Wicked Wyckerly (17 page)

Of course, he’d have to repay Quentin. It would take one hell of a gambling stake to win that much. . . .

So, he’d have to use the dowry to win a game or two to pay back Quentin before he could go back to earning a living and finding an estate manager. It would work out.

It had to because, entirely against his will and better sense, he was about to walk over and bounce Blake against a wall if his friend didn’t keep his damned eyeballs in his head instead of on Miss Merriweather’s splendiferous bosom.

19

Abigail gasped as a strong male hand gripped her bare elbow and tugged her through the open French doors where she’d stopped to catch a breeze.

“I need to talk with you.”

Danecroft’s bay rum scent seeped through her senses, more potent than the aroma of strawberries and roses combined, and more masculine than she was accustomed to. His grip on her arm was firm and slightly intoxicating. Or perhaps that sensation was caused by the glass of punch she’d drunk earlier. She just knew her head swam oddly when the earl pulled her into a niche behind a marble column and all she could see was him.

She stared at his impeccable neckcloth and white silk waistcoat, and her mind wandered to the man she’d seen in shirtsleeves. She was having difficulty juxtaposing the imposing aristocrat in silk with the man soaked to his skin in filth and carrying his child. It occurred to her that perhaps she put too much emphasis on appearance.

“How would you like to be a countess?” he asked desperately, clutching both her bare arms and pinning her against the wall. She could feel the heat of his hands even through his gloves.

A countess? That wasn’t very likely. She looked up at him with puzzlement. In the faint light from the lamps, she could see Danecroft’s mouth drawn into a tight line instead of curved with his usual smiling charm. His gaze was intense enough to light fires. Was he angry with her?

“I don’t think I’d like to be a countess very much,” she admitted. “I don’t seem to have a knack for giving parties or chatting idly.”

Belatedly, he stepped back and ran a hand through his rumpled hair. He glared, and she wasn’t certain if he wanted to laugh, or shake her. Whatever was wrong, it had caused the affable earl to abandon all his deceptive charm—which she perversely found charming in itself.

“You have a knack for bossing people about,” he reminded her.

“Children and servants, I suppose, but what does that have to do with being a countess?”

“I am not doing this very well, am I?” Hands behind his stiff back, he paced two steps, then swung about and paced four. “I have an estate in Berkshire large enough for an army of children.”

Shock froze her to the stone wall. How had she forgotten that
he
was an earl? A heart-stoppingly sophisticated one. Surely, she had misinterpreted his strange comment. She waited, striving to comprehend any other reason why he might mention his estate and children. Evidently, her mind and his were at odds.

Danecroft threw her a despairing look. “You don’t intend to make this easy for me, do you? Any other woman in that room would be smiling triumphantly and saying, ‘Yes, of course, my lord, whatever you say, my lord,’ and I’d be on firm ground. Or my knees. Depending on how I felt about her, I suppose.”

Abby wanted to smile at the image of this charmingly self-confident gentleman falling on his knees for a mere woman, but she wasn’t certain what woman he had in mind exactly. “I’m not much inclined to agreeing to questions I haven’t been asked, and I should hope you wouldn’t ask them of women who are so blandly agreeable.”

“Then let me put it this way.” Danecroft grabbed her waist and hauled her up against his silk-covered chest and covered her mouth with his.

Abby nearly swooned. She dug her gloved fingers into his wide shoulders and hung on while he showed her that the kiss they had exchanged at the inn had been a mere matchstick flame compared with the conflagration he lit now. Heat engulfed her from head to toe. Muscled arms held her close, dragging her from her feet. He bruised her lips with his passion, and she could do no less than open her mouth to allow him inside. The sweet tartness of his tongue was better than any pie she’d ever tasted.

For a few blazing minutes, she was immersed in mindless sensation, with no thought to responsibility or propriety. His moan of pleasure melted her bones. His big body engulfed hers, making her feel strong, desirable, and feminine instead of small, managing, and boring. Crushed against the hardness of his torso, her breasts swelled and softened.

When his hand slid up her back to stroke her bodice, she gasped at the erotically tactile sensation and pushed away, afraid her heart would leap from her chest. Danecroft reluctantly lowered her to her feet but didn’t release her. She rested her head against his shoulder, unable to stand on her own just yet. He held her tight enough that she could feel his harsh breathing.

My goodness, he would twist her head around to believe anything if he continued kissing her like that.

“Marry me, Rhubarb Girl.”

Rhubarb Girl?
To whom was he talking? Seduced by the unexpected solace of the earl’s powerful arms around her, promising the invincibility she’d never possess on her own, she didn’t want to move. If she could simply freeze time and stay here forever . . .

“Be my countess and come home with me and Penelope and show us how to plant strawberries,” he whispered into her hair.

Oh, he had meant he wanted to marry
her
. She flushed with embarrassment at her stupidity. How could she have known he was asking
her
to marry him? She couldn’t even fathom it now that he’d stated it plainly.

He was always making her feel simple and unworldly, probably because that’s what she was. A rhubarb, indeed.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured, pushing away slightly, fearful he was making fun of her in some way she didn’t grasp. “You must marry wealth and perhaps someone with an influential family who can help you.”

“
Think
, Abby. . . . I may call you Abby, may I not? I can’t keep calling you Rhubarb Girl and Miss Merry, which produce this absurd desire to hug you and pet you as if you were my own personal kitten.”

“Rhubarb Girl?” she inquired, recovering some segment of her sense of humor if not completely overcoming her shock. “I daresay Abby would be preferable.”

“And you must call me Fitz. Or Jack, which is my given name.” His gloved hands slid seductively around her waist, and his thumbs circled at the small of her back. She didn’t dare look into his tempting eyes just yet, for fear she would completely lose her head. Or her heart.

“You said your given name was John,” she said with what she hoped was severity, teasing because she could not believe any of this.

“John was my father’s name. I prefer Jack. Or Fitz. Or Doddering Fool. But I think I’m finally getting a little smarter. I don’t have much book learning, but I know people. I really do. And I think we’ll suit. Tell me you agree.”

She couldn’t resist; she had to look up. With his lock of hair falling over his brow, he looked so earnest that his smiling charm was entirely dissipated. Even his eyes failed to laugh. He looked nearly as startled as she was—but determined.

“You don’t have much book learning?” she asked, studying his expression, hoping her heart would stop fluttering long enough for her to understand. She needed time to mull over even mundane choices such as deciding to preserve or sell her strawberries. She couldn’t possibly make a decision so important as marriage with just a moment’s notice . . . especially to a man who obviously made momentous decisions on impulse.

Danecroft—Fitz—
Jack
—cupped her face between his big hands and planted a kiss on her nose. And the corner of her mouth. And she shivered with the need for more.

“Tutors like to be paid,” he explained. “Schools require money. My father didn’t see the necessity. That’s all past now, don’t you see? I can change things. Slowly, perhaps, but with you by my side, I’ll learn.” He sounded eager and not the least terrified of such a future.

Abby swallowed hard. He almost made her feel . . . desirable. To dream of an aristocrat like Danecroft . . . was insane. “Why me? I don’t like town. My dowry is limited, and I don’t know anyone influential. I have no idea what you’re asking of me, and neither do you.”

The most elegant, charming man she’d ever had the pleasure to know released her face to run both his hands through his hair in a gesture of despair. The action boyishly disheveled his golden brown locks, making him even more heartbreakingly appealing than in all his polished sophistication.

“I know. You’re perfectly right,” he agreed. “But think about it, Abby. I may not know rhubarb from rutabagas, but I can hire an estate manager with your dowry, one who will know how to put the land back in order. How could any executor deny you if you’re married to an earl? You could have the children back. And I would have my sensible Rhubarb Girl for wife instead of some twittering adolescent.”

He needed her dowry and her managing ways, just like everyone else did, she told herself. She had been ready to accept that, for the sake of the children. But this . . . she placed her gloved hands on her face in a vague attempt to hold herself together, or seal in the heat of his touch.

He’d called her sensible. Was that a good thing?

He was talking about
marriage
. To an earl. To the most handsome, desirable man she’d ever met. Fairy tales did
not
come true. He must be scheming again, and she was too naive to understand the rules. She could lose everything she had and more if she decided wrong.

She shook her head, and Danecroft’s expression was so crestfallen that she nearly cried. She touched his coat, knowing she courted danger in doing so, because his gaze smoldered.

“I need time to think,” she murmured. “I cannot . . . This is so . . .”

“I know, I know. I think my brain exploded when I thought of it. It just seems so right, and I’m not known for doing what is right.”

He crushed her hand in his, and for a moment, everything seemed remarkably clear. Then he placed it on his arm and propriety returned. “If I do not return you inside, Quentin will fling me over the parapet and Isabell will demand an immediate wedding, and I would rather give you time to be certain. I take that back. No, I don’t want to give you time to think of all the reasons it won’t work. I want to rush you off to Gretna Green. But I won’t. I know I’m the impulsive one, and you’re not.”

She nodded uncertainly. “I do need time, thank you. There are so many things I must consider before saying yes. You are . . . so much more than any of the gentlemen I have met. I cannot put my mind on it. You could have any woman in London.”

He laughed in self-deprecation as he led her back to the ballroom. “Miss Pemberley prefers Sir Barton. I don’t fancy ignorant young things. And most of the smart women don’t fancy me. Or need me. You, on the other hand, need me just as I need you, so we’re well matched in that.”

A marriage based on mutual need almost made sense, in the same way this glittering ballroom of exotic scents, beautiful people, and lavish clothing made sense. Abby feared that once she returned to the real world, however, the Cinderella fantasy would turn back into ashes. She needed to be in the familiar, simple surroundings of her home, preferably with the children—anywhere but here—before she could even
think
of such an enormous leap of faith.

She was too tongue-tied to explain any of that before Lord Quentin and Lady Belden swooped down on them, clucking and threatening, and sweeping them in different directions as if they were disobedient children.

“Whatever are you thinking?” the marchioness cried, towing Abby away from Fitz toward a gaggle of her cronies. “I have told you Danecroft is unsuitable. He is a shallow cad who makes his living
gambling
. He has no interest in children and rural pursuits. You need a man who shares your interests.”

Gambling? The earl—Fitz—was a gambler? How had she not known that? Because in reality she knew nothing of him at all. How could she learn when she scarcely knew a soul? “How does one make a living gambling?” she asked cautiously.

“Does it matter?” the marchioness asked with a dismissive sweep of her hand. “Perhaps he cheats. Perhaps his friends are extraordinarily stupid. Perhaps he smiles at ladies and they hand him their jewels. Or all of that. But someday, sometime, he will lose more than he can afford. I know whereof I speak. Do you wish a man like that to have possession of your farm and dowry and your siblings’ futures?”

She couldn’t risk her farm! She knew she needed to think hard and long about his proposal, but basing their futures on the fall of a card . . .

Abby suffered the agonizing suspicion that the light had just gone out on her shining moment.

“What the devil are you thinking?” Quentin demanded, digging his massive fist into Fitz’s upper arm and hauling him toward the smoking room, where a bar had been set up for the gentlemen. “You’re a damned
earl
now. You can’t be seducing country chits under the noses of all society if you mean to marry one of their whelps.”

Fitz debated declaring his intentions, but he had the uncomfortable notion that Quentin would demand his loan back if he did so. He shook his arm free and brushed at the wrinkles in his coat sleeve. “I would not seduce Miss Merriweather. I was just giving her some advice. You shouldn’t bully her into marrying where she has no interest.”

She hadn’t accepted him yet. He had made a perfect botch of his proposal. He couldn’t believe he’d botched something so important. He needed to collect his wits before trying again.

“Since when have you become an expert on marriage?” Quentin asked, pouring a whiskey and scowling.

“Same time as you, apparently.” Fitz helped himself to a brandy and scowled back.

Quentin might be large, but Fitz had watched the man box. Quent used his size to advantage, but his proper footwork and practiced punches were much too predictable. Fitz knew how to think on his feet and strike unexpectedly. He could take the larger man down if necessary. But he’d rather remember Miss Merry’s sweet kisses.

The thought of bedding Abigail fogged his mind with such lustful images that it obliterated any chance of winning this argument. “I need to hire an estate manager,” he declared, taking a new direction. “I assume it’s not too late to plant some of the fields if I had the blunt to pay for whatever is needed.”

“Did you win another stud for collateral?” Quentin asked in scorn.