An Invitation to Scandal (23 page)

Nicholas glared down at the old man. Years of pent up anger burned in his chest. “You are a pathetic old man who had no other choice than to buy a wife who never loved you.”

The earl growled. “And what are you, if not that? Do you think any woman would have you without my fortune and title waiting in the wings? Do you honestly believe even your precious Miss Laytham would look at you twice for any other reason? Her family is on the brink of financial ruin. It isn’t you she finds of interest. It is your title and fortune.”

The earl’s bald suggestion hit its mark and pierced with efficient accuracy. Was that the explanation for Abigail’s sudden turnabout? Did she simply see him as the lesser of two evils when forced to choose between the man responsible for her uncle’s death or a life spent with a man old enough to be her grandfather? The suggestion left him disheartened but he refused to let Blackbourne see the wound.

“At least I know how to keep a woman satisfied so she doesn’t seek affection elsewhere.”

“Your mother is a whore,” the earl spit out. “The apple does not fall far from the tree.”

Had Blackbourne not already been knocking at St. Peter’s gate, Nicholas would have reached forward and gripped the man’s neck to escort him the rest of the way. He used the last bit of his newfound restraint to keep his hands clenched at his sides.

“You’ll die soon, old man. And then we’ll all be free of you. I, for one, cannot wait until that day comes.”

Nicholas turned and strode from the room. He slammed the door behind him with enough force the pictures on the wall shook and the earl’s valet jumped to prevent any from falling off their hooks.

* * *

“Lord Tarrington sends word, miss.”

Abigail looked away from the window of her bedchamber and the view of the gardens below. Her thoughts had been so firmly buried in the events of last night’s dinner, she hadn’t heard Muri’s knock. Not that the events had been anything remarkable. The food had been wonderfully prepared as always, the conversation lively, and the company acceptable. Save for one glaring absence—that of Nicholas. Lady Blackbourne had made her excuses for him, but Abigail could not shake the sense his mother had expected him to be present, and when he did not appear, she scrambled for a plausible explanation. The one she’d decided upon had included a sick tenant and hot soup. Although why Nicholas would tend the individual was beyond her. Such things were usually left to the women, who were generally more adept at administering to the sick and providing warm comfort to those ailing.

She took the note from her maid. “Thank you, Muri. That will be all.”

“Hmm. I’ll just wait, ’case be you want to send word back to the old codger.”

“Muri.” She forced a note of warning into her tone. Her maid’s behavior had bordered on brashness ever since Abigail had taken her into her confidence the night of the scandalous key party. She’d meant to speak to Muri about it, but there had never been time.

“Well, come now, miss. It isn’t as if we both don’t know you’d rather knot your knickers than spend a night with the doddering old fool.”

Abigail pursed her lips and turned fully away from the window. A warm breeze touched her back. It held a hint of dampness, though the skies were a mix of bright blue and white fluffy clouds.

“Muri, I must speak to you about your behavior.” She rose from the window seat and walked to the center of the room. “While I appreciate one’s need to speak their mind, I really must caution you to use better judgment when picking the proper moment, and audience, when doing so. You’ve been rather pert of late, and altogether too familiar in your manner.”

Muri’s round face flushed. Defiance, mixed with anger, sparked in her pale brown eyes. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. Silly of me to forget my place amongst you higher ups. Shall I bow down before ya, not meet ya in the eye when’s I look upon ya?”

Her impertinence passed the line of acceptability, but Abigail reined in her anger and bit her tongue. She could not at this juncture afford to let Muri go, or chance her walking out. With their finances what they were, finding someone else willing to take the pittance they offered was slim. Although, she realized now why they had been able to get Muri at such a low price, and why her list of references had been so short.

Abigail took a deep breath and locked her hands in front of her, squaring her shoulders. “I expect you to do nothing more than behave in a manner appropriate to our relationship, Muri, as I always have. In future, you will be more respectful. Not just of me, but of the others with whom I deal. I am not telling you not to have an opinion; I am simply requesting you keep that opinion to yourself. Your thoughts on Lord Tarrington are not something I care to discuss with you. Please temper your behavior while you are in my family’s employ.”

Muri’s gaze narrowed and she executed a short curtsey. “Yes, miss. As you wish, miss.”

Abigail watched in frustration as Muri huffed from the room. The conversation had gone nothing like she had planned.

She let out a deep breath and broke the seal on the note, grimacing at the shaky words written on the expensive paper. Lord Tarrington requested her presence for an afternoon walk, a request he had already cleared with her mother and brother. This day continued to go downhill.

Abigail shot another glance at the sky and offered a quick request to the heavens to pour down rain. The breeze brushed against her face like a kiss, but nothing changed.

With a deep sigh, Abigail went in search of Caelie to help her change. She had no wish to call Muri back in and deal with her maid’s injured feelings.

Chapter Fifteen

Abigail stepped over a root that had edged its way out onto the narrow path. The meadow burgeoned with a blanket of newly budded wildflowers but Lord Tarrington’s statement had left her too stunned to appreciate its beauty.

“Will we spend no time in London at all?”

The thought of being exiled to the country, far away from her family, palled. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the country, she did. In small doses, with her family around her to keep her occupied and entertained. But Lord Tarrington lived on a large estate several days ride from London. He did not court the company of his neighbors, had virtually no family left, and did not go out of his way to entertain.

“I rarely come into Town, my dear,” he said, patting the hand she had looped through his arm. “The air bothers my lungs and the noise is more than I can bear. We will spend the majority of our time at Maynerly.”

“Oh.” Her future unraveled before her, one long, monotonous stretch of time, each day rolling into the next until she could no longer tell one from the other.

All the while, she would have only Lord Tarrington for company, and he thought more of his stupid roses than he did her. They were his true loves, while she just a means to an end.

The gentle breeze that had mocked her earlier in her room now ruffled the curls poking out from beneath her bonnet and the clouds she had wished for now filled the horizon with an imposing gray hue. The promise of rain scented the air.

“Perhaps we should turn back,” Abigail said. She didn’t want to be caught in a downpour. She wanted even less to prolong her discussion with Lord Tarrington. It depressed her to no end.

He ignored her suggestion.

“I would hope for two sons, though more would be beneficial. One can never be too certain. I am the youngest of four boys, and the only one to live into adulthood. Had my mother stopped at two, the title and lands would have gone to a distant cousin.”

They traveled further down the path away from the main house. Abigail looked back, worried about going too far from sight. Not so much for propriety’s sake—the other guests were well aware she and Lord Tarrington were all but affianced—but because she did not want to spend any more time with him than was necessary. The further away they walked, the longer it would take them to return.

“Do not worry, my dear. No one will find it untoward if we try to steal a few moments for ourselves.”

He laughed and the sound grated on her frayed nerves. Did he honestly think she wanted to be alone with him? She found his manner overbearing and his touch made her skin crawl.

Unlike Nicholas.

Abigail put an abrupt halt to her wayward thoughts. The stoppage lasted a few heartbeats before thoughts of him sneaked back in. She could not help it. Ever since their conversation of yesterday, she had been unable to stop.

He had promised he would kiss her. She had all but granted him permission. The thought thrilled her, while at the same time left her confused. Her renewed feelings for Nicholas were in stark contrast to the anger she had harbored. If she were truthful, she would admit not all of those negative feelings had dissipated. She missed her uncle horribly, and the way in which he had died cut deep. A part of her still resisted giving up the need to blame someone.

Nicholas appeared truly penitent. She could no longer deny the impact Uncle Henry’s death had had on him. She had painted Nicholas with a callous brush, convinced he was a cold, unfeeling brute who cared little about the lives he destroyed. She realized now her own misery had distorted the canvas.

But the question remained—did it matter? The events had still occurred. Was Nicholas’s repentance enough to wash the slate clean and make room for forgiveness?

Abigail’s pride screamed out a rejection with the petulance of a small child determined to have its way. But her heart…her poor, bruised heart that still recalled in vivid detail the moment when Nicholas had dropped his suit…that part of her whispered yes. Yes, yes, yes!

“You are a virgin, of course,” Lord Tarrington continued, his proclamation jolting Abigail away from her thoughts. “I can’t expect you to be aware of what goes on between a man and a woman, but suffice to say, I expect you will please me well enough.”

Lord Tarrington’s eyes drifted over her and she recoiled inwardly, extricating her arm from his. She stopped on the path. Her legs itched to run away.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Tarrington, but I do not think this topic of conversation is at all appropriate. I would like to return to the house now.”

He grabbed her arm with a speed she had not expected and held her in place. Stale breath brushed her skin. Her stomach lurched in disgust.

“I will let you go this once, my dear,” he said. “But make no mistake, you will not turn away from me once we are married. You will be willing in my bed until I have the sons I desire. Do I make myself clear?”

She yanked her arm away and took a step back.

He smiled, his hard gaze a testament to his expectations. Acid burned in her belly. “Good day, my dear.”

He waved a hand at the path toward the house and dismissed her as if she were nothing more than a servant.

Abigail picked up her skirts and hurried back down the path. Once out of Lord Tarrington’s sight, she took off at a run and headed away from the main house and meadows. She ran for the hills and the forest surrounding them. Her feet pounded on the beaten path in tandem with her heart, her lungs screamed for a reprieve, but still she kept running.

Abigail did not know how long she ran for, or even where the paths took her, nor did she care. She needed to escape, to outrun Lord Tarrington’s demands and the future he had mapped out for her

Droplets of rain splashed against her skin. She slowed and looked around. The trees were sparser on the hill, leaving her little protection against the coming storm. Her chest heaved with each struggled breath. Above her, the forbidding clouds had swallowed the last of the blue sky. Even if she ran back now, by the time they opened up and made good on their implied threat, Abigail would still be too far from the main house to reach its shelter.

She glanced around. Not too far away a plume of smoke stretched above the treetops. She hurried on, hopeful the occupants would offer her shelter until the worst of the rain spent itself.

Soon the trees gave way to a small clearing that revealed a ramshackle cabin. An unwieldy garden grew up around it, taking over one side where vines crept upward and meshed with the thatched roof. Smoke billowed from the chimney and filled the wet air with its inviting scent. There were no other signs of life.

The rain came with more force now, and beat its way through the trees until the muslin dress she wore plastered to her skin and left her chilled. She picked up her heavy skirts. Dark mud stained the hem. Why hadn’t she returned home and sulked in her room like any normal young lady in distress?

A horse whickered somewhere behind the house, but she could not see the beast. Every fairy tale she had ever read as a child came back to haunt her as she lifted her hand to knock.

“Please do not let it be some ogre, witch or any other such monster,” she whispered and knocked with three successive raps. “Hello! Is anyone home?”

A shuffling sound came from the other side of the door, but before she could peer through the window to her left to look inside, the door swung open.

The sky rumbled ominously and opened up in earnest, coming down in heavy sheets.

A strong hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked her inside.

“What the devil are you doing out here alone in this weather?” Nicholas sputtered the words out as he stared at a drenched Abigail. Had the few shots of whiskey he’d taken to warm his bones caused him to hallucinate?

“I…I…” She stuttered, was apparently sharing his surprise.

“This is no place for a lady.” This far into the forest the paths were narrow and winding, often running out or twisting around each other. One had to be very familiar with the lay of the land to know where they were going. How had she found him? Too remote for walkers and too well hidden for hunters, the cabin remained unoccupied unless he was in residence.

“I was out walking,” she finally said, her shoulders slumping. “And when it started raining I knew I had ventured too far to return to the house and outrun it. I saw the smoke above the trees and hoped to find refuge.”

“It’s a little far out for a walk.” However, from the state of her skirts, she had not strolled along at a sedate pace. Mud splashed the front and stained the hem. Wherever she had been, she had left swiftly. He suspected if he lifted her skirts and peered underneath, he would find a pair of ruined slippers and silk stockings.