Chapter Five
It was early afternoon before Abby saw Michael the following day. He had been gone from the house when she had risen. When he entered, his dark hair was windblown, falling in artless, dark curls. He could have been Lucifer himself, beautiful as he was. Her mouth went dry, and her palms grew damp when he entered the room.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “Is there food to be had in this madhouse?”
Abby gaped at him, “Of course there’s food! You have but to ring for one of the servants.”
“I have ringed for the servants since I have arrived here, and they have steadfastly ignored me…I’ve eaten at the inn in the village and at your stepsister’s. I thought perhaps there was some secret code involved in getting Mrs. Wolcot to do more than glare at me.”
Abbi smiled, thinking kindly thoughts of the woman who had been housekeeper, but had stayed on without wages, more in the role of friend and chaperone. “Well, she can be a bit unforgiving. At present, she’s gone to the village. If you’d like, I can prepare something for you.”
It was entirely too domestic, his future wife preparing his meal, but while it was a bit terrifying in one respect, it was quite appealing in another. “I’ll accompany you…I should probably know where the kitchen is on the off chance that I cannot charm Mrs. Wolcot into forgiving me. What do I need to be forgiven for, incidentally?”
“Bringing me back to Blagdon Hall will appease her somewhat. Paying her a decent wage would probably help, as well, my lord,” Abby replied. She wanted to rail at him to stay in the library. She’d only offered to prepare a meal for him to provide a means of escape for herself. A few moments alone would allow her to collect herself.
“Well, you have not only returned to your home but will once again be mistress of Blagdon Hall. Considering that we are to be married in the morning you can leave off with the ‘my lord’.”
“In the morning?” she asked, her steps faltering.
“Yes,” he said, his gaze flaring at her reaction, his brows rising imperiously. “I saw the Bishop this morning, obtained a license and dispensation of the banns. I also spoke with the vicar and arranged the service…I left the selection of witnesses to his discretion. Issuing an invitation to your stepsister seemed a bit dicey under the circumstances, so I shall leave that you.”
“No. Lavinia and I are not close. Our parents were married for a very short time, and we never really got on.” The response was automatic, for her mind was reeling. “Is it absolutely necessary to be this hasty?”
Michael sighed. He had spent his entire adult life hiding from women who wanted to marry him, and had managed to snag the one woman who did not. “Yes, it is. Your reputation was thoroughly compromised by the admission that we were alone together while Lord Allerton was being murdered. Additionally, you spent the night under the same roof with me, without the benefit of a chaperone.”
At his blunt answer, Abby conceded the point. “Of course…You are right.”
A disturbing thought entered Michael’s mind, “Other than our short acquaintance, do you object? Are your affections engaged elsewhere?”
“Oh! No, not at all. It’s just that we’ve only just met, and it all seems such a rush,” Abby said as she pulled items from the larder. “I really do not know you well enough to object. Of course, I’m aware of your reputation. Even here in the countryside, you’re quite infamous. Or is it notorious?”
She was rambling as she measured ingredients into a bowl. Michael found it rather charming. He also found it satisfying to know that he rattled her. Though they had only exchanged a handful of words, he had gathered the impression that Abigail was rarely rattled by anything. “It is highly exaggerated,” he replied mildly.
She met his gaze with a dubious stare, “How highly exaggerated?”
Caught, he capitulated, “Slightly exaggerated, then.”
Muttering something beneath her breath that he could not quite make out, and more than likely would not wish to, she returned to her domestic chores. Her movements were brisk and economical, but the color in her cheeks was high, and she refused to make eye contact with him. He rose from the chair he’d claimed upon entering the kitchen, and moved closer to her. He leaned against the edge of the table, his hip nearly touching hers, “Am I making you nervous, Abigail?”
Abigail did not respond directly to his question, though her movements did take on a frantic edge. “Is there some reason you must stand so close, my lord? Are you hard of hearing perhaps?”
“Perhaps you could whisper in my ear and test the accuracy of my hearing?” he suggested. The tone of his voice was both challenging and seductive. The sweep of her dark lashes upon her flushed cheeks was all the answer he required. He leaned forward until his face was mere inches from hers. Even at such a small distance, her skin was like porcelain. He wanted to touch her, to test the silken texture with the tips of his fingers, to feel the glide of soft skin beneath his lips. “Say anything you want, the more outlandish the better.”
Abbi turned then, so that they were eye to eye and very nearly nose to nose, “You have said enough outlandish things for the both of us.”
Michael used the moment to his advantage. Facing him directly, with her lips such a scant distance from his own, kissing her was both as natural and necessary as breathing. He dipped his head, brushing his lips lightly against hers. She started, but he locked his hands around her wrists, holding her in place.
While not resisting, she was not truly participating either. He decided for the sake of his ego that he would attribute that to lack of experience rather than lack of interest. He increased the pressure slightly, molding his mouth to hers, nipping gently at the sensual curve of her lips. He felt her relax slightly as if she’d finally decided that he didn’t mean to gobble her up. He mapped every contour, tested every curve and then moved lower. Tracing the stubborn jut of her chin, the softer curve of her jaw, he then pressed his lips to the sweetly scented skin of her neck. He felt the small sigh that escaped as it ruffled his hair.
It should have left him feeling triumphant. Instead, it left him craving more. He had been with scores of women, from lusty tavern maids to the most skilled of courtesans. None had ever aroused him so easily and without even a touch. He pulled away and her lashes fluttered against her cheek for only a moment before she opened her eyes and met his gaze.
“I’ve agreed to marry you, my lord, as the arrangement is to both our benefit. Flirtation and seduction are not necessary.”
For a moment, he regarded her curiously. Then he smiled. She was rattled, unsettled by him, and he decided that he rather liked it. “On the contrary, I feel that flirtation and seduction are all the more necessary due to the unusual nature of our betrothal… I would hate to find myself married to a woman who could not abide my kisses. Are they at least passable, Abigail?”
She turned back to the bowl, kneading the dough ferociously. “You are very well aware, my lord, that I have no basis for comparison.”
He trailed the tips of his fingers along her neck, ostensibly to brush an errant curl away, but in reality because he simply desired to touch her. “Then don’t compare. Did you enjoy that kiss?”
“You are insufferable,” she said as her blush deepened.
He stood then, raising himself to his full height, “I won’t plague you with questions that have already been answered. I know that you enjoyed the kiss, and just to be clear, I mean to kiss you again, very soon. There is correspondence that requires my attention…I will see you when lunch is ready.”
Abbi watched him walk away, his long stride eating up the distance of the narrow hall. Her breath shuddered out of her and her knees trembled. The man was a menace—a beautiful and very dangerous menace.
~*~*~
The luncheon Abby had made for him had been delicious, but she had not shared his repast with him. She had served it before quickly vanishing somewhere within the thick stone walls of Blagdon Hall. So, he was dressed and eagerly awaiting her presence at dinner that evening. Mrs. Wolcot had apparently taken him into her good graces with the return of her mistress to the house, and had spent the afternoon in the village obtaining supplies. It was nice to know she had no intention of allowing him to starve.
Michael had decided that afternoon that pressing Abigail further would more than likely sabotage any progress he had made. Of course, he had only a passing acquaintance with good intentions, so whether or not he would actually resist the sweet temptation of her lips remained to be seen. What he knew that he did want from her was information. He wanted know about the woman he had seen on the stairs, and he wanted to know about the torches in the woods at midnight.
With that in mind, he turned as the doors opened, and Abbi stepped into the dining room. Her hair was again dressed severely, in an intricate knot of braids. Given the wealth of it she possessed and the lack of a maid, it was a sensible solution. Her gown was simple white muslin with a modest neckline. It mattered little what she wore, for he had a vivid imagination and could easily envision the lush bounty hidden beneath.
“Good evening,” he said.
“My lord,” she replied, keeping her voice cool.
“Michael,” he corrected. “You should call me Michael.”
For a moment, she looked mutinous, then with a slight nod, replied,“Very well.”
He noted that she did not invite him to use the same level of familiarity, but he took it anyway. “Tell me about the ghosts of Blagdon Hall, Abigail.”
There were no footmen, only Mrs. Wolcot, and her brother remained on as family retainers. Abbi held her breath as Michael assisted her with her chair, but he didn’t touch her. Both relieved and strangely disappointed; she replied, “There is only one ghost at Blagdon Hall. Her identity is unknown, but she’s referred to as the Gray Lady.”
He allowed that bit of news to settle into his mind, recalling the events of the previous night. “Is she generally seen on the stairs or does she make her presence known throughout the hall?”
Abigail paused with the wine halfway to her lips. “You’ve seen her? When did you see her?”
“Last night. I had come down for a brandy. When I was returning to my room, she was standing near the top of the stairs,” Michael said it breezily, as if it was common place to discuss otherworldly visitors. Of course, given his friendship with the Duke and Duchess of Briarleigh, it had become the norm.
Abbi was reeling. The Gray Lady only showed herself in times of extreme danger, and even then, only to members of the family. Her appearing before Michael was tantamount to a blessing, and that was not something she had anticipated. “What did she say?”
“She didn’t speak… She simply pointed to the window. When I looked out, there were torches burning in the woods. A group of people meeting in the woods in the dark of night is typically an ill tiding.”
“I can’t imagine there would be a need to meet at such an ungodly hour if the meeting wasn’t of a nefarious nature, but I’ve heard nothing untoward. Given Lavinia’s reputation in the community, any events that I have been invited to were likely not ones that I wished to attend.”
That went without saying; he thought. “Is there more information about the Gray Lady?”
“Yes, there is a book in the library that has an account of local legends, and she is mentioned.”
Unable to resist, Michael said, “Perhaps you could read it to me as a bedtime story.”
His tone was playful, but Abbi had no doubt that if she agreed to accompany him to his room, reading would be the last thing that occurred. “Perhaps another time,” she said.
Michael sipped his wine. “Most definitely.”
Dinner continued in the same vein. The verbal thrust and parry was enticing enough in its own way. He liked that she had a quick wit, and he liked that she wasn’t so cowed by him that she didn’t use it. The meal ended, and she rose to retire for the evening, he halted her by placing his hand about her wrist. It wasn’t a firm hold. She could have pulled free from his grasp if she chose to, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned to face him.
He slid his hand down, no longer shackling her slender wrist, but caressing her fingers, the palm of her hand. He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm, following that tender touch with the rough scrape of his teeth. A shiver was her only response.
Rising from his chair, he pulled her to him. He could feel the weight of her breasts against his chest, his thickening member pressed against the softness of her belly as he lowered his mouth to hers. He had tasted her sweetness earlier that day, but it still took him by surprise as he kissed her.
He plied her lips with every skilled stroke in his repertoire. Teasing and stroking, and when her lips parted on a sigh, he invaded. He closed his arms about her, deepening the kiss. She tensed against him when he slid his tongue between her softly parted lips, but didn’t attempt to break the contact. Encouraged, he continued the sensual assault. When her fingers clenched on his shoulders, not pushing him away, but gripping to pull him closer, he felt a thrill surge through him.
It was a flagrant kiss, carnal. He didn’t kiss her as if she were a frightened virgin, though he knew that she was. He kissed her with lust, with passion, and with all the benefit of his experience. She was being tossed into a maelstrom of physical sensations that were entirely alien to her, but he knew that his most effective strategy would be to rob her of the ability to think. It was a sound strategy, assuming he could retain his own senses. As the heat exploded between them, he was fairly certain he could not.
Reluctantly, Michael pulled back but wasn’t ready to let her go entirely. He kissed her cheek, the delicate shell of her ear, and once again, pressed a sweet on her lips. “You should go to bed,” he said, “Quickly.”
Abbi surveyed him quizzically, “I don’t understand you, at all. You are reputed to be the worst sort of rogue, and yet you have behaved very honorably with me… You spurned Lavinia and the grossly improper entertainments she offered, which, based on your reputation, should have been precisely to your order. You appear to wear two very different masks, and I can’t help but wonder, who are you really?”
It was a more astute observation than he was comfortable with. Retreating behind a mask of sardonic wit, he replied, “Whoever it suits me to be at the moment.”
Abbi shook her head and moved away from him. “That is a poor answer, my lord.”
Michael watched her walk away. He could go after her. With a few more drugging kisses, he could spend the night making love to her and ignoring such pointed questions. It was tempting, but he found that for once in his life, he wished to do things the proper way. A kiss was one thing, but he intended for her to remain chaste until they were wed. For a notorious rake, he was discovering that he had an alarmingly traditional streak. It was damned inconvenient.
In his own room, a short time later, the kiss still haunted him. He attributed his restlessness to unquenched desire. There was more than that, of course, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
When sleep finally claimed him, he was beset by violent dreams. Abbi was running through the woods, and the torch bearers were closing in on her. Her clothing was torn and bloodied. Those visions gave way to older ones, and took him back to the war and the atrocities he had seen there. Then, in his dream, he was a boy again and Melisande, his first love, was lying broken and bloodied on the forest floor, abused in the most foul of ways.
Beside the bed, the Gray Lady stood watch. Her eyes were filled with sadness, shimmering with phantom tears she could not shed. She reached out her hand, and it hovered above his brow for a moment, before she withdrew. Her touch was incapable of providing comfort to anyone, a fact that accounted for some of her weeping. She gave one last look to the man on the bed, a man who carried a wealth of pain inside him, before fading into the surrounding darkness.
~*~*~
At Whitby Hall, Lavinia was in a foul mood. She had been a harridan since the night before and Lord Ellersleigh’s blatant rejection of her. The jealousy she felt for Abigail had always been unreasonable, but now, with Lord Ellersleigh choosing her sister over her, she was unbearable. A servant ducked out of the room, clutching her bruised forearm. Lavinia had hurled a tray at the girl for having the temerity to interrupt her.
“Lavinia, you mustn’t overset yourself so!” Rupert said. He was distracted, staring up at the naughty mural painted above their bed, and only half listening to her.
Predictably, she turned on him, her eyes blazing and her magnificent breasts heaving as she ranted. She threw her hairbrush at him; the silver backed tool clattering against the wall behind him. “This is your fault!” she shrieked. “If you hadn’t been panting after my stepsister, this never would have happened!”
Rupert rose from the bed, clutching the brush in his hand. He eyed her coolly; his full lips firmed into a cruel line. The cutting words were spoken with a twisted glee. “Ellersleigh turned you down before he even knew that I was in Abigail’s room...You, my darling wife, are no longer in the first stare of beauty. The bloom is off that particular rose. Ellersleigh is a rake by any account, but he prefers respectable widows and discreet wives—not jaded harlots like you.”
Rupert advanced on her then, moving closer until he could grip her face between his hands, pinching painfully. He continued, “You were too bold for him. A man like that wants to feel like he's a hunter... not the hunted. Think back to how it was in the beginning my love. Our secret meetings in the woods, away from your family's prying eyes. You would protest, and I would convince you to go just a bit further.... A real man wants to believe he has taken something, not that it was given.” The truth was, he hadn't the ability to satisfy his wife any longer regardless of what was taken or given. It had been ages since they'd made love. She required more vigor than his diseased body was capable of producing. Perhaps that was Abigail's allure. She would not be comparing the shell he'd become to the man he'd once been. A hint of his bitterness crept out then, and he spoke to her more cruelly. “You could learn a thing or two from your stepsister in that regard.”
Lavinia smiled up at himAny hint of jealousy would not be well received, and she knew it. Lavinia’s lips turned out in a pout; one more suited to a small child than a woman grown. She needed his attention; she craved it, even if it was attention of the unpleasant sort. Placing her hands on his chest, rubbing against him suggestively, she said in a small, childish voice, “But, I wanted him, and you told me I could have anything I wanted.”
Rupert tested the weight of the brush, slapping it against his palm. “You will, one way or another! You will have him, but first you've been very naughty, Lavinia. A spoiled brat who needs to learn her place.”
Lavinia shivered, but it wasn’t fear. She had known when she hurled the brush at him that he would make her pay for it. That had been her primary reason for doing it. She needed the release he could provide; the mingled pain and pleasure of punishment excited her, and the idea that he would be completely attuned to her in those moments. “What will you do, my lord?”
Rupert smiled, his full lips twisting cruelly. She only ever called him that when she wished to submit, when she craved the violence. “We shall issue an apology to both of them, and blame your bad behavior on being upset about poor, dear Allerton. Then we shall invite them to a party.”
Impatience tugged at her, and she snapped back at him. “We’ve done most of that already, barring the apology, and it got us nowhere!”
He grabbed the back of her head, his hand fisting tightly in her hair, yanking her head back and pushing her breasts upward. He hadn't the strength he'd once possessed, but he was still capable of controlling her, at least for a moment or two. “We will also invite Lady Westerbrook… The best way to drive a wedge between Ellersleigh and Abigail is to throw his most recent conquest into the mix. And as for you, do not question me! Do not think to speak to me in such a way! You forget that I am not just your husband, I am also your master... I rule you. Your pleasure and your pain are mine to give and withhold as I see fit!”
The words were cold and cruel, hissed between clenched teeth while his hand still tugged roughly at her hair. Heat rushed through her veins, pooling in her belly. As always the slight tinge of fear and the perfect amount of pain sparked her desire. The brush was still clasped in his other hand, and she knew what was to come. This was the Rupert she'd fallen in love with, the man she'd offered to do anything, become anything for. Those moments of vitality were becoming fewer and further between, but she lived for them. With a meekness they both knew to be a lie, but one that made their games sweeter for it, she said, “Yes, my lord. Forgive me, please.”
He smiled again, stroking the hard bristles of the brush over the delicate skin of her collarbone. They scraped painfully, but the sensation was titillating nonetheless. “I will always forgive you, my pet. But I must punish you anyway. That is the only way you will learn…Take off your clothes and kneel on the bed.”
Lavinia rushed to obey his commands, as eager for the punishment as for the reward that would follow.