Authors: Megan Mulry
Jeremy came from the back end of the hall and offered to take Abby’s “…items…”
“Oh, Jeremy. You are the worst snob. Just because I don’t drive an Aston Martin or wear John Lobb shoes—like some posers around here”—she stared pointedly at Devon and Max—“doesn’t mean you cannot help me with my backpack and coat.”
Jeremy smiled—
how
could
one
not
, he mused—at the woodland creature before him. “Is Lady St. John in the car?”
“No.”
“Very well. No need to snipe.” Jeremy turned from the three siblings—all of whom he had first met in their cradles—and carried the metal-framed, oversized hikers’ backpack with one firm hand at the end of a stiff arm, keeping the entire contraption slightly away from his body.
“Where is Tully, then?” Max asked.
“Not here. Who cares?” Abby was undoing the loose Indian scarf that seemed to be wrapped seventeen times around her small neck.
“I do,” Max said.
“Then ask her to be
your
girlfriend because I’m finished with her. She was so
serious
, I couldn’t stand it for another minute. I mean…” Abby had tossed her scarf onto one of the priceless bombé chests at the side of the hall and was looking into the gilt mirror above it to see if her wild mane of black hair could be put back into any semblance of order, then gave up and turned to her brothers. “You two are the worst! Stop looking at me like that.”
“But”—it was Devon this time, softer—“you two have been together for ten years, Abby. We thought you were, you know,
together
.”
“I know.” Her shoulders sank a tiny bit. “So did I. But then she just got so, oh, I don’t know… I mean, I’ll always love her, but she’s so
earnest
all the time. I care about the environment—more than the next person, that’s for sure—trying to make up for all the damage you two do with your absurd cars and financing coal mines—that was a doozy, by the way, Max—but she just, I mean
please!
She is the great-granddaughter of the Duke of Bedford and she pretends she’s this underprivileged farm girl, and she refuses to be honest and admit that it’s much easier to be charitable and generous when you have money and resources to give away. I was just done. I couldn’t stand it for another moment.”
Max and Devon simply stood there and looked at this new Abigail Heyworth. She was still as Bohemian and wild as ever, but there was something sharp in her eyes.
“So, that’s it. She’s fine. I’m fine. We’re just not
us
anymore, so stop staring at me and let me see my first nephew. Is he all wrinkly and gross?”
Devon laughed when Max nearly tripped over the edge of the carpet to defend his flawless offspring.
“By the way, Abby, we do not joke about the cub,” Devon explained. “He is perfect in every way. Apparently, even his diapers smell like rose petals.”
The three happy siblings entered the large living room to see the small cluster of people at the far end near the oversized stone fireplace surround. Narinda had come down and she and Sarah were playing with the baby stretched out between them on a soft blanket on the sofa. Eliot and Bronte were talking business nearby, discussing his latest difficulties managing to turn a profit in the Asian market with the attendant licensing thefts and the black market for counterfeit luxury goods that was thriving in China and Japan. He was midsentence when he noticed Max, Devon, and some wild creature coming in from the other side of the room.
“Aaah,” Bronte said as she followed his gaze, “Lady Abigail Heyworth. Quite fetching, isn’t she? She’s looking particularly mischievous tonight. But, as my husband says, that dog doesn’t hunt, so you’d best keep your eye on the lovely Narinda if you are looking for a weekend romance. I’m assuming we are all cognizant of the Devon-Sarah situation?”
“What? My
girlfriend
Sarah is interested in your brother-in-law?” He slapped his hand against his forehead in mock surprise. “How could I have missed it? She hardly looks at him.”
Bronte burst out laughing as she noticed that Sarah, at that very moment, was ogling Devon with such transparent longing, lust really, that the whole idea of the angst and drama that had led up to the weekend seemed hilarious.
“Eliot. You are a peach.”
“I aim to please.” He bowed his head in a gesture of small obedience. “Please introduce me to your sister-in-law. I don’t see
her
mooning over anyone at the moment.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Bronte added softly, but with perfect diction.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind.” Bronte gave Eliot one last look and had the fleeting thought that if he set his mind to it, he could make a person burn like the sun. Any person.
Devon veered off to play with the baby (and to get as close to Sarah as possible without consuming her).
Max and Abby joined Bronte and Eliot.
Bronte gave her sister-in-law an affectionate, warm embrace, then said, “Abigail, this is Eliot Cranbrook. An old friend of Sarah James’s… and a new friend of ours,” Bronte added, taking Max’s hand in hers. “Eliot, this is Abigail Heyworth. You two might enjoy one another’s company—poking fun at the rest of us. Max and I are going to check on Wolf.”
***
Abigail realized she had not really
looked
at a man in years nor
felt
the gaze of a man upon her, perhaps ever. She had always been a tomboy, following Devon and Max everywhere in her early childhood, then, when her older brothers had gone off to Eton, she found herself far more interested in sports and riding than boys. She and Tully (neé the Lady Tulliver St. John, fourth daughter of the sixth earl, et cetera, et cetera) had developed a deep attachment when they were eighteen and traveled together during their gap year. They had never really been apart since. They adored the same books; they laughed at the same jokes. They fully understood one another’s bittersweet relationships toward their respective families. They loved each other’s young, lithe bodies. It had been ten years of intellectual and physical mutual admiration.
But lately, Abigail couldn’t deny it any longer, the relationship (oh, the irony) had become a confining adherence to its own set of prescribed behaviors. Here she was, willing to buck every social and familial expectation, and all she got in return was the feeling that she was an old, married woman at the age of twenty-eight. Even their sex life had dwindled to the occasional massage that led to the occasional orgasm. Tully was far more inspired by political activism than she was by Abigail.
They had finally had a confrontation of sorts a few nights before, when Abigail simply told Tully she was leaving.
Tully had no idea what she was talking about.
“Are you saying you don’t want me to come to Dunlear for the christening? That’s probably for the best. I’ve got a ton of work to do on the Arctic drilling petition—”
“No, Tully. I’m done. I’m just not… my heart is just not in it anymore.”
“You never really cared about fighting the oil industry, in any case. David is working on the pollution along the Nepal-China border and needs help with the bureaucratic—”
“Tully. Look at me. Put the pen down. I don’t care about any of that.” She shook her hair out like a wet dog. “I mean, of course I care about all of that—I was the first person to give you a copy of
Silent
Spring
for goodness’ sake—but I can’t do this”—she gestured back and forth between the two of them—“anymore. We are living in a caravan in the middle of Scotland, which is all well and good—if we still had a bit of passion, I wouldn’t care if we lived in a yurt in Mongolia—but just admit it. We—you and I—have cooled.”
Tully tried to deny it, but even to her own ears, it was feeble. She finally gave in, tears streaming down her face. She was hugging Abby. “We have been together for so long. What will it be like to be apart?”
Abby felt tears on her face and didn’t know if they were Tully’s or her own. She laughed as she cried. “We’ve been together so long, I don’t even know whose tears are on my face.”
Tully gave a wet smile and put a small kiss on Abigail’s cheek. “They are
our
tears, Abby.”
The two of them spent the next several days packing up Abigail’s few belongings, slipping with surprising ease into a new chapter of their relationship. Abigail felt lighter and freer as each hour passed. She caught the occasional look of fear or worry cross Tully’s face, then smiled and kissed it away. “You are going to be great. You know David’s sister has been dying to get her hands on you since she arrived in December. So has David, for that matter. You are going to be attacked from all sides as soon as I leave.”
Tully wrinkled her nose as if she had just passed a dead animal on the side of the road. “The
last
thing I want is sex!”
Abigail laughed hard, then gave her a deadpan look and nearly shouted, “I know!”
Tully had to smile at the verbal trap. “Is it just that, Abs? Am I so drab?”
“Oh, Tull! You are so glamorous and plummy beneath those layers of sincerity and scruff, and you spend so much time worrying that you are not serious enough. Just take it all—you are
all
good.”
And she
was
all those things. If she had been born in a different century, she would have been a diamond of the first water: heart-shaped face, thick blond hair that always waved in exactly the right direction no matter which way the wind blew, and blue eyes that sparkled with merriment and clouded with grief (at the least injustice). They would always care for each other; they had spent too many formative (and transformative) years together to ever separate entirely.
But… standing there in front of Eliot Cranbrook, this veritable Adonis, Abigail had her first real suspicion that there might be whole worlds of sensation that did not need to be underpinned by an earnest, demanding adherence to social revolution at every turn. She felt a hint of that burning sun that Bronte had mentioned.
She knew her looks were fiery or wild or Bohemian or whatever you wanted to call it, but that had rarely led to smoldering glances from handsome strangers. The fact that she was usually holding hands with her girlfriend might have squelched those types of advances, she admitted to herself, but still. Here was one very tall, very handsome (sort of quintessentially American-movie-star handsome) stranger, and he was giving her a good bit of smolder.
“What a pleasant surprise! A sister.” He leaned in with a conspiratorial air. “I was recruited to come here, by the way, to run interference for Sarah James.” He gave his head a brief nod in the direction of Sarah and Devon, who were unable to stop smiling at one another. “Just to keep you in the loop. I think my work here is done. I am like one of those people who are hired to sit in the seats at the Academy Awards when the real stars have to go present an award.”
Abigail smiled a broad grin, both at his description and the shrewd, flat drawl of his American accent. Matter-of-fact. Authoritative. Naughty.
“Turns out I am usually only called in on special occasions as well,” Abigail added. “Otherwise, my mother worries I might scare the horses.” She gave him a wink then turned to see about this baby that everyone was so gaga over.
Eliot watched as the irreverent Lady Abigail crossed over to the couch and deposited herself unceremoniously on the floor, so she was exactly at eye level with the tiny addition to the family. He kept looking as she stared hard at the seemingly oblivious creature; the baby stilled, then held her gaze, widened his already-infamous gray eyes, and formed his mouth into a perfect
O
.
“Aren’t you a little stunner?!” Abby cooed, and he blinked slowly, as if to say,
Yes. Yes, I am.
Abby started laughing and called over to Max, “You are in so much trouble. He’s even worse than you are!”
Apparently, Wolf did not like being made fun of, nor did he appreciate the unexpected volume of Abigail’s voice, so he transformed his face into a caricature of wretched indignity. Bronte scooped him up before a tear could even form, and Abigail could have sworn Wolf gave her a tiny wink to let her know he had this baby situation down pat.
Bronte had nearly fallen asleep into the plate of her main course, so Max had escorted her up to their bedroom, where Wolf was already sound asleep in the cradle next to the bed. The nanny, Carolyn Johnston, was reading a book in a chair nearby.
Max told Carolyn—the nanny who had the least to do of any nanny in the history of British nannies, as far as he was concerned—that she could turn in for the night and Bronte would call her in the morning when she needed her. Max had insisted they hire someone full-time so Bronte could rest and recover from the very real exhaustion that delivering a nine-and-a-half-pound baby wrought. But (since Bronte refused to part with Wolf, except when she was obligated to bathe herself or eat) Carolyn spent most of her time organizing Wolf’s extensive wardrobe of onesies and, that done, reading. Bronte was nursing Wolf on demand and had no desire to pump her milk nor to try even the occasional bottle of formula. (“What’s the point when I have all this milk right here? It will just throw off my schedule.”) There was really nothing for it.
Max helped Bronte get undressed, and she was asleep before he had finished pulling the comforter up to her smooth shoulders. And she was the one who had worried about becoming obsolete when she became a wife and mother? He thought she was glorious.
He returned to the intimate family dining room and suggested the six of them head into a smaller den and watch a movie. Sarah and Devon pretended they were exhausted, nearly stretching their arms in a theatrical show of how knackered they were. Abby and Narinda, who had become fast friends over dinner, rolled their eyes at one another about Devon and Sarah, and then joined Max and Eliot in front of the small fire and the large flat-panel TV to watch a bunch of over-the-hill actors blowing each other up while foiling international assassination plots.
“Max, get me a scotch, will you?” Abby asked while her older brother was rummaging around in the small wet bar in the corner of the room.
“Neat or on the rocks?”
“Neat, of course. Sheesh.”
Eliot looked at Abigail Heyworth for what felt like the hundredth time in the past two hours. He thought he might be developing a little crush on the imp. She was far too young for him—he had to be at least ten years older than she was—and she was clearly about as responsible as a delinquent high school student.
But.
There was something pure about her. She was the only one who could talk to Max in just that familiar, disrespectful, loving way when she demanded her scotch. Neat. She acted as if she wasn’t the least bit interested in social conventions, yet she was totally interested in every detail of conversation once she was engaged. Over dinner, she had asked Eliot endless questions about the luxury goods market, occasionally slipping into vitriol about the injustices in many of the clothing factories in the Far East, but for the most part listening with an eager, transparent desire to learn. Then she had spoken at length and with equal intensity to Narinda about a bridge project in Chile and a large stadium proposal Narinda was working on in Dubai.
“Anyone else for a drink? Eliot?” Max offered.
“Sure, I’ll have the same.”
“Narinda?”
“I’d love some sparkling water if you have any there, Max.”
“Sure, here you go.” Max passed out the rest of the drinks, and the unlikely foursome settled in for a few hours and laughed and poked holes in the plot and predicted the obvious one-liners that followed every devastating explosion. About halfway through, Max was dozing, Abby was completely passed out, and Narinda had slipped off to bed.
Max rubbed his eyes and stood up. “I have to crash, Eliot. Do you mind? Just throw a blanket over Abby if she won’t wake up when the movie’s over. She’s impossible to rouse.”
“Thanks again for everything, Max. Sorry to be such a fifth wheel on your family weekend.”
“Don’t be silly. If you’ve helped Sarah and Devon get back on track, you’re probably a more valuable asset to this family at the moment than I am. G’night.”
“Thanks again. Night, Max.”
Something of relative consequence may have transpired in the final half hour of the movie, but Eliot spent the entire time staring at Abigail Heyworth’s gently sleeping body. She had the look of a windswept, pre-Raphaelite muse: wavy black hair tumbling everywhere, sooty black eyelashes resting against pale creamy skin. He sipped the excellent scotch and enjoyed the view.
***
Saturday dawned a splendid spring day.
The
more
splendid
, thought Sarah,
for
beginning
in
the
secure
hold
of
Devon
Heyworth’s strong arms and one of his legs cast across my hip.
She inhaled until she thought she might hyperventilate, her face burrowed into his chest, his embrace possessive even in sleep. There were distinct benefits to being with a man who slept this soundly. She was so eager to see him, all of him, she started rooting around under the sheets just for the fun of it. She lifted the edge of the blanket cover to let in a little light and started working her way down his body like a miner: touching a small scar on his leg, tracing the way his hip muscle curved over the bone and down, outlining the firm contours of his stomach. She started to doze again.
Last night, they’d made it through dinner (barely); both of them begged off coffee and after-dinner drinks, practically drumming impatient fingers on the mahogany dining room table. Thankfully, Max had suggested a movie so they could continue on their way while everyone was standing around in the hall without having to blatantly excuse themselves from the dining table to make their escape. They had very nearly sprinted up the wide stone staircase, Sarah tripping over the edge of thick hall carpet at the top landing; they grabbed at each other and tried to move in the direction of the bedroom at the same time.
“Which room?” Sarah breathed between kisses.
“I don’t care. We’re just across the hall from each other and a few doors down. Let’s go in your room so you don’t have to make the walk of shame. I’m used to it.”
Her face must have shown that she didn’t quite like the sound of his repeated (legendary?) late-night and/or early morning walks of shame.
He smiled. “Aaah-haaa… you
are
jealous! I meant I’m
used
to
it
because
you
insisted on going back to that damned hotel both nights in October, so I had not only the walk of shame, but the
drive
of shame and, the
coup
de
grace
, the
breakfast
of shame with Abby and Bronte and Max.”
Her expression cleared and he kissed her again, then whispered, so close to her ear that she felt it like more kisses, “I want you to be jealous… to feel what it’s like to want me like I want you.”
“I think about you all the time, Devon.” She shivered in response. “You are with me all the time. I was too much of a coward to call you.”
He angled her against the wall of the hallway, gently caging her with his arms flexed taut, his hands flat against the wall on either side of her head, his body slightly away from hers. She arched toward him, her breathing labored, and he pulled slightly away. He began kissing her neck, her cheek, her ear, the line of her jaw.
“Why are we still in this corridor?” she pleaded, barely able to form the words.
“Because I might have to have you right now.” His hand pushed against the crotch of her pants and he felt the concentrated heat of her body through the fabric.
She tilted her hips into his palm, gasped sharply, then moaned her exhale, her head falling toward his chest for support.
“You did not just do that!” he laughed quietly.
“I did,” she whispered after a few more breaths, with a guilty, happy grin on her face. “I couldn’t wait a second more, and then you touched me and, well, it’s been awhile. I was… ready.”
He felt like he could breathe in her words, like air. He hoped “a while” meant that she hadn’t been with anyone else. He hoped—even though he tried not to—because thinking about the implication of another person touching her still brought on a wave of impossible feelings.
She half-walked and was half-carried the few yards into her room. Devon turned to quietly close and lock the door behind them. Their hands trembled like Puritans on their wedding night as they removed one another’s clothes and slid into the cool, wide bed. They traveled through worlds of memory and lust, intervals of light sleep and vague caresses, ultimately falling into a deep, secure sleep of intertwined limbs and synchronized breath.
Saturday morning, Sarah gradually woke with her head resting on his stomach, looking at his… well, looking at him. The morning light in the room had lengthened somewhat, and the deep bass of his voice reverberated in her ear through his abdomen: “Did I sleep through something delicious? You are in quite the compromising position.”
She turned her head to look at his face, keeping her body curled around one side of his midsection, partially covered by the sheets. She saw from the clouded look in his eyes that the sensation of her long hair accidentally falling across his pelvis had given him unexpected pleasure. She lifted her head a bit and let the layers of hair travel with more purpose across his waist, down a bit, then back up. She let her head come to rest near his neck, loving the welcome curves and strength of his body that seemed to take her in, absorb her, from every angle.
His hands were trailing up and down her bare back when both of their phones started ringing simultaneously. Hers was a shrill and insistent version of “Duke of Earl”; his, a vibrating hum.
Devon gave her the devil’s smile. “Nice ringtone.”
He stretched his long arm to the bedside table and grabbed both phones. He looked at her screen and passed the phone. “Bronte for you. Max for me.”
“Hi, Bron, hold on a second. He’s talking to Max and I can’t hear you.”
“Hey, Max… no, I didn’t forget… when do you want to meet up?… sure I’ll be down in a half hour…are we riding or walking out?… who else is coming?… really… okay… interesting… all right, I’ll see you at the stables at ten.”
Then Sarah said, “Okay, I can hear you now… sure, I’d love to.”
Devon had resumed his aimless wanderings down her back and her body started to go limp again.
“Mmm-hmm… yes!… yes, I’m listening… okay, I’ll come to your room in a half hour and we’ll coo all over him.”
Sarah lifted herself up to a sitting position as she turned the phone off and put it back on the bedside table, pulling a piece of sheet up to cover her chest. “What are you doing today?”
“Why are you covering your chest?”
“I don’t know. It always seems sort of vulgar by the light of day. All that flesh hanging out everywhere.”
“Are you crazy?” He laughed, then saw the storm approach, and silenced himself. “Don’t answer that. But, come on, give a guy a break. I haven’t seen you for months and you should not be covered up.” He tugged gently at the sheet. “Please.” He gave her his best supplicating look, flop of hair, eyes wide.
“Stop with that!” She swatted him away half-heartedly, but she couldn’t help reveling in the fact that this man loved her curvy body. “I’m going to spend the day with my soon-to-be godson, the practically-perfect-in-every-way Wolf Heyworth. I think strolls and feedings are on the agenda. What about you?”
“We’ll be leaving the pack to secure sustenance, then returning to the cave with ample birds for supper.”
“Who else is going?”
“Abby, of course. Anything involving horseback and firearms and she’s on it. Apparently your Eliot has a good seat too.”
“First of all, he is not
my
Eliot. Are we going to talk about any of these lingering misunderstandings? Do we need to have The Talk? You are the one who is supposed to be older and wiser. I’ve never—I mean, I’ve never felt this way before. I don’t know at all what to say or do. Do you court me? Do I get pinned?” She smiled and hoped her added levity might cover for her near-miss on the I-love-you gaffe.
“Neither have I. I have no idea what to say or do either.” His sincerity was crushing her. “Of course, I’ve had feelings for people, and I hope you have too if you went to the trouble of bedding them—before bedding me, I mean—but I really have no interest in anyone or anything anymore except you. It sounds so trite and—”
“No, it doesn’t!” she interrupted quickly, then paused and continued. “It sounds honest. And while we’re being honest, I’ve never gone to the trouble.”
“Of what? Having feelings for all those rakes? Good. The easier to leave that life of wanton revelry behind you.”
“No, I mean, I’ve never, ugh, it’s so stupid, it doesn’t even matter, really, but I feel like I need to tell you for some reason, to remedy this vision you have of me as this hoyden who comes to country weddings and house parties and sleeps with the best man and I’ve never done that… ever… with anyone… and it seems insincere somehow to go on acting as if—”
“So I was your first best man?” Devon joked.
She shook her head slowly from right to left, then smiled. “You might be right. I guess that is basically the gist: you were my first…”—she kissed him on his neck—“…best…”—then she kissed him on his cheek—“…man…”—then she kissed him tenderly on the lips. She pulled away for a second and repeated slowly, “You were my first. Full stop.”
Devon was trying to process what she was telling him: he weighed egomaniacal humiliation (he had more or less tossed her over a bedpost and driven into her like she was a serving wench when he took her virginity) against a surge of arrogant, masculine, proprietary joy (no one had
ever
touched her except him… she was
his
, totally and completely).
“Say something,” she whispered.
“I don’t know whether to crawl from view in shame for making your first sexual encounter the equivalent of a debauched fling or to shout from the rafters in a diabolical baritone that you are mine, all mine!”