this evening, if you don’t mind me saying so. I hope your bout of nausea earlier
this week was nothing serious.”
“Oh, no, I am perfectly fine, thank you. I suppose I am a bit tired.” She smiled.
“You don’t say.” Routier’s yellow eyes held hers for a long moment, pricking
something in the back of her consciousness, but she pushed it away.
“Actually, I have not been sleeping too terribly well. I think I’ve a touch of insomnia.”
Malcolm raised a thin brow. “Indeed? I am sorry for that. Perhaps a turn about
the gardens might help?” That actually sounded like a very good idea.
Yes, a
walk about the gardens would get her out of this stuffy room, away from the
attentions of a dozen London dandies, and perhaps clear her head.
“I would like that very much,” she agreed, and with a smile took his proffered
arm.
After greeting the Wilmingtons, Michael walked swiftly to the ballroom. He made
a quick scan of the room but did not see Abbey. He turned and headed for the
grand salon, thinking Lady Paddington might have enticed her into a game of loo,
but she was not there, either. He began to return to the ballroom, but spied his
two friends, Sam and Alex, sitting together at a table in the library, chatting
amicably over a snifter of brandy. In spite of his mission, he smiled to himself
and changed course. No doubt every debutante within a fifty-mile radius was
plotting how to get two of the most eligible bachelors in all of Britain onto an
overcrowded dance floor. No doubt the bachelors were plotting just as fiercely
to stay off it.
“Darfield, we did not expect to see you this evening,” Alex said, stretching his
long legs in front of him.
Michael took a seat at their table and accepted the brandy a footman offered
him. “Wasn’t expecting to be here,” he admitted. “But I have something I would
very much like to discuss with my wife.” He could not help himself; a faint smile turned the corners of his lips. Sam looked at him as if he had lost his
mind; Alex chuckled.
“I, for one, will be greatly disappointed if the Darfields determine to spend their evenings together,” Alex whispered conspiratorially to Sam. “I have been
extremely grateful for Lady Darfield’s willingness to attend Aunt Paddy.”
Sam was less hopeful. “I just hope there are no altercations.”
Michael smiled enigmatically and sipped his brandy. “None that I anticipate, but
then again, with Lady Darfield, one can never be too sure.”
“Speak of the devil, isn’t that the cause of your rift?” Alex asked quietly, nodding toward the door.
Michael glanced over his shoulder, his face immediately darkening at the sight
of Galen Carrey. “How in God’s name did he get in here?” he muttered. He placed
the brandy snifter on the table and rose as Galen spotted him and walked
quickly
to him.
“What in the bloody hell are you doing here, Carrey?” Michael muttered through
clenched teeth.
Galen flicked a nervous gaze to Sam and Alex, who both regarded him with
disdain. He lifted his hands, palms facing outward. “Hear me out, Darfield, that’s all I ask.”
“I am through hearing you, Carrey. I would have thought I made that perfectly
clear this afternoon.”
“I would not have come here except that I am concerned for Abbey—”
“She is none of your concern—”
“Perhaps not,” he interjected, “but I thought you would want to know that she is
quite vulnerable at the moment.”
That drew Michael up short. “What do you mean?”
“You were right about me, Darfield. It is a forgery,” Galen muttered, looking over his shoulder. Michael’s gaze did not waver from his face, but Alex and Sam
exchanged startled glances. Simultaneously, the two men sat up and leaned
forward.
“The devil you say. What a surprise,” Michael mocked.
“Do you want to hear this or not?” Galen demanded.
Michael paused, considering whether he did or not, and finally, motioned the man
to a seat. Galen sat gingerly, shook his head at the brandy a footman offered
him, and clapped his hands on his knees, bracing himself. With a deep breath, he
began speaking. In a calm monotone, he related a story of fantastic proportions,
one that involved Michael’s worst enemy, forgery, murder, and a scoundrel’s
change of heart.
His audience of three was completely absorbed by his tale. Occasionally one
would ask a question, which Galen calmly answered. He made it very clear that
Abbey had known nothing about his ruse but had simply tried to help him, a
cousin for whom she held a special fondness. Galen’s earnest entreaty did not
fully exonerate her for Michael, because she had lied to him, but it went a long
way toward healing an open wound. When Galen finished, he slid his gaze to
Michael.
“Why are you telling me this now?” Michael demanded.
“Abbey discovered my scheme. She sent me a note, insisting I meet her here, and
then demanded I confess. And as I was leaving to find you, I encountered Routier. I told him I would not go through with it. He was exceedingly angry, I
am sure you can imagine, and I thought you should know—”
Michael was on his feet immediately. “Routier is here?” he asked with deadly
calm.
“Yes, somewhere.”
Michael did not say another word but turned abruptly and marched from the
library. With a quick exchange of glances, Galen, Sam, and Alex followed him.
Abbey followed Routier’s lead along the terrace, enjoying the cool breeze.
Her
companion was oddly quiet. “The air is refreshing, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” he remarked, his voice strangely cool.
Abbey glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “You seem tense, Mr.
Routier.”
“Perhaps I am,” he said curtly. A warning bell, so faint as to be ignored, went
off in Abbey’s head, bat he looked at her and smiled. “Then again, perhaps not.
Have you seen Lady Wilmington’s maze? It is supposedly the grandest in London.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Now that’s a sight you will not want to miss,” he said, and began to lead her
down the flagstone steps.
“But Mr. Routier, it’s dark!” She laughed.
“There is plenty of light, I assure you. They post torches inside in case one is
lost.” Abbey felt an odd sense of foreboding as they strolled toward the maze
entrance. “I don’t think we should go inside. It hardly seems proper.” She laughed nervously.
“Proper? Since when have you been bothered by propriety, Lady Darfield?‘’
He
smiled so strangely that her skin crawled.
She frowned at him, uncertain as to what he meant by that remark. “I believe the
maze is reserved for lovers, Mr. Routier. Not casual strollers such as ourselves.”
“I think it perfectly suitable for us,” he muttered.
“I beg you pardon?”
“I am quite certain you understood me,” he said sharply.
They were almost to the maze entrance; he gripped her elbow and walked briskly
toward the hedge, propelling her with him. Momentarily confused, the warning
that went off in Abbey’s head was as loud as belfry bells but, unfortunately,
woefully too late. She tried to pull away from him, but he shoved her toward the
narrow entrance cut into the hedge, then crowded in behind her, his frame filling the narrow opening. Once inside, he pushed her forward.
Abbey stumbled, then whirled to face him, walking backward as she stared at him
in astonishment. “Mr. Routier, what on earth has come over you? I do not want to
explore the maze!”
“But I do,” he said casually, advancing on her. Alarm coursed through her veins.
Routier’s face was cast in stone, and his yellow eyes had hardened so that she
suppressed an involuntary shiver. He smiled at her obvious alarm—a thin, faintly
snide smile.
“If I have given you cause to believe my friendship was any more than just friendship, I am truly sorry. I am a married woman, sir, and not the least bit
interested in any assignation.” She stepped backward, knocking up against the
hedge.
“You are an incomparable beauty, do you know that?” Routier said softly as his
eyes languidly perused her, his tongue flicking across his bottom lip.
She quickly brought her arm up, outstretched, in a vain attempt to hold him at
bay. “I will thank you to step away, sir. Your advances are most unwelcome,” she
said bluntly.
Routier’s lips curled in a lecherous grin. “Resistance. That’s the way I like it, ma belle.”
Dear God, he had been her friend. How could he possibly intend what she was
interpreting? “I don’t. I think you take my meaning,” she insisted.
“I do not think you take mine.” He laughed balefully. “Oh, come now, Lady Darfield. Surely you would enjoy a tryst with someone other than Darfield?
Really, you should have convinced him to give over your dowry and left that
bastard. He’s not good enough for you, can’t you see that? You don’t understand
how he cheapens you. He does not know how to love a woman, not like I do,” he
muttered thickly.
Abbey’s entire body reacted violently to his words. Nothing or no one could be
more repulsive. She closed her eyes for a brief moment to fight back a spasm of
fear and loathing, when she opened them a second later, Routier was upon her.
Abbey threw up her hands and hit his chest.
“Pretend if you must, angel, but I know a woman like you appreciates something
hard between her thighs,” he murmured, breathing heavily.
Abbey’s heel came down hard on the soft leather of his shoe. Routier froze, his
eyes narrowing to malicious slits. Abbey recoiled, backing farther into the hedge and effectively trapping herself. Dear God, what was happening?
Was the
entire populace of England insane? She swallowed past a crippling fear that
threatened to overwhelm her. She did not move as he coldly studied her face. She
barely breathed. She prayed. Fervently.
A grotesque smile that caused Abbey to shudder convulsively snaked across his
lips. She had never seen a look quite like it, but she knew what it meant.
She
could not, would not, let him touch her.
“Darfield will not want you if you are ruined, will he? Is that what is worrying
that pretty little head of yours?” He did not wait for an answer. He grabbed her
around the waist with one arm and clamped a hand over her mouth. Then he picked
her up as if she weighed little more than a feather and hauled her deeper into
the maze. Abbey struggled helplessly; Routier merely laughed at her efforts.
“You are right to be concerned, my dear. Darfield will never touch you again if
he thinks I have had you. And I will have you, every delicious inch of you.”
He
stopped in a small clearing and grinning lecherously, ran his tongue over his
lips as he looked down at her. With his hand covering her mouth, Abbey could
hardly breathe. “What a wonderful dilemma for the marquis. A pretty little wife,
compromised by Malcolm Routier. But he will never be quite certain it wasn’t
consensual, will he? He does not easily believe you, I think.” He chuckled.
Abbey struggled furiously; Routier’s hand slipped from her mouth. “Please do not
do this,” she gasped. Routier answered by grabbing her hair and yanking her head
backward. Somehow Abbey managed to wrench free from his grasp and, whirling,
started to run. But Routier caught her around the waist and jerked her to his
chest so hard that it knocked the air from her lungs.
“Don’t fight it, darling. There is no pleasure in fighting,” he muttered into her ear. Hysteria mounted swiftly and Abbey screamed. Routier cut it off by
clamping a damp hand over her mouth and forced her around to face him.
“Do not scream again, bitch,” he said angrily, removing his hand from her mouth,
only to replace it with his lips.
His kiss was brutal. When she would not part her lips, he bit her. Her reflexive
gasp allowed him entry, and his tongue plunged into her mouth, sickening
her.
Abbey pushed against his chest, sought his feet with hers in an attempt to
strike his instep. Routier only laughed against her mouth and deepened the kiss.
She tried to turn away, but he was so much stronger, and with one arm around her
waist anchoring her to him, he used the other to force her face to him. He pushed her up against the hedge and trapped her beneath his hard frame, then
shoved his hand into the bodice of her gown and maliciously squeezed her breast.
Hysteria pounded in her neck and chest. She continued to struggle, but she knew
she was at a great disadvantage, and had never felt more helpless. She could not
stop him from assaulting her. When his hand began to claw at the skirt of her
gown and drag it upward, Abbey screamed against his mouth.
He would have succeeded in raping her had someone not ripped her from his arms.
She was not sure how, but she had the sensation of being shoved aside.
The heel
of her shoe caught her hem, and she tumbled backward, landing solidly on her
rump. Stunned, it took Abbey several moments to focus on the tussle on the grass
in front of her. Someone grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and hauled her to
her feet.
“God, are you all right?” Lord Southerland was looking down at her with grave
concern. She nodded dumbly as her fingers came up and lightly fingered her lip
where Routier had bit her. Disgust glanced the duke’s features, and he jerked