Secrets of a Perfect Night (5 page)

Lowering the cup, he smiled. “The coffee’s good, too—I would never have imagined you could make it.”

Abby pulled a face at him. “Millie Watkins usually does, or Agnes, but I’m not totally helpless.”

“So how bad is it?” With his head, he indicated outside. “How many days, do you think?”

Abby rose and walked down the kitchen to the window at the far end and peeked through a gap in the shutters. All she could see was white—the snow was piled almost to the top of the window. “Four days at least—more likely a week.” She returned to the table. “You know how it is—it’ll take a few days of warmer weather before it thaws.”

Retaking her chair, she studied him, more relaxed now it seemed certain her assumption that earlier this morning he’d been too wrapped in the remnants of sleep to recognize her was correct. “You said you were going to Bellevere—did you mean for a short visit or…?”

He looked up; those strange amber eyes locked on hers. “Bellevere will again be my principal residence.”

Her newfound certainty swayed. She managed to keep her dismay from her face, from her eyes. “I see. That’s…wonderful! It’ll mean such a lot for the village.”

He considered her for a moment, those unnerving eyes on her face, then he nodded and looked down at his plate. “I’ll be opening it up again, taking on staff—a full complement.”

Abby’s mind whirled. He had to be thinking of marrying. Why else…? Hands clasped on the table, she asked with what she hoped was appropriate diffidence, “Do you intend spending most of your time here, or will you still be based in London?”

“I’ve had enough of London—
more
than enough.” He glanced at her. “I’m home to stay.”

She watched him clear his plate and tried to imagine it—tried to envision meeting him in the village with his wife on his arm. She wondered who the lucky lady was—wondered how she would manage to bear it and smile.

He pushed his plate away; she looked up and found him watching her. One dark brow lifted questioningly.

She rose. “I’ll take you to see Bolt if you like.”

“If you would.”

As they climbed the stairs, Abby was conscious of the sidelong glances Adrian sent her, as if she were a puzzle he was trying to solve. She gave him no help, no hint; she allowed no clue to her thoughts to show. She led him to the box room. Agnes stood as they stepped through the door.

“Still sleeping, he is, but it’s just exhaustion now.” Agnes bobbed her head at Adrian. “He had a mite of fever early morning, but he’s past it. On the mend, is my opinion.”

She didn’t sniff, but Adrian didn’t need that little sign to divine Agnes’s opinion of him. She was old enough to remember the youth he’d been, old enough to have heard all the stories. She couldn’t know that Abby was the one woman above all others he would never do anything to harm.

Inclining his head, he stepped past both women and hunkered down so he could see Bolt’s face. Asleep, his old tiger looked weary, worn down. Behind him, Adrian could hear Abby and Agnes whispering. He put out one hand, wanting to ease the wrinkles from Bolt’s brow, but…he let his hand fall as he heard Abby step close.

She reached past his shoulder and smoothed Bolt’s brow, just as he had wanted to do.

“He’s been with you for a long time, hasn’t he?”

She seemed to be following his train of thought. “Yes.” Adrian stood, shoving his hands into his breeches pockets. “He put me on my first pony even though Mama had all but forbidden it. I was two. He was only a junior groom then.”

“Does he have family in the village?”

Adrian shook his head. “His sister lives outside Ashburton.”

Abby settled the blanket over Bolt’s shoulder, then laid her hand across his brow. “He hasn’t any fever. I daresay he’ll wake soon.”

Adrian looked at the chair Agnes had vacated. “I’ll stay and watch him for a while.”

Abby glanced at him, then at the doorway from where Agnes humphed disapprovingly. She looked back. “If you like.”

She laid her hand on his arm for an instant, then collected Agnes and took her downstairs. After a moment of staring at Bolt’s sleeping face, Adrian sat down, and waited.

Eventually Bolt awoke. He was weak and croaky, but recognized Adrian immediately. After settling him, Adrian hurried downstairs in search of the weak tea that was all the breakfast Bolt wanted. It was Abby Adrian wanted. Finding Agnes in the kitchen, he asked for the tea, then ran Abby to earth in the parlor. She was sitting with Esme; Adrian acknowledged the introduction—Esme stared at him wide-eyed as he drew Abby away.

“Bolt has a tendency to develop bad coughs. He sounds”—he gestured vaguely—“not well.”

Abby threw him an elementally feminine look. “I’ll come upstairs and see.”

It took Bolt a moment to place her, then he blushed. “Ain’t right you bothering yerself after me, ma’am.”

“Nonsense, Bolt. Your master’s worried about you—naturally, we need to make sure you’ll be well. Now—open up and let me see.”

Bolt threw a helpless glance at Adrian; blocking the doorway, he met it impassively. After examining Bolt’s throat, Abby checked his forehead, then tucked him back up. “Agnes will bring your tea in a moment. I’m going to brew you a tisane to sip through the morning, then we’ll see how you’re feeling this afternoon.”

She left the room; Adrian followed on her heels. He
was
worried about Bolt; thankfully, Abby seemed to understand, both that and his feeling of helplessness—she bore his presence without complaint as she gathered the herbs for the tisane and set it to brew. Indeed, she set him to gathering this and that, reaching down jars and lighting the small lamp in her still room.

Throughout the day, he hovered—about Bolt until Abby dragged him away, then about her as she sat reading in the parlor. He couldn’t sit and read—he paced, restless as a caged leopard. The snow had returned, too heavy to risk an expedition to the curricle. There was nothing he could do, nothing to be done. Abby seemed oblivious of his prowling; Esme was at first wary, but when he forbore to bite, as the afternoon wore on, she seemed increasingly amused. Adrian pretended not to notice.

Bolt did develop a cough, but thanks to Abby’s tisane, which she brewed and rebrewed throughout the day and insisted Bolt continue sipping, by the evening it was clear even to Adrian that Bolt was not going to succumb to his usual horrible hacking.

When in the early evening he followed Abby into Bolt’s little room and set a laden dinner tray across his tiger’s knees, Bolt managed a smile, for Abby and for
him. Despite having actually done nothing all day, Adrian felt he’d achieved something.

He was, therefore, in a far more mellow mood when he sat down to dinner with Abby and Esme in their tiny dining room. Esme enlivened the meal with questions on his London life, which he endeavored to answer truthfully but discreetly. While he struggled with a query that none too subtly alluded to his reputation, he caught Abby’s eye. She quickly looked away. If she’d been amused, he wouldn’t have dwelled on the incident, but it hadn’t been amusement he’d glimpsed in her eyes.

Denying all interest in any decanter, he followed the two ladies to the parlor.

Abby wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not when Esme’s attention abruptly shifted, as it often did. Showing no more interest in Adrian, her aunt settled in her chair by the fire and picked up her crochet. Abby hesitated, then sat on the small sofa opposite Esme’s chair. Adrian came to stand by the hearth. One arm resting along the mantelpiece, he gazed down at the flames.

Abby seized the moment and gazed at him, at the sharp angles of cheek and jaw, the stubborn set of his chin. His lips were leaner, his expression harder, more resolute, than in her memories. Her gaze swiftly took in the wide shoulders, the lean, rangy frame—the body sculpted by some deity into something very close to perfection. Her eyes followed his arm, draped gracefully yet negligently along the mantelshelf; her gaze fixed on his hand, on the long fingers, relaxed,
hanging downward, slightly curled as they had been last night…

She switched her gaze to her aunt.

Adrian turned his head; she felt his gaze on her face. “Tell me,” he murmured. “Given I need to hire an entire staff, are there enough people available in the village and surrounding farms, or will I have to look further afield?”

Abby forced her mind to the subject. “How many staff does Bellevere need?”

“To run optimally, I think…”

They discussed maids and gardeners and cooks. After half an hour, Esme set her work aside, bade them good night, and left them.

As Esme’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, Adrian straightened from his pose by the hearth and sat beside Abby.

Her heart leapt to her throat; she had to fight a craven impulse to flee after Esme. She was aware of Adrian’s sharp gaze on her face; she sternly warned herself she had no room to indulge in missish behavior.

The sofa was small, his shoulder a mere inch from hers—she could feel the warmth of his body all along her side, its heat more potent than the fire. Schooling her expression to one of polite friendship, she forced herself to smile and meet his eyes. The instant she did, she remembered that those strange amber eyes had an uncanny ability to see far more than she liked.

That was then, she told herself, but as his eyes held hers trapped, and searched, she was afraid nothing had changed. She looked down.

She sensed an instant of hesitation before he asked, “Tell me, Abby, are you glad to see me?”

His voice was very low, a deep murmur that seemed to run just above her heartbeat. Fixing a bright smile on her face, making sure it reached her eyes, she looked up. “Yes—of course! And it’ll be so good to have Bellevere open again—so nice to have more life in the village.”

His eyes remained steady on hers, then his lips curved, just a little at the ends. “Is the village so devoid of entertainment, then?”

“Well, other than the vicar, Reverend Bosworth—you don’t know him, he’s new—then…” Unwilling to let another unnerving moment develop, she rattled on, sketching a detailed word picture of the occupants of the village and the neighboring farms and estates. When she’d exhausted the surrounding populace and all points of interest, she rose and crossed to the window to peer out at the snow-covered downs. “The snow’s stopped—you’ll probably be able to retrieve your bags tomorrow.”

She’d felt his gaze, locked on her, every step of the way; she was intensely aware when he uncoiled his long legs, stood, and followed her. She couldn’t bring herself to turn and face him, to let her eyes confirm what her senses knew. For some unfathomable reason, he was watching her very closely, very intently.

He halted behind her and looked out over her shoulder. “Hmm—it’ll be icy, but by midmorning we should be able to get as far as the ford.”

“You’ll be glad to have your gear, and maybe your
curricle isn’t as bad as you think.” Abby stopped; in another minute she’d be babbling. “I think…”

She turned, intending to slip around him, only to discover that impossible. Before she could stop him, he’d taken her hand; the feel of his long fingers possessively closing around hers made her freeze. She had no choice but to meet his eyes. Willing her face to show nothing of her vulnerability, she did. His eyes trapped hers. His fingers slid across her palm and she inwardly shook.

“Abby.” His voice was gentle but compelling. “Are you sorry that I’m here?”

She felt her eyes widen—they were plain, basic brown, nothing like the startling shade of his, with their mesmeric power. She felt it anew—and knew if he drew her to him and kissed her, she’d permit it. More—she’d welcome him back and encourage him further. Much further. Her lips yearned for the touch of his; her body ached to feel his arms locked about her, his hands upon her.

“No.” The word came to her lips unbidden. “This is where you should be—this is where you belong.”

His lips lifted; the intensity that surrounded her faded, just a little. He raised her hand and touched his lips to her knuckles. “You understand.”

Abby understood that if they remained here much longer, she’d do something stupid. “We’d better go up.” She retrieved her hand. “It’s getting late.”

He inclined his head and stepped back. She led the way upstairs, highly conscious of his lingering gaze and the strange light in his amber eyes.

Bolt was better the next morning, but at Abby’s suggestion and Adrian’s subsequent orders, the tiger remained in bed the better to throw off his cough. Adrian and Tom, both imprisoned for more than twenty-four hours, were eager to get out on the pretext of fetching the luggage and clearing the curricle’s wreckage from the ford. By the time they’d cleared the front step and a path to the gate, it was time for lunch. They set out immediately after.

“I’ll come, too.” Abby stood as Adrian did.

He stopped and frowned. “That’s not a good idea. The ground’s still icy—”

“If you can go, I can go.” Abby didn’t wait to argue, but swept out into the hall.

Adrian stared after her, then looked at Esme. She met his gaze, and shrugged. “Always was a headstrong gel.”

“Headstrong?” Adrian had another word for it.

“Witless!” That was the word; he uttered it in scathing accents as he watched Abby slither down the slope—to his mind, risking life and limb. She landed with an “Ouff!” in a drift; he stumped over to haul her out of it. “I should have put my foot down—you should have stayed safe in the parlor with Esme.”

Jerked unceremoniously to her feet, Abby fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare. “I’m an independent lady—I obey no one’s orders.”

Adrian narrowed his eyes back, but it had no effect; Abby tossed her head and stepped out—and skidded on. Literally growling, he followed.

They reached the curricle. Viewing it in decent light, it was worse than Adrian had thought. Abby stared, a
little pale, but whether that was due to the cold or shock, he couldn’t tell. She watched but said nothing as he and Tom pulled his traveling case and Bolt’s bag from the wreck. Then they set to, using the shovels they’d brought with them to free the wreckage from the snow. They lifted it from the streambed and piled it to one side of the ford, well out of the way.