Secrets of a Perfect Night (7 page)

When it became clear that Mr. Bosworth was not about to take his leave, Esme surrendered and invited him to lunch. Esme claimed the reverend’s arm into the dining room. Abby, following with Adrian, shook his arm and whispered, “Behave yourself.”

He raised his brows. “I thought I was.”

“You have been—just keep doing so.” As they entered the room, she added, “He’s not up to your weight.”

That got her a smile—one of those slight lifts to the ends of his long lips that made her knees go weak. She was grateful when he handed her to her chair.

The meal passed uneventfully. As it drew to a close, Mr. Bosworth seemed to suddenly recollect the time.

“Dear me, I must be on my way.”

He looked at Abby as he rose; perforce, she laid aside her napkin and rose, too. “I’ll see you out, sir.”

Esme made her farewells with ill-concealed relief. Across the table, Adrian inclined his head.

Abby led the way into the front hall. Opening the door, she held out her hand.

Bosworth grasped it a little too fiercely for her liking.

“My dear, I must speak. Innocent as you are, I’m sure you’re unaware, but it really will not do for Dere to be residing under your roof. No, no—you must tell him to be on his way at once. Now the way is clear—”

“Mr. Bosworth.” Abby neither raised her voice nor drew herself up, but her tone had Bosworth swallowing the rest of his speech. Retrieving her hand, she
paused, then said, “I should perhaps inform you that I have known Dere all my life. I am perfectly
au fait
with his reputation—I doubt there’s a soul in this village who is not. Be that as it may, I know Dere better than anyone else in Widecombe”—Abby thanked her stars she didn’t blush readily—” and I can assure you I stand in no danger from him. Dere’s a gentleman born and bred, and has absolutely no designs on me.”

Mr. Bosworth opened his mouth; Abby silenced him with an upraised finger. “I am telling you this because I realize you have not lived here long enough to know the whole truth, and I wish you to understand that neither I nor my aunt will tolerate any aspersions being cast upon his lordship’s character. Do I make myself plain?”

With no alternative left but retreat, Bosworth made his with soothing words and promises that he quite saw and understood. With a last observation that her attitude to his lordship reflected highly on
her
character, Bosworth took himself off.

Abby stood at the door and watched him leave.

From the shadows of the dining room doorway, Adrian strolled forward. Abby glanced around as he neared, then looked back at the snowy landscape. All was still covered, all sounds hushed by the thick white blanket. Peace and deep silence spread over the moor, over the village.

Halting behind Abby, Adrian looked out over her head. After a moment, he lifted a hand and closed it on her shoulder, close by her neck. “You do realize,” he murmured, “that today will be our last day of peace?”

She’d stiffened at his touch, but he left his hand
where it was, fingers gently gripping; gradually she relaxed. “It’s still too cold to melt—the roads will still be impassable tomorrow.”

“Perhaps.” Adrian studied her profile, then leaned closer so his breath brushed her ear. “But tomorrow will bring us a parade of visitors. Care to wager on it?”

Abby glanced around and briefly met his eyes. “I would never be so foolish as to wager with you.” Stepping back, she closed the door; his hand fell away. She turned to the parlor. “How much did you hear?”

“All of it.”

Abby mentally cursed.

“Oh, and Abby?”

“Yes?” Stopping in the parlor doorway, she faced him. He’d been prowling at her heels, his long stride relaxed—they were suddenly very close. Dreadfully close—she couldn’t breathe.

All she saw was his eyes, intently and very deliberately locked on hers.

“You lied.”

A moment went by; Abby felt her heart beat once, twice. Then his finger touched her cheek, stroked lazily down, touched the corner of her lips, then boldly traced the lower—that broke the spell. She blinked. His lips lifted in that lazy, intensely provoking smile of his, then he stepped past her and continued into the room.

Three

H
OW—
IN WHAT WAY
—had she lied?

The question drove Abby mad. She replayed her lecture to Bosworth countless times through the rest of that day and the night that followed. Midmorning arrived and she still had no idea where she’d erred, but given the nature of the three clear statements she’d made to Bosworth, she was not about to ask Adrian to explain.

She’d said she knew him better than anyone else in Widecombe; Adrian would have known precisely in what degree she had meant. It was, she supposed, possible that he’d had some other local liaison in his wild early days, although she couldn’t imagine with whom. But even if he had, he would never have alluded to it, much less told her. Adrian did not speak of his conquests—that she knew for a fact.

So if it wasn’t over that that she’d lied…

She’d also stated that she stood in no danger from him, and that he had absolutely no designs on her.

Every time she tried to imagine that one of those statements might be false, her mind shut down—refused to
cooperate, refused to credit the thought enough to even think it.

As distractions went, Adrian’s latest effort was a gem. Not even the arrival of Mrs. Tolliver and her three giggling daughters could compete. Although present in the parlor, Abby left the conversation largely to Esme—and left her tormentor to fend for himself.

Serve him right.

Despite his idly impassive countenance and easy, charming air, Adrian was well aware of Abby’s mood. More than aware of her distraction. Ever since his quiet words—his unintended revelation—he’d behaved himself, at considerable cost to his never-very-amenable temper.

He hadn’t intended to put a bee in Abby’s bonnet—he hadn’t intended to speak at all, not yet, not while he was residing under her roof. Yet as so often occurred when Abby was involved…she was the only woman he had ever met who could make him do things he did not intend doing.

“I expect, my lord, that you’ll be keen to repair to London after this weather, so bitter as it’s been.”

The eldest Miss Tolliver leaned close as if to impress him with her overabundant charms; Adrian reminded himself that pointedly shifting his gaze to Abby’s much more elegant figure would not advance his cause. “No,” he said, and left it at that.

The Tollivers left soon after, to be replaced by Mr. and Mrs. Heskel and their son and daughter. They, in turn, were replaced by Sir Winston Smythe, who rode in from his distant manor to check on Abby and Esme.
He knew Adrian of old and conversed in bluffly genial fashion, all the while flicking glances between Abby and her unexpected guest.

“I told you so,” Adrian whispered as, Sir Winston gone, he followed Abby in to lunch.

She threw him a look but did not deign to answer.

They had barely risen from the table when the front doorbell pealed again.

“I can’t tell you in what high regard we all hold Miss Woolley.” Mrs. Pomfret, widow of the late Reverend Pomfret, fixed Adrian with basilisk eyes. “How we would go on without her sound advice, I cannot imagine—of course, we all hereabouts would be exceedingly distressed were any misfortune to befall her.”

“Indeed?” Adrian infused the word with the utmost boredom and smiled, distantly charming, even though his temper was wearing thin. Mrs. Pomfret’s was the sixth thinly veiled warning to him to stay away from Abby. He’d received three in the last hour—even for him, a record. The impulse to explain, with suitable emphasis, that it wasn’t Abby who stood in any danger from him grew, but for Abby’s sake, he nodded urbanely and moved on.

It was midafternoon and the parlor was crowded. Whether his hold on his temper would last until evening was anyone’s guess. Adrian allowed a Mrs. Woolcliffe, a newcomer to the district, to buttonhole him; while he listened to her ramblings, he watched Abby across the room.

Mrs. Woolcliffe’s gangling son was attempting to ingratiate himself into Abby’s good graces. To Adrian,
Abby looked quietly bored. Quietly distracted. Apparently Woolcliffe realized—he grabbed her hand. Startled, Abby tried to pull it back.

Adrian stiffened. He was about to excuse himself to Mrs. Woolcliffe, then stalk across the room and throw her son out, when the new squire, a Mr. Kilby, moved in and spoke sharply to Woolcliffe.

One glance at Abby’s face, and it was clear Kilby had opened his mouth only to put his foot in it. Adrian forced the tension from his shoulders, and paid spurious attention to Mrs. Woolcliffe. If Abby’s would-be suitors wanted to annoy her, who was he to interfere?

He had already realized that in painting her picture of village life for him, Abby had omitted a few details. Such as her central role in village affairs, and the plethora of would-be suitors sniffing about her heels. While he had no quarrel with the former, the latter he had a definite opinion about. Not, of course, that he’d be fool enough to air that opinion to Abby, as, by the militant look in her eye, Kilby had just done.

Adrian bided his time, smoothly moving through the crowd without haste or apparent direction. He arrived at Abby’s side in time to hear Kilby declare, “Regardless, I hope you’ll have the good sense to leave off your customary jaunts on the moor—there’s sure to be more snow.”

Abby stiffened. She turned to Adrian as he joined them, and smiled warmly. “Ah, Adrian—Viscount Dere, I should say—allow me to present Mr. Kilby.”

Adrian inwardly grinned at her supposed social
stumble. She’d used his first name to irritate Kilby, and had succeeded. Kilby returned his nod stiffly.

“I hear, my lord, that your curricle ran off the road in the snowstorm. Daresay with the thaw setting in, you’ll be going on to Bellevere tomorrow.”

Adrian smiled; the gesture did not reach his eyes. “If the thaw holds, I certainly expect to be journeying to Bellevere tomorrow.”

Kilby nodded sanctimoniously. “I was just telling Miss Woolley that the moor is no place for a gently reared lady, not in any weather but especially not now.”

“Indeed?” Arching a brow, Adrian turned to Abby. “It seems, my dear, that in light of your established habits, Kilby no longer deems you a lady.”

Abby suppressed her gasp and fought not to laugh; Adrian’s amber eyes audaciously quizzed her, daring her to grasp the opportunity to put Kilby in his place. She knew she shouldn’t encourage Adrian—God only knew how outrageous he might become—but she couldn’t resist. Drawing herself up, she looked censoriously at Kilby.

He had paled. His gaping mouth closed, then opened again. “That isn’t what I meant!” he eventually got out.

“Isn’t it?” Adrian turned his devilish gaze on him. “I must admit it seems a long bow. Abby—Miss Woolley—has been riding the moor since she could sit a pony. So have I. No one’s yet suggested such an activity tarnishes my claims to gentility—I don’t see why it should affect hers.”

Mr. Kilby drew in a long breath. “I meant,” he said, “that it’s
dangerous
for a lady to ride the moor, especially with snow on the ground.”

“As to danger,” Adrian drawled, “it’s been my observation over many years that Miss Woolley knows the moor as well as I, which is to say a great deal better than most. And as she doesn’t go out collecting specimens between the first freeze and early spring, there seems little call for your concern, sir.”

Stiff before, Kilby was now rigid. “All ladies need to be protected—”

“Especially from gentlemen who fail to appreciate them.” Adrian inclined his head. “My sentiments exactly.”

Kilby nearly choked. High color suffusing his face, he bowed stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me?”

Abby regally inclined her head. Adrian merely watched as the squire stalked from the room. “Dunderhead,” he murmured.

Abby sighed. “He means well.”

“Most meddlers do.” The latest visitor paused on the parlor threshold; Adrian frowned. “Who the devil’s this?”

The gentleman located Abby and quickly came forward, a wide smile creasing his face. He wore a floppy navy silk bow in place of a cravat. His loose coat was as ill fitting as Adrian’s was elegant.

Swallowing another sigh, Abby held out her hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Potts.”

Ignatius Potts clasped her hand warmly. “My dear Miss Abigail.”

“Allow me to present you to Viscount Dere. His lordship is staying with us for the present.”

“So I heard.” Mr. Potts’s cheeriness evaporated. He eyed Adrian narrowly while returning his nod. “The storm…It was a few days ago, wasn’t it?”

Adrian smiled. Wolfishly.

“I rather loose track of the days, y’know,” Potts ingenuously admitted. “Don’t know if Miss Abigail has mentioned, but I’m a painter. Landscapes, of course,” he quickly added as if Adrian might imagine he painted flowers like Abby. “Vistas of the moor—all the power and passion of the wilds, that sort of thing. Sells quite well, if I do say so myself.”

Adrian merely raised his brows politely; Abby gave thanks. Bellevere housed a huge collection of moor landscapes, many of them highly prized. Adrian had seen the moor all his life, through artists’ eyes as well as his own.

“Incidentally, my dear”—Potts turned to her—“I’m still very keen to view your studio. Perhaps today—”

“I really couldn’t leave all these guests, Mr. Potts.” Eyes wide, Abby glanced at Adrian.

“But once they leave—”

“Actually, Potts, I’m looking to refurbish Bellevere.” Adrian frowned consideringly; he suddenly had Potts’s complete attention. “I’m not sure how many of the old pictures will still be presentable—” As if just recalling Abby standing between them, Adrian smiled charmingly at her. “Pardon my manners, my dear, but if you’ll excuse us, I believe Mr. Potts should tell me more of his work.”

Abby was torn between kissing Adrian for saving her, and warning him not to buy any of Potts’s work. She contented herself with a smiling nod for both men and escaped to the chaise where Esme sat. Ignatius Potts, his eyes alight, fixed on Adrian, barely seemed to notice. Abby felt a twinge of guilt at leaving him to Adrian’s untender mercies, but…she wasn’t going to have him in her studio.