Amanda Scott (26 page)

“Stuff! You aren’t conscious at all, my girl. You are blind and deaf to your own heart’s desire. You’ve pushed your feelings down inside you so that you won’t have to be surprised by them, so you won’t have to be hurt again. But the feelings are there, Margaret, and they’ll haunt you if you don’t face up to them.”

“That isn’t so,” she cried, clenching her fists against her ears so she wouldn’t hear any more. “You shan’t say such things to me just because I embarrassed you. No doubt you are accustomed to your advances being met with immediate acceptance. In fact, you’ve probably never even had to make advances. As I recall, you are said to be one of the best catches on the Marriage Mart, are you not? The matchmaking mamas fairly fling their eligible daughters at you. But you prefer to take your amusements where you find them, and you no doubt find them easily, sir, so you are not accustomed to rebuff, and now that you have taken it into your head to marry me, your conceit is suffering, nothing else. You insist that I have the tenderest feelings for you and you refuse to believe me when I say I do not, but you are wrong. You are—”

“Enough, damn you,” Abberley said sharply, striding back across the room and taking her firmly by the shoulders. “You may babble such nonsense to yourself if you like, but you’ll not fling it at me and get away with it. Look at me, Marget,” he commanded, giving her a shake. “Look me straight in the eye and tell me you don’t love me.”

Gritting her teeth, she did as he commanded, glaring at him. “A simple matter indeed, sir, for at this moment, I think I hate you.”

“Good,” he said, controlling his voice carefully, “then hate this.” And with that he bent toward her, raising a hand to the back of her head so that she could not stop him, and captured her soft lips in a searing kiss.

At first, feeling as though she had touched flame, she tried to draw away from him, but the heat from that flame warmed her all the way to her toes in a way she could not deny, stirring feelings she hadn’t imagined could exist. She was scarcely aware of the moment that her arms went around his waist.

The minute he sensed the response in her, Abberley moved his hand from the back of her head to her shoulder and then, caressingly, down to the flare of her hips. His other hand was busy, too, but Margaret was scarcely aware of either of them, only of those sensations deep within her body that threatened to overcome her reason. Her lips parted as though directed to do so by some unseen power, and his tongue gained entrance to the velvety softness of her mouth, darting, caressing, teasing. By then, she wanted only for him to continue what he was doing. When he shifted his position slightly, her arms tightened their embrace as though she feared he would stop. His lips twitched against hers, tickling, but even as she wondered about that, his kisses became harder and more demanding than ever and she felt the heat within her body turn to a veritable inferno of desire.

One of his hands moved between them, searching, still caressing, lighting still more little fires along its course. When his fingers moved across the tip of her breast, she moaned softly but pressed harder against him, feeling the tight muscles of his thighs against hers, more aware of the shape and feel of his body and of her own than she had ever been before. A moment later, his hands gripped her shoulders again as bruisingly as before, and he set her away from him. The look in his eyes was grim.

“I am sorry you feel you cannot return my regard,” he said softly. “I hope we can remain friends.” With those words, he was gone.

M
ARGARET STOOD WHERE SHE
was for some moments, staring at the doorway, one hand pressed to still-burning lips. Her breath came in sobbing gasps, and her heart was pounding so heavily in her breast that she believed she could hear it. Then she realized that what she heard was the earl’s footsteps as he pounded down the grand stairway. Moments later she heard the front door slam shut behind him. Her first thought then was to wonder if he had remembered to collect his hat and cloak. Her second, that he was not dressed for riding.

Slowly, her breathing returned to normal. When she noticed that she had been gnawing unconsciously at the back of her hand, she pulled it away, forcing it to her side. The tip of her breast still tingled where Abberley’s fingers had brushed against it, but the flame in her midsection had cooled to a glowing ember. With another long, ragged breath, she straightened her shoulders and moved to regard herself in the mirror over the side table, feeling a need to restore her disheveled appearance before Moffatt or one of the maidservants came in to extinguish the lights in the drawing room.

She felt mussed, but when she examined her image in the glass, she could scarcely understand why she should feel so. She looked perfectly normal except for the heightened glow in her cheeks and a certain unnatural brilliance in her eyes. A strand of hair had come loose from her coiffure, to be sure, but there was nothing particularly dramatic about that, nothing that any casual observer would notice, at any rate. Absently, she pushed the strand back into place while scrutinizing her face for more visible signs of the disarrangement she felt within. There was nothing.

“Will there be anything else, Miss Margaret?” Moffatt asked quietly from the doorway. The sound of his voice startled her, making her jump and turn quickly, almost guiltily, but she could see nothing in the large man’s expression to indicate that he suspected anything beyond the ordinary.

“No, no, nothing at all,” she replied hastily, covering her confusion with a rueful smile. “You caught me primping, I’m afraid, but I am just going up to bed now, and everyone else has retired, I believe—that is, I don’t know about Mr. Caldecourt,” she added, feeling more foolish than ever. Primping! What a ridiculous thing to have said to him. As though anyone would worry about her appearance just before going to bed.

“Mr. Caldecourt has retired,” the butler said in a perfectly normal tone of voice, “and Lady Annis is comfortably settled as well, the missus tells me. Shall I put out the lights, then, miss?”

“Yes, of course. Good night, Moffatt.”

Scarcely daring to look at him and still feeling disoriented, she hurried up to her own bedchamber, where she submitted meekly and silently to Sadie’s ministrations. Then, once her maid had retired, she settled back against her pillows in the certain belief that, exhausted as she was from the day’s activities, she would fall instantly asleep. Half an hour later, after turning over for what seemed to be the fortieth time and attempting unsuccessfully to find a cool place on her pillow upon which to lay her head, she knew that she had judged the matter incorrectly.

Though he was long gone, she could still feel the effects of Abberley’s kisses. Her lips were bruised, though only enough to make them seem as though they had swollen slightly beyond their normal size. But all she had to do was to think about the man to experience the full force of those burning tremors in her midsection, as well as an unfamiliar tingling sensation that attacked her lower down even than that. Hitting below the belt, she thought, nearly laughing aloud at the ridiculous thought but stifling the impulse out of fear that such laughter might well lead to an uncontrollable fit of the vapors.

“I am not in love with him.” she said aloud suddenly, fiercely. “I cannot be. ’Twould be too cruel.”

She would not think about the man, she decided. She would simply force her mind to contemplate something else instead. Certainly, enough things had occurred in the past two days that she ought to be able to think about something harmless. Or, better yet, she would consider ordinary household affairs. A new footman would be required at once, now that Archer was gone. Or even if he were not gone, for that matter, though the earl had said he was quite certain the man had fled. Abberley had also said, of course, that he was quite certain that he loved her, and that was nothing more than fustian, wasn’t it?

Gritting her teeth, she turned over again, then was forced to turn again when she got tangled in the bedclothes. They felt damp and uncomfortable. She focused her mind on them at once, forcing herself to think of nothing more disturbing than the necessity of getting them straight and smooth again. But when she had done so and had lain back against her pillows once more, shutting her eyes with a long sigh, Abberley’s face appeared in her mind’s eye as though he had simply been waiting for her to finish attending to other matters before raising the question of his love for her—and hers for him—once more. She wanted to shout at him that he was crazy, that he was merely deluding himself out of a wish to punish her for rejecting his advances. But she couldn’t shout at him, for he wasn’t there, no matter how real his image might seem in her mind. Moreover, others would hear her if she shouted. Once they realized she was shouting in an empty room, they would think, and rightly, that her mind was as deranged as Lady Annis’s.

For a moment then she succeeded in diverting herself long enough to consider the state of her ladyship’s mind. Was Lady Celeste right, and was the woman merely incapable of accepting responsibility of any kind, particularly the responsibility for her misdeeds? Or was Lady Annis demented? Either way, surely it would be better to attend to her within the family, rather than to allow her actions to cause a scandal about them all. Abberley would see to it that she never harmed anyone else. And he would protect her. He was rather good at protecting people, was he not?

So much for diverting her thoughts, she mused ruefully. It was unfair that he should monopolize them when she was so tired, though. At the moment, she could nearly imagine how lovely it would be to allow him to take care of her forever, to continue to protect her as he had done for the greater part of her life. But he had never been able to protect her against Fate, had he? She bit her lip, enumerating and remembering all those persons she had lost over the years. As she did so, however, she realized she had not spared a thought for Mr. Culross in weeks. That was odd, considering that she had thought of him constantly in Vienna. The matter could not be explained away by the fact that she had been very busy, either, for she had scarcely had a moment to call her own amidst the social whirl that was the hub of life in that frivolous city. No doubt, the answer lay in the time that had passed since Frederick’s death. Time healed all, as Lady Celeste would point out.

Still, the lesson had been clear enough. She was not meant to form a lasting passion for anyone, and it would be particularly foolish to form one for Abberley when she already cared enough for him that she would mourn his loss almost as greatly as she would one of her own family. Pure foolishness to tempt Fate any further than that. Besides, Abberley did not love her. He had simply come to the realization that she had never set her cap for him, that she had never for a single moment numbered among the veritable host of eligible damsels who had flung themselves at him. No doubt that had stung him a bit, had put him on his mettle. Or perhaps he was merely bored after having rusticated in Hertfordshire for so long a time when he was clearly more accustomed to being surrounded by friends and flirts alike. The man was a rake, after all. Everyone said so, and he certainly had not denied it. And whoever heard of a rake kicking his heels in a well-nigh-empty country house for weeks on end? And what prey was there for him hereabouts besides herself? Only Pamela Maitland, and if Abberley had not fallen for Pamela in all the years they had known each other, he certainly would not do so now.

The thought did not cross her mind that Abberley—an earl, after all—might think himself a cut above Miss Maitland. She knew that would not weigh with him if he were truly in love with her. Not much, as a matter of fact, would weigh with him under such circumstances. Which, the little voice in her mind continued more forcefully, just went to prove that he was not in love with Margaret herself. He would never have taken his congé so lightly in such a case.

She turned that thought over and over again in her mind. Slowly, the panic underscoring all the other emotions that tumbled through her began to ebb. He did not love her. He had simply allowed his brotherly feelings to carry him away once his vanity had been piqued. No doubt it had been a game with him. What a relief, she told herself, to realize it was no more than that. Unfortunately, the sense of relief she wanted to feel seemed to be overshadowed by disappointment.

“Zany,” she whispered, “you are as bad as he is himself. ’Tis no more than your own woman’s vanity speaking. Still, ’tis better as it is, since you cannot return his love.”

Believing she had discovered the truth of the matter, she finally achieved a comfortable position and gave her mind up to recurring memories of Abberley’s kisses and caresses, wondering why he had been able to stir her to such passion when Frederick’s touch had never done so. Neither Frederick nor any other man had ever touched her so intimately, of course, which was rather annoying when one wished to compare the results of such incidents. She could not help wondering if there were numerous other men trotting about the world whose touch could enflame her as Abberley’s had done. No doubt there were, she decided at last. Any man with as much experience as the earl undoubtedly had should succeed as well. Frederick, she recalled, had been nearly as young as she was herself and probably as inexperienced. No doubt that accounted for it.

Experimentally, she touched the tip of her breast where Abberley’s fingers had brushed. There was no particular thrill at first, but suddenly she found herself thinking about the earl again, seeing his face and figure, feeling his touch there, and suddenly there was a sharp tingling that radiated from the tip of her breast through her stomach to her loins. Quickly, Margaret snatched her hand away. Even though she was entirely alone in the darkness, she knew color had flooded her cheeks. Indeed, by the warmth she felt, color had flooded her entire body. What would Aunt Celeste, or indeed anyone else, think of such wanton behavior? Surely no proper lady would ever touch herself in such a way.

In a last desperate attempt to turn her thoughts away from the earl, she began to recite a long and boring poem her governess had taught her when she was about twelve. The first verse she said determinedly aloud. The second she recited in her head, and halfway through the third she fell asleep.