The Secret Rose (12 page)

Abigail looked away. It wasn’t only the past several weeks, but the past several months. Eighteen, to be exact, since the night her world changed forever.

“I’ve upset you,” he said. “Forgive me.”

She tried to wave off the guilt he felt. “No, you haven’t upset me. My father was ill for several months. I’d prepared myself for his death for many weeks.”

A tear filled her eye and spilled down her cheek. Abigail wiped it away with her damask napkin.

“Except when he passed away, you discovered you weren’t as prepared as you thought you were.”

She lifted her head and locked eyes with him. It was almost as if he understood.

“It was the same with my father.” Ethan set down his wine glass and seemed to speak to it rather than to her. “He’d been ill for quite some time, but no matter how much I’d prepared myself for his death, it affected me more than I thought it would.”

“Were you close to your father?”

“Yes. Closer than Stephen was, actually. Father considered it his duty to make demands of Stephen so he was prepared to take over the earldom when the time came. Those demands weren’t required of me.” A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he looked up at her. “He wasn’t as harsh with me as he was with Stephen. In time, I believe we almost became friends.”

“That’s the way I felt about Father. He was a friend more than a parent.”

Their conversation continued, and Abigail was aware of a different side of Ethan Cambridge than she’d seen before. A softer side. A more human side.

The footmen filled their water glasses, then served tea with their dessert. There wasn’t an overabundance of discussion. They didn’t know—or trust—each other enough to reveal too much, but neither was there complete silence. It was during one of those times of silence that Abigail heard voices from the entryway. Angry voices. And one was particularly shrill.

“Bloody hell!” Ethan said, obviously recognizing the intruder’s voice.

Abigail turned as a woman stormed through the open doorway. Her heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach when she recognized Ethan’s mother.

“How dare you!” the Countess of Burnhaven cried out, clasping one hand to her throat, while fanning her scarlet cheeks with a lace handkerchief clutched in the other. “I could scarcely believe it when I heard you were here. And that my son was with you.” The countess took another step into the room. “How dare you show your face, you vile creature.”

Abigail pushed back from the table. She evaluated how difficult it would be to escape, and realized it was impossible.

Suddenly, strong hands reached for her, and Ethan stepped partially in front of her as if to protect her.

“Mother! Quiet!”

The Countess blinked, shock written on her face. It was obvious that no one had ever spoken to her in that tone before. Her courage faltered, but only for the briefest moment. With renewed bravery, she braced her shoulders and counterattacked. “I will not keep silent. This woman is a schemer and a fraud. A common harlot. No wonder Stephen refuses to come home. One can hardly expect him to return, still believing he will have to take her for his wife!”

“That is enough!” Ethan bellowed. This time the Countess staggered back and clamped her hand over her mouth.

“Well, I never,” she gasped, clutching the back of a delicately carved Louis XIV chair and lifting a bejeweled hand to point an accusing finger in Abigail’s direction.

Abigail focused on the icy hatred in the countess’s eyes, and was reminded of eyes that same color. Eyes that belonged to Stephen.

The Countess of Burnhaven was still a handsome woman, tall and thin, striking in appearance, with a regal air of authority. She was one of the few women who could have caused, and probably did cause, Abigail’s mother a degree of competition when she was alive.

A magnificent diamond necklace sparkled around her neck, the breathtaking opulence of the jewels unhindered by the open collar of her black velvet cloak.

Glimpses of her gown could also be seen, a creation styled after the latest London fashion, the full skirt tiered with layers of the darkest rose.

Large ruby gemstones fastened together by a delicate filament of woven sliver strands were entwined amidst her golden curls, the same golden blonde as Stephen’s.

Abigail risked a sideways gland at Ethan and found herself lost in the azure blue of his eyes. His deep mahogany hair was the antithesis of Stephen’s. The antithesis of his mother’s. He was as dark as she was pale.

“Why are you here?” Ethan demanded.

The Countess narrowed her icy glare. “I heard you had arrived with her. I refused to believe it, so I delayed my arrival at a small dinner party nearby to see for myself. From the look of the two of you together, I came none too soon.”

Ethan stood taller, a stalwart protector.

The Countess of Burnhaven took a menacing step closer. “I see she has used her seductive wiles to sink her claws into you, too. Just like she trapped Stephen—”

“You have said enough, Lady Burnhaven.” Abigail faced the vile, vindictive woman on her own. “I think it’s time you left. George…” She tried to keep her voice as steady as her anger would allow. “Please show the Countess to the door.”

Ethan’s mother’s jaw dropped. “You have no right—”

Abigail cut off the Countess’s retort. “On the contrary, my lady. I have every right. You are in my home. While you are under my roof, you will cease your vicious accusations. You have overstepped your bounds, and I will not tolerate such an outburst.”

The Countess clutched her hand to her throat. “And to think Stephen thought to take you as his wife.”

“Mother,” Ethan interrupted, his voice cold and hard. “I think it would be best if you left now.”

“You are standing up for her? You are siding with this…this…harlot, against your own mother?”

“Stop!” Ethan leveled his mother a look filled with disgust. “I will not have you make one more accusation against Miss Langdon.”

Ethan Cambridge wrapped his arm around Abigail’s waist and brought her to him.

“I have asked, and Miss Langdon has agreed, to be my wife.”

Abigail thought the countess would suffer from an attack of apoplexy.

“You cannot mean it,” she said, clutching her hand to her throat.

“Oh, but I do. I am most grateful such a wonderful and gracious woman has consented to marry me. As should you be.”

The countess’s mouth opened.

“Without Miss Langdon’s most generous dowry,” he continued, “you would be destitute within a few months. And Stephen would end up in debtor’s prison the moment he returns.”

Lady Burnhaven struggled from the shock, then puffed her shoulders and glared at him in haughty disdain. “I don’t believe you. You have been jealous of your brother since the day you were born. And now you want this creature because she was to have been Stephen’s. You have always wanted what was rightfully Stephen’s.”

The grip holding her tightened until it almost hurt. Abigail peered from beneath her lowered lids and saw the knot that was formed at his clenched jaw.

“That is enough,” he warned. The icy tone of his quiet voice was enough to send even the bravest man fleeing. It affected Ethan’s mother only the slightest.

“No. You will hear me out,” she bit back. “You cannot abide that Stephen was born first and is heir to the great Burnhaven dynasty. You have always hated him because of all he has. You’ve always coveted his title and the place he’s made for himself in Society. And now you covet the woman he was to marry. Well, take her with my blessing. She was never good enough for Stephen anyway.”

“Enough!” Ethan roared.

The Countess of Burnhaven gave Abigail a look so malicious and filled with hatred and blame it sent shivers up and down her spine. “It is your fault Stephen is gone. You drove him away. I will never forgive you for what you have done.”

Ethan broke the explosive situation by grasping his mother by the elbow and ushering her from the room. “Leave, Mother. Before I say something I will regret, no matter how much you deserve to hear it.”

“Very well, but you have not heard the last from me.”

She pulled out of Ethan’s grasp and walked to the door with the same fury as she’d entered. Before she reached the entryway, she turned around and hurled her final insult with all the venom she had left. “You are no different than your mother. The whole of Society knows what she was. And you are the same. The same! No wonder Stephen cannot bring himself to come back to you.”

Ethan took a step toward his mother and escorted her out the front door.

Abigail stood alone for several moments, then sank to the nearest chair.

The countess’s accusations caused more pain that she imagined words could cause.

I am not like my mother. I am not!

. . .

“Abby?”

Abigail pushed herself to her feet and slowly turned until her gaze locked with Ethan’s.

“I’m so sorry.” His soft voice wrapped around her like a warm shawl. The regret in his eyes added a layer of comfort that was like a soothing balm.

He took one step toward her, then another.

Each remained fixed upon the other.

Abigail didn’t know if the rawness in her emotions was that obvious. Or her desperation to be comforted that apparent. But he understood what she needed most and opened his arms.

Without hesitation, she stepped into his embrace.

Slowly, as if not to frighten her—or perhaps to give her time to avoid what she knew was about to happen—he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.

His kiss was slow, almost hesitant, as if asking permission to continue. Abigail accepted the sweetness of his kiss, and returned his kiss with an eagerness that expressed her acceptance.

He deepened his kiss and caressed her lips with an aching need that should have surprised her, but didn’t. Her desire to give in to him matched what he was asking.

His tongue traced her lips, and Abigail opened to him as if she understood what he wanted. What he needed.

He entered, explored, then found what he sought. A blast of emotion unlike anything she’d ever experienced surged through her. The rush of emotion caused by the mating of their tongues nearly took her to her knees. She eagerly and completely surrendered to the passion of his kisses.

He kissed her again, showing her a depth of emotion she didn’t know existed. And she welcomed what he offered.

He kissed her one last time, then turned his head, breaking the kiss.

Abigail gasped for air. She wasn’t sure she could breathe on her own. Wasn’t sure she could stand on her own.

As if he realized how weak his kisses had left her, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him.

She pressed her cheek against his chest. The rapid pounding of his heart beneath her ear matched the thundering of her heart in her breast.

She remained in his arms for several long moments. A part of her never wanted to leave the warmth and strength he offered.

Another part of her was frightened to death because of those same virtues. What was wrong with her? How could she give in to him as she had? How could she have forgotten that she could rely on no one?

No one.

Especially the brother of the man she’d killed.

Abigail paced the room once more, then sat on the sofa to try to forget how Ethan had held her and kissed her. It had been three days, and she could still feel his lips pressed against hers. Could still feel the blood thunder in her head when he held her. Could still feel her flesh tingle where he touched her.

She clenched her hands in her lap and tried to forget the wondrous sensations that warmed every part of her body. Stephen had never kissed her like that. His touch had never set her on fire. His nearness had never caused such a violent turbulence to swirl deep within her.

Only Ethan could disarm her like that. Only he was able to make her forget the danger he posed to her or to Mary Rose. He exuded a magnificence she could not understand. A strength in which she could find refuge.

How could she allow herself to yield to his power? Didn’t she know how dangerous it was to give in to the riotous emotions that pulled her toward him? Hadn’t she been fooled once already by a man’s handsome face and vows of love?

Hadn’t that experience turned into a nightmare?

She could never let him close to her again, and yet, a part of her wanted to go to him, to talk to him, to try to take away the sting of his mother’s cruel words. Even though he pretended that scene with her had never taken place, she knew her accusations still ate away at him.

He pulled deeper within himself as he settled into the role of the determined protector out to save her, and to save what Stephen was in jeopardy of losing.

He spent hours with Sydney Craddock, working out the details that would give her complete and immediate rights to Fallen Oaks just as she’d demanded. Papers that would give him immediate possession of her father’s ships, including the
Abigail Rose
.

Once the papers were finished, they would sign them and it would be finished. Fallen Oaks would be hers. Mary Rose would be safe.

She should be happy, and she was, but a part of her ached, knowing that she’d given up the ships. Given up the
Abigail Rose
.

She chided herself for feeling such emotions. All she wanted was to have Fallen Oaks in her grasp. Fallen Oaks would be her haven, her sanctuary where she could protect Mary Rose from the outside world. She would do whatever she needed to provide for herself. Whatever she must so she did not need him or the ships to take care of her.

She clutched her hands together in her lap and watched the growing rays of sunlight filter through the open draperies he’d warned her to keep closed. She wasn’t comfortable deceiving him into believing that they would marry. But marriage wasn’t something she could consider. Not with all her secrets.

“Are your thoughts so terribly distressing?”

Abigail lifted her head and focused on his tall, muscular frame as he leaned against the oak door jamb.

By the saints
, he was a handsome man. Thick, dark brows stretched in a hard line above eyes the same color as a bright blue sky on a clear spring day. The noble cut of his high cheekbones arched with the strength of a fearless warrior, while the uncompromising line of his jaw angled in well-defined firmness.