His Perfect Game (33 page)

Her head snapped up. “Do you truly mean it?” Hope infused her words. “You will accept the real me as your wife?”

“Without question.”

Her brilliant smile made his heart skip a beat. In that second, he realized he loved her. It was both the scariest and most wonderful moment of his life. Everything he had ever wanted in a woman he found in her, and she accepted him without hesitation. The knowledge of his love lifted a weight off his heart and made the space between them physically hurt.

Needing to feel her against him, he opened his arms. She willingly closed the distance and pressed her lips to his. Allowing his love to shine through the kiss, he crushed her body with his. This was the first time she willingly came to his bed as his wife. He wanted to make this memorable.

The night was spent with kisses and passionate embraces. Sharing the time with his wife was a completely different experience. She was a part of him now and being one with her only solidified their bond. No secrets existed between them. He felt closer to her than ever before.

The only disappointment was waking up to find her gone. As he made his way down to breakfast, he decided he needed to talk to Abigail about leaving his bed. Since she acknowledged him now, there was no reason for her to hurry back to her bedchamber.

Entering the breakfast room, he wished the guests anywhere but here. Abigail wore one of her low-cut dresses, had no glasses obstructing her face, and her red hair was displayed for everyone to see. His breath caught to see her smile. Realizing he stood in the doorway like a fool, he slowly approached the sidebar.

“Well, good morning, Lord Merrick. You appear to be speechless today,” Abigail’s cousin, Lady Scholton commented.

“I’m sorry. I bid you all a good morning. My lack of sleep must have robbed me of my manners.”

When Scholton and Hauney laughed, he realized what he’d said. Abigail’s face matched her hair and the other ladies averted their eyes, thankfully pretending not to have heard his social blunder.

“Lady Merrick seems to have transformed overnight,” Lady Lorrian inserted, changing the subject. “I was just telling her how lovely her hair looks and how she should never have hidden it.”

“I agree, although I have always found her lovely.”

The men let out another round of laughter.

This love thing was still too new for him. He wished he had been able to figure it out without the audience. Then he would be able to return to his normal state.

The conversation soon turned back to innocuous topics, giving Greyson more time to adjust to seeing his wife as herself. It wasn’t only her appearance, but her attitude also seemed more open and sweet. She even had trouble keeping her boring English accent and continually fell back into her Scottish brogue.

When they all went outside after breakfast Greyson felt like a king with his wife on his arm. However, their time was cut short when Matthews hurried out to inform him a visitor had arrived at the door. Unsure of the nature of the unexpected guest, he would have left Abigail, but his butler seemed convinced she should join them.

Walking into the drawing room, his wife gasped. Lady Donetic perched on the edge of the chair. Her dress was torn, her face bruised and cut. The sight of her pierced fear through him. Had she and the duke been attacked? Then realization dawned. Or had her husband done this to her? Considering she’d arrived alone, Greyson could only see one plausible explanation. With the severity of the beating, he imagined it wasn’t the first she suffered.

Abigail hurried to her mother’s side and helplessly ran her fingers over the woman’s slender frame. Greyson’s temperature rose watching the frail woman trying to ease her daughter. The duke would pay for this, and if he learned that the man had ever touched Abigail in this manner, he would kill him.

“Mother, why did you go with him? I thought you were in your bedchamber.”

“I had to. He is—”

“What happened?” Greyson asked, knowing her reply would only exacerbate his anger.

“He was upset. I don’t think he intended to take it this far.”

“Don’t defend him,” Abigail commanded before Greyson could express the same sentiment.

The battered woman’s excuses for her attacker almost sent Greyson into a rage. “Every man has a right to his anger, but no man, regardless of his rank, has any right to lay a hand on his wife.”

Immediately he regretted the vehemence in his tone as Lady Donetic broke into tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said between sobs. “I’m just so glad you married him, Willimena.”

“I am, too, Mother.” Abigail looked over her shoulder. Her eyes pleaded with him. “What are we going to do?”

Greyson mentally kicked himself for not helping the duchess when Abigail approached him months ago. He had no idea her want to escape had been due to abuse. If he had any inkling, he would have done whatever necessary to help at that time. Regardless, he could not dwell in the past, and he refused to make the same mistake twice.

“She will stay here. No lady, and I include you, Abigail, will leave this house without the protection of a man. When the duke comes, he will deal with me.”

For the past two days, Abigail lived in constant fear. Her father had not come forward to demand the return of his wife, but she knew he would. Her mother must have shared her worry, for she never left her bedchamber. Abigail visited her several times a day, but nothing helped to brighten her spirits.

To make matters worse, the garden became off limits to her unless she brought Greyson with her. Normally she would have found the time with him pleasurable, but his attention always fixed upon the foliage, no doubt expecting her father to be lying in wait for them. She went from absolute freedom to being a prisoner.

Her husband did make it up to her every night. He even insisted she remain in bed with him. Falling asleep beside him and waking in the same manner was wondrous. Her secret being exposed had been one of the best things to happen to her.

A few of the staff members were shocked when they learned of her true identity. Considering the majority of them had already discovered the truth for themselves, she was embarrassed to have believed she had deceived anyone.

Mrs. Coushings’ reaction was one Abigail felt anxious to learn of. As the woman had no inkling of the truth, she’d collapsed when Sandra told her. Since then, the housekeeper never stopped the flood of apologies and was the first one on hand should Abigail need anything.

Shaking off her thoughts, she crossed to look out the window. The after-dinner activities were cut short that evening as everyone appeared to be on edge. After returning to their rooms, Matthews called upon Greyson regarding an urgent matter, leaving Abigail stuck in her room alone. She could wait for her husband in his bed, but the thought of being in there without him saddened her.

A knock at the door came as a happy distraction. She practically ran to welcome whoever waited for her. To her surprise, one of the downstairs maids stood outside her door.

“My lady, the stable boy gave this to me.” She held up a paper. “He said he found it. It’s addressed to you.”

“Thank you.”

Abigail took the paper, flipping it over before her hands could shake, then closed the door as the maid disappeared down the hall. Turning it around, she shuddered to see the Donetic seal. Her father.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she debated handing the unopened letter to Greyson. Her father should have sent his demands to her husband. She could not understand why he would think to send them to her.

As her husband was busy, her anxiousness to discover the contents of the letter made waiting too difficult. Sliding her finger under the edge of the parchment, she broke the seal. She took a deep breath then looked down at the scrawl.

Lady Merrick,

You have something I want, and I have the power to take something you want. Meet me in the boathouse immediately or your husband will never be able to show his face in London. And you will never see that good-for-nothing woman you call mother again.

Falling to her knees, Abigail crumbled the offensive paper in her hands. She could not breathe. Everything was wrong. Her eyes could not focus, and her stomach rolled. The room felt as if it were spinning. Crawling to the chamber pot, she emptied her stomach.

As she lay on the cold, hard floor, she weighed her options. If she followed her father’s orders and met him that night, it would mean crippling pain for her. On the other hand, if she did not, Greyson’s chances of survival in Society would be ruined, and the duke would kill her mother.

Knowing she had to save the people she loved, Abigail forced herself to her feet. Willing herself to be strong, she drew on the strength of the mother and her husband and walked out the door.

Using the servants’ exit, she disappeared into the garden. The freezing air quickly penetrated the thin fabric of the dressing gown, but she didn’t care. Her body was already cold. However, she could not force the numbness to cover her. The stones and twigs dug into her bare feet, serving as a precursor to the pain she would soon receive.

Looking up at the moon, she could only spare a small amount of gratitude for the light to guide her way. After all, the moon remained silent to watch her make her way to suffering. Receiving no strength from the knowledge, her bravado wore off by the time she arrived at the end of the short path to the boathouse.

She fell to her knees and retched. Nothing came up, but the forceful contracting of her muscles didn’t subside. Dear Lord, what was she doing? Throughout her life, she willingly put herself in between her mother and her father, but she knew this would be much worse.

Jumping up, she turned back to the manor as tears streamed down her cheeks. She could not go through with this. Greyson would understand. After all, he had openly chose her over his reputation only days before. And her mother. Abigail stopped.

With her mother forefront in her mind, she crested the trees and forced her legs to carry her across the fields to the boathouse. The once beautiful sight now terrified her. Even the tall grass waved at her to leave as if knowing her fate. The boathouse, too, administered its warning as it shuddered in the wind.

Stiffening her spine, Abigail opened the rotted door and saw her father’s repulsive face in the faint glow of a candle.

“I knew you would come, you whore. After the disgusting way you have been teasing me these past weeks, I should not have offered you the honor of having a duke.” He shrugged. “I suppose I’m just a generous man.”

“But Father, I—”

“I’m not your father,” he bellowed. “When your mother came to me on our wedding night, I discovered she had taken on lovers before me. Since then, who knows how many men she has allowed in her bed? You are just like her.”

Hearing the accusation against her mother gave her strength. Pulling her shoulders back, she glared at her father. He was wrong. Her mother had never taken on lovers after she married him.

“She would never betray you. How can you bel—”

He backhanded her across the mouth, successfully silencing her. Pain erupted along her mouth and cheek. Grabbing her already swelling lips, she knew this was only the beginning. Her rational mind screamed she should not fight, that it would be faster if she did his bidding, but the rest of her couldn’t agree. His threat was clear. He never intended to leave her alone.

She shrank back as his stride brought him to her. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her forward, forcing unwanted tears to sting the back of her eyes. Biting her tongue, she refused to give in to the pain. She would not give him the satisfaction.

As he pulled her closer to his face, she lacked the power to stop him. She turned away, but the movement didn’t faze him. He brought her hair to his nose, inhaled deeply, then rubbed the ends of it across his face.

“So soft. So wicked.” His voice hardened as he yanked harder on her hair. “You will get no pleasure tonight. I’ll punish you for this.”

He released her to rip her dressing gown from her shoulders. The sound echoed in the space as fear stabbed her. She could not breathe. She could not move. Her throat clogged and her limbs froze.

In that instant, she switched her mind off. She no longer existed in the body before her. Instead, she watched from above and pretended she dreamed the scene before her. She pitied the woman who would soon endure such torture as she safely hid in the rafters.

Before the horrors could unfold, splintered wood rained over her in slow motion, and Greyson appeared in the doorway. She smiled, pleased her dream could conjure such a sight. His face burned red in a blaze of glorious rage. She took in every inch of him. From his deadly eyes, fisted hands, and even the swaying of his dressing gown around his feet posed to kill. He was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen.

When he lunged into her father, she was knocked back. The jarring move forced her mind back into her body and time sped up. As she looked through her own eyes, she realized Greyson had really come for her. Her heart wanted to burst with love for him, but her fear didn’t diminish.

The two men fought around her, but she couldn’t help. She remained immovable, forced to watch. Her heart ached as her father’s fist contacted with Greyson’s face, but her husband retaliated, not appearing to be affected by the older man’s attempts.

Although both men exuded the intent to kill, the duke’s efforts were not well thought out, having come out of desperation. Greyson, on the other hand, moved gracefully and well prepared for each move.

“What is going on here?” Braiden demanded from the direction of the door.

Her father’s attention moved from Greyson for a split second, so her husband snatched the opportunity. He kicked the duke, who stumbled backward and fell against the wall. A stunned expression crossed his face before anger darkened it.

Cracking wood resounded in the small space as the boards behind her father buckled under his weight. Obviously knowing what would happen, Greyson lunged forward, but it was too late. Her father fell out of the boathouse and into the rushing waters.