His Perfect Game (2 page)

Glancing over at her glasses, Abigail decided to forgo them tonight. The chance of them breaking was too great, and it only enraged her father more to be forced to replace something he damaged during one of his fits.

Once ready, Abigail squared her shoulders and made her way downstairs. Crossing into the drawing room, she was surprised to find it empty. Her father always conducted this business here, and his absence struck her with fear. Could he be planning something worse than normal?

The sound of her father’s laughter brought her eyes to the open doorway.

“There you are, my dear,” her father exclaimed. His face hardened as his gaze dropped down to her threadbare gown.

As he stepped several paces into the room, Abigail noticed a gentleman following him. She immediately realized her mistake and dropped her head. Not only was her clothing choice wrong, but she regretted her decision to forgo the rest of her armor.

“Willimena,” her father snapped, drawing her attention back to him. “I have found a husband for you.”

Abigail gaped at her father. Shock robbed her of the ability to speak. After years of avoiding the fate she would suffer with a husband, in one instant, all her efforts had been rendered useless.

Her head spun. Surely this was a bad dream, or at the very least a misunderstanding. Sliding her eyes to the unknown man, she hoped he would refute her father’s words. Unfortunately, his unblinking stare only served to confirm it.

As she surveyed him, steely grey eyes assessed her from under dark lashes. His black hair was cropped short around a masculine face. A dusting of hair shaded his cheeks as if he had forgotten to shave that morning. Standing taller than her father, she found him to be quite an imposing figure.

“I-I don’t understand,” Abigail sputtered.

“This is Viscount Merrick, and, as of right now, you two are betrothed.”

Merrick. The name sounded familiar, but she could not place it. Although she realized she must have met him at some point, she couldn’t recall having ever seen him before.

Eyes still focused upon him, she tried to recall a memory. She would not call him handsome by any typical definition of the word, but there was something striking about him, something not easily forgotten.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Viscount Merrick said, as he bowed to her. “Please excuse me.”

Without another word, he left.

Abigail stared after him, unable to process what was happening, particularly at such a late hour. Was she still betrothed? Had he taken one look at her and changed his mind? She secretly hoped so.

At age twenty-four, she thought herself to be past the time when gentlemen would turn to her for marriage. Enduring her father’s anger was enough, as she knew what to expect from him. A husband, however, would be different. He would own her and have the right to do with her as he pleased. Her mother knew that well.

Her father swung around, turning his furious gaze upon her. She shrank back. The level of anger on his face far surpassed anything she had seen before. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as heavy breathing rocked his body.

“How dare you come down here dressed like that? Are you deliberately trying to ruin me?”

“I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t know,” she defended herself.

“That is no excuse. I should beat you senseless.” He raised his hands to his temples. “Next time—if you are lucky enough to have a next time—not only will you make yourself presentable, but you will entice him.”

“I-I don’t understand.” Although terrified to enrage him further, she couldn’t contain her confusion by the whole situation.

“Merrick agreed to marry you, and I will not have him rescinding his offer. You are to use all your feminine wiles until he is panting at your feet. If you fail, you will not live long enough to regret it.” With those parting words, he turned and stomped from the room.

Abigail stumbled backward until she fell against the soft sofa cushions. What had happened? Had her father paid Lord Merrick to marry her? Although distasteful, she would not be surprised by it.

Turning her thoughts to her “betrothed,” she wondered what kind of man he was. Certainly one who would accept money in exchange for a bride would not make a good husband. Her position within her father’s house verged on being unlivable, but would the viscount force her into something worse?

The next morning didn’t offer her a better outlook. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep as the sight of Viscount Merrick fleeing the room invaded her dreams. How could she obey her father and entice a man who could not stand to be around her for more than five minutes?

Rubbing her hands over her eyes, she could not believe she would even contemplate such a thing. Everything within her rebelled against the idea, but her father could do much worse to her if she didn’t comply with his dictates.

Dragging herself out of bed, she rang for Mary. As she dressed, she decided to seek out her mother. Although knowing her mother could not offer any form of aid, Abigail hoped she could shed some light on this sudden change in her life.

Once equipped with her armor, Abigail made her way to the breakfast room to speak with her mother.

Rowena Everett, Duchess of Donetic, appeared to be as exhausted as Abigail. Even sitting, Abigail could distinguish her tall, although gaunt, frame. Her mother once had been considered a great beauty, but now her looks had faded along with her spirit. It broke Abigail’s heart to see her mother suffer at the duke’s hand, but she was powerless when it came to her father.

“Good morning, Mother. Did you sleep well?”

“Willimena, thank goodness you are awake. I heard such distressing news.”

“From whom?” Abigail attempted to keep a neutral tone as she put minimal food on her plate. If her mother already overworked her nerves, she had no desire to compound her worry.

“The duke came into my bedchamber late last night. He proudly declared he found you a husband. How could this have happened? I tried so hard to protect you.”

“Don’t be distressed.” Abigail sat and wrapped her arm around her mother’s bony shoulders. “In Father’s determination to rid himself of me, I believe he paid the viscount to marry me. Considering Lord Merrick agreed to the idea, the marriage could turn out better than we thought.”

“Or it could be the opposite. As bad as your life is here with your father, imagine how much harder it will be with a husband demanding rights as well.” The desperation in her mother’s voice reached a dangerously high level.

Abigail swallowed down the bile that had risen in her throat. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard the argument from her mother, but with her impending marriage, her horror intensified.

“It matters not,” Abigail assured, her voice much too high to convey indifference. “One man’s punishments are as good as any other’s.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I don’t have a choice. Father made that very clear to me last night. All his past beatings will appear humane compared to what awaits me if I defy him.”

Her mother shuddered and looked down at the table.

Abigail’s face dropped to her own plate in disgust. Her stomach rolled and would not welcome anything in it. Leaning back against the chair, she sighed. Soon she would have to see the viscount again, and as her father demanded, she would do her best to ensure he developed an interest in her. She could not decide if she wanted him to return or not. Either way, she would suffer.

Greyson leaned back in the carriage headed to Melisande’s house. Although ready to endure the uncomfortable conversation, he never enjoyed dismissing a mistress. However, he’d promised himself that once betrothed, he would be faithful to his intended.

Last night had gone better than he planned, at least until they arrived at the duke’s townhouse. At Merrick house, the duke drank almost an entire bottle of brandy. Greyson had not complained as the man had been much easier to talk to with the decanter at his side.

Hammond Everett was a well-respected man, and the adoration didn’t only stem from his title of duke. He charmed the ladies, receiving their approval, and he shared a fierce loyalty to his friends. In all his research, Greyson never heard anything bad about him, with the exception of accounts from his enemies. That made him the perfect person to help Greyson.

Throughout his life, all Greyson had wanted was respect and acceptance from his peers but denial greeted him with every attempt. Being the illegitimate son of a viscount didn’t grant him anything other than ridicule and scorn. His father and the viscountess, being a cut above the rest, did what they could to shelter him from the brunt of it, but nothing good ever lasted long. At least soon he would be able to claim a little respect from the many people who had mistreated him.

Once he discovered the duke had an unmarried twenty-four-year-old daughter, he knew she held the key to his success. Although never having met her, he’d heard how “unmarriageable” she was, which only made her more perfect for him since he knew the duke would be overjoyed to rid himself of her.

His assumption had been right. He offered to return the duke’s vowels if he agreed to sponsor Greyson into society and award him with his daughter’s hand in marriage. Greyson had barely had a chance to finish explaining when the duke agreed.

Armed with the Duke of Donetic’s approval and Lady Willimena on his arm, no one would dare to snub him. Once the wedding took place, the invitations surely would fly in. Then Greyson would finally be a true peer.

As he knocked on Melisande’s door, he felt the satisfaction at the success of his plan fade. She remained the only woman who understood him and never cared about his parentage. He worried dismissing her now would be detrimental to his mental state.

The thought brought him back to reality, and he stiffened his spine. Disappointment came with life, and emotions were weaknesses he could not afford. He comfortably slipped on his cold façade as Melisande cracked open the door.

When her sleepy blue eyes greeted him, she opened the door wider. Her luscious blond locks fell over her shoulders and spilled down her back in disarray. Her nightdress loosely hung from her curvaceous figure in a silent invitation for him to join her.

“Grey, I have missed you,” she purred as he slid into the house. “What brings you here so early,
mon amour
?”

“Last night I was awarded my opportunity to challenge the duke.”

“
Magnifique!
Please come sit, and tell me all.”

He followed her to her comfortable parlor and sat on a chair while Melisande lounged on the chaise.

“Everything fell into place. The duke agreed to sponsor me. I’ll be attending a dinner tomorrow night as his guest.”

“Congratulations,
ma cherie
. I know how badly you wanted this. And what of the girl? Has he given you her as well?”

“Lady Willimena and I are now betrothed.”

“Perhaps we should celebrate,” she suggested, leaning her body forward so her dress hung open, revealing her ample breasts.

“We can’t.” Refusing her came much easier than he had anticipated.

A vision of his intended filled his mind. Her image had kept him awake all night and still haunted him as he looked at the goddess before him. Something about that innocent girl gripped him, and he couldn’t understand what.

Last night the alcohol he had imbibed mixed with her state of dishevelment told him he’d made the wrong choice in agreeing to meet her so late. The second the duke told Lady Willimena of the betrothal, he knew he should not be there for that discussion. She would be his wife. The duke owed him that, but he could not handle hearing her initial rejection.

“Why can we not celebrate?” Melisande’s pout wrenched him from the uncomfortable memories, and he gratefully focused his attention back on her.

“I’m afraid you must find yourself a new protector. I want respect from my peers and being seen coming here while courting Lady Willimena will not provide any.”

“Are you sure? We have enjoyed our time together.”

“I wish you luck, although I suspect you shall not need it. No doubt you have been receiving offers all the while.”

She dismissively shrugged her shoulders. “They are boring men, but you . . . I want to heal your pain and see you live. To embrace life, not endure this distasteful
combler le vide
you call a life.”

Greyson stood so quickly the chair nearly toppled over. “Thank you, Melisande. It has been a pleasure.”

With a bow, he left her house and stepped into his carriage as quickly as possible. He could not stand pity. Not many people condescended to feel it, but, regardless, he abhorred the emotion. He didn’t need to be pitied. He stood on the verge of obtaining everything he desired.

Checking his pocket watch, he realized he would be late for his weekly meeting with his friend Jonathan Alastair at Ravenhurst, the club they jointly owned. The two of them, along with Richard Carrack, began Ravenhurst as a way of fighting back against the rejections Greyson received from similar clubs. Over the years, the success of the club more than exceeded their expectations.

Pushing open Ravenhurst’s doors, Greyson nodded at Nathaniel, then made his way down to the offices. The hour remained early enough that no members were present to see him. After what his friend Richard had suffered when his connection to the club became known by one particular man, Greyson could not afford to let his involvement be discovered.

The office door was locked, which didn’t come as a surprise. Jonathan could not be counted on to be on time for anything, especially one of their pointless club meetings. Sliding behind the desk, Greyson pulled the account books forward. Although in no mood to review the figures, sitting idle and waiting came with more distaste.

By the time Jonathan pushed his head through the door, Greyson had managed to accomplish quite a bit of work. He silently watched as his friend poured himself a brandy, despite the early hour. After draining the glass and refilling it, he finally focused his attention on Greyson.

“Much better. I don’t understand why you demand to have these meetings at such an ungodly hour of the morning.”