mouth and probed gingerly. A small rivulet of blood had erupted where her ring
had made contact with his lip and was tracing a slow path down his chin.
The
little hellion had actually socked him in the mouth! He could not help himself;
he grinned broadly.
Abbey’s surprise and anger at his reaction flashed across her face. This time he
instantly recognized the sign of danger, but could not act quickly enough.
She
grabbed her skirt, and, with her very shapely and slender leg, she kicked him—
hard—in the shin before whirling and fleeing the balcony. Michael grabbed his
leg and rubbed swiftly to erase the pain, then withdrew a handkerchief from his
pocket and dabbed at the blood on his mouth. When he looked down at the specks
of blood on the white linen, he could no longer contain the absurd glee that was
bubbling in his chest. He roared with mad laughter.
Bloody hell, he could not help loving that chit, and Jesus, she had a nasty right upper cut.
Rumors spread like fire through the ton about the rift between the Marquis and
Marchioness of Darfield. In tearooms and drawing rooms across Mayfair, speculation was rife. No one could leave the tempting story of the Darfields
alone—a dark man with an even darker past, suddenly married to a beauty who had
seemingly appeared from nowhere. A glorious introduction to society, followed
swiftly by an arcane falling out. Many who had witnessed the exchange between
Lady Davenport and Lady Darfield at Harrison Green’s believed Michael’s lover
was to blame. Still others hypothesized that the American woman had displayed a
wanton side the marquis could not abide. By all standards, the Darfield story
was better than the most popular novels currently circulating, and in the quest
to feed the ton’s insatiable appetite for gossip, both Michael and Abbey were
inundated with invitations to soirees, routs, balls, and supper parties.
After the Harrison Green affair, Galen told Abbey he did not think it wise to escort her again, given Darfield’s appalling anger. Abbey had reluctantly agreed, but determined not to be put away while Michael dallied with his lover,
she found Lord Southerland to be a willing escort. Her anger had catapulted to
the level of all-consuming fury, and the marchioness attended as many events as
she could. The only course she had to escape the pain of it all was to submerge
herself in the whirl of society. At least at those insufferable events, she was
distracted from thoughts of him for the space of a few hours.
Well, almost. He was never far from her mind and, much to her chagrin, never far
from her side. It seemed he attended every event she did, practically flaunting
his disdain in her face by amusing himself with different women.
It angered and hurt her; she retaliated by dancing often and with as many partners as she could. If Michael noticed, he gave no sign. He blatantly ignored
her for the most part, and if their paths did accidentally cross, he was extremely terse and distant. He made a practice of addressing his curt remarks
to her escort, acting as if she did not exist. If he did speak to her, it was to
make some coarse remark. Abbey replied hotly with such sharp retorts as
“Let me
be,” or the equally stinging “Go away.” She simply could not seem to find her
tongue when he was near.
As furiously angry as she was, she could not help thinking Michael
reminded her
of a caged bird that had been freed. He flew about the room, from attraction to
attraction.
Obviously she had been his cage.
She began to second guess herself. Had she imagined everything that had happened
between them? Had she been so in love with him that she had attributed feelings
to him that he did not have? When he finally realized the truth, would he want
her back? She could not believe he would, given how he avoided her at all costs.
But dear God, after all that had happened, she still wanted him. She could not
stop loving him, no matter how desperately hard she tried. Even the rather daunting prospect of Lady Davenport did not quell her love.
Her dismay turned to abject misery when she began to suspect she was pregnant.
She had never been terribly regular, but after forty-five days or more without
her courses and bouts of extreme fatigue she could no longer deny it. Her pregnancy set her adrift on a sea of uncontrollable emotions. One minute she was
elated about the prospect of bearing a child, his child. The very next minute
her spirits plummeted. He did not want her; would he want this child? At night,
she tossed and turned, unable to sleep from desperation about her predicament or
because she so missed his arms around her. God, how she longed to talk to her
aunt! There was no one she could trust as she did her aunt and cousins, no one
she could talk to about her situation.
So she struggled with her warring emotions alone.
Michael attended the same affairs as Abbey, unsure as to why and unwilling to
debate the issue with himself. He abhorred them; whatever his peers thought was
happening between him and his wife did not deter other women from seeking his
attention. In another time he might have found it amusing, but he utterly
despised their inane chatter and obvious motives.
Abbey certainly seemed to enjoy the intolerable events. After watching her over
the course of several nights, he thought it seemed too easy for her. She seemed
to fall to a man’s charms effortlessly, laughing gaily at their remarks and gracing every blasted one of them with that devastating smile. She was the one
who had professed great love for him. If that were so, why wasn’t she suffering
as he was? When he listened to her melodious and carefree laughter, he could
honestly believe that she did have some part in Carrey’s fraud.
And it was surprisingly painful to think she had dismissed him so easily.
Despite the fact that her eyes still seemed oddly vacant to him, he found himself wondering from time to time if she was the consummate actress a scheme
such as this required. He envied Sam, who had come to the miraculous conclusion
that she was innocent. He based his conclusion on nothing and everything.
Michael wished he could be so sure.
It was Withers who gave him the most pause. The old sailor had confessed to
Michael that he had seen his mistress give Carrey money, yet he firmly believed
she had acted from the goodness of her heart. The stoic bear of a man had been
adamant that it was impossible for Lady Darfield to be anything but guileless.
Why couldn’t he believe that? Because when he had given her the chance, she had
chosen to take Galen’s side and had lied to him. It was all so simple: He loved
her. She had lied to him. He could not trust her.
Doubts consumed him. He roamed the spacious town house at odd hours, hardly
eating or sleeping. He kept her violin on his desk in the study, and on occasion, he would lift the instrument from its case and examine the bow while
he imagined her delicate fingers holding it, moving it across the strings. In those moments, he could almost hear her. More than one night he was haunted by
the image of her strolling about his room, playing with her imaginary orchestra,
and evoking a depth of emotion in him that made him shiver.
God, he missed her.
When Sam came by the morning of the Wilmington Ball, he found Michael studying
the violin again.
“Bow Street has uncovered some interesting news,” he announced dryly as he
entered the library, dispensing with the usual pleasantries and dropping into a
leather chair. Michael slowly put the violin away.
“Strait seems to have disappeared without a trace,” Sam continued.
Michael’s interest was immediately piqued. “How could that be? Perhaps he is on
the continent?”
“Could be, but personally, I doubt it. According to the man’s spinster niece who
keeps his house, a Mr. Malcolm Routier was one of the last men she saw him with
shortly before he disappeared,” Sam said as he casually crossed one leg over the
other.
Michael was still. That tiny piece of news confirmed his suspicions—Routier was
behind this.
“I know what you are thinking,” Sam remarked, reading Michael’s expression. “It
was not, apparently, out of the ordinary for Routier to call. He had engaged Strait’s services from time to time.”
Michael leaned forward on his desk and rubbed his temples. “He could be his
bloody brother for all I care. Routier is behind it,” he said patiently. “I had a message from Carrey this morning requesting an audience this afternoon. I
shall inquire of the cousin just how unusual it might have been for Routier to
call on Strait. And if he might have a notion where Strait is.”
A chambermaid, responding to Abbey’s inquiry as to whether the study was in use,
informed her that a man befitting Galen’s description had arrived and waited
there. Abbey’s heart skipped a beat; after their ill-advised outing, she had
heard nothing from her cousin. She had to see him; she had to know he was all
right. And she had an idea.
She hurried downstairs and positioned herself in the library. After what seemed
like hours to her, at last she heard the sound of boots echoing in the corridor
and risked opening the door a crack. Galen was walking swiftly down the hall,
his head down and his expression inscrutable.
“Galen,” she whispered frantically from behind the door. His head snapped up and
toward her. His eyes met hers, and he glanced furtively over his shoulder before
slipping inside. Abbey quietly shut the door behind them and with a muffled
squeal of happiness, embraced her cousin.
Galen grabbed her arms and pulled them from his neck. “Abbey, are you all
right?” he asked, his expression strained. “I have worried what that devil was
doing to you; I left word where I could be reached, did the butler tell you?”
“I am very well, Galen! I told you, Michael would never harm me!” Abbey assured
him.
Galen shook his head. “I cannot be so sure!” His dark reaction surprised her.
Not once had she ever feared Michael. She might be estranged from him, but she
knew him well enough to know that he would never harm her. “I know he seems…
severe. But please forgive him, Galen. He has lived a terribly hard life and has
been treated ill many times before. I know he is being highly unreasonable, and
extremely obstinate, but it’s because he assumes—”
“He assumes a lot. Maybe we should let sleeping dogs lie, little one. The man is
unyielding,” Galen muttered miserably.
“Don’t despair. He will come around, I know he will. I’ve been thinking, Galen.
There is one person who could give him the proof he needs,” Abbey said reassuringly, and touched his arm.
“Who?” he asked skeptically.
“Mr. Strait! I do not know why I did not think of this before. It’s perfectly logical, don’t you think? At the very least he would confirm that he sent the
first set of papers prematurely, probably because Papa insisted. Papa could be
very insistent when he wanted to be, and I know from experience it was quite
difficult to disagree with him at times, his deathbed notwithstanding—‘’
“Strait?” Galen choked, blanching visibly.
Puzzled, Abbey asked, “What is wrong?”
“Abbey,” Galen said, catching her hands, “I do not think that’s a good idea.”
“But why not? He can help you, Galen. I remember him, he was a kind man. He can
dispel Michael’s doubt.”
“There is nothing Strait could say that would dispel his doubts, little one.
Your husband would not believe the king himself,” he said, and turned abruptly,
shoving a hand through his light-brown hair. He looked completely hopeless as
his eyes roamed the small room.
“We must at least try, Galen! If we don’t, Michael will never return your inheritance!”
“It won’t work. Now is hardly the time to go chasing after some ancient solicitor!” he snapped.
Stunned, Abbey could not believe what she was hearing. She had racked her brain
for a solution that would bring Galen his due and erase Michael’s doubt.
Mr.
Strait was their only hope, and Galen was reacting as if it were the most foolish idea she could have conceived.
Before she could convince him, Galen closed his eyes in a painful grimace. “I
must go; he will think we are colluding if he finds us here,” he said bitterly.
“But, Galen!” Abbey exclaimed, distressed.
Galen’s eyes softened. He quickly grasped her hand and brought it to his lips.
“It will all be over soon. One way or another, it will be over very soon,” he said enigmatically, and walked swiftly to the door. She watched in stunned
disbelief as he cracked it open and, seeing the corridor clear, looked sadly at
her and slipped outside. Abbey stood there for several long moments, grappling
with his strange behavior. Why wouldn’t Galen listen to her? Why was he so
reluctant to find Mr. Strait? It was puzzling. And extremely bothersome.
Sullen and feeling nauseous, she returned to her rooms and winced when she
noticed the time. She had accepted the invitation to accompany Lady Paddington
to the Wilmington Ball, where the elderly woman had declared she would strip her
good friend Mrs. Clark of every pence she had in revenge for their card game two
nights past. Lord Southerland had been right; the group of elderly women he