The Devil's Love (20 page)

“Michael, I suppose you know… that is, I believed… well I thought that perhaps

things were somehow different than they are, really, and I am quite mortified

that I was so wrong about it, and, you see, I want to… I want…”

Michael did not like the reminder of her abject pain upon realizing her father

had badly duped her, nor did he like the interruption in this extremely pleasant

evening.

“Abbey, you don’t have to do this,” he said gently. She did not seem to hear

him.

Her eyes remained fixed on her lap as she took a deep, steadying breath and

continued. “I want to apologize. I never meant to cause you any

discomfort, in

fact, I would rather die than hurt you in any way, and really did not think I had, because, of course, I thought things were quite different than they truly

are, apparently, despite the fact that you clearly stated the contrary, which of

course I didn’t believe, because I obviously—and stubbornly, I should add—believed something entirely different altogether, and it was a very foolish

of me, but it’s done now, and one cannot dwell on one’s own stupidity without

the risk of becoming completely stupid—‘’

“Abbey, don’t,” Michael said insistently before she tumbled into another long-winded monologue.

But Abbey plunged on. “I know how absurd this must all seem to you, and believe

me, I think it the height of absurdity, really, over the top so to speak, and I am sorry for that, but I really think there is no recourse other than my immediate return to America.” She squeezed her eyes shut as if expecting some

verbal assault from him, then slowly opened them, glancing up through her lashes

when he did not.

Michael was stunned she was apologizing to him for having been duped by her

father. He was about to tell her it was not her fault, but before he could speak, she rushed ahead in an effort to fill the momentary silence between them.

“I understand that my… your… fortune is all bound up in my father’s will, and I

really don’t mind, I don’t want it, truly. You see, my Aunt Nan, she has a small

farm, and we all work on it, and we make a decent living from it, and with the

annuity, it really would not be a hardship for me at all, and it seems to me the

only logical thing to do, because I rather think you should not be made to suffer my father’s reprehensible lies,” she finished, an octave higher than she

began.

Michael regarded her for a long moment. Her violet eyes pleaded for his understanding while she unselfishly attempted to shoulder the burden of blame

for her father’s misdeed, irrespective of her own future or happiness. He was

touched by her offer but did not consider it for even a moment. He was not sending her back to America in disgrace and without a farthing to her name. The

thought of her toiling for food made him angry; the idea of losing her was entirely unthinkable at the moment.

“That will not be necessary,” he said brusquely, wondering why he could not tell

her how brave and perfectly noble he thought she was to offer such a thing.

“Not necessary?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he answered curtly.

“Had I known, I never would have… that is to say, you are the victim in all this, and I will not be party to a marriage that you clearly made against your

free will,” she explained.

Michael fought for control, the muscles in his jaw working furiously as his mind

raced. How could he say he had no intention of letting her go? He was hardly

sure that was true.

How could he tell her his behavior had been abominable thus far and she deserved

better? He was only just realizing it himself.

Abbey frantically wondered what was going through his mind and wished desperately she had her passage to America in hand. She assumed he was too

honorable to think he could agree to her suggestion, but at the same time, she

assumed he surely wanted to. She suddenly felt a need to make it easy for him.

“I do not want to stay with you,” she said bluntly.

He raised a brow as if surprised by that fact. “Don’t you indeed?” he drawled.

“No, I do not! Now that I know the truth, I cannot abide this ridiculous pretense!”

His brows bunched across the bridge of his nose. “You seem to have done rather

nicely at Blessing Park, madam. You have all that you need: a dog, a garden, and

friends. What more could you possibly want? Certainly not to toil away on some

farm in Virginia,” he said evenly. Abbey wanted to scream that at least in

Virginia, people loved her, but she bit her tongue on that point.

“I can’t possibly imagine what would cause you to object!” she insisted.

“Abbey, you do not seem to understand the basic concept that I will decide what

is best for you. Your notion of returning to America without a farthing to your

name is unacceptable. Furthermore, we are quite married now, and there are many

legal restrictions on what you can or cannot do. It is my obligation to see to

your welfare,” he said stubbornly, wondering once again why he could not seem to

say that he did not want her to go. Not yet.

Abbey jerked her gaze to her half-eaten trout. The only thing this man could

think of was obligation, and she was trying to free him of an unwanted obligation. She was obviously a burden to him, an idea she could barely stomach.

“I understand clearly,” she said icily, and pushed away from the table. A footman rushed around the table to assist her, but Abbey was already on her

feet, and collided with the poor servant in an effort to quit the dining room.

Michael was much quicker and surer than either one of them, catching her before

she could get halfway to the door. “That will be all,” he barked to the servants. With a firm grip on Abbey’s elbow, he propelled her through the door,

down the hallway, and into the main study.

Leaning against the door with his arms folded across his chest, Michael regarded

her sternly. “Suppose you tell me what you are about,” he said calmly.

Abbey planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “What am I about? About

you, and me, and a horrid deception! About your sense of obligation.

About

releasing you from that obligation and leaving your sight!” she shouted angrily.

“You are not returning to America,” he said authoritatively.

Abbey gasped her outrage. “Do you not understand? I am releasing you!

It’s what

you want! You are the most frustrating man!” she fairly shrieked. Michael pushed

away from the door and began to stroll casually toward her. Abbey darted

around

a couch in front of the hearth, keeping the furniture between them. A slow, lazy

grin spread across Michael’s lips as he steadily changed course.

“Madam, you do not know the meaning of the word frustrating,” he said smoothly.

“Ha! I know the meaning of rude and arrogant, and you are both! To think I actually felt sorry for what you have suffered! I am returning to America, for I

will not stay here like some poor, burdensome relation!” she insisted as she

slowly circled the settee, staying just out of his reach.

Michael’s mocking grin deepened. “Burdensome relation? Is that what you think I

believe?”

“I know it is!” Abbey cried, and felt the well of tears begin to build in the back of her throat. A burden, all right, a situation made all the more painful because she loved him—as much as she ever had, ever would, and more than she had

ever dreamed possible. Aware that he moved, she darted quickly to one end of the

couch. Michael stood at the other, his powerful legs braced apart, his hands on

his hips.

“I merely said I had an obligation. Every man has obligations. Why should that

upset you?” he asked calmly.

Abbey shuddered. It was not that so much as it was merely an obligation to him

and love to her. She had her pride, and her pride told her to go, to leave him

to Lady Davenport. Instead of answering him, Abbey whirled and started for the

door. In three powerful strides, Michael caught her by the shoulders and twisted

her around to face him.

“You will not go to America,” he said hoarsely.

Abbey recognized the look in his eye, and turning her head, managed to get her

arms between them. If he kissed her like he did last night, she would lose all

control.

Michael only pulled her closer. “Don’t resist me!” he breathed, his breath

tickling her ear.

Abbey’s resolve was crumbling rapidly, and she suddenly felt hopeless.

She was

so weak where he was concerned that she was, at that very moment, contemplating

spending her life with a man who did not love her. A man with a pretty mistress.

When Michael cupped her face in his hands, Abbey could control herself no

longer. The rejection she had suffered in the last weeks erupted deep within

her, and she blinked back hot, angry tears.

“I don’t want to be an obligation. I don’t want to be a constant reminder of my

father’s trickery! I don’t want to see you look at another woman and wish you

had been free to marry her! I don’t want to love you like I do and see that distant look in your eye.” She choked, appalled and horrified at what she had

just said, and began to weep uncontrollably.

Speechless, Michael stared down at her, then cradled her head against his chest

while grief flowed in torrents from her slender body. He tenderly stroked her

hair while she cried, a protective arm around her shoulders. He never wanted to

see such pain in her eyes again, and at the moment, he believed he would do

anything to ensure he never did.

“You are not thinking clearly,” he finally murmured against the top of her head,

acutely aware that he was not, either.

“Please d-don’t make me stay!” she stammered. His heart broke at the wretched

sound of her voice.

“Abbey, you’ve been through too much recently, and you aren’t being rational. I

think it better if we postpone this conversation until another time, until we have thought clearly about our options.”

“I am being rational, and there are no other options.” She sniffed.

“We will not discuss it now,” he insisted, and slipping a forefinger under her

chin, tilted her head up so he could see her face. Abbey sniffed; the path

of

her tears stained her cheeks. He was overcome with a peculiar desire to soothe

her, and he gingerly touched the wetness before bending to kiss the tears from

her cheeks.

Abbey stood very still as his lips brushed her skin. He slid his lips to hers, painting them gently with his tongue, very tenderly asking her to open. It was a

kiss so unlike the others, so sweetly seductive, and more than any woman could

resist. When her lips parted of their own accord, he slipped inside slowly, gently urging her with his hands and lips to want him.

The warm, gentle desire behind his kiss rocked her toward oblivion. She felt as

if she were spiraling downward and clung to him to keep from slipping into that

oblivion. His hard frame was pressed against the full length of her; she could

feel every sinewy muscle, could feel her body attempting to meld with his.

When

she at last realized what she was doing, what she was feeling, she began to

panic and suddenly wrenched her mouth free. She could not do this. She could not

feel the strength in his arms, the urgency behind his kiss, or the taste of his

mouth without losing every last remnant of common sense she had.

“It’s been a rather long day,” she said apologetically.

Michael paused to brush the errant strand of hair from her face before respectfully stepping away. “A truce, then. Perhaps you would enjoy a game of

billiards? It would be a pleasant diversion,” he asked as he moved toward the

hearth.

Abbey considered that. She could not speak of America at the moment without

dissolving into schoolgirl tears again. A game of billiards would keep her mind

occupied—and his as well—until she had regained her courage and could speak to

him, make him understand.

“I think I should warn you that I am prone to wagering,” she said softly.

Surprised, he gave her a sidelong appraisal, at which she smiled tremulously.

“Should I be so bold to inquire if you intend to cheat, madam?‘’

Abbey’s smile deepened. “I never cheat at billiards.”

“Aha. Unless you are losing, I suppose.”

“Very badly,” she said nodding.

Michael’s laugh was full and deep. “Terribly inappropriate for a marchioness,

but in this instance, I will allow it,” he said, and motioned toward the door.

Abbey self-consciously smoothed her hair, then preceded him through the door,

her brocade skirts swishing softly behind her with the gentle swaying of her

lips. Michael rolled his eyes heavenward in a silent prayer for strength.

As he was beginning to grow accustomed to her unique talents, Michael was only

mildly surprised that she played the game quite well. With one hip propped

against the railing, he leaned against his cue, watching Abbey slowly circle the

game table, her brow wrinkled in concentration and her elegant hand trailing

along the polished railing. Settling on a shot, she leaned across the table, revealing the enticing crevice between her breasts. Michael missed the fact that

she sank her intended ball until she straightened and beamed at him. Her next

shot gave Michael the opportunity to admire her softly rounded hips.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered unthinkingly under her breath when the ball scudded