wide.
Michael chuckled. The little hellion had a foul mouth, a trait he was quite sure
she learned at sea, and quite tame considering the total of what she likely had
heard all those years.
“How much have you won?” he asked as he eyed the four remaining balls.
“You do not know?” she asked, surprised. “One thousand pounds.”
Michael glanced up from chalking his cue. “Quite certain of that, are you?
I had
thought it one hundred pounds.”
“You should really pay closer attention. It is one thousand pounds if it is one.”
He smiled inwardly; he would pay more attention if she were not so damned
captivating.
“It is hard to keep one’s mind on the game when one is so distracted by such…
skill,” he said absently.
Abbey looked terribly pleased by that counterfeit compliment.
“One thousand pounds you say?” he continued as he circled the table and studied
the lay of the four remaining balls. “Are you brave enough to raise the stakes?”
Abbey giggled irreverently. “I should think I have nothing to fear, since I have
won one thousand pounds. Perhaps I should ask if you are brave enough to raise
the stakes,” she challenged.
A charming, lopsided grin broke his face. “I assure you, madam, I have courage
enough.”
His confidence was truly seductive. She studied him under the veil of her lashes
as she pretended to consider his offer. He slowly circled the billiard table, intently studying the remaining balls. He had removed his coat long ago and had
rolled up his sleeves, revealing his granite forearms. His waistcoat hugged his
trim waist, and his black trousers looked as if they had been painted onto his
powerful hips and thighs. Abbey exhaled a soft schoolgirl sigh as she admired
his lean figure; he had never looked more relaxed to her, and certainly never
more handsome.
“Well?” he prodded.
“What did you have in mind?” she asked demurely.
He grinned devilishly. “I’m afraid,” he drawled, “what I have in mind would offend your tender sensibilities. However, I have a second wager you might consider.”
Frankly, Abbey was more interested in the wager that would offend her sensibilities, but responded nonchalantly, “I’m listening.”
“If I sink the remaining balls with one shot, you will wait a period of three months before you decide to return to America,” he said, and lifted a pointed
gaze to hers.
Abbey hesitated—that was hardly the wager she was expecting. Three months? Three
months of wanting him, of loving him, with no return of her affections?
“Why?” she blurted.
“Why?” He hesitated, only for a moment, then shrugged and looked at the table
again. “Three months gives me ample opportunity to clean up the last details of
your father’s will and is sufficient time to ensure there is no danger of losing
your dowry,” he remarked casually.
His response, while not surprising, was hugely disappointing. Abbey wanted to
kick herself for romanticizing every kind word he said to her. Each time she did
that, the plunge back to reality took a harder toll on her. He plainly did not want her; but he needed time to fix the business aspect of their marriage.
He
loved Lady Davenport, not her, she reminded herself. She was his blasted obligation.
“And if you don’t?” She was irritated that her voice squeaked like that of a small child.
“You may decide tomorrow, and I will not stand in the way of your decision.” His
gaze did not leave her as she looked at the table. She frowned; she could not
see how he could sink all four balls in one shot. What did that mean? It meant
he wanted her to go, obviously. Or did he truly think he could do it, which meant he wanted her to wait three months? She glanced at Michael, who was
expressionless, then back to the table. Good God, but she was going to have to
get a serious grip on herself and stop these childish ruminations! She should
return to America right away—it would destroy her to stay. He does not love you!
He hardly knows you! she chided herself. Three months is a long time to love a
man who loves another. Three months is a long time to hang on every little word,
hoping for something you will not find.
“All right,” she said stupidly.
“Quite sure?” he asked as he leaned across the table and lined his cue behind a
ball. She did not answer; she was frozen, her eyes darting from ball to ball as
she tried to understand how he would do it. “Abbey?” he asked again. She jerked
her gaze to him and nodded slowly. Michael turned his attention to the table.
“Wait!” she cried. Michael glanced up expectantly. She frantically sought something to say, something to distract him so she could think. She had to
think! “Wh-what of the thousand pounds?” she stammered.
“You won it. It’s yours.” He shrugged and turned back to the table.
“Bank draft or cash?” she asked hurriedly in a bid for time.
“Bank draft or cash?” He chuckled. “Why, whichever you prefer, Lady Darfield.
And before you ask, I shall have Sebastian deliver it to you first thing in the
morning,” he added, anticipating her question. Abbey nodded numbly, still staring at the table.
“Would you like to reconsider?” he asked. Abbey flinched; this was just fabulous! Now he would think her an unwelcome obligation, a silly child, and a
coward.
“Absolutely not,” she said imperiously, then, for good measure, added,
“What are
you waiting for?”
Michael laughed and turned back to the table. As he concentrated on the shot,
Abbey turned slowly away; she could not bear to watch. After what seemed to be
an extremely long time, she heard him strike the ball, and closed her eyes tightly as she counted the balls dropping into the pocket. One, two, three… Her
eyes flew open. Only three! Her heart sank on a wave of bitter disappointment.
Four. Elation surged through her, and clutching her cue tightly, she whirled
toward the table.
“You missed an amazing shot of truly incredible skill, wouldn’t you say, Anderson?” Michael drawled. “Yes, my lord,” the footman replied blandly.
Abbey grabbed the railing and gaped at the empty table. “How in God’s
name did
you do that?” she demanded. “Did you cheat?”
Michael shouted his laughter, then swept a hand to his heart and bowed deeply.
“Madam, you wound me.”
Abbey laughed nervously, but inside, she was reeling. Three months. She had
promised to wait three months before deciding if this was heaven or hell.
Good
Lord, what had she done? She felt the color drain from her face and impulsively
thrust her cue at the footman.
“The excitement has exhausted me, I’m afraid. With your leave, I think I would
retire and contemplate how I shall spend my thousand pounds,” she said with
forced lightness. It was the truth; she was emotionally drained. Her heart was
thudding against her chest, threatening to break free and spill, raw and exposed, on the billiards table.
“Of course, madam,” Michael said with mock formality. He was hardly ready for
her to retire. “By the by, I have some business associates who will be here in
the morning, but afterward, I would like to take you riding,” he said as he took
a brandy the footman handed him. Abbey stopped cold, and he could have sworn her
spine snapped a little straighter.
“Riding?” she asked. A little hysterically, he thought. It occurred to him that
she might not want to ride with him. Perhaps she did not want to wait three
months, either. Perhaps he had foolishly pushed her to remain with him when she
preferred to go. Perhaps he was the biggest fool of all. He had his chance to
end this sham marriage, but he had let a pretty face cloud his judgment.
“That is, if you want to go,” he said coolly.
Abbey half turned toward him. “I would enjoy it very much,” she said politely,
but Michael could see it was a lie, and it disturbed him greatly.
“Two o’clock, then,” he said curtly, and turned away. When he heard the
door
close softly, he jerked his gaze to Anderson.
“Not a word about the fourth ball if you value your employment, Anderson,”
he
warned.
Startled, the footman shook his head furiously. ‘ ’Never, my lord.“ He gasped,
truly affronted, then smiled approvingly.
“Talk with Mr. Hanley, the stable master. He will see that a tame mount is saddled for you,” Sarah said in an attempt to soothe Abbey the next morning.
“It won’t do any good!” Abbey despaired, squirming as Sarah tried to fasten her
gown.
“Really, it’s not so difficult, mum! After a few minutes, and you’ll think you were born astride. You will make yourself sick if you keep fretting so!”
“Fretting?” Abbey laughed hysterically. “You call this fretting? This is panic.
Sheer, unadulterated panic!”
“Mr. Hanley will see to it,” Sarah said emphatically.
Abbey sighed. This was really a bad idea. She had stupidly agreed to risk her
fool neck just to be with a man who didn’t care for her. Spending time with him
would only make it harder to leave when the time came. And she would have to
leave, her foolish wager notwithstanding. Nothing else was fair, nothing else
made sense. Least of all her absurd agreement to go riding when she had never
before been on the back of a horse.
“Go and see Mr. Hanley,” Sarah said again as she finished with Abbey’s gown.
Abbey marched woodenly from the room, her imagination running wild.
She could
envision herself being trampled beneath the hooves of a high-spirited horse like
the one she had seen Michael ride. Mounting anxiety caused her to fairly fly
down the stairs and out the door in search of Mr. Hanley, the only one who could
help her now. Outside, she picked up her skirts and raced for the stables,
careering ungracefully about the curving path to the stables, and almost colliding with Sam and another gentleman who appeared around a corner.
In the
face of her impending doom, she had completely forgotten Michael’s mention of
appointments this morning.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed genuinely, knowing full well she looked ridiculous running down the path. “I was… that is, I was…” she stammered, then smiled
brightly. “I’m off to the stables!” she said cheerfully, bobbed a curtsey, and circled widely around the two men.
“Lady Darfield, it’s a pleasure to see you again. You are looking quite well,”
Sam said with a playful smile on his handsome face.
“Thank you, Lord Hunt. You look to be in remarkably good health yourself,” she
said, frowning slightly at him.
Sam’s grin deepened. He obviously was not content to let her sidle by. “It would
appear we detain you from an important… ah, appointment?”
“Not at all,” she said coolly. ‘’It’s just a bit chilly this time of morning. I was hurrying along to keep warm.“
“Might I suggest a wrap?”
Abbey glanced at the stranger. “You might,” she forced herself to reply.
Sam almost laughed, but caught himself after seeing her pointed look. He glanced
at the gentleman with him; his smile faded as a distinct change came over his
hazel eyes.
“Allow me to introduce Mr. Malcolm Routier,” he said, his voice noticeably cooler. “Mr. Routier, Abigail Carrington Ingram, the Marchioness of Darfield.”
Abbey slid her gaze to the tall, amber, almost yellow-eyed man and immediately
noticed his look of shock. She lifted her chin and sank into a polite curtsey.
“Surely, madam,” Mr. Routier exclaimed, “you are not Captain Carrington’s daughter?”
Surprised, Abbey blinked. “Malcolm Routier? My father had a business associate
with that name. Why, of course!” she said, recalling the name.
“I am he.” Routier’s amber eyes took on an odd glint. “We have had the pleasure
of meeting once before, my lady.” At Abbey’s puzzled look, he added,
“Perhaps
you do not recall? It was in Bombay, at the governor’s soiree.”
Abbey could hardly remember the governor’s party, much less meeting the man. “I
confess I do not recall,” she admitted.
With a winsome grin, he said, “It was several years ago, madam. You were quite
young.” Abbey glanced at Sam, who now seemed oddly perturbed.
“Perhaps we did,” she said uncertainly.
“Lady Darfield, if you will excuse us, we won’t keep you any longer,” Sam interjected. “Lord Darfield is undoubtedly waiting,” he continued, and gave Routier an uncharacteristically dark look that puzzled Abbey.
“Of course. A pleasure, Mr. Routier. Good day,” she said, and slipped through
the paddock gate. She did not turn back and walked as slowly as she could make
herself until she was quite certain they were far enough along the path they
could not see her, then she dashed into the stable.
She paused inside so her eyes could adjust to the dim light. A horse in a nearby
stall snorted right above her shoulder, surprising her, and she let out a little
shriek as she whirled toward the beast. Michael’s huge black stallion snorted
again, impatiently, and studied her closely with one enormous black eye.
Abbey
gaped at the horse. She had never been so close to the huge animal; he had to be
at least a foot taller than she and was as terrifying as he was large.
“A magnificent piece of horseflesh, wouldn’t you agree?”
For the second time, Abbey started and turned abruptly to see a tall, dark-haired man.
“My apologies, I did not mean to frighten you,” he said, flashing an apologetic