Abbey took a quick step backward, shaking her head. “No, you see . . I must
change. I must change! I cannot be married in this gown.” Her eyes flicked nervously about the room.
Michael could not suppress his smile. Just as he had hoped, the threat of a real
ceremony was scaring her.
“Fifteen minutes. I don’t care if you are wearing the same thing in which you
entered this world, you are coming to the chapel in fifteen minutes, understood?” Abbey’s wide eyes fixed on him and she nodded slowly.
Michael
walked out of the room, shutting the door rather loudly behind him. Smiling to
himself, he strolled down the hall to his rooms. It would be the crowning glory,
he thought, to show up at her door in fifteen minutes in all of his finery. If he was not mistaken, he would be putting the little hellion on a coach first thing in the morning.
As Michael changed, Abbey stared at the ice-blue gown she had extracted from a
trunk. It was wrinkled and several of the small pearl beads were missing.
But it
was the wedding dress Victoria had made for her, and by God, she was going to
wear it. That man, that devil did not want to marry her, and at the moment, she
would bet just about anything she had he would not go through with it. He was
trying to scare her, and although he was succeeding—admirably—she was going to
call his rotten bluff.
But God in heaven, what if she was wrong?
She was not wrong, she was certain. She quickly disrobed and slipped into the
dress. It would have been a stunning wedding gown. A low-cut bodice decorated
with tiny seed pearls was fitted tightly to her, the skirt pleated in the back.
Abbey struggled with the buttons and realized, too late, that she could not fasten them all herself. She shrugged as she searched for the slippers dyed to
match her gown. It did not matter. She was not getting married in this or any
other dress. That horrid man would not marry her. He despised her.
She had not had time to do anything with her hair when the rapid staccato fell
on her door again, and it swung open. Not only was he an ogre, but he was
exceedingly rude, she thought, snapping to attention. She was hardly prepared
for the sight of him. Dressed in formal attire of midnight black with a snowy
white satin waistcoat, he looked even more impossibly handsome than before. A
swath of regret cut across her as she stared at his magnificent features.
The
only thing she and her cousins had been right about was his looks. He was, quite
certainly, the most handsome man she had ever clapped eyes on.
At the same moment, Michael thought she would have made a stunning bride even as
he eyed her wrinkled gown. But not his, and not tonight. He leaned negligently
against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest, and let his gaze wander her svelte figure. She was a gorgeous woman, that much he could not deny.
It was a pity; in any other time or place, he would have greatly appreciated her
beauty. But the only thing he would appreciate now was her refusal of the agreement. “Well? The vicar is waiting.”
“AH right,” she said smoothly, and marched out of the room, passing him in a
cloud of pale blue and lilac scent. A laugh caught in his throat as she passed
him and he realized her gown was buttoned only halfway up her back.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. She whirled around, a look of wild panic in
her eyes. Michael quickly held up his hands.
“Your gown,” he said quickly.
Abbey’s brows snapped to a frown. “I am sorry, but I did not come with a lady’s
maid. Surely if I had, you would have sent her back at once. Not responsible for
a bevy of relatives or favorites, isn’t that right?”
Michael chuckled and motioned for her to turn around. Abbey was having none of
that and violently shook her head. He ignored her, put his hands on her shoulders, and forced her to turn. “Do not worry about your good name, Miss
Carrington. I intend to button up this gown of yours as opposed to unbutton it.
I rather doubt your bevy of relatives in America will hear of this little episode,” he said as he quickly fastened her gown.
The light touch of his fingers on her back sent a queer, tingling shiver down
her spine, but Abbey bit her lower lip and endured it. He was right; she could
hardly appear in front of a vicar or anyone else with her gown undone, and as
she had no cousins to help her, she was going to have to allow him this one
indiscretion. She was amazed at how deftly he fastened the tiny row of buttons,
and wondered madly how many times he had sent his fingers flying in the opposite
direction on a woman’s back. As soon as he finished, she jumped away from him,
practically to the other side of the corridor. When Michael motioned toward the
grand staircase, Abbey walked quickly to avoid any further contact, even though
Michael was right on her heels.
“It’s your own fault,” he casually observed. “If you could but give up this absurdity, there would be no call for you to come running out of your room half
dressed.”
Abbey bristled. “I did not come running out of my room half dressed! If you will
recall, you are the one who decreed fifteen minutes. I am not the one acting
irrationally here, you are.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I have explained to you my hands are tied. You are the
only one who can stop this madness, yet you refuse to do it. You are, apparently, as stubborn a wench as you ever were,” he shot back.
Abbey lifted her chin and deigned not to answer that as they raced to the bottom
of the stairs. In the foyer, she turned to proceed down the corridor she had been in earlier, but his hand on her waist stopped her.
“Miss Carrington,” he said. Startled by the intimate contact of his strong hand
on her waist, Abbey stopped and reluctantly glanced up at him.
With his head, he motioned in the opposite direction. “The chapel is this way,”
he said dryly, a thin smile playing at the corner of his lips.
Abbey snorted with exasperation and, pivoting on her heel, began to march in
direction he indicated.
“For your information, I am not nor have I ever been a stubborn wench,”
she
muttered angrily as they strode, side by side, down the corridor. “You undoubtedly believe anyone who does not instantly agree with you is stubborn.
You certainly showed signs of that aboard the Dancing Maiden.”
“If I were you, I would not begin to recount the slights you perceive as being
at my hand, because your transgressions will outnumber mine significantly. You
were an impossible, willful, and most extraordinarily undisciplined child.”
She had been nothing of the sort, and she groaned disdainfully at his fiction.
He was simply trying to goad her. Well, he was going to have to do a lot more
than make up stories about her childhood before she would give in to his strong-arm tactics. No, if anyone was going to cry off, it would be he.
He grabbed her elbow as they neared the end of the corridor and turned into an
alcove from which the chapel was entered. Abbey could see the small sanctuary,
could see the heads of Lord Hunt, Sebastian, and Jones simultaneously turning
toward them.
“Here we are, Miss Carrington. This is your last opportunity to release us both
from this insanity,” Michael said evenly.
Abbey was very sure he would not go through with it. So sure that she looked up
at him and smiled brilliantly. “Not on your life, Darfield,” she whispered sweetly.
Michael’s gray eyes clouded over as if warning her of an impending storm.
And a
storm was definitely brewing inside him. He could not believe the nerve of this
chit. He had been as disagreeable as possible, and yet she was standing there
beside him, her hair tumbling about her shoulders in a gown pulled rumpled from
her trunk, her face a study of very pretty mortification. He had no idea what
compelled her to this other than a stubborn streak a mile long. One thing was
certain. She was an obstinate woman, and that came as no surprise.
He tightened his grip on her elbow and propelled her toward the altar, halting
abruptly just in front of it. He had given her a last opportunity before he pushed her to the brink of humiliation, but she would not relent. No doubt she
would falter if the ceremony was begun, but by then her humiliation before his
best friend and the vicar would be complete. She had it coming, in his humble
estimation. He looked down at her flawless face. She was looking at the altar,
her violet eyes wide with the chagrin she could not hide. He sighed wearily as
he decided to reason with her one last time.
“Look at me,” he commanded her softly.
Abbey did, her expression revealing her uncertainty. He considered her very
carefully, his eyes sweeping her face. “Think on what you are about to do, because it will not easily be undone. Are you quite sure this is what you want?”
he asked softly.
“I have thought about it for a very long time—for what seems almost a lifetime,”
she answered truthfully. She felt compelled to tell him everything she was feeling, but Michael’s eyes hardened again before she could speak.
“I see. If you will turn this way, Miss Carrington.” She did as he asked and was
surprised to see the vicar standing there. Funny, she had not noticed him until
this very moment.
To the vicar, Michael said, “Get on with it.”
Stunned, Abbey stared at the vicar, who began, “Dearly beloved, we gather here
today in the sight of God—‘’
“Wait!” Abbey cried and placed her hand on Michael’s folded arm; the steel
muscles flexed tightly beneath her touch. His gaze shifted to her face with a
distinctive look of cool impatience. This was not right, not right at all.
Abbey
was now extremely uneasy, and searched his icy gray eyes for something, anything
that might indicate he was bluffing. He was bluffing!
“Is this… I mean, are we…”
“It is a marriage ceremony, Miss Carrington,” he said casually. Abbey could not
believe her ears. This man did not look as if he was about to stop this charade,
but she knew he would. He had to!
She looked frantically at the vicar, who conveniently turned his attention to his prayer book.
Michael’s gray eyes flicked to her open mouth and back to her eyes. “It’s what
you wanted, is it not?” he asked quietly through clenched teeth.
“Yes! No! I mean, Michael, of course I want to marry you, I have always wanted
to marry you, but not like this,” she whispered frantically.
Michael sneered. “What were you expecting? A grand affair in London? An event
that the Times would report? The social event of the season? Did you think your
terms granted you all that?” he hissed.
Abbey was suddenly frightened. This man was nothing like the man she remembered
at all, but an impostor in Michael Ingram’s skin, a hateful man who looked so
resentful at this very moment that she thought he could easily strangle her.
“I am not sure what I was expecting, but it most certainly was not this,”
she
whispered hoarsely.
“I warned you,” he muttered angrily. “You know how to stop it.”
Confused, Abbey could not respond. Her little game had spiraled out of control.
For some inexplicable reason, she was paralyzed, knowing she should stop this
now but completely incapable of doing so.
Michael turned his cold gaze to the vicar. “Get on with it. Miss Carrington can
sort out her expectations later,” he said abruptly. The vicar glanced sheepishly
at Abbey, then began again. Stunned, Abbey stood unmoving, unthinking, while the
vicar quickly ran through the ceremony and vows, waiting for the moment Michael
would halt this ridiculous charade. Only vaguely aware that she was
answering,
she mumbled something incoherent when the vicar pressed her for a response, and
next to her, Michael did much the same. When she heard the horrifying words “man
and wife,” Abbey thought she would faint.
Before she could, Michael’s arm encircled her waist and jerked her hard to his
chest. “Lady Darfield,” he muttered, then lightly brushed his lips across hers.
The intimate contact of his soft lips on hers jolted Abbey senseless. A strange,
alluring fire raced up her spine. His lips lingered on hers for a long moment,
and when he lifted his head, she was sure his stone-gray eyes had softened. She
was equally sure, judging by the way he was looking at her, that he had felt the
heat race up his spine, too.
Apparently, she would be the last to know if that was true. He immediately dropped his arm from her waist, pivoted on his heel, and marched out of the
chapel. Abbey stared after him in horrified amazement. Sebastian and Jones shook
their heads sadly at one another, and Sam glared angrily at the vicar for want
of a better target.
Abbey, having cried herself to sleep, awoke the next morning with a dull headache. As her gaze adjusted to the room about her, melancholy descended on
her. She was in his house. Unfortunately, nothing had changed overnight, and
therefore, she would demand he return her to America. His incentive, as if he
needed one, would be her bloody dowry and the satisfaction of her father’s debts. He could keep it and she would never darken his door again—no, his name
would never so much as pass her lips. The vicar could certainly be persuaded to