Secrets of a Perfect Night (12 page)

Janet brushed all Abby’s protests aside with a glorious smile. “My dear, you’re almost a goddaughter to me and it’s been years since I had the pleasure of buying such gowns. Pray indulge an old lady in this.”

What could she say? Abby accepted the gifts prettily—and threw a glance at Adrian, one that promised retribution. Unfortunately, with the dinner that evening, she had to wear one of her new gowns, mind her manners and take his arm, and lean on him constantly for social support. He came to her aid with his usual charm and elegant flair; when she climbed into bed that night, she was too pleasantly entertained to give thought to his comeuppance.

The next day they spent finalizing fabrics and ordering linens; the following day saw them at an emporium specializing in silverware, crystal, and plate.
Abby felt a fraud as the owner, having ascertained Adrian’s rank, put himself at their disposal and proceeded to lay before her his best patterns.

After twenty minutes, Abby sent him to fetch a particular decanter she’d glimpsed in a distant display case; the instant the man was out of earshot, she turned and frowned at Adrian, lounging against the display case beside her. “Your viscountess should be making these decisions,” she hissed.

Adrian turned his head; his eyes met hers. “She is.”

The steadiness of his amber gaze, the unshakable conviction infusing his calm tone, shook her as nothing else had. She couldn’t think what to say, how to deny it—then the owner was back and she had to turn to him and pretend to examine the decanter.

She refused to make any firm decisions on patterns and plate—so Adrian made them for her, unerringly selecting precisely those designs she would, in fact, have chosen; he’d been watching her more closely than she’d realized. Irritated, annoyed, and distinctly shaken, she said not a word on the drive back to Curzon Street.

They entered Hawsley House to be met with startling news.

“The Wardsleys are holding a ball! Not a small one, either.” Janet waved them to chairs as she poured them cups of tea. “Arabella Wardsley called not an hour ago—their daughter Helen has contracted a very favorable alliance with Lord Dunbarry. He’s cousin and heir to the old Duke of Selkirk, and His Grace will be passing through London next week, so everyone
who is anyone is invited to a ball in honor of the betrothal.”

Janet sat back, eyes alight. “Just imagine! Whoever would have anticipated a major ball at this time of year?”

Abby smiled weakly, and wondered if Adrian somehow had.

The true extent of his machinations was brought home to her that evening when, on retiring to her chamber, she found on the table beside her bed a new, leather-bound, gilt-tooled volume of John Donne’s poems. She was sitting on the bed, the book in her hands, swept away by the sheer power of the words before she knew it.

The candle flickered as she neared the end of one beautifully evocative piece. Sighing, she closed the book, then hesitated. After a moment, she opened the front cover. She hadn’t bothered before; it seemed obvious who had left the book for her.

She was right.

When she read what he had written, she shut the book and closed her eyes, and fought to calm her heart, to extinguish the hope that, without her knowing it, without her permission, had, she now realized, been growing steadily stronger every day.

“Damn him.” How dare he put her through this? Again.

Abruptly opening her eyes, she laid the book aside, stood, and walked from the room.

The house was silent. Everyone else had retired, but she suspected Adrian read until late. She reached the
main staircase and descended. The light glowing beneath the library door confirmed her guess; squaring her shoulders, she straightened her spine, then opened the door and walked in.

She paused to shut the door behind her, then continued across the expanse of carpet to the large desk behind which Adrian sat. He wasn’t reading tonight but occupied with accounts; he’d looked up at her entrance, then watched her approach, but as she neared, he looked back at his ledgers.

“What is it?”

Abby stopped before the desk and glared at his bent head. “You’re seducing me!”

“Hmm.” He blotted an entry. “Is it working?”

Abby stared at him. “
You’re
supposed to be the expert—can’t you tell?”

He glanced up and met her gaze. “I’ve never seduced a woman into marriage before, so no, I can’t.”

With that, he went back to filling in figures. Abby glanced around for something to hit him with—her eye alighted on a heavy brass paperweight.

“Don’t even think of it.”

She looked back at him—and her temper rose another notch. He hadn’t even glanced at her—she
hated
it that he knew her so well!

She knew him well, too.

Folding her arms, she considered him; when she had her voice firmly under control, she stated, “Adrian, I don’t understand why you’ve developed this fixation on having me as your wife, but you will simply have to accept that it is not going to happen. I am not going to marry you.”

With maddening precision, he laid aside his pen, blotted his last entry, then closed the ledger. Then and only then did he look up at her.

“You—or no one, Abby.” He met her eyes, ruthless determination in his. After a moment, he added, “Your choice.”

Abby stared at him. Stared and stared, but nothing changed. He did not waver. Did not add any word, any gesture, to soften his words or give them any other meaning. Her, or no one.

All that he meant, the completeness and finality of his vow, rolled through her.

A minute ticked by. Then she drew in an unsteady breath, inclined her head, turned, and walked from the room.

Five

N
O POWER ON
earth will induce me to marry Adrian Andrew Hawsley
.

Abby could remember saying the words; she’d meant them, too.

Standing at the window of her bedchamber, she stared unseeing at the courtyard below, still wrapped in early morning shadows. She could clearly recall marching into her father’s study after learning from Adrian of the plot to force him to marry her; at that moment, she hadn’t known who she’d been more furious with—his father, hers, or Adrian. Or herself. But she’d known what she had to do and she’d held to her line. Not until it had all blown over and Adrian had returned to London did she allow herself to even acknowledge her shattered heart and her broken, trampled dreams.

Until Adrian had spoken so bitterly against marrying her, she hadn’t even admitted to herself that she’d dreamed—dreamed of him recognizing and desiring her love, desiring her. What they’d shared on that single afternoon on the moor had opened her heart and
unlocked her soul. Her love had blossomed and grown. The fact that he’d never thereafter referred to the interlude had not concerned her—she’d expected him to take some time to come to grips with what now lay between them. Instead…

At the time, after the first rush of grief, she had consoled herself that perhaps Adrian did indeed love her, but that their fathers’ ill-advised plan had set his back up—as it naturally would. If so, he would eventually calm down, accept the truth in his heart, and return to her.

So she’d waited.

He hadn’t returned.

Not until, on New Year’s Day, he’d arrived and fallen at her feet.

Abby grimaced. There was no point pretending she didn’t love him—he knew she did. That wasn’t the question that lay at the heart of their coil; it never had been. There had only ever been one question—one denial—that had kept them apart.

She remained staring out of the window until the stirrings in the house warned her it was time to get dressed. Lips firming despite her abiding uncertainty, she turned into the room.

No power on earth could induce her to marry Adrian Andrew Hawsley—except, perhaps, love.

He’d said he was returning to the moor to pick up the pieces of his past and rebuild, determined to make a better fist of it this time.

If that was truly so, then perhaps she could do the same.

He’d found the sketch she’d done of the drawing room in its new finery; Adrian came to the breakfast table with the leaf in his hand.

“Why, this is marvelous!” Janet threw her a dazzling smile. “Can you do sketches like this of the other rooms, too? It would be so nice to see what Adrian’s thinking of doing.”

It would, indeed, be nice to know what Adrian was thinking of doing; Abby let her gaze touch his face just long enough to see the smug triumph in his eyes before inclining her head. “If you wish.”

The request would give her something to do to fill her days.

She started immediately after breakfast, settling in the window seat in the library where the light was excellent. She glanced up as Adrian took the chair behind the desk. “I won’t disturb you, will I?”

He arched a brow at her; their eyes held for an instant. “I’ll manage.”

She raised a brow back, then got to work. She quickly sketched an outline of the family parlor, then reached for her pencils. “Can I have the plans?”

Adrian rose and brought them to her. Setting them on the seat beside her, she selected colors, working from Adrian’s meticulous notes, then started to bring the sketch to life.

Propping one shoulder against the window frame, Adrian watched. Normally she would have frozen and ordered him away—she hated people looking over her shoulder. But Adrian had watched her work so often in years gone by, his presence did not distract her. At least, not in the usual way.

“There’s a plate shelf along that wall.”

He pointed; Abby remembered and changed pencils to quickly sketch it in. She sensed him hesitating, trying to find a way to say something.

“I know Mama asked, but Bellevere is huge. Sketching all the rooms is a mammoth task—let’s make it a commission. I’ll pay the going rate.”

Abby didn’t stop sketching, didn’t look up. After a moment, she said, “It was your birthday on New Year’s Day—your thirtieth. I’ll give you the folio for your present.”

Silence followed, filled with thoughts, considerations, hesitations. Then he asked, “Can I choose my present?”

“At the moment, the folio is all you’re being offered.”

She didn’t need to look to know his lips set.

“In that case, I’ll take it.”

With that, he returned to the desk. Abby smiled to herself and sketched on.

She wasn’t quite so sure of herself when, the next morning, courtesy of her aunt and his mother, she found herself being handed into his curricle, then whisked off to Richmond.

Admittedly, the day was unusually fine, the sun bright, the air clear. The park when they reached it was deserted, but, to her eyes, utterly beautiful, bare, ice-encrusted branches sparkling in the sunshine, long swaths of lawn white under the light cover of snow. The deer were gathered in herds, heavy-antlered heads rising to view the interlopers.

Her sketch pad on her lap, she gave no thought to Adrian’s machinations. Only when he confiscated her pencil, then drew her down to stroll with him along the carriage path, did she remember.

The man was a rake—supposedly the most experienced lover in the ton. A master seducer. A point most unwise to forget. Especially when alone with him.

“Stop quivering—I’m not going to eat you. At least,” he murmured, his tone deepening, “not out here.”

“I’m simply cold.” A blatant lie with her cheeks burning—she found it horrifying that she knew precisely what his last comment meant.

He chuckled—her temperature rose another notch.

“What a liar you’ve become, sweetheart.”

She wasn’t fool enough to answer that. Adrian had drawn her arm through his, set her hand on his sleeve, then covered it with his hand. Even through their leather gloves she could feel the heat of his palm. Her skirts brushed his boots; their arms brushed as they walked. Physical intimacy and its pleasures were too much on her mind—and his. She drew in a breath and was conscious that he watched her breasts rise. “This ball—how large will it be?”

“Over a hundred, certainly, possibly more than two—at this time of year, I doubt that there are more potential guests than that in town.”

“Two hundred?” Abby tried to imagine it.

“Many will be the older generation, those who no longer have the energy for the usual winter visits, but there’s bound to be a goodly number of others, too, who for one reason or another are back in town.”

Like him. Abby wondered about the ball, how she
would cope, whether she would enjoy it—whether he would stay by her side and steer her through it. “Will there be much dancing?”

“Some, of course, but not as much as there would be were this the height of the Season, or the guest of honor one who might care.”

She glanced at him. “You mean the duke?”

Adrian nodded, his mind on other things. More interesting things. “Do you waltz?”

Abby shrugged. “A little.”

“Meaning a few revolutions at the Hunt Ball every year.”

She shot him a sharp glance. “We haven’t had a Hunt Ball since you shut Bellevere.”

He raised his brows. “In that case, I should clearly make reparation.”

Before she could fathom his intention and protest, he swung her to face him, then took her in his arms. Humming, he started to waltz. Luckily, her feet followed instinctively, even though her eyes went round.

“Adrian!” She quickly looked about.

“There’s no one to see.” He kept humming, whirling slowly, evenly.

“The deer are looking at us as if we’re demented.”

“Stop fussing and pay attention.”

“Attention!” Her gaze locked on his face. “Someone might drive by at any moment and find us waltzing in the snow like bedlamites.”

He grinned and drew her closer. “You need the practice—relax and match the rhythm.”

With an aggravated “humph,” she did. He had never waltzed with her—never had the opportunity.
As they slowly revolved across the frosty lawn, Adrian wondered at his foolishness. His shortsightedness. Abby fitted perfectly in his arms as if crafted just for him. Once she concentrated and correctly gauged his stride, she relaxed and the magical quality of the dance took hold.