Reckless Viscount (9 page)

She put on the weary demeanor of a governess trying to instill an important lesson into the thick head of a resistant child.

“I am here, Lord Riley, parading myself as you so elegantly put it, in the hope that I might receive an offer of marriage from a worthy man.”

His grin twisted into something more of a grimace.

“I had thought you to be more sensible.”

“Than to seek a proper marriage?”

She tried to maintain a posture of modest decorum, a problematic task when the rich warmth in his eyes, cast so intimately up at her, threatened to crumble her firm resolve.

“Than to seek fulfillment in such a conventional manner,” he answered glibly. “There are many more satisfying ways to involve yourself with a man than to
marry
him.”

“More scandalous, you mean.”

He smiled. Unrepentantly.

Her heart skipped. Wildly.

“Tell me there’s still time to alter your course. None of those bumbling blokes have made an offer yet, have they?”

Abbigael glanced away from his teasing face, recalling the reason she had fled the ballroom.

“No. They haven’t.”

Lord Riley rolled to his side, curving his upper body in an intimate arc. He propped himself up on his elbow until his face became level with hers and only inches away. She watched him warily but did not scoot away or stand. His expression was surprisingly earnest.

“What troubles you, Irish?”

She should have denied any distress. She should have waved off his question with a flippant remark, but there was something comforting in the warmth of his body that curled around her. Close but not touching. She had no idea how it was possible to feel the instinctive urging to trust a man who by all rationalization was not worthy of such a sentiment. But she did trust him just then. As someone who was constantly judged unfavorably himself, perhaps he would not be too harsh in his judgment of her.

Her answer, when she spoke, was very quiet though she didn’t fear being overheard.

“A gentleman, someone I once knew in Dublin.”

Riley arched a tawny eyebrow. “An old suitor?”

She hesitated, pressing her fingertips to her temple and bowing her head.

What difference did it make what she told this man? Her past could not be changed. There was no shame in the truth. She lifted her chin and met his curious gaze.

“He showed some interest at first, but then he discovered something about me, about my past. I suppose it was due to an irrational sense of betrayal that he felt justified in spreading the tidbits of information, with a few dramatic embellishments of course, to every ear that would listen. He effectively ruined my chances of receiving an honorable offer in Ireland.”

She finished her explanation and waited for him to respond, preparing herself for inquiries into just what the man had discovered about her.

He remained silent far longer than she expected as he studied her face with those changeable eyes. The dancing blue and green flecks that nestled warmly in the golden brown orbs started to mesmerize Abbigael into a state of calm acceptance. She began to feel certain things she knew she shouldn’t. There was an easing of her internal resistance when she should be wary and distant. Tingling awareness was revitalized in areas of her body that had only been awakened to such sensation since meeting this man.

After a short time, he tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes as if trying to see her more clearly.

“This is very important to you? This pursuit of a husband?”

Abbigael hesitated. The affirmation stuck in her tightening throat. Something pulling from the depths of her heart made it difficult to answer. She couldn’t suppress the sigh that rose from her chest.

“It is.”

His mouth quirked upward on one side, making her wish she could touch her fingertip to the curling corner for just a second.

“I’ll marry you, Irish.”

His offer was uttered with such careless generosity that Abbigael didn’t take it seriously even for a moment. Her smile was involuntary and when he slid his hand into her lap and lifted one of her hands in his, she allowed it without resistance.

The curve of his mouth turned devilish and his voice took on a cavalier tone. “I’d make a dreadful husband, probably the worst that ever existed, but you would never be bored.”

“There are things that frighten me far more than boredom,” Abbigael countered.

She desperately tried to ignore the delicate little thrills that chased over her skin in reaction to his suggestive tone and his overwhelming nearness and the way the warmth of his hand holding hers seemed to spread throughout her entire body.

“Like what?” he asked in a low murmur.

Stray bits of moonlight filtered through the patterned leaves and danced over the sharp planes of his face, accenting the stern line of his jaw, the aristocratic length of his nose, the masculine width of his forehead. He was truly stunningly handsome.

And he was fully aware of it.

An inexperienced girl could become ensnared in his attentive gaze. Abbigael was unwilling to look away in fear she may miss some deep revelation in the swirling colors. Her brain was softening, as was the curve of her spine. She felt herself leaning in to him, enjoying the caress of his thumb as it pressed into the flesh of her palm.

He watched her intently, waiting for something. Oh yes, he had asked her a question. What did she fear more than boredom?

“Loneliness,” she breathed.

The black centers of his eyes dilated. She wondered at it, but her mind couldn’t seem to find purchase on any solid thought at the moment. Her lungs felt heavy and restrictive.

“You’re not alone right now.”

Abbigael suppressed a gentle shiver. She loved the sound of his voice when he lowered it like that. It twisted around her like a silken snake, tempting and teasing a personal truth she had buried long ago. As much as Abbigael yearned for the simple, quiet joy of a loving family, a part of her was undeniably attracted to the more intense emotions within herself. Emotions she constantly repressed in fear of losing control.

Almost everything about this man called to that part of her.

“You’re not going to kiss me again,” she muttered with trembling conviction.

His lips twitched.

“I’m not?”

“No,” she replied more confidently. “Because even as you are not what I want, I know I am not at all what you want.”

“I doubt you have any idea a’tall what I want, Irish.” Weary arrogance rode along the crests of the deeper sensual undercurrent flowing through his voice.

There was something else as well. Something that begged to be defined.

Abbigael shifted her position to face him more fully. She tried not to think too long on the heady warmth that spread from her belly when her side pressed against his chest. She lifted her hand to the side of his face. It was a bold move, but Abbigael was beyond the point of concern for propriety. He grew very still at the unexpected contact, and Abbigael almost smiled at the idea that she had managed to shock him, if only a very little.

The subtle growth of hair along his jaw was rough beneath her hand. She enjoyed the unexpected humanness of the texture. Not a god or fairy prince then.

He lowered his eyelids to half-mast, perhaps as a means of shielding his thoughts. But the action lent his expression a distinctly seductive appearance, and Abbigael’s blood pulsed swiftly in her veins. In spite of her body’s distracting reaction, she remained focused on his face. There was something there she needed to understand, something out of place in the world-weary angles and planes that defined his features. The short lines between his brows were too deep for a man his age.

On impulse, she extended her thumb to press it firmly against the center of his bottom lip. There was far too much tension there.

At the touch of her thumb against his lips, his breath drew in sharply, audibly. She lifted her gaze back to his. The myriad color scope of his eyes was bright and intense.

She took a deep and quiet breath, slowly filling her lungs. Then she spoke, the words falling softly from her lips before completely clearing her mind.

“I suspect you want far more than you lead people to believe.” She watched as the blue and green sparks faded into the golden glow of his eyes. Pulled in by the sudden heaviness in his gaze, she murmured under her breath, “I wonder if your refusal to please the world is a way to hide the fact that you cannot please yourself.”

His countenance darkened as she spoke and the muscle in his jaw grew taut beneath her palm. Abbigael worried she may have angered him with her thoughtless speculation.

Then he smiled. A wide and reckless grin that instantly chased away the soft haze of emotional intimacy that had clouded her perception.

“Oh, I know very well how to please myself.”

He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her against his chest as he laid back. He dropped his other hand to the outer curve of her hip and pressed his fingers possessively into her sensitive flesh.

Sparks flew over her nerves at the sudden contact. Heat speared through her center.

“Let me go.” Abbigael’s words were a breathless command.

“Why should I do that?” he asked in a raw whisper.

“Because someone is coming and you wouldn’t want to be caught with me like this.”

His nostrils flared and he tightened his arms around her for just a moment. But then he too must have heard the shuffle of steps getting closer by the second. He released her and stood in a fluid, animalistic motion that made him look like a predator even in his retreat.

Abbigael followed him with her eyes as he stepped back into the deeper shadows behind the ferns.

“This doesn’t end here, Irish.”

Then he turned and disappeared, his heavy words sinking into her swiftly chilling skin.

She stood and hurried away from the chaise on shaking legs. She carefully maneuvered to keep a solid wall of foliage between herself and whomever had entered the bower so even though they likely realized she was there, they could have no way to identify her. Once in the ballroom, she slipped back into the flow of guests and continued around the outer edge of the dance floor.

She shoved down any thoughts on what had just transpired between herself and Lord Riley. There would be time to think about that later.

By the time she reached Lady Blackbourne, the riotous emotions that had been triggered by her encounter with Lord Riley were tucked securely behind a calm, impenetrable facade. The countess was just where she had left her, deep in debate with her racing friends. Abbigael waited at her elbow, tamping down the impatience that hummed along her nerves.

She spread her attention outward, scanning for any sign of Lord Atwood. Her ears were perked for the sound of her name being hissed in venomous whispers and her eyes met everyone’s gaze, searching for that leering light of frightful pity and morbid curiosity. But either the gossip hadn’t spread as quickly as she had expected, or Lord Atwood had curled his forked tongue behind his teeth and kept his mouth shut.

If that were the case, it could only mean he had other plans for her.

Icy trepidation walked down her spine. A man such as that, who relished in the sensation he caused and lived for social dramatics, would not be able to keep such a juicy bit of information to himself for long.

It seemed near an eternity before Lady Blackbourne’s friends moved off and the lady turned to her.

“Miss Granger,” the countess began, then stopped herself, perhaps seeing the strain in Abbigael’s face that she couldn’t quite disguise. The lady lowered her voice. “What is the matter?”

“I am afraid a disaster may be looming.”

The countess lowered her black brows in concern. “Shall we walk? It is easier to prevent eavesdroppers if we do not remain in one place. Come, my dear,” she said kindly as she turned and linked her arm through Abbigael’s and began to lead them in a stroll around the dance floor. “Tell me what upset you.”

Chapter Eight

Though Abbigael would have loved to retreat back to the townhouse, after hearing about the impending threat, the countess had been insistent that they remain in revelry until the last guests were leaving. Abbigael had to admit it was the best course. If any rumors had been started, running away would only confirm their validity. So Abbigael spent the next few hours concentrating on being bright and charming.

She did not see Lord Atwood again and it seemed that he must have left the ball. After a while, she also conceded he had not revealed the details of her past to any of the guests present that evening.

Of course, that did not eliminate the threat to Abbigael. It only postponed it. With the Blackbournes on her side, she hoped maybe she could escape complete ruin. Still, by the end of the night, Abbigael was exhausted from hours of trying to rein in the anxiety that rattled her already distraught nerves.

After the ball, Lady Blackbourne sat quietly beside her in the carriage for the ride home and Lord Blackbourne rested on the back-facing seat with his eyes closed. The countess had advised her husband of Abbigael’s concerns and the earl assured Abbigael that they could handle any plot Lord Atwood might devise.