Julia London (9 page)

“It’s your own fault,” he casually observed. “If you could but give up this absurdity, there would be no call for you to come running out of your room half dressed.”

Abbey bristled. “I did
not
come running out of my room half dressed! If you will recall,
you
are the one who decreed fifteen minutes. I am not the one acting irrationally here,
you
are.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have explained to you my hands are tied. You are the only one who can stop this madness, yet you refuse to do it. You are, apparently, as stubborn a wench as you ever were,” he shot back.

Abbey lifted her chin and deigned not to answer that as they raced to the bottom of the stairs. In the foyer, she turned
to proceed down the corridor she had been in earlier, but his hand on her waist stopped her.

“Miss Carrington,” he said. Startled by the intimate contact of his strong hand on her waist, Abbey stopped and reluctantly glanced up at him.

With his head, he motioned in the opposite direction. “The chapel is this way,” he said dryly, a thin smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Abbey snorted with exasperation and, pivoting on her heel, began to march in direction he indicated.

“For your information, I am not nor have I ever been a stubborn wench,” she muttered angrily as they strode, side by side, down the corridor. “You undoubtedly believe anyone who does not instantly agree with you is stubborn. You certainly showed signs of that aboard the
Dancing Maiden
.”

“If I were you, I would not begin to recount the slights you perceive as being at my hand, because your transgressions will outnumber mine significantly. You were an impossible, willful, and most extraordinarily undisciplined child.”

She had been nothing of the sort, and she groaned disdainfully at his fiction. He was simply trying to goad her. Well, he was going to have to do a lot more than make up stories about her childhood before she would give in to his strong-arm tactics. No, if anyone was going to cry off, it would be he.

He grabbed her elbow as they neared the end of the corridor and turned into an alcove from which the chapel was entered. Abbey could see the small sanctuary, could see the heads of Lord Hunt, Sebastian, and Jones simultaneously turning toward them.

“Here we are, Miss Carrington. This is your last opportunity to release us both from this insanity,” Michael said evenly.

Abbey was very sure he would not go through with it. So sure that she looked up at him and smiled brilliantly. “Not on your life, Darfield,” she whispered sweetly.

Michael’s gray eyes clouded over as if warning her of an impending storm. And a storm was definitely brewing inside him. He could not believe the nerve of this chit. He had been
as disagreeable as possible, and yet she was standing there beside him, her hair tumbling about her shoulders in a gown pulled rumpled from her trunk, her face a study of very pretty mortification. He had no idea what compelled her to this other than a stubborn streak a mile long. One thing was certain. She was an obstinate woman, and
that
came as no surprise.

He tightened his grip on her elbow and propelled her toward the altar, halting abruptly just in front of it. He had given her a last opportunity before he pushed her to the brink of humiliation, but she would not relent. No doubt she would falter if the ceremony was begun, but by then her humiliation before his best friend and the vicar would be complete. She had it coming, in his humble estimation. He looked down at her flawless face. She was looking at the altar, her violet eyes wide with the chagrin she could not hide. He sighed wearily as he decided to reason with her one last time.

“Look at me,” he commanded her softly.

Abbey did, her expression revealing her uncertainty. He considered her very carefully, his eyes sweeping her face. “Think on what you are about to do, because it will not easily be undone. Are you quite sure this is what you want?” he asked softly.

“I have thought about it for a very long time—for what seems almost a lifetime,” she answered truthfully. She felt compelled to tell him everything she was feeling, but Michael’s eyes hardened again before she could speak.

“I see. If you will turn this way, Miss Carrington.” She did as he asked and was surprised to see the vicar standing there. Funny, she had not noticed him until this very moment.

To the vicar, Michael said, “Get on with it.”

Stunned, Abbey stared at the vicar, who began, “Dearly beloved, we gather here today in the sight of God—”

“Wait!”
Abbey cried and placed her hand on Michael’s folded arm; the steel muscles flexed tightly beneath her touch. His gaze shifted to her face with a distinctive look of cool impatience. This was not right, not right at all. Abbey was now extremely uneasy, and searched his icy gray eyes for
something,
anything
that might indicate he was bluffing. He was bluffing!

“Is this … I mean, are we …”

“It is a marriage ceremony, Miss Carrington,” he said casually. Abbey could not believe her ears. This man did not look as if he was about to stop this charade, but she knew he would. He had to!

She looked frantically at the vicar, who conveniently turned his attention to his prayer book.

Michael’s gray eyes flicked to her open mouth and back to her eyes. “It’s what you wanted, is it not?” he asked quietly through clenched teeth.

“Yes!
No!
I mean, Michael, of
course
I want to marry you, I have always wanted to marry you, but not like
this
,” she whispered frantically.

Michael sneered. “What were you expecting? A grand affair in London? An event that the
Times
would report? The social event of the season? Did you think your terms granted you all that?” he hissed.

Abbey was suddenly frightened. This man was nothing like the man she remembered at all, but an impostor in Michael Ingram’s skin, a hateful man who looked so resentful at this very moment that she thought he could easily strangle her.

“I am not sure what I was expecting, but it most certainly was not this,” she whispered hoarsely.

“I warned you,” he muttered angrily. “You know how to stop it.”

Confused, Abbey could not respond. Her little game had spiraled out of control. For some inexplicable reason, she was paralyzed, knowing she should stop this
now
but completely incapable of doing so.

Michael turned his cold gaze to the vicar. “Get on with it. Miss Carrington can sort out her expectations later,” he said abruptly. The vicar glanced sheepishly at Abbey, then began again. Stunned, Abbey stood unmoving, unthinking, while the vicar quickly ran through the ceremony and vows, waiting for the moment Michael would halt this ridiculous charade. Only vaguely aware that she was answering, she mumbled something
incoherent when the vicar pressed her for a response, and next to her, Michael did much the same. When she heard the horrifying words “man and wife,” Abbey thought she would faint.

Before she could, Michael’s arm encircled her waist and jerked her hard to his chest. “Lady Darfield,” he muttered, then lightly brushed his lips across hers. The intimate contact of his soft lips on hers jolted Abbey senseless. A strange, alluring fire raced up her spine. His lips lingered on hers for a long moment, and when he lifted his head, she was sure his stone-gray eyes had softened. She was equally sure, judging by the way he was looking at her, that he had felt the heat race up his spine, too.

Apparently, she would be the last to know if that was true. He immediately dropped his arm from her waist, pivoted on his heel, and marched out of the chapel. Abbey stared after him in horrified amazement. Sebastian and Jones shook their heads sadly at one another, and Sam glared angrily at the vicar for want of a better target.

Abbey, having cried herself to sleep, awoke the next morning with a dull headache. As her gaze adjusted to the room about her, melancholy descended on her. She was in
his
house. Unfortunately, nothing had changed overnight, and therefore, she would demand he return her to America. His incentive, as if he needed one, would be her bloody dowry and the satisfaction of her father’s debts. He could keep it and she would never darken his door again—no, his name would never so much as pass her lips. The vicar could certainly be persuaded to forget what had passed for a ceremony last night had ever happened. Reluctantly she rose and fished through her things for a plain gown. She was startled a moment later when a young woman with blond hair peeking from beneath her maid’s cap entered. The maid seemed just as surprised, and she hastily curtsied.

“Morning, mum. I didn’t expect you about quite so early. My name is Sarah. Lord Darfield has instructed me to tend to you,” she said nervously.

Abbey had never had anyone tend her and felt very self-conscious. “Good morning, Sarah. If you would be so good
as to fasten these buttons, then perhaps you could show me to the breakfast room?” Abbey suggested just as nervously.

“Of course, mum.” Sarah quickly moved to fasten her gown. “You’re younger than I would have thought, if you don’t mind me saying so, mum. When we heard Lord Darfield might take a wife, lord, we couldn’t imagine. I never thought him the marrying type. He has been alone all these years, you know, and he rather prefers the sea,” Sarah blurted. She patted Abbey’s back to indicate she had finished.

“Withers, he had me half convinced you’d be rather homely,” she continued as she moved to the bed to straighten the covers. “He said my lord wouldn’t marry unless it were for money, and it’s only the homely ladies that has the money. I don’t know why I give Withers one bit of time, to tell you the truth.”

“Withers?” At the same time Abbey wondered what fool would come to such a ridiculous conclusion, she thought the name sounded very familiar.

“He’s the head gardener, mum.”

Abbey perked up at that. There was nothing she had enjoyed more than tending her garden in Virginia. “Head gardener? That sounds as if there are more than one.”

“Oh, indeed there are, mum. There are three, and of course the groundsmen.”

“Three?”

“It’s a rather big house, mum, with rather big gardens, but you can’t see them for all the snow. In the springtime, you’ll have a lovely view from your window. In the winter, Withers spends his time in the hothouse. I’ll show you if you like.”

“I thought I would breakfast with Lord Darfield,” Abbey said shyly. It would be best to confront her terrible situation immediately, not spend time exploring an estate that she intended to leave immediately, no matter how grand.

“Oh, mum, the master is away already. He takes his breakfast very early when he is in residence; he’s usually gone before the sun is up.” Sarah giggled to herself. “Cook is not very fond of the morning. She is quite beside herself when he comes. She says eating that early ain’t good for the body.
Been grousing all morning, she has. Wouldn’t have been so bad if the master hadn’t gotten her up in the middle of the night to show him where the cheese was kept.”

Abbey missed the reference to Michael’s sleepless night. “Lord Darfield has departed?”

“An hour ago, mum, with Lord Hunt.”

Abbey was sorely disappointed. She very much needed to get this ugly affair over and done with. He might have at least mentioned when they would have opportunity to speak again. That is, if he ever intended to speak to her again. Sarah finished with the bed and straightened up, regarding Abbey closely. “Aye, you are quite lovely, mum. Won’t Withers be surprised.”

Embarrassed, Abbey shrugged and moved toward the door.

Sarah happily bustled in front of her and opened it. “I’ll unpack your trunks first thing,” she said as she opened the door and gestured for Abbey to precede her.

The corridor could have doubled as a ballroom, it was so wide. Abbey had not noticed yesterday that it was much like the ground floor, with small tables and vases of fresh-cut flowers lining each side. Paintings were also in abundance, as were artifacts from a more ancient time. Just ahead of her, Sarah pointed to a large oak door across from the landing.

“That would be your sitting room, mum. And there, that’s the library.”

“The library? I thought it was downstairs.”

“Yes, mum, the main library is downstairs. This is
your
library.” Abbey gave Sarah a puzzled look. “The master says you are to have your own rooms. Your library doesn’t have many books in it yet, but Sebastian says you may purchase your own.” Sarah wrinkled her nose and whispered, “The master’s reading tastes are a bit strong for a lady. Latin and such.”

Abbey’s stomach lurched involuntarily. She should not care; she should be ecstatic. She did not
want
to be with him, but it hurt terribly that he had so blatantly planned a separate life for her. He intended her to live on the first floor when he was in residence, and he in his rooms on the ground floor.

“How perfectly arrogant,” she muttered.

Sarah’s pale-blue eyes widened at her remark. “I beg your pardon, mum?”

“I suppose I am to dine and sleep up here alone? Like some prisoner?” she asked, making no effort to conceal her bitterness.

A bit of color seeped into Sarah’s pale cheeks. “Well, no, mum. The dining room is on the ground floor. And, of course, the master’s chambers are next to yours.”

Abbey was not expecting that and suddenly remembered the door in her room adjoining another suite. Had he slept there last night while she cried herself to sleep? She quickly looked away and pretended to study a priceless Chinese vase as she tried to collect herself. She could be such a fool at times. Of course he would have chambers next to hers. Of course he would want her company for
that
. He wanted the obligatory coupling to produce an heir. Beyond that he wanted nothing to do with her. So exactly when was it she should expect
that
to happen? Before or after he spoke to her again? Would he come barging in, claiming to own her now, in addition to the house, the room, and the door?

As Abbey followed Sarah down the grand staircase, she had to pause and blink several times to clear hot tears of frustration so she could see where she was stepping. In front of her, Sarah chatted away, pointing here and there as she explained the surroundings. Abbey heard nothing. She was too overwhelmed by the reality of her bleak situation to concentrate.