The Devil's Love (17 page)

flux.

He did not want to be attracted to her, much less desire her touch. He did not

want to know the feel of her exquisite body in his arms. He did not want to know

the taste or smell of her. He did not want to depend on her company. He did not

want to pity her. In fact, he did not want to feel anything for her.

Thus his sudden feeling of tenderness was unwelcome as was his desire.

He

drained his brandy as he stared out the window. In that moment he decided that

he would not become some foppish slave to her beauty and feisty charm.

He had

not wanted this marriage. She was another of his father’s messes he was having

to clean up, and he resented the hell out of the whole damn situation. Her physical allure aside, he did not want to be burdened with her.

Yet he could not forget the first day he had seen her, the look of adoration brimming in her eyes, or that beguiling smile. He could not forget that any more

than he could forget the painful hurt that had darkened her beautiful eyes a half hour ago.

Bloody hell, he could never forget her.

Michael was not surprised when Abbey did not appear at breakfast the next

morning, not after seeing her devastation at her father’s treachery.

Vaguely

worried and more than a little disconcerted by his own traitorous feelings, he

tried to listen to Sebastian but had no idea what he was saying. After a few

attempts to eat his eggs, he finally pushed his plate aside.

“We will continue in the library, Sebastian,” he said, and stood abruptly.

“Jones, send a tray up to Lady Darfield.”

“I have done so, my lord, but she refused it,” he replied, casting an accusatory

look at his employer. He said nothing and impatiently quit the room; behind him,

Jones exchanged a frown with Sebastian.

After an hour in the library with Sebastian, Michael realized he was staring out

the window as his thoughts repeatedly wandered to Abbey. He recalled her in the

garden the day before, happily tossing a ball to a maimed dog. He remembered how

enticing she had looked when he had happened upon her afternoon walk—her cheeks

flushed from the exercise and her eyes sparkling gaily. And at supper, he had

been pleasantly entertained with her playful banter as he recalled some of his

more interesting ventures into the world as a young man.

“Are you quite certain?” Sebastian asked.

Michael forced himself from his preoccupation and slid his gaze to his secretary. “Certain of what?”

Sebastian cleared his throat and busied himself neatly stacking the papers on

his lap. “You instructed me to accept the invitation to Lady Davenport’s next

weekend,” he said sheepishly.

“Did I?” he asked, momentarily confused. Rebecca. He had to do something about

Rebecca, but for the life of him, he did not know what. The back of his neck

grew warm with a very rare feeling of embarrassment. He leaned forward on his

desk and rubbed his temples. Bloody hell, he was useless in his current state.

He could not concentrate on a single item Sebastian placed in front of him and

could not remember being so damned distracted in all of his adult life. “I have

not as yet decided. If you will excuse me, I think I shall go for a ride,” he said, rising from his chair.

“It looks like rain, my lord,” Sebastian called after him as he strode briskly across the room, and was answered with the sound of a door shutting firmly

behind his employer. Left alone, Sebastian turned in his chair to face the window, a deep smile on his face. He had never seen the marquis so disagreeable,

and he was quite aware of the cause. “It’s about bloody time,” he muttered cheerfully to himself, and gathered up his papers.

Michael took the marble stairs two at a time, landing silently at the top, and

turned toward the master suite of rooms. A sound caught his attention, causing

him to stop abruptly. The most mournful strains of music he had ever heard a

violin make were wafting through the thick walnut door of Abbey’s sitting room.

Shocked, he walked slowly to the door and gripped the door frame.

It was Abbey, he knew it. He had no idea she played the violin, and dear God,

how she played. The strings were achingly stroked; with every caress of the bow

he could feel her heartbreak. He recognized the Handel piece, one that carried

the weight of the world in its notes. He had never heard the violin played so

elegantly in all his life, nor had he ever been so moved by a piece of music.

She continually surprised him, but this… this struck a chord in him so

deep it

shook him.

The music abruptly ended. Michael jerked himself upright and stared at the door.

Suddenly self-conscious, he backed away, looking sheepishly about the corridor,

half expecting someone to jump out and laugh at him for being so emotionally

touched. Greatly unsettled by her music and his own confused emotions, he strode

swiftly to his chamber.

He changed into his riding clothes and went straight to the stables, almost running past the sitting room door so he would not have to hear her wrenching

music again. He had to get away from the house so he could think. Her scent, the

silken feel of her skin, and, good Lord, those eyes, were making it impossible.

When he reached the stables, he waved the groom away and tossed a saddle onto

Samson’s back himself. He did not want anyone near him for fear they would

discover the depth of his confusion. Confusion! He had been many things in his

life, but confused was never one of them.

Perhaps a visit to Rebecca Davenport would set everything right again.

Abbey dried her last tear, and with chin up, she marched to the large window of

her library and stared out at the gray day. She had, at last, come to terms with

the horrible fact that her father had lied shamelessly and had caused her to

humiliate herself beyond compare. But she had pitied herself enough.

She was ready to take the situation in hand.

At least now she understood Michael’s attitude. She frowned as she thought of

her own behavior over the last weeks. Despite her initial feelings to the contrary, he had been remarkably kind to her given the foul circumstances. No

longer did she see him as the aloof, icily distant husband she would be forced

to desire from a distance. She saw him as the real victim of her father’s farce.

Naturally, she could not expect Michael to put up with this sham of a marriage

one more moment. If it was within her power to end this, she would. She did not

care about the money. She cared how awful it was for him to have been forced

into this. The only decent thing she could do for him was request an end to

their farcical marriage and return to America.

It was not such a bad solution. At least in America, she had an aunt and cousins

who loved her; they would ignore the disgrace she brought back with her.

At

least there her spirit would thrive, not like here, where she would be reminded

of the cruel hoax her father had played each and every time she looked at him.

She debated how she would tell him. Still feeling the sting of humiliation, her

first thought was to send him a note apologizing for her deplorable naivete and

her decision to return to America. Naturally, it was only right he should keep

her dowry. A twinge of consciousness pricked at her. It was also only right that

she tell him in person. She could not be the coward now; it was only fair that

he should have the opportunity to speak his peace.

As she stood contemplating her options, she saw Michael gallop into the drive

atop a massive black horse, his shirt open at the neck and his coat slung haphazardly over his lap. His sleeves were rolled up over his thick forearms.

She smiled as she watched him gracefully alight from his mount.

Regardless of

what happened, she would never forget how handsome he was. She would never

forget how his lips felt on hers, or how he sparked a need in her that she could

not even identify, much less quell. She watched him disappear into the stable

and turned from the window.

She would tell him this evening.

He would be relieved.

Abbey picked up her violin and began to play a bright Bach composition.

At a full fifteen minutes after eight o’clock, Michael still had not appeared in

the drawing room where he usually took his brandy before supper. Abbey paced the

broad expanse of room, smiling nervously at the footman who stood against one

wall waiting to do her bidding. She was quite certain Jones had told her Michael

was never late for his evening rituals.

“Do you think,” she said to the footman, breaking the insufferable silence,

“that perhaps Lord Darfield might be in another drawing room?”

“No, milady. His lordship prefers the gold drawing room as it gets the late-afternoon sun,” the footman intoned. Abbey nodded politely and resumed her

pacing. Perhaps he was not feeling well. Perhaps he was feeling perfectly fine

but could not bear the thought of facing another episode like the one he had

witnessed last evening. She should hardly be surprised; she could not recall

ever falling completely apart like that, scattering her emotions all over the place like a handful of marbles.

“Perhaps,” she suggested brightly, “you could ask Jones what is keeping his

lordship?” The footman nodded and quietly left the room. The moment the door

closed behind him, Abbey’s pacing grew frantic. The last thing she wanted him to

think was that she was some sort of hysterical chit. She was not hysterical, and

given a proper amount of time, she had calmed considerably.

She jerked her head up the moment the door opened and smiled brightly, then

gamely tried to keep the smile in place when Jones appeared. He looked grim, as

grim as she suddenly felt.

“Milady. There seems to have been a misunderstanding,” he said politely.

“A misunderstanding?”

Jones looked pained for a moment, then announced blandly, “Lord Darfield has

left Blessing Park. He is not expected back for a day or two.”

Abbey felt as if she had been kicked squarely in the stomach. He had left her?

Again? She half turned from Jones and tried valiantly to calmly absorb that piece of news. He had left her again. She did not know if she was more infuriated than hurt. How dare he leave without so much as a word? She did not

care what the Devil of Darfield thought, he should at least have had the common

decency to say something! At least a note! Decency is not something I concern

myself with. She could hear it as plainly now as if he was standing before her,

and a painful fury rifled through her. He did not concern himself with decency,

particularly when he loathed her as he must now!

“Madam?”

Abbey jerked her head to Jones, realizing for the first time that he had been

speaking. “I’m terribly sorry. You were saying?” she said as sweetly as she

could, knowing perfectly well her expression betrayed her.

“Perhaps you would like to take your supper in your room?” he asked.

Abbey smiled so brightly her cheeks hurt. “Thank you, but no. I am really not

the least bit hungry.” She started to walk toward the door, ignoring Jones’s skeptical look.

“I should be happy to send a tray—”

“Really, I am not hungry. In fact, I just came down for a sip of wine,” she lied, inwardly cringing when Jones obviously did not believe her. She slipped

past him and headed for the door. “Thank you, Jones. That will be all,” she called over her shoulder, mimicking the phrase she had heard Michael use. She

walked calmly down the long corridor, smiling kindly at the footman in the foyer, then glided up the long marble staircase. When she reached the landing,

she glanced furtively over her shoulder and, seeing no one, bolted to her rooms.

Safely inside, she began to pace ferociously. Part of her said she had no right

to be angry. This was, after all, nothing but a sham of a marriage, and she had

acted so revoltingly last evening he had probably fled to Brighton just from

sheer disgust. Another part of her said she had every right, for even if it was

a sham, he should have the common courtesy to tell her he was going.

And for how

long this time? Two weeks? Two years? She flopped down on a settee and buried

her face in her hands.

Well, if he so despised her, she could not stay another moment at Blessing Park.

She was a silly, naive young fool who had crossed the ocean after him like a

lapdog, ignorantly believing he loved her, and acting absolutely giddy upon seeing him again. Good God, she could just die.

Well, there was nothing to stop her from leaving now. She, of course, would have

the courtesy to leave a note. She would explain it all, how she had finally realized everything he had said was true, and therefore, her leaving was simply

inevitable. She would even save him the trouble of arranging it for her.

Tomorrow she would go to Pemberheath and arrange her own passage to America.

The next morning Abbey asked Jones to have a carriage brought around.

Jones

started to deny her, but Abbey had patiently explained that she was quite certain the rules that governed a marchioness must also extend to what a marchioness could do, and she was equally certain that a marchioness could go to

Pemberheath in search of bath oils if she so chose. Jones had pressed his lips