The Devil's Love (6 page)

until her nerves had settled. What foolishness. Michael had waited long enough,

and so had she. Smiling bravely, Abbey took a deep breath and lifted her chin

high. With all the bravado she could muster, she swept through the doors of the

study, with Sebastian, Sam, and Jones crowding in the doorway behind her.

He was leaning against a massive writing table, his weight settled on one hip,

his arms folded across his flat stomach as he eyed her. His inky black hair was

wavy and thick, and brushed past his collar. His breeches hugged his muscular

thighs until they reached his polished Hessians. His gray eyes narrowed as he

perused her, and unthinking, Abbey gasped with sheer joy. She had, of course,

recognized him immediately. Perhaps he was a little taller and a little fuller,

and his skin bronzed by the sun, but he looked exactly like the Michael she

remembered.

Only more handsome. Impossibly handsome.

She was propelled by an unseen force toward him, her gaze locked with his fierce

one. “Michael!” she exclaimed as she approached him, appalled by the nervous

pitch in her voice and forgetting her manners.

He raised a brow. “ Michael?” he repeated incredulously.

Abbey walked slowly, taking in every detail of him, from the way his brows burrowed into a frown, to his full lips set in an implacable line, to his strong

jaw clenched tightly shut.

He was magnificent.

And he was not happy to see her.

Abbey stopped and peered into his stoic face. No, perturbed was more accurate.

Surely she was misreading him. Perhaps his nerves were frazzled, too.

Her laugh

was softly nervous. “Were you expecting someone else?” she joked, immediately

wishing she had not, and smiled expectantly.

Michael did not answer right away but blatantly studied her, his frown deepening

all the while. She flushed under his intense scrutiny and attempted to dissuade

him by smiling, but to no avail. The man who stood in front of her now looked

angry and a little disappointed.

“I daresay I was,” he finally answered with a coolness that Abbey immediately

took for indifference. Her worst fear, that he would not find her to his liking, seemed to be becoming a reality.

“You were?” she asked with some confusion. The small seed of doubt she had so

admirably quashed was now growing wildly out of control. He was supposed to be

telling her of his great esteem and how interminable his wait had been.

Instead

it seemed he did not want her, did not even like her in fact!

“Is—is something wrong?” she forced herself to ask, despite the blasted tremble

in her voice.

“I’m rather taken aback. You do not look like the Abigail Carrington I recall,”

he said bluntly.

Abbey’s violet eyes grew wide as it dawned on her that he must not remember her.

The fact that he might not remember her had not once crossed her mind.

She

laughed with great relief. “Oh, dear, I thought certainly you knew me as I did

you! Perhaps my sketch artist was not as skilled as yours.”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked coolly.

“It’s been quite a long time, has it not? I know the waiting must have been unbearable for you; it certainly was for me,” she said, and smiled broadly, like

a simpleton, she thought, as she desperately looked for some sign of warmth from

him.

Coolly dismissing the others, Michael pushed slowly from his perch, and walked

around the writing table to take a seat. She remained rooted to her spot, looking at him as if she had seen an apparition. Very reluctantly, he silently

acknowledged that she was even lovelier than he had fist thought when she had

crossed the threshold. In fact, he thought, she was remarkably beautiful, which

served only to increase his agitation. He could see a resemblance to the little

hellion, but the transformation from the image in his mind’s eye to the woman

before him was more than his brain could comprehend. Gone was the look of

stunned confusion, and in its place, an expression so benign that the only hint

of anxiety came from her fist clutching at the skirt of her gown. Don’t be a fool, he told himself. This woman is the same hellion.

“You may help yourself to some tea,” he decreed curtly, and motioned impatiently

toward the silver service.

Abbey frowned slightly and warily took a seat on the edge of the settee.

She

seemed to be unsure about the tea, and eyed the silver service suspiciously

before finally pouring a cup. As she added two cubes of sugar, Michael cleared

his throat.

“Abigail—”

“Abbey,” she interjected softly as she reached for more sugar.

Michael snapped a cool gaze to her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Abbey. I am called Abbey,” she said, and dropped two more cubes of

sugar in the

cup.

“That’s quite enough.” At Abbey’s look of surprise, he gestured toward her teacup and clarified, “Quite enough sugar.” He no earthly idea what made him say

that; he certainly could not care less how much sugar she put in her tea.

She paused for a moment, then shrugged, and he averted his gaze to the window

while she stirred her tea. He listened to her dainty sips before speaking again.

“We have much to discuss.” When she did not respond, he continued without so

much as looking at her.

“First, may I say I hope your voyage was uneventful,” he began with smooth,

practiced politeness. He looked at her from the corner of his eye; she was staring blankly at him.

“As for our… predicament—”

“Predicament?”

“Our predicament,” he repeated, spitting out the word as if it were acid,

“the

terms of your father’s will dictate I act with some haste.” He paused, momentarily unsure how to proceed.

Abbey was uncertain as to what was happening. He seemed exceedingly resentful,

and the brusque tone of his voice was making her stomach churn. This was quickly

turning into her worst nightmare. Nothing was as she had envisioned.

Where was

the armful of roses they had been so certain he would give her? The reminders of

how long he had waited? For goodness’ sake, why was he so disagreeable? She

glanced at the sideboard where several crystal decanters of brown liquors were

kept. She did not think she had ever tasted whiskey in her life—despite the fact

that Aunt Nan was quite enamored of the stuff—but it suddenly seemed appropriate.

“May I?” she asked, nodding toward the sideboard. His cool gray eyes flicked to

her, then to the crystal decanters, and he impatiently nodded his assent.

She

practically jumped from her seat and sprinted for the spirits, pouring a drink

from the nearest decanter. Michael gave her full glass a doubtful look when she

turned to face him but said nothing.

Abbey quickly returned to her seat before her shaking knees betrayed her.

He was

watching her, his piercing gray gaze following her every move. She carefully

lifted the glass to her lips and sipped, and was immediately overcome by a spasm

of coughing as the liquid burned down her throat. He stood slowly and came

around the desk to take the glass from her trembling hand. She heard him go to

the sideboard as she tried to regain her composure.

“I think,” he said as he handed her a glass with a sip or two of the liquor heavily diluted with water, “you will enjoy it more if you just wet your lips.”

“Thank you,” she rasped. Very unexpectedly, he smiled. It was a gorgeous smile,

full of brilliant white teeth, and Abbey found herself staring at his mouth and

incredibly full, soft lips. She quickly averted her eyes when a blush began to

creep into her cheeks.

“I must say you caught me by surprise,” he said, his tone less clipped. He sat

down in a chair across from her and casually balanced an ankle upon his knee.

Behind the cover of her glass, Abbey gazed at his muscular legs straining against the fabric of his buckskins. “When I think of the little hell… girl I knew twelve years ago, I can hardly believe you are one in the same,” he abruptly admitted.

“I am a bit surprised by that,” she replied hoarsely, still recovering from the firewater. “You do not look so different now than you did then. A little fuller, perhaps, and a little darker, but all in all, you rather closely resemble yourself.”

Michael’s chuckle was low and deep. “I should rather hope I do.” His smile was

brief and thin. “I was nineteen when I sailed with your father. You were, what,

eight or nine?”

“Ummm, nine, I think.”

“Nine. A nine-year-old girl with scabby knees and the grime of several weeks on

her neck is a far cry from a grown woman of one and twenty.”

She made an effort to laugh lightly, but she thought she sounded like the hyenas

of the Egyptian desert. “I most certainly was not covered with grime, Michael.”

He looked almost surprised but quickly recovered his stern look. “You most

certainly were. And your hair was always bound up in that pirate scarf. Do you

recall? You were forever shouting and carrying on as if you were constantly

beset by your imaginary pirates.”

Abbey lifted her chin. “What I recall is being terrorized by an older boy, who,

incidentally, decapitated the one doll I had as a child!”

“Ah, yes, that was a rather unfortunate incident,” he agreed indifferently.

“I have thought it rather callous of you in hindsight, but I buried my grudge long ago.”

Michael cocked his head to one side and considered her. “Excellent, for I, too,

have buried the grudge for the torture I endured at the tip of that wooden sword

you carried about.”

She recalled the sword; a rush of memories invaded her that were close but not

quite what he was telling her, and she blushed. “I am sure I do not know what

you mean,” she muttered. “I rather prefer not to reminisce about that summer.

Clearly I was mistaken in my belief that you would remember me as well as I

remember you,” she said in an attempt to turn the subject from her childish

behavior.

“My apologies, but as I said, you look nothing like the little girl who terrorized the quarterdeck.”

Abbey hesitated. Suddenly she thought she understood him. He was apologizing. Of

course! This absurd conversation they were having was his attempt to apologize

for his abominable behavior thus far. He was trying to tell her that he had

been

surprised and therefore had reacted badly. What else could explain his strange

demeanor? She flashed a cheerful smile to convey her understanding. A strange

look glanced his features, but he was quickly stoic again.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Twelve years ago I signed a paper pledging to take you to wife if my debts were not repaid in full upon your father’s death. Although I believed those debts to have been paid, I have recently learned there is some dispute as to that fact. Therefore, we find ourselves bound by the original agreement today.”

Abbey, having no idea what he was talking about, looked at him as if he were

speaking Chinese. Hadn’t Lord Hunt asked her about some agreement, as well?

“Allow me to speak frankly. This agreement does not please me in the least, for

a variety of reasons. I am rather curious to know if you are desirous of this marriage.”

She was flabbergasted. That was a perfectly ridiculous question, seeing as how

she had desired this marriage since she was little girl. He knew that she wanted

this marriage.

“I do not take your meaning,” she said simply.

“I am saying that I have no desire to force you into a marriage against your will.”

With a smile, Abbey exhaled a small sigh of relief. She had to stop jumping to

conclusions. He was being a gentleman, that was all. He was afraid she did not

care for him any longer and was nobly offering her a way to say it. It was a selfless gesture she had to admire.

“Oh, no, Michael,” she assured him. “I am quite desirous of it!”

He blinked. Twice.

“Then allow me to go to the heart of the matter. I had hoped, perhaps foolishly,

that you would desire the freedom of choosing a mate, even if it meant losing a

fortune. Since the fortune seems to be of higher importance to you, let me say

that I have no desire for a wife at this stage in my life. Nevertheless, I am a man of my word. I believe you will agree to some basic tenets that will

allow us

to live comfortably.”

Abbey’s admiration sank like a rock in water.

“I am willing to abide by my part of the agreement, given you agree to a few

terms,” he continued, as if they were discussing some boring business arrangement.

“Terms.” She choked.

“Yes, terms.” He smirked. His eyes flicked to her bosom, and he regarded her

with what she could only interpret as disgust.

Disappointment shattered her, and a small kernel of betrayal and anger began to

take root. She carefully placed the crystal glass on the table and folded her

hands in her lap. “Pray, continue,” she said coolly. If he noticed the change in

her tone, he was careful not to show it.

“My responsibility extends to you only, not some bevy of relatives or favorites.

Do you understand?”

“Do I understand?” she asked with rifling indignation. “I assure you, my relatives have no need to press you for favors!” Abbey’s pulse was beginning to

pound in her ears. She could not believe this! Her anger was eclipsed only by

the outrageous hurt that began to constrict her breathing.