Too Wicked to Marry (2 page)

So he managed to smile without gritting his teeth, and said, "That was a pleasant beginning to rehearsals, wasn't it?"

"I've never seen anything like it," Daphne offered, fluttering her eyelashes in admiration. "I had not realized you were so athletic, Lord Martin."

She had pretty eyes, Martin conceded. In fact, she was quite an attractive girl. That was the problem: she was a
girl
, a charming innocent. Some men took a fancy to women half their age, but Martin found raising one daughter quite challenging enough without the complication of bestowing his hand on a lass he'd feel obligated to tuck into bed for a bedtime story rather than to make love to. The notion of bringing home a child bride was laughable, and he could imagine Abigail's sharp comments should he try.

"Fencing is merely a hobby with me," he told the girl. "I assure you that I am no expert with the foil."

"You look so dashing with a sword in your hand," Lady Ellen enthused. "So…" She blushed, and whispered, "Virile."

Vera and Daphne twittered like a pair of shocked but amused birds, while Lady Ellen eyed him with a more mature interest. Martin kept smiling at them, fighting the impulse to push through the gaggle and run for his life.
Someone please rescue me
.

Miraculously, it was Her Grace, the Duchess of Pyneham, who answered his prayer. Even in her mid-sixties, the tall woman towered over the trio of younger women as she came up behind them. "Put a sword in a handsome man's hand and watch the ladies swoon. At least I always have. I don't know about dashing, but if what I hear about the number and variety of Lord Martin's mistresses is even half true—"

"Oh, my!" Vera gasped before the duchess could finish.

"Your Grace!" Daphne exclaimed, equally in shock.

Martin noticed that Lady Ellen's lips curved in a faint smile, and that there was a far from innocent glint in her eyes. He was certain that Lady Ellen might not be averse to accepting the position of mistress if she could not find a way to get him to marry her.

"Come along, Kestrel," the duchess said, holding out an imperious hand. "I need some air. You have the privilege of escorting me on deck, since my dear husband has taken himself off to bed."

Martin didn't hesitate to make good his escape on the arm of the formidable old lady. Once they were on the deck, she led him to the stern railing of the becalmed vessel. The sea was still as glass, the moonlight bright. Martin could barely stifle a yawn at the lovely sight. It was as though he had done everything there was to do, seen everything, tasted every pleasure and pain, and was bored and irritated by turns.

"If Your Grace will excuse me, I fear I am in no fit state to—"

"Oh, leave off," she commanded. "Am I your godmother or am I not?"

Though it took him a moment to recall the connection, he answered, "Yes, dear lady, I believe you are."

"Good. Then I won't feel quite such a busybody for asking you what the devil is wrong with you? Why are you insisting on making everyone on the bloody boat miserable?"

"Mind you, I see your point, with all the women tripping over you trying to get your attention. Subtlety does not appear to be this generation's strong point."

"Freddie and I have already had this talk, ma'am."

She smiled. "Look at you, all stiff and stern and officious. You look more like a bored butler than the most eligible widower in Britain. What's got you all broody, lad? I doubt it's grief for Sabine. She's been dead, what? Three years now? And ran home to Italy a year before that, without you bothering to follow to reclaim your absent bride. Mutual lust does not a successful marriage make, as you learned to your cost. No doubt you fear being burned again, but it's time you married and had an heir."

"I have a daughter."

"And a fine little one she is, but your family's title and property cannot go to her. It's a pity, but it's the law; you need a son. You are in danger of becoming irredeemably dissolute, which I doubt suits you at all. Besides, your parents want more grandchildren, and your mother is one of my best friends. More importantly, my dear roving ambassador, you need a woman to make a home for you. The lasses being tossed your way by our hosts are the best we could assemble on such short notice; they'll all take well to the domestic life. I helped pick the Hazlemoors' guest list myself," she added. "Though I've got my doubts about Ellen Causely. She's worldly without being wise."

"She's rumored to run with a faster crowd than the rest of the pack you've set on me. She's not the marrying sort."

"And lives beyond her means, I hear. You don't want to have to take on her debts or any more gossip. All right, scratch Ellen. And Daphne's too young, I suppose. What's wrong with Vera, then? Too shy? Too romantic?"

Martin glared into the sparkling blue eyes of his blunt godmother. "Perhaps the answer to your questions lies in the fact that I am not currently interested in any woman."

Her expression turned from belligerently amused to downright skeptical. "Really? Then who is Abigail?"

"Who the devil are you?" The young woman's hand was raised to knock a second time. She showed no surprise at his yanking the door open and yelling at her. Nor did she hesitate when he barked, "Get in here!"

"The embassy sent me," she replied as Martin turned back to the man lying on the carpet. "He's been stabbed in the chest," the young woman said, matter-of-fact rather than shocked at the sight of the wounded man.

"That's right," Martin said. "Help me."

She did not ask why or how. She set about helping him bind the wound and clean up the mess in the most practical fashion imaginable. She did not ask foolish questions, but Martin eventually volunteered, "This idiot is my brother. He was wounded in a duel."

"I see." He looked up in surprise, and when their gazes met he saw that she understood a great deal.

"Dueling is against the law," she said. "No doubt the fight was over an important man's wife. Officers of the law are actively seeking to arrest the young man."

He nodded.

"We could take him back to the embassy," she suggested.

"No. Our presence in the country is unofficial. I won't involve Her Majesty's government in this sordid matter. He'll live." Martin stood. "We're near the Swiss border; we'll have him out of the country before morning."

Martin drove while the young woman tended to Daniel inside the carriage. It was a cold, snowy night, the drive treacherous, but the guards at the border crossing were amenable to a large bribe.

It was not until they'd safely left Daniel to be nursed by monks at the closest town over the border and were on their way back to the capital of the small Italian principality from which they'd fled, that Martin thought to ask, "Who are you and what were you doing at my door?"

"Abigail Perry," she answered, bundled up in a respectable cloak, gloves,
and bonnet beside him on the driver's seat, the bloodstains not showing in the
dark. "I'm your daughter's new governess." 

"Abigail," he said to the duchess now, his brows drawn down in puzzlement. "Abigail is—" Martin gestured. "No one you know."

"She certainly seems to be occupying your thoughts."

"Is she?" Martin scratched his head. He couldn't recall having made mention of Abigail at any time in the last several days. One did not discuss one's paid employees with one's friends, it was rude to the servants and none of one's friends' business. He wanted to ask the duchess where she'd heard of Abigail, but he would not expose his daughter's governess to even the breath of a hint of scandal. He had his daughter to think of—and Abigail.

"Don't look outraged and shocked," the tall old lady told him. "You've been comparing every woman you meet to this Abigail person since you arrived."

"I have?"

"Yes. Muttered under your breath, usually, but I have excellent hearing for such an old harpy." She tapped him on the shoulder with a lace-gloved hand. "If she's such a paragon, why don't you marry this Abigail you're so fond of?"

What nonsense! What an incorrigible old ninny! Lord Martin Kestrel drew himself up haughtily. "If Your Grace will excuse me, the evening's exertion has fatigued me. I am going to retire."

"I most certainly do not excuse you," she said as he turned away.

"I'm going to bed anyway, Honoria," he answered, and walked stiffly away.

Martin banged into his cabin, filled with inarticulate anger. He sent his valet away with a sharp gesture and fell into bed half-dressed, certain that sleep was completely impossible. The logical part of him knew this response was all out of proportion to the duchess's words. The whole night had been a disaster! His life was a disaster, but for the shining joy brought to him by his child. The past was riddled with mistakes, the future bleak and dark. He was full of ennui, and yet the longing in him undefined, growing with every breath… He had no idea what the matter was.

"What am I doing here?" he questioned as he stared at the ceiling.

The yacht rocked gently on the calm water. The bed was soft and the night comfortably warm. It wasn't long before Martin's body began to relax, despite the restlessness of his spirit. He found himself talking to an absent green-eyed woman, one whose wide mouth curled in a sardonic smile. "What is the matter with me, Abigail?" he questioned the absent Abigail. He yawned, and almost reached out toward her in the dark. "Why am I so… ?"

Several hours later, Lord Martin Kestrel woke up in the depths of the night with a wide grin on his face. "Of course!" he laughed as he swung out of his bunk. "Why didn't I see it before?" Call it a revelation, the answer to his prayers, a dream come true. Whatever the reason, he suddenly knew what he must do. He had never felt so alive, so eager, so
happy
in his life.

"Cadwell!" he shouted, waking not only his valet, but probably everyone on the boat. "Cadwell! Pack up, man! I'm going back to London."

She was caught up on her correspondence, had plenty of time to herself, and had a stack of books to read. She'd considered spending all of her month-long holiday catching up with her large family. Most of the clan was gathered in one place for once, and perhaps she would take herself off for a visit in a week or so. But for now, she relished being alone for the first time in ages. Well, perhaps
relish
was not precisely correct. She had to admit that she didn't relish much of anything anymore.
Relish
was a bit too red-blooded a word.

She was entirely too comfortable here, she told herself as she settled on a bench in the garden. She was too fond of her charge; she certainly felt too much as though this were home. Such false contentment was a dangerous mistake for a woman in her situation. She looked around her, and smiled. The garden of Lord Kestrel's London house was in full bloom, the birds were singing, Patricia was on a visit with her grandparents, Kestrel was on a yachting holiday, and but for the skeleton staff, she had the house to herself. After several days of being alone a bit of restlessness was setting in, but for the most part she was able to convince herself that she didn't have a care in the world. All right, she had suffered from a bad dream last night, a recurring nightmare of horrible noise and bright blood and falling. But that was last night. Today she had a copy of
The Iliad
in her lap and the shining summer day stretching before her. She breathed in the scent of roses and opened the leather-bound volume.