Angry with himself, Michael marched straight for the sideboard, poured himself a
large whiskey, and downed it in two gulps. She was absolutely radiant, and
certainly more so than he would have ever dreamed possible. Very good, Michael.
Crush her then lust after her. Very charming. He turned abruptly and walked to
the mantel, deep in thought. He could not forget the look in her eyes when he
told her he would not have her under any circumstances. The contagious
smile and
sparkle in her eye had dimmed rapidly, and he thought he had never seen a more
dejected look in his life. But he was determined to feel no pity or esteem for
her. He was determined to dissuade her from this ridiculous marriage.
But why, in God’s name, did she have to turn out to be such a beauty?
He unconsciously gripped the back of a wing-backed leather chair and glared into
his empty glass.
The circumstances were loathesome at best, and revolting in every way.
From the
day he had received the papers from Carrington’s solicitor, Mr. Strait, he had
been plagued with resentment and fury. Mr. Strait’s letter made it very plain
that if Michael refused, he would be breaking a very legal agreement and risk
certain lawsuits from half of London. On top of that, Abigail Carrington would
lose every penny her father had left her; all but a paltry annuity would go to pay his debts.
Michael could have lived with those two possibilities. He was sure he would be
vindicated if he fought the absurd agreement in the courts. If the little beastie lost her money, well, he was sorry for that, and would have settled a
sum on her that would at least allow her to live in relative comfort the rest of
her days.
What drove him to despair was the reality that in trying to sort through all this mess, he might lose his family’s ancestral home. He could not drag his
family’s name through the mud once more.
Moreover, Carrington had partnered with some of the most influential businessmen
in England. If they were forced to suffer losses because Michael welched on the
agreement, it was he who would suffer irreparable harm, even if he won in the
courts. No one would do business with him; he would be shunned and his powerful
shipping trade could be ruined. He would become a social outcast—again.
In
short, he would do just as well to leave England altogether and start life anew.
A frown wrinkled the bridge of his nose as he recalled how his own solicitors
had confirmed Strait’s interpretation of the legal documents. Resentment still
boiled in his veins. Rationally, he understood that he had signed a legally binding document when he was nineteen and had been fully cognizant of what he
was doing, even if he had not been fully cognizant of all the consequences. And
he further understood that his own father had done his part to make sure Michael
would pay all his days. He expected as much from the old man, but not from
Carrington. Michael could only assume the captain had not told him about the
debt so that he would be forced to marry the little hellion.
And Carrington had tried to sweeten the pot with the lure of a substantial dowry. But that was little comfort to Michael— he did not need or want the young
woman’s money. Just the thought of accepting it made his stomach knot.
But he would make do with the situation. He would live in his spacious Brighton
town house, keeping to the seas, and leave her to rot at Blessing Park.
Rebecca
would not like it, but then again, there was little she liked these days. The woman was simply never satisfied, and Michael suspected until she had his name
and a town house in Mayfair, she would never be. He had not as yet deemed it
necessary to inform Rebecca that he had no intention of marrying her, a conclusion he had reached long before the documents came informing him he would
wed the little hellion. No doubt Abbey would be relieved to marry a marquis. Her
gratitude for being lifted from the bonds of obscurity and given the protection
of his name likely would be so acute that she would undoubtedly pledge to make
him a good wife and bear him many sons.
He would take the sons, but he wanted nothing else to do with her.
He poured another whiskey and began to pace. Despite what he told himself, he
could not erase the memory of her remarkable eyes clouded with confusion. What
in the devil was wrong with him? How had he expected her to look, happy?
It was
part of her punishment, was it not, her payment for her roll in this sham?
Yet
regardless of how much she deserved his disdain, he could not, at the moment,
reconcile the image of her with it. He walked to the windows and angrily yanked
the heavy velvet drapes apart and peered outside, unseeing. He did not turn when
the door opened and closed softly.
“I would wager your reunion did not go well,” Sam remarked casually. His steps
fell silently on the thick Aubusson carpet as he strolled to the sideboard.
“What did you expect?” Michael asked coolly.
Sam wisely did not answer as he helped himself to a brandy. He took a drink and
eyed Michael’s back over the rim of his glass. “Now what?”
Michael shrugged. “I will go to Brighton and summon Rebecca,” he said indifferently as he propped a booted foot on the window seat.
“I think there is something you should know, Darfield. That girl has no notion
of the agreement. Thanks to Carrington, she believes you sought this marriage,”
Sam announced.
Michael grunted his skepticism. “That little hellion knows too well what her father did, Sam. Don’t underestimate her ability to deceive.”
“Don’t underestimate Carrington’s ability, either, for I am telling you, he greatly deceived her. That girl is in love with an image of a man her father created from thin air. Do you know that she believes you sent her gifts over the
last years? That you wrote letters to her father reconfirming your devotion and
desire to wed?”
“Really, Hunt, you do not honestly think she could believe such nonsense,”
Michael snapped.
“On my word, I think she does believe it. You should at least give her the benefit of the doubt,” Sam responded quietly.
Michael glowered over his shoulder at his friend. “I wonder, if you found yourself in similar circumstance, what your reaction might be.”
“I would hope that I would remember the young woman has traveled thousands of
miles to marry a man she has not seen since she was a child. She believes—or
believed—that man loves her and has romanticized that notion to her great satisfaction.” He took a sip of brandy. Michael, saying nothing, turned his broad back again.
Sam sighed heavily. “Well, at the very least she seems to be a rather pleasant
sort. There is no need to treat her ill.”
Michael shook his head and pushed away from the window seat. He strolled toward
the fireplace, absently swirling the whiskey in his glass. “There is no need to
treat her in any
fashion,“ he said after a moment. ”She shall be well attended here while I am in
Brighton.“
“You might at least try to acquaint yourself with her. She’s not the hellion you
described. And after all, she may one day be the mother of your heir.”
Michael threw the whiskey down his throat, slammed his empty glass on the
mantel, and turned to glare at Sam. “You need not remind me of that” he said,
yanking impatiently at his neckcloth. Suddenly the study was stifling.
“It is not wholly inconceivable that she is as much a victim in all this as you
are,” Sam continued, unperturbed, as he placed his snifter down.
Michael snorted scornfully. “If she would but listen to reason, she would not be
the helpless victim in your eyes now,” he muttered angrily before stalking to
the corner of the room and yanking hard on the bell pull.
“It’s really none of my affair—”
“You are right.”
Jones appeared before Sam could respond.
“Jones, get the vicar here. Today. Straightaway,” Michael barked. Jones bowed
and left immediately.
“What are you about?” Sam asked, startled.
“About? I am going to marry her. Or at least make her think I am,” Michael growled and plopped unceremoniously into a leather chair. Sam gave him such a
disapproving frown that he could not help wondering what feminine charms had
swayed his friend so quickly. Good God, not two days ago the two had shared in
his misery. Well, in a matter of a few hours Sam could join him at his wedding—or at least what he hoped would be enough of a wedding to frighten the
little hellion away for good.
Alone in the room Jones had shown her to, Abbey grew increasingly inconsolate.
She longed for the comfort of her aunt and her cousins and felt a pang of homesickness so deep that it doubled her over. Her aunt had made her come here.
She had reminded Abbey she had a fortune to collect and a man who loved her
impatiently awaiting her arrival. Aunt Nan had put her on the first ship out of
Newport after the papers and news of her father’s death had arrived from the
West Indies. But had Aunt Nan known what awaited Abbey, she would never have
sent her. Aunt Nan believed Michael loved her.
With tears burning in her eyes, she cursed the memory of the man she held dear.
The summer she had spent on her father’s vessel had been one of the happiest of
her life. Michael had been kind to her and, in her recollection, had indulged her childish fantasies. Of course, there was the one exception of the unfortunate doll incident, but the Michael she remembered with vivid clarity and
admiration was not the Michael she had met today.
Abbey fought to keep the tears from falling, but failed. When had Michael’s
heart turned from her? Why hadn’t he told her father? Alone in the large, unfamiliar room, she bitterly swallowed the fantasy. Not only had he made it
clear he did not want her, he also made it clear that he resented her. She felt
physically ill, and as she lay despondently on the bed, fighting down waves of
nausea, she grudgingly recognized it was her own naivete that was to blame.
At last she pulled herself off the bed and moved to the gilt-edged vanity.
She sank onto a silk-covered bench and began brushing her hair with a vengeance.
“I shall return to America. There is no other answer,” she stated firmly. It was
the best thing to do. He could have her bloody fortune, or her father’s creditors, or whoever wanted it, she thought bitterly as she regarded her pale
reflection in the mirror. She should have agreed it was a ludicrous situation,
thanked him for his candor, and gone on with her life. But no, she had to get
angry and stubbornly refuse to give ground. At this more rational moment she
realized she would not wed a man who so obviously resented her presence, not
even for her own father, God rest his soul.
A rapid staccato of knocks on her door startled her. The brush stilled in her
hand as she debated opening it, but before she could react, the door flung open
and the devil himself strode through.
Abbey surged to her feet, dropping the brush. “I beg your pardon!”
“Pardon granted,” he drawled as he crossed the room and picked up her brush.
Abbey’s heart was pounding erratically, and for one insane moment, she could not
decide if it was from his ungentlemanly behavior or his sheer magnetism.
“What…
just who do you think you are, barging in here like that!” she fairly shrieked.
“I think I am the master of this house. No door will be barred to me.”
“The door was not barred! It was shut. I should hope you would have the common
decency—”
“Decency”—he grinned devilishly—“is not something I concern myself with. This is
my house. My room. My door. If I want, I shall enter.” With that, he tossed the
brush onto the vanity and put his hands on his waist, regarding her closely. Her
dark hair, which seemed to be all curl, tumbled about her shoulders,
providing a
stark contrast to her pale face and the telltale sign of tears. It was exactly what he wanted. He was moving in for the kill and ignored the thought that his
kill was a kitten.
“Well? Have you thought about what I said?”
Abbey folded her arms defensively across her middle. Of course she had thought
about it, the fool. “No,” she said hoarsely.
Michael arched a skeptical brow as he strolled casually to one of her trunks and
peered inside. “How much longer do you need? An hour?”
All of Abbey’s best intentions flew out of her mind at that moment. He was bullying her, trying to force her hand, and he had aroused a stubborn streak in
her unlike anything she had ever experienced. Her eyes narrowed.
“Five minutes is more likely.” She strolled to the trunk he was standing over
and, with her foot, kicked the lid shut.
Michael lifted his gaze and frowned. So far, his reign of terror was not having
the desired impact on the kitten. “Then your time is up. Either you agree to end
this abomination now, or you will marry me. Tonight.”
Abbey merely shrugged.
“Well?” he demanded, his irritation mounting.
“I will not cry off.”
Michael’s heart skipped a beat. “Then come along. The vicar is waiting,”
he said
with a snarl, and almost smiled in triumph when she paled.
The vicar? Abbey wanted to kick herself for being so incredibly stubborn.
“No…
not yet—”
“Yes, right now. Come along,” he said, reaching for her hand.