly catch his daughter crawling on the table before she could reach the biggest tart.

“You will show me that note later, won’t you?” Abby asked, holding his arm and wearing a false smile as the servants bobbed and offered their good wishes.

“Probably not,” Fitz replied, accepting a glass of wine from Bibley. “This is our wedding night, and I mean for our minds to be on quite different matters.”

Abby looked around for a parasol with which to smack him, but the innuendo had her blushing. Never in all her years had she been assaulted with such conflicting emotions.

“I can see why you did not choose a younger lady who has no experience with trying situations and perverse males,” she said in frustration as they circled the tables, seeing that their guests helped themselves to the hastily prepared burgundy beef and fresh green peas and asparagus. “An hysterical bride might make consummation tiresome.”

Fitz almost snorted up the wine he was sampling. “Give fair warning before you bludgeon me with salty comments next time.”

“You married a farmer’s daughter, not a lady. Expect it,” she countered.

“My lady, we have run out of sherry,” Bibley murmured, halting their parade around the room.

My lady.
Abby paled and went weak-kneed at the title. Fitz gallantly held her up.

“Then bring out the nonexistent brandy, old boy,” Fitz said. “We command miracles tonight.”

Lady Belden waved the butler aside. “You shouldn’t disturb the countess with domestic problems on her wedding day.”

Countess.
Abigail Merriweather, a countess. Not a farm girl. She couldn’t speak
salty
anymore. She didn’t even know when she should speak to butlers. She’d never had a butler.

Still, she’d shaken a broom under the nose of this butler. Abby thought perhaps their association was a little less formal than the usual between countess and servant. She would prefer general to private, and a gun with which to shoot off Bibley’s palsied
toes
, the old fraud.

That thought gave her the ability to breathe again. “Lady Belden, I’ve not had time to thank you personally for all the joy you’ve given me. This gown . . .” She gestured helplessly.

“That gown is a work of art,” Fitz finished appreciatively. “Even I thank you, Lady Bell. Although now that you’ve elevated my bride to goddess, I’m a trifle terrified of her.”

Goddess?
That was almost as ridiculous as countess. But for a little while, Abby’s lips turned up in a smile and her fears dissipated.

Then his friends returned and Fitz abandoned her to Quent’s sisters while he vanished into another room to consult about terrifying arrows.

Had someone actually tried to
kill
him?

“He had a horse. We didn’t. He escaped,” Montague stated bluntly. “Saddling up our mounts and tracking him didn’t seem practical, as he’d be long gone.”

Fitz nodded and smoothed the crudely written note on the table.
MAYT ME ET MEDNIT BY FAHTON ER DY.
He couldn’t take such a preposterous threat seriously.
Fahton?
Did that mean the crumbling water hole with broken pipes that once constituted a fountain?
Dy?
In what manner? From badly aimed arrows and egregious misspellings? Or perhaps the shooter was threatening to dye his clothes, say, an elegant purple? The idea was too ridiculous to consider.

Perhaps he could send Bibley to the fountain. If one of Geoff’s workers had written this note, the pair deserved each other. Nothing made sense. Frustration welled in him.

If Quent was correct, his heir had dared show his face back in town without seeking out Fitz as he’d requested. Did that mean Geoff knew nothing of the missing money—or that he was confident Fitz would come to an early demise as his father and brother had? He wanted to throttle Geoff if only for being so damned elusive.

“Well, looks as if I’ll just have to die, because there isn’t any way in this world or the next that I’m leaving Abby’s bed tonight,” he decided. Abby took precedence over idiots in his book.

Reclining on a fainting couch, admiring the painting of Diana the Huntress on the ceiling, Atherton tapped his fingers against his bent knee. “We’ll tell your creditors that you mean to meet them after the guests go to bed. Then we’ll assign each one a different meeting place at different doors so all entrances are covered. Free bodyguards,” he said idly.

Fitz laughed at the preposterous idea of his creditors guarding his doors. It made about as much sense as meeting anyone at midnight.

“Ath and I will watch the fountain for you. We’ll dunk the perpetrator and leave him tied to the mermaid statues until you decide to come down in a day or two.” Montague’s dark expression reflected fiendish anticipation.

Atherton sighed. “Since the house is packed full of respectable innocents, I suppose that will do for entertainment. Might we use your assailant for archery practice?”

“You may dunk him, pelt him with turnips, and hang him upside down from the portico for the children to use as a punching bag, for all I care. Just don’t let anyone disturb my bride. She’s nervous enough as it is,” Fitz declared, relieved that the problem was temporarily in hand. “No shouting. No guns exploding. Just brutal silence.”

Hands behind his back, Montague eyed the gun collection on the wall. “I think you underestimate the countess. If she comes after me with a broom, I’m aiming for the door.”

Montague had faced three men in duels without quaking. Fitz grinned in pride. “Wait until you see Abby wield a hoe. I don’t underestimate her at all. I simply want her to be happy and not have to take brooms to anyone’s hides anymore.”

He realized the truth of that even as he said it. He would do whatever it took to make Abby happy. Fitz hoped that didn’t mean throttling his heir because, if his suspicions about the banknotes could be proved, Geoff had a great deal to lose if Fitz lived. Which made arrow-shooting assailants a little more worrisome than he wished to acknowledge.