The Stranger I Married

“But you won’t.”



And he didn’t. Fear for her held him back, because she was his wife—his to please, his to enjoy, his to protect. He would not lose her like he lost Em.



His. She was his.



Now he need only convince her of that.



When Gerard finally found the strength of will to leave his bed, he went directly to Spencer’s rooms, but did not find him there. A cursory search of the house turned up nothing. It was then he discovered his brother had departed soon after their row. To say he was worried would be an understatement. He had no notion of what Spencer had overheard the night before or who had spoken the words that so angered him.



I will not tolerate the disparagement of our name…I will do what is necessary.



Growling, Gerard went to his office and penned two quick notes. One waited for Isabel, while the other was dispatched immediately. He had planned to escort his wife to whatever events she had agreed to attend, and he’d looked forward to both her company and the chance to dispel the rumors that plagued them. Now he was forced to scour clubs, brothels, and taverns to be certain Spencer did not land firmly into a puddle of trouble, as their mother claimed was his wont to do.



Damn and blast, he thought, as he waited for his horse to be saddled and brought around. An entire afternoon of physical exertion had made him somewhat jellied in the legs and should the need come for fisticuffs, he was certain he would not be at his best. Because of this, he prayed Spencer was not pursuing a fight, but simply drinking or whoring. And of those two choices, Gerard preferred the latter. Sated, perhaps, his brother would be more amenable to listening to reason.



Vaulting into the saddle, he urged his mount away from the house that was now a home and wondered how many more decisions of his past would hurt those he cared for.



“What are you doing here, Rhys?” Isabel asked as she entered the parlor. Try as she might, she could not hide the irritated note in her voice. To wake up without Gray was bad enough; to read his curt and vague missive only compounded her disgruntlement.



I must see to Spencer.



Yours,



Grayson



She knew how men related to one another—they argued, and then made up over ale and women. Well acquainted with her husband’s stamina, she could not put the indulgence past him.



Her brother rose from his seat on the blue velvet settee and sketched a quick bow. Dashingly dressed in evening black, he was a remarkable sight. “I am at your service, madam,” he intoned in a comical imitation of an upper servant.



“My service?” She frowned. “Whatever am I supposed to need you for?”



“Grayson sent for me. He wrote that he was unable to accompany you this evening and suggested I might like to. For if I did, surely I would be too weary to meet him in the rings at Remington’s in the morning. And in his gratitude for my escort, he would excuse me. Indefinitely.”



Her eyes widened. “He threatened you?”



“I warned you he would give me a thrashing for taking you away from him yesterday.”



“Ridiculous,” she muttered.



“I agree,” he said dryly. “However, fortuituously I had plans to attend the Hammond ball regardless, as Lady Margaret Crenshaw will be there.”



“Another victim on your list? Have you, at the very least, spoken to this one before?”



Rhys shot her a dark glance. “Yes, I have, and she was very pleasant. So, if you are ready…?”



Although she had dressed for an evening out, she’d actually considered remaining at home to wait for Gray. But that would be foolish. He obviously wished her to go, since he went to such lengths to see her escorted. She was not a young girl any longer, nor naïve. It should not bother her one whit that Grayson had spent hours finding pleasure in her body, only to leave her behind for the evening. A mistress would find nothing untoward, she told herself.



And she continued to remind herself of that fact as the course of the evening progressed. But when she caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the crowded Hammond ballroom, the knowledge was discarded. Mistress or not, a knot formed in her belly, only to be quickly replaced by a cold flare of anger.



“Lord Spencer Faulkner is here,” Rhys noted casually, as the young man entered the ballroom just a few feet away from where they stood along the edge of the dance floor.



“So he is.” But Grayson was not. So he had lied to her. Why was she surprised?



She studied her brother-in-law carefully, noting both the similarities to her husband and the differences. Unlike her close resemblance to Rhys, Gray and Lord Spencer had only a passing physical familiarity, which gave her a small glimpse of what their father must have looked like.



As if he felt her perusal, Spencer turned his head and met her gaze. For one brief, unguarded heartbeat she saw something decidedly unpleasant, and then it was shielded with studious impassivity.



“Well, well,” Rhys murmured. “I believe we have finally met a man who is truly immune to your charms.”



“You saw that?”



“Unfortunately, yes.” His gaze raked the throng before them. “I can only hope that you and I were the only ones who—Good God!”



“What?” Alarmed by his shock, Isabel rose to her toes and looked around. Was it Gray? Her heart raced. “What is it?”



Rhys thrust his champagne at her with such haste the sloshing liquid nearly overwhelmed the flute, which would have ruined her satin gown. “Excuse me.” And then he was off, leaving Isabel blinking after him.



Rhys followed the trim form that weaved easily through the guests. Almost as if she were a wraith, she went by unnoticed, an unremarkable woman wearing an unremarkable dress. But Rhys was arrested. He knew that dark hair. He had dreamt of that voice.



She left the ballroom, and moved swiftly down the hall. He followed. When she exited the manse through a study door, he gave up any effort to hide his pursuit and he caught the knob just as it swung away from him. Her small, piquant face tilted up to his, the wide eyes blinking.



“Lord Trenton.”



He stepped out onto the terrace, and shut out the sounds of the ball with a click of the latch. Sketching a short bow, he caught up her gloved hand and kissed the back of it. “Lady Mystery.”



She laughed, and his grip tightened. Her head angled to the side in what looked to be puzzlement. “You find me attractive, don’t you? But you cannot reason why. Quite frankly, I am equally puzzled.”



A soft chuckle escaped him. “Will you allow me to investigate a little?” He bent slowly, giving her time to pull away before he brushed his lips across hers. The soft touch affected him strangely, as did her scent, which was so soft it was a mere hint in the cool night air. “I think a few experiments might be in order.”



“Oh my,” she breathed. Her free hand moved to shelter her stomach. “That just gave me a little flutter right here.”



Something warm expanded in his chest, and dropped to settle between his legs. She was not his type of female at all. Mousy. A bluestocking. Certainly he found her discourse refreshing in its frankness, but why he wished to toss up her skirts was a matter he could not reconcile. She was too slender for his tastes, and lacked the full womanly curves he appreciated. Still, he could not deny that he wanted her, and he wanted to know her secrets. “Why are you out here?”



“Because I prefer here to there.”



“Walk with me, then,” he murmured, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow and leading her away.



“Will you flirt shamelessly with me?” she asked as she fell into step beside him. They found a winding garden path and strolled. The way was unlit so they progressed slowly.



“Of course. I will also discover your name before we part.”



“You sound so certain of that.”



He smiled down into her moonlit eyes. “I have my ways.”



She harrumphed skeptically. “You shall have fun matching wits with me.”



“I’ve no doubt your brain is formidable, but that is not the part of you I would use my wiles on.”



She gave a chastising push to his shoulder with her free hand. “You are wicked to speak thusly to a woman of my inexperience. You are making me light-headed.”



Rhys winced, slightly chagrined. “Sorry.”



“No, you’re not.” Her hand brushed across where she had touched him a moment before and his blood heated, his step faltered. How could the brush of a gloved hand over the material of his coat and sleeve arouse him?



“Is this sort of bantering the way men speak to women they feel an intimacy with? Lady Grayson laughs often at things that are said to her by men I find to be quite dull.”



Coming to an abrupt halt, Rhys glared down at her.



“I meant no offense!” she said quickly. “In fact, Lady Grayson is a woman I find to be multifaceted in only the most flattering sense.”



Studying her carefully, he concluded she was sincere and began walking again. “Yes, once you become friends with a member of the opposite sex and you are comfortable with them, your conversation can become intimate.”



“Sexually intimate?”



“Oftentimes, yes.”



“Even though the end goal is not sexual, merely for temporary amusement?”



“You are a curious kitten.” His smile was indulgent. To think that such a mundane act as flirtation could become exciting when seen through her eyes. He wished he could sit for hours with her and answer all of her questions.



“I’m afraid I lack the knowledge required to banter in the manner to which you are accustomed. So I hope you forgive me when I just ask you outright to kiss me.”



He stumbled, scattering the gravel on the path. “I beg your pardon?”



“You heard me, my lord.” Her chin lifted. “I would very much like you to kiss me.”



“Why?”



“Because no one else ever will.”



“Why not? You underestimate yourself.”



Her smile was impish and filled him with delight. “I estimate myself just fine.”



“Then certainly you know that another man will kiss you.” Even as he said it, Rhys realized how deeply the thought disturbed him. Her lips were soft as rose petals and sweetly plump. They had cushioned his when he kissed her, and he found them to be the prettiest lips he’d ever seen. The image in his mind of another man sampling them made his fists clench.



“Another man may like to, but he won’t.” She stepped forward, and rose to her tiptoes, offering her mouth to him. “Because I will not allow him to.”



Against his will, Rhys caught her to him. She was slender as a reed, her curves slight, but she fit to him. He held still for a moment, absorbing that fact.



“We fit,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “Is that usual?”



He swallowed hard and shook his head, lifting one hand to cup her cheek. “I’ve no notion what to do with you,” he admitted.



“Just kiss me.”



Rhys bent his head, hovering only a hair’s breadth away. “Tell me your name.”



“Abby.”



He licked her lower lip. “I want to see you again, Abby.”



“So we can hide in gardens and be scandalous?”



What could he say? He knew nothing about her, but her attire, her age, and the fact that she ran about unescorted told him of her lack of consequence. It was time to marry, and she was not a woman he could court.



Her smile was knowing. “Just kiss me and say good-bye, Lord Trenton. Be content that you have given me the fantasy of a handsome, dashing suitor.”



Words failed him, so he kissed her, deeply and with feeling. She melted into him, became breathless, gave a soft whimper that stole his wits. He wanted to take liberties with her. Strip her bare, share with her all the things he knew, see the sexual act as she would, with wonder.



So when she left him in the garden, the farewell he should have spoken would not come. And later, when he returned to the manse with a sham exterior of normalcy, he realized she had not said it either.



Chapter 12



“How interesting that she should arrive without Grayson,” Barbara murmured, her hand tucked lightly over Hargreaves’ arm. Turning her head, she perused the throng again.



“Perhaps he intends to join her later,” the earl replied, with far more nonchalance than she would like. Should he suddenly decide he no longer wanted Isabel Grayson, she would be alone in her attempts to lure Grayson back to her bed.



She released him and stepped back. “Trenton has left her side. Now would be the time to approach her.”



“No.” He shot her an arch look. “Now is not the time. Think of the talk that would ensue.”



“Gossip is our aim,” she argued.



“Grayson is not a man to be toyed with.”



“I agree, but neither are you.”



Hargreaves stared across the ballroom, his narrowed gaze arrested by his former love.



“Look how morose she is,” Barbara goaded. “Perhaps her decision is one she already regrets. But you will never know if you don’t speak with her.”



It was this last thought that garnered the results she wanted. With a muttered oath, Hargreaves moved away, his broad shoulders squared in determination.



She smiled and turned in the opposite direction, seeking and then finding the young Lord Spencer. Feigning an attempt to move past him, Barbara brushed her breasts along his forearm and when he turned to her with wide eyes, she blushed.



“I do apologize, my lord.” She looked up at him through her lashes.



He offered an indulgent smile. “No apologies necessary,” he said smoothly, catching up her proffered hand. He moved to step out of her way, but she held tight. He arched a brow. “My lady?”



“I would like to reach the drink tables, but the crush is rather daunting. And I am so very parched.”



His half smile was knowing. “I would be honored to offer my services.”



“How gallant of you to come to my aid,” she said, falling into step beside him. She studied him furtively. He was quite handsome, though in not the same way as his older sibling. Grayson had a dangerous edge that could not be ignored, despite his outward appearance of insouciance. Lord Spencer’s nonchalance, however, was not a façade.