The Devil's Love (34 page)

head that knocked the strand of hair across her eye again.

“What’s wrong? You dance beautifully!”

“I don’t know them, Michael! What if I say something wrong?” she whispered

frantically.

“My dear, you are far too charming to offend anyone. Do not fret so, everything

will be all right,” he assured her, then pressed his lips against her cheek, well aware that the affectionate gesture sent up another round of frantic tittering among the onlookers.

“I mean,” she whispered, pausing when Michael pulled her into his chest to avoid

a collision with another couple, “what if I say something that they will talk about? I don’t want them to talk about us.”

“If they are talking about us, darling, it’s because they can’t believe my good

fortune.”

She sighed and smiled up at him. It was a beautifully charming, trusting smile.

God, but she was enticing. And everyone in that ballroom watching them dance

thought so, too.

When the dance ended, Abbey did as she was told, but not before she helped

herself to another glass of champagne. Michael nudged Sam and inclined his head

toward Abbey.

“If you would be so good as to help me keep an eye on my wife, Hunt.

She is

attracting men like moths to a flame and has discovered a liking for champagne

that may match her thirst for ale,” he said dryly, and Sam chuckled with a nod

of agreement.

“I shall do my best, but the line is already forming for a chance at her dance

card,” Sam said before dutifully pushing his way through a growing crowd and

asking Abbey to stand up with him.

Abbey enjoyed dancing with Sam. Like Michael, he was a very polished dancer and

regaled her with quips about the ton, keeping her laughing as they whirled around the floor.

When Sam escorted her from the floor at the conclusion of the dance, she was

intercepted by the Earl of Westchester. He was shorter than she, and while they

danced, the earl, who was inebriated, stared blatantly at her bosom.

“They say you come from American money,” he inquired of her bosom.

“No, my lord, I believe you misunderstood.” Abbey sighed wearily. “They say I

come from American monkeys.” Just as she had suspected, the earl was so

enthralled with the swell of her breasts that he did not hear her outrageous response. She tried to ignore the lecherous old goat, praying for the dance to

end, and caught a glimpse of Michael dancing with another woman. She did not

like the feeling it gave her. Of course Michael would be expected to dance

with

other women, she knew that. But the sight of him smiling down at another woman

made her chest tighten.

She lost sight of Michael during the next two dances. After the earl, a very kind, elderly gentleman was her next partner. Abbey liked him instantly.

“I knew your father, child, and was a great admirer. I happened upon him in

India several years ago,” the old Baron de Sevionton said.

“Truly?” Abbey asked, warmed by the memory of her father.

“Indeed. He was quite handy in assisting me with a small problem there.

Suffice

it to say I needed to get out of port quickly, and had it not been for your father,” he said, his rheumy eyes glistening, “they might have found me dangling

from the masts. If you ever are in need of anything, my dear, you must call upon

me. I owe your father for his help in that very indelicate matter.” Abbey thanked him for his kind offer, wondering what in the world a kind old gentleman

like himself could have done to warrant such assistance.

When the baron finally escorted her from the floor, she caught sight of Michael,

his shoulder propped against a pillar, watching her above the heads of the admirers circled about him with a peculiar smile on his face. She beamed and

began to make her way toward him when someone stepped in her path.

Mildly irritated, she slowly looked up to see Malcolm Routier smiling down at

her, his yellow eyes glinting as they swept her face.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lady Darfield. Might I have the favor of a dance?” he asked in a low, rich voice.

Abbey glanced past his shoulder to Michael, whose smile had faded. She was

uncertain what to do; she had no desire to dance with Routier but thought it

improper to refuse, as she had a space on her dance card. She drew her bottom

lip between her teeth as she peered at Michael, then glanced again at Routier.

Her sense of propriety had been dulled by the champagne, but she knew it simply

would not do to refuse him.

“Perhaps another time,” he said, his disappointment evident.

“Oh, no, Mr. Routier, I did not mean to imply—I would enjoy it very much.”

She

forced herself to smile at him. He smiled, too, but it did not quite reach his eyes. With a quick, helpless glance to Michael, Abbey reluctantly returned to

the dance floor.

It was a waltz, and Abbey felt a slight revulsion when Routier took her in his

arms. She was puzzled at her reaction, for she had not felt this way when she

had danced with other men. Yet there was something about Malcolm Routier that

she could not quite identify, something that made his attractive features almost

loathsome to her.

“Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” Routier asked politely.

“Oh, yes, very much so,” she replied with feigned enthusiasm.

His gaze flicked to her lips. “You have caused quite a stir. Everyone is talking

about Lady Darfield,” he said. “You are what one would call an instant success.”

Abbey gamely attempted to smile. “Forgive me, Mr. Routier, but I cannot agree.

I’m not sure what the fascination is all about, but one never knows what to expect when one is new to a particular setting, do you think?”

“Especially given your husband’s circumstances.”

Abbey bristled beneath her smile. “I beg your pardon?”

Routier showed his affected smile again. “I beg your forgiveness. I spoke without thinking.” He nodded curtly and moved her toward the center of the dance

floor.

Abbey looked up at the glowing chandeliers to avoid looking at Routier.

The

champagne she had drunk still had her feeling mellow, and when she looked at the

twinkling light twirling above her, she could not suppress a smile.

Or the dizziness. She dragged her gaze from the lights to Routier’s stiff collar

and frowned.

“Are you unwell Lady Darfield?”

“No, I just made myself a bit dizzy.” When he grinned, Abbey noticed for the

first time that his genuine smile was rather nice.

“If I may be so bold, madam, I think you the loveliest woman in the room,”

he

said softly. A warm, uncomfortable flush crept up Abbey’s neck and to her cheeks, and she slid her gaze away, landing unintentionally on Michael, who was

leading a very pretty blond woman around the dance floor. The two were engaged

in a deep conversation, and Abbey could not tear her eyes away. When Routier

moved himself between her and Michael, she tried to see over his shoulder.

“Lady Davenport,” Routier said dryly.

“Pardon?” Abbey croaked, jerking her gaze to him.

“Your husband is dancing with Lady Rebecca Davenport.” Abbey could not believe

her ears. That was Lady Davenport? He was dancing with his lover? Dear God, she

was as pretty as Abbey had feared.

“ Who?” she blurted before she could think.

Routier smiled wickedly. “Have you met her?”

Abbey was acutely embarrassed, aware that Routier was watching her reaction very

closely. “Actually, I have not had the pleasure,” she murmured miserably.

Routier’s wicked smile deepened. “No, I would think not.”

Abbey resisted the urge to look at Michael again and, instead, stared at Routier’s ruffled chest. “So you attended the governor’s soiree in Bombay, Mr.

Routier?” she asked in a feeble attempt to change the subject.

A slight smirk cracked the corner of Routier’s lips. “I did. Do you not recall the governor’s affair?”

Abbey shook her head. “Only vaguely. I was very young.”

“As I recall, you were ten or eleven years of age. But what I recall in particular was that you had fixated on an older gentleman, one who wore a turban,” he said.

Abbey could not help laughing. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am.” He smiled. “Your father told me later that you were quite determined to see what was under that turban but found the soiree a rather

daunting place to unmask him, so to speak. So you marched up to him, declared

your intent, and offered to meet him on the docks the next morning before you

sailed.”

“I arranged to meet a perfect stranger on the docks?” She giggled.

“So I have been told. But it was all for the sake of science,” he said with mock

solemnity.

“My father”—she smiled as he whirled her about—“was not always, how shall I say,

as insistent with me as he should have been.” She chuckled, shaking her head.

Routier smiled thinly, his eyes taking on an odd glint. “But he was insistent

you marry Darfield, wasn’t he?”

His remark surprised her. She assumed that Michael had told him the circumstances of the marriage the day he had come to Blessing Park. “I suppose,”

she muttered. Michael and Lady Davenport had come back into view and were

nearing them. Michael had not noticed her; he was too engrossed in his conversation with Lady Davenport. Abbey began to feel queasy.

They neared the edge of the tiled floor as the dance wound to a close. Mr.

Routier smiled and bowed deeply.

“Thank you, Lady Darfield.” He paused and peered curiously at her. “You look a

bit flushed. Shall I fetch you some water?” he asked, and tucked her hand in his

arm, leading her toward the refreshment table before she could answer.

Abbey felt a hand grip her elbow. “If you are through dancing with my wife, Routier, please excuse us,” Michael said behind her. Routier’s yellow eyes

turned hard as he glanced at Michael over Abbey’s head. Michael was looking at

him with no expression at all.

Routier smiled at Abbey. “Thank you again, Lady Darfield.” With a curt nod of

his head, he stepped away. Michael gripped Abbey’s elbow and immediately began

to propel her toward the French doors leading onto the balcony.

“Enjoy your dance?” Michael asked coolly. He seemed perturbed, which Abbey found

highly amusing, given that he was just dancing with his lover.

“I tolerated it. And did you enjoy yours?”

Michael frowned slightly as he pulled her onto the balcony and pushed her toward

a dark corner. “I would not even call it tolerable,” he muttered.

“Is something wrong?” Abbey asked, growing a little irritated with his sudden

cool demeanor.

“Yes, something is wrong, Abbey. I have not kissed you all damned evening,” he

said, and jerked her to him, claiming her mouth in a bruising kiss. Having heard

the tinge of jealousy in his voice, she melted in his embrace, whimpering with

pleasure in the back of her throat. His mouth slanted over hers with an urgency

she understood very well, and as his hands began to travel up her side, Abbey

pulled back.

“ Michael,‘’ she scolded him, then smiled seductively.

He groaned and brought her hand to his lips. “Will there ever come a time I don’t want you?” he whispered hoarsely, then slowly lowered his head to hers,

lingering there for a moment, in a very light, very provocative kiss.

“Bloody hell, I hope not,” she whispered when he finally lifted his head.

Michael laughed and led her further into the shadows. “You seem to enjoy dancing.”

“I like dancing with you. I don’t like dancing with other men.” She wanted to

tell him it was hardly gratifying to see him with other women and positively infuriating to see him with Lady Davenport.

He laughed low and slipped his arms around her waist. “I don’t either,” he agreed, and claimed her mouth again before reluctantly leading her back to the

ballroom and a waiting throng of men eager to dance with his wife.

At a little after four in the morning, Sam elbowed Michael and inclined his head

toward an exhausted Abbey. Standing apart from any of the remaining guests, she

was leaning against the wall with her arms folded across her middle, that ever-present strand of hair over one eye. She could barely keep her eyes open

and wearily covered a deep yawn with her gloved hand. Michael winked at Sam,

then casually strolled toward her. She attempted a weary smile.

“Tired, sweetheart?” he asked. She nodded.

“I will take you home,” he said softly, gently brushing the hair from her eyes.

“I think we’ve made enough of a splash for one evening.”

As the coach rolled through the fog-shrouded streets, Michael gazed at Abbey,

fast asleep against his chest. He had never thought himself a jealous man, but

when he had seen her in the arms of so many other men, the seeds had taken firm

root. In his mind’s eye, he could still see her clearly in Routier’s arms, looking up at the chandeliers and smiling that dreamy smile of hers. That was

his smile, reserved for him alone, and he resented Routier having the opportunity to be graced with it. Had he been within a foot of them, he might

have snatched Abbey from the blackguard’s arms and handed over a very irate

Rebecca. He had not visited her, nor had he answered her pathetic letters since

he had ended their liaison. Rebecca had gone from hurt to angry over the last

few weeks, and when she had actually seen Abbey, she had bared her fangs. The

realization that Michael was never coming back to her had made for a rough