repeat anything I am about to tell you… I tell you only so you may understand
why the keen interest in your every move,” he said reluctantly. Abbey quickly
nodded her agreement. Alex was silent for several moments, staring at the path
ahead of them as he gathered his thoughts.
“Michael and I were boys, attending Eton, when the first scandals occurred. His
father apparently gambled away the family fortune, and he was removed from
school. Lord Darfield was a man possessed, frankly. He would win a few pounds,
then lose twice as much. He was not partial to any particular type of gaming—he
would bet on anything. He borrowed from everyone—family, friends, business
associates— ostensibly to repay his debts, but then he invariably gambled that
away. The Ingram family owed virtually everyone, and for a period of a few years, they were shunned, treated as if they were lepers.”
Abbey winced.
“Michael bore the brunt of his father’s disgrace and, reportedly, his abuse.
Before he was of age, he escaped to the French wars. He hid his identity, fighting in the trenches with common men. He told me years later a captain
recognized him, and he was promptly sent home, as it was unheard of for an heir
to a title to fight like a commoner. When he returned, I think he found things
much worse than before he left. A little older and wiser, he did the only thing
he could to save his family from complete ruin. He turned to trade, a profession
wholly unacceptable to most of the ton. Nonetheless, Michael took to the seas,
and over the years made a fortune to repay his father’s debts.
Unfortunately,
even though he amassed a fortune far greater than what was needed to restore the
family honor, his father continued to gamble it away.
“Eventually, the marquis became so ill with his liver ailment—brought on by his
strong predilection for whiskey—he could no longer gamble. Michael was able to
rebuild the family fortune and good name and the talk seemed to decrease. The
Ingrams were not deemed the pariahs they once had been.”
Abbey sighed as they strolled along, trying to imagine Michael, working hard to
restore the family. And all that time, she had thought he was happily sailing
the open seas, working to build a future. For her. She suddenly flushed, embarrassed by her foolishness.
“In amassing his fortune, your husband made some enemies along the way,” Alex
continued, his face darkening. “In particular, there was an Englishman who held
himself up as a paragon of virtue but who was actually pirating. Rumors began to
circulate that the pirate was none other than the Devil of Darfield. This news,
of course, was easy for the ton to believe because he had amassed not one but
two fortunes in shipping. The culprit behind the vicious rumor was a ruthless
businessman whom Michael had occasion to meet in foreign ports. The man was
pirating, and when Michael threatened to expose him and captured his routes, the
man turned the tables and accused him of pirating.
“But as the charge was completely without foundation, Michael survived, and all
was going well until his younger sister, Mariah, made her debut. I was on the
continent at the time, but I was given to understand that the fragile goodwill
that had been extended to Michael was not extended to her. There were no suitors
for her hand. Her brother was in trade, after all, and the family stigma weighed
more heavily on her than Michael. A lovely young woman, mind you, and not one
single offer for her hand in her debut Season, which in some circles spelled the
end for the poor girl.”
Spellbound by his tale, Abbey leaned toward him, her eyes wide. “How horrible
for her,” she murmured.
Alex nodded his agreement. “When the ton turns its collective back, it takes a
small miracle to turn it around again. Sometime later, I think Mariah believed
the miracle had come in the form of a suitor. An Englishman, just returned from
a voyage, saw her in Brighton and fell quite hard for her. He courted her in earnest, and when Michael returned home from the Mediterranean, he was presented
with an offer for her hand, as his father was too incapacitated to act.
Michael
flatly turned it down. The suitor, you see, was the same pirate who had spread
the rumors about him. Mariah was understandably devastated.
“A couple of years later, Ian McShane, a minor partner in Michael’s trade, had
occasion to meet Mariah at Blessing Park, and the two fell in love. A handsome
young fellow, but a Scot with no title. Nonetheless, Michael happily gave his
blessing to the union. After the wedding, McShane took Mariah to Scotland, where
I believe they reside to this day. It was a proper courtship, to be sure, but when the ton learned of her marriage, rumors started to build that it hadn’t been proper at all, that McShane had defiled her—some went so far as to say she
was with child.”
Abbey’s hand flew to her throat. Alex frowned as they neared Park Lane.
“All
lies, of course, but because McShane was a Scot and untitled, the vicious rumors
persisted. Thankfully, Mariah has never been aware of the scandal that followed
in the wake of her wedding. It all fell on Michael,” Alex said solemnly. He stopped at the park entrance and looked down at Abbey.
“And, as you know, Marian’s wedding was followed by the tragic death of Lady
Darfield. Her untimely death came but a fortnight after the wedding, and rumors
abounded that she had hanged herself to escape the shame of her daughter’s ruin.
Lord Darfield died soon after that.”
“Dear God.” Abbey gasped softly, cognizant of the rage building in her.
There
was never a kinder, gentler, or more generous man than Michael, she thought
angrily, and she felt nothing but scorn and intense rage for those who would
tear him down. She stared at her feet in speechless frustration until Alex patted her hand.
“In the last few years Michael has chosen to remain at Blessing Park when he is
not at sea. He has quietly and consistently rebuilt the family honor by earning
a reputation as a shrewd and fair business partner and by erasing all the Ingram
debts. Time and absence has helped heal the old wounds, to be sure.
Just last
year he happened to be in London during the Season and uncharacteristically
attended a ball. Since he had kept to himself all those years, he was suddenly
deigned the elusive Marquis of Darfield, and just as suddenly, everyone wanted
to know him. He became the most coveted guest at all events. He didn’t attend
more than a handful, and returned to Blessing Park as quickly as he could. The
mystique has only intensified since then. When his marriage was announced, you
can well imagine the frenzy. Now you are the most sought after person of the
Season.”
Abbey paled. “Oh, dear God, how will I cope?” She moaned.
Alex chuckled. “I have every faith you will cope, Lady Darfield. Quite frankly,
I believe you could charm an old billy goat into your bidding with a single smile. You will be fine, and I daresay the fairer half of the ton will be wild with envy.”
Abbey blushed and shyly looked at him. “Lord Southerland, you have been too
kind. Thank you for rescuing me,” she said, and started to step away. She hesitated, then turned back and took one of his large hands in hers. “I needed
to hear that. Thank you,” she said softly, and with a gentle squeeze, stepped
away, darting gracefully across the street.
Alex Christian stood at the park entrance and watched her walking briskly toward
Audley Street, an appreciative smile on his lips. When she had disappeared from
view, he sighed with a bit of longing and turned back to the park, in search of
his aunt and her fellow prowlers.
In the early evening, Michael returned from White’s where, for the first time in
many years, he had actually enjoyed a card game. It was odd how easy it was to
get along in Polite Society when one was not the object of scornful gossip. That
realization did not endear the ton to him in the least, but he had enjoyed a relaxing afternoon nonetheless.
He smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs to his rooms. The anticipation
among the same Polite Society of seeing Lady Darfield was particularly evident.
Every single acquaintance he had greeted at White’s had asked if he were attending the Delacorte Ball and if his lovely wife would accompany him.
One man
had even asked him what she would be wearing, a question that had startled him.
When Michael responded he had not the vaguest notion, the man had sheepishly
confessed that his wife was curious.
Sam, too, had grumbled that he could not get any work done because of the number
of callers pestering him with questions about the Marquis and
Marchioness of
Darfield. His friend was obviously weary of the attention, but had grinned with
great amusement when he related how some of the more illustrious patrons of the
ton were scheming to meet Abbey. Michael chuckled under his breath as he untied
his neckcloth and tossed it aside. He was half tempted to skip the ball. It would serve his former—and numerous—detractors right to be led down a path of
great anticipation, only to wait all night for the woman who would never appear.
He had no doubt Abbey would agree; she had been a bundle of nerves about the
ball when he had left her that morning.
Michael ordered a hot bath and stripped out of his clothes. As he shrugged into
the dressing gown Damon held out for him, he caught Abbey’s scent on the black
velvet. He brought the fabric to his face and inhaled deeply. The truth was that
he wanted to show the ton the prize that was his. After years of abuse, he wanted men to look at him with envy and know he was the victor. He wanted women
who had so shamelessly thrown themselves at him last Season to understand the
kind of woman he would make his. In truth, he anticipated this evening more than
anyone else in London.
Strains of music drifted into his room from the adjoining chamber as he bathed.
Abbey was playing a lively tune, a very good sign.
“It would appear her ladyship is in a festive mood, sir,” Damon muttered as he
handed Michael a towel.
Michael smiled. “It would appear.” He secured the towel around his waist and
walked to the basin, lathered his face, and began to shave.
“What do you think, Damon? Black attire this evening?” he asked as he scraped at
his whiskers.
“Yes, my lord, and, if I may suggest, the silver silk waistcoat.”
“Fine. You will find a box on the dresser with some amethyst studs. Lay
those
out as well,” Michael said, and toweled his face dry. As he dressed, the music
continued to drift in his room, and he found he could hardly contain himself.
“Get on with it, Damon. There is a beautiful woman calling to me,” he said lightly, and the normally stoic Damon chuckled. When he was fully dressed, the
valet uncharacteristically whistled in appreciation.
“If I may say so, my lord, you look remarkably… fine… this evening.”
Michael smiled as he adjusted his neckcloth one last time. “With talk like that
Damon, you may just turn my head,” he replied, and laughed when Damon turned
crimson red. He picked up a box from his dresser and strolled through the door
adjoining Abbey’s chamber.
Abbey did not hear him enter her room. She was standing in front of the hearth,
her violin on the settee next to her. Staring into the fire, she was lost in thought, her head bowed and her hands clasped behind her. The flickering light
of the fire shadowed the fine angles of her face.
Dear God, how easily she took his breath away.
She was wearing an exquisite pale-pink satin gown. The neckline was squared and
revealed the very enticing swell of her bosom. The gown was fitted to her midsection, then flared out into a full skirt. The bodice was embroidered with
tiny seed pearls, as was the hem and sleeves, and the skirt bore an elaborate
design of the tiny pearls. Her hair was swept up in the unusual and very becoming simple style she preferred. A strand of pearls was threaded through her
thick, dark locks. She looked every inch a princess, and Michael swelled with
unconquerable pride.
“I must be dreaming. You look like an angel,” he said appreciatively from the
door.
Abbey started at the sound of his voice and gave him a bright smile beneath the
rose blush of her cheeks. As he strolled into the room, Abbey curtsied deeply.
“Good evening, my lord husband,” she said demurely.
Michael frowned suspiciously as he pulled her up. “My lord? You’ve not deigned
to address me—”
Giggling, she put a finger to his lips. He caught her hand and kissed her palm
before brushing his lips across hers. The scent of lilac drifted between them,
and Michael reluctantly drew back.
“Pray tell, how is it possible that you can look even more stunning than I have
ever seen you?” he murmured.
She laughed nervously. “You flatter me unduly, especially when you look so
beautiful. I thought I was supposed to draw attention.”
“Do not doubt for one moment that all eyes will be on you, sweetheart,” he said
truthfully, snaking an arm around her waist and drawing her close when her smile
faltered. “Nor should you doubt that I will be ever at your side,” he added, kissing her forehead. He grasped her slender hands in his and stepped back to