“Fresh air,” Mr. Townsbridge declared as if stumbling upon some fantastic discovery. Before Abigail could blink, he’d linked his arm with hers and steered her through to an adjoining sitting room. “We’re going for a walk,” he added while passing his brother.
“But dinner’s about to be served,” Charles Townsbridge said.
“Then you must excuse us,” James Townsbridge told him without breaking his stride. “Lady Abigail is in need of fresh air, which I intend to provide. We shall return as soon as she’s feeling better.”
“Thank you,” Abigail murmured as soon as they’d exited onto the terrace and she’d managed to take a deep breath. The air was cool and fresh, infused with the sweet scent of jasmine growing nearby.
Mr. Townsbridge released her arm and strolled along the terrace for a number of paces before turning to face her. “What have you eaten today?”
Abigail stared at him. His features were harder to read now due to the darkness obscuring his face, but his tone was firm and very determined.
Pretending interest in the garden, Abigail turned away, allowing herself to believe he wasn’t there and she was alone. Which instantly settled her stomach and calmed her nerves. “I had toast with butter and jam for breakfast, minced meat pie for luncheon and some grapes for my afternoon snack.” She closed her eyes, aware it was time to be honest. Inhaling, she forced herself to say, “But the truth is—”
“Did you also eat all of these things on the days you were feeling well?”
Instinctively she shook her head. “I’m not sure, but—”
“Try to think. Perhaps you have an intolerance toward something used in the pie or...which fruit was the jam made from? I’ve heard strawberries can have a negative effect on some people.”
“It isn’t the strawberries. It is...” He said nothing else, allowing silence to gather around her. Three words, that was all it would take to make him see, and as much as she wished she could walk away and never discuss this subject again, she knew she had to face it, for both their sakes. So she straightened her spine, drew back her shoulders, and leapt into the awaiting abyss.
“It is you,” she said quickly, before she had time to change her mind.
JAMES STARED AT HIS bride-to-be and tried to absorb the meaning behind the words she’d just spoken. “Am I to understand,” he asked her slowly, “that you feel sick because of me?”
She spun toward him. “It is not...” Her words scattered the moment her eyes met his.
“It is not what?” James pressed with growing irritation. He wasn’t sure what annoyed him more, the fact that she’d made him believe she suffered from some food related illness or that he’d enjoyed their recent correspondence so much he’d actually looked forward to seeing her again.
“It is not as bad as you think.”
He stared at her. “I hope you’ll explain what you mean by that because frankly, from my point of view, few things are worse than learning I can have such a negative effect on someone.” Devil take it, he was tempted to leave her out here, excuse himself to the rest of the party, and escape to his club for the rest of the evening.
“It is just that,” she began, only to stop midsentence. She shifted from foot to foot, then dropped her gaze and mumbled something James couldn’t hear.
He moved toward her, his curiosity overpowering his annoyance.
Her chin jerked up, perhaps in response to his approaching footsteps. The gasp she emitted was accompanied by a pair of wide eyes. And then she took a step back, like a startled filly preparing to flee.
“For God's sake,” James muttered, his irritation with her returning tenfold. “I thought we were starting to get along. Based on the letters we exchanged, I even believed we shared the same odd sense of humor. But I am beginning to wonder if you wrote those letters yourself, for I swear you're not the same person who made me believe that marrying you might not be so bad after all. But of course, that was before I realized you misled me.”
“I didn't mean to,” she said.
“Then explain why you didn't correct my misconception. The opportunity to do so was there, in one of the three letters you wrote to me this past week.”
There was a slight tremor to her voice when she responded with, “I'm sorry.”
Stupidly, he felt compelled to go to her and tell her it was all right. Except it wasn't all right, and he would not be the sort of fool who allowed a woman to deal him the worst sort of blow to his masculine pride, only to help her feel better about having done so.
“So am I,” he told her crisply. He'd let himself get carried away by a fantasy. “Shall we go back inside?”
For a moment she looked like she might say no, but then she nodded, turned away, and preceded him through the French doors. Thankfully, the seating arrangement at the dinner table was such that James managed to avoid conversing with her for the remainder of the evening. When it was finally time for her and her parents to depart, he said the bare minimum since saying more would likely have ended badly.
“You were in a mood this evening,” Charles remarked once the Brights had departed. He and James had stepped into the foyer to see them off while Bethany remained in the parlor with their parents.
“I’m just not thrilled with the idea of tying myself to Lady Abigail for the rest of my life,” James grumbled. In fact, knowing he repulsed her made him both grumpy and depressed.
Charles shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and gave James a sympathetic smile. “I’ll agree she seemed a little standoffish, but she wasn’t rude, which I think suggests she must be shy. If you can find a way to break her out of her shell, the two of you might get along quite well.”
Deciding not to share what Lady Abigail had told him out on the terrace, James simply nodded. “You’re probably right.”
“Don’t forget that she and Bethany are friends,” Charles added. “And Bethany has only positive things to say about her.”
James had to admit Charles was right, though he couldn’t quite fathom the reality of it. Bethany was fun and vibrant while Abigail came across as the direct opposite. But then again, that might only be when he was around.
Allowing an inward groan, James followed his brother back into the parlor. The conversation that had been taking place between his parents and Bethany died as soon as he entered.
A moment of awkward silence followed, and then his mother said, “You really must make more of an effort, James. Why, you hardly spoke more than two words to your poor fiancée all evening. It’s no wonder she looked so unhappy.”
“You neglected her,” Roxley added in that dry tone he used to reprimand. “I dare say your manners were utterly lacking.”
James stared at them all in turn while trying to figure out how to respond without sounding horribly rude. Eventually he said, “We spoke at length while we were taking some air on the terrace.”
“About what?” his mother demanded.
Since being completely honest would only lead to comments and questions he had no interest in facing, he said, “Our likes and dislikes.”
“Did she mention charades?” Bethany asked. When James shook his head, his sister-in-law knit her brow. “How odd. It used to be one of her favorite games.”
James struggled to hold back a snort. He could not for the life of him envision Lady Abigail engaging in such an outgoing activity. “Perhaps it’s not anymore. After all, people do change and it has been some years since you saw her last.”
“I suppose,” Bethany conceded though she didn’t look even remotely convinced.
“What does she like then, if not charades?” Charles asked. He’d taken a seat next to his wife while James remained standing.
James opened his mouth and uttered an uncertain, “Umm...” which led to some very perplexed expressions until he was able to gather his thoughts and say, “Playing pretend.”
His father tilted his head and gave him a rather odd look. “Is that not the same as charades?”
“Not
exactly,” James murmured. It involved trapping unsuspecting men into marriage and then deceiving them so completely they started to imagine there was hope for the future.
“Well,” his mother remarked, “that’s hardly any information at all. Certainly not very useful.” She expelled a suffering breath. “Really, James, you must do better. Which is why I suggest you call on Lady Abigail tomorrow. Bring her some flowers and try to... James? Are you listening?”
He was. But the idea of having to spend time with Lady Abigail again so soon had practically paralyzed him.
“Honestly,” his mother continued, “I dare say this is part of the problem. Women like to be heard, James. So please, encourage Lady Abigail to speak, and do your best to listen to what she has to say.”
“Or at the very least, pretend to,” Roxley said. “That’s what I do most of the time.”
This comment earned the viscount a slap on his arm from his wife, though it was accompanied by a mischievous smile. The two shared a look – the sort that suggested they were both enjoying a private joke.
James sank onto a vacant chair with a sigh. This was the kind of relationship he wanted for himself. Why the devil did it have to be so hard to obtain?
HAVING VENTURED INTO the garden the following day after breakfast, Abigail chose to pass the morning by deadheading the roses, an activity she found both relaxing and rewarding. It also kept her mind off the previous evening and, most importantly, away from a certain Mr. Townsbridge. Good heavens, she still could not fathom how rude she had been. Of course, it hadn’t been her intention to make him think he made her ill, but her inability to explain herself properly had caused him to do precisely that. Which only made her more nervous about seeing him again and...
“There you are,” came Tobias’s voice.
Abigail looked up and waved when she saw her brother’s friend striding across the grass. “I’m afraid Lance has gone out,” she said.
“So I’ve been told. But since you’re here, I thought I’d see you instead. I told Arundel I’d manage to find you myself.”
“And so you have,” she said with a grin. Setting the knife she’d been using aside in a nearby basket, she went to greet him. “Would you care for some tea? Or perhaps some refreshing lemonade?”
“Arundel already offered. Some lemonade should be on its way along with a plate of biscuits.” Together, they made their way up to the terrace where a wrought iron table and chairs stood beneath the shade of a nearby birch. “How are your wedding preparations coming along?” Tobias asked once they were both comfortably seated.
“Can we not find another subject to discuss?”
“That bad, is it?”
A maid brought a tray with refreshments which she placed on the table. Glasses were filled and Abigail took a quick sip of her tart drink before saying, “I may have suggested to Mr. Townsbridge that I feel unwell in his company.”
Tobias responded with a guffaw that ended in a half-choked cough. His eyes went wide. “You did not.” When she nodded, he laughed even more. “Good God, Abby. Whatever were you thinking?”
She shrugged. “I was just trying to be honest.”
He stared at her. “How so?”
“It’s nothing.” Confiding in Tobias was probably a mistake. “Forget I said anything.”
This just made him frown. And then he reached for her hand. “Abby, if Mr. Townsbridge has treated you ill in some way, then I would suggest you speak up now before it’s too late.”
“I—”
Her words were cut short by the unexpected arrival of the man they had just been discussing. James Townsbridge was suddenly there, his expression utterly grave as he looked straight at her. “Good morning, my lady.” His gaze dropped to her hand and she hastily pulled it away from Tobias’s. The edge of Mr. Townsbridge’s mouth twitched. “I hope I’m not imposing too much.”
Abigail’s silly heart fluttered madly against her breast. Her stomach did that annoying flip it always did when she was faced with the handsomest man in existence. She swallowed, attempted to speak, but then changed her mind and just shook her head.
“Arundel ought to have brought Mr. Townsbridge’s card first,” Tobias told Abigail. His visible displeasure almost made her remind him that the aging butler hadn’t detained him either.
But she lost her chance when Mr. Townsbridge said, “He knows I’m about to be part of this family.” The words, unlike you, were heavily implied. “And then Lady Roxley arrived in the foyer, and she agreed that it would be fine for me to come find you myself, seeing as you already have company.” He sat and placed a bouquet of roses on the table. “These are for you.”
“Th...thank you,” Abigail managed.
Mr. Townsbridge responded with a glower. And then he said, “Now, if you don’t mind, Mr. Chesterfield, I would like to have a private conversation with my future wife.”
“Only if the lady agrees,” Tobias said. He made no hint of planning to get up anytime soon.
“She does,” Mr. Townsbridge clipped. His voice sounded increasingly angry.
Abigail forced herself not to look at him and to focus on Tobias instead. In doing so, she was able to calm her nerves a little. “It’s all right.” She managed a smile. “I’m sure Mr. Townsbridge and I have much to discuss. Thank you so much for coming to visit and...for your concern.”
“Think nothing of it.” Tobias hesitated briefly, then stood. Rounding the table, he placed one hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “Perhaps I should ask one of the maids to come chaperone?”
“You required no such thing,” Mr. Townsbridge pointed out.
Tobias calmly told him, “Abby has known me most of her life. More importantly though, I do not make her feel uneasy.”
For a second, it looked like Mr. Townsbridge might grab the bouquet he’d brought and use it to give Tobias a thrashing. But then he said, “A misunderstanding, I believe, and the reason why I am here.” This remark was followed by a pointed look that gave Tobias no other choice but to take his leave.
Silence fell, thick and uncomfortable, and then a maid arrived. She placed a clean glass on the table for Mr. Townsbridge and then removed herself to a nearby bench.
Mr. Townsbridge snorted and rolled his eyes. “Abby?”
“He...um...” She took a deep breath and prayed she’d be able to speak a full sentence without her words sticking together. “Toby...I mean, Mr. Chesterfield and I—”
“Are you in love with him?”
“What?”
“Well, he’s clearly in love with you, so it is a reasonable question for me to ask.”
“I...um...” While it was true Tobias had offered for her hand, he’d never declared having feelings for her that went beyond the bounds of friendship. So she’d assumed he’d done it because he thought it might be expected, and because he’d been hoping her family wouldn’t dismiss him based on his brother’s actions. Of course, he’d been wrong. She was a marquess’s daughter and appearances mattered.
Mr. Townsbridge grunted. “Unfortunately, I am the man you’ll be marrying, so you should probably try to tolerate my company. No matter how sick that makes you.”
JAMES HAD ARRIVED AT Roxley House with the best of intentions. He’d put a great deal of thought into the bouquet he’d purchased, eventually settling on a particular shade of pink roses matching the gown Lady Abigail had worn the previous evening. But when he’d reached the doors leading to the garden, the sound of masculine laughter coming from the terrace had made him stop and listen.
“Good God, Abby,” sputtered a man he’d soon discover to be Mr. Chesterfield. “Whatever were you thinking?”
“I was just trying to be honest,” Lady Abigail replied.
A pause had followed before Mr. Chesterfield asked, “How so?”
“It’s nothing.” Lady Abigail had spoken so low James had struggled to hear the words. “Forget I said anything.”
Understanding Mr. Chesterfield’s emphatic response, however, had not been diffi
cult. The man had spoken clearly and with extreme passion when he’d said, “Abby, if Mr. Townsbridge has treated you ill in some way, then I would suggest you speak up now before it’s too late.”
The nerve of the man to suggest such a thing! Incensed, James had made his presence known only to find the blighter holding Lady Abigail’s hand. At which point James had abandoned every intention he’d had of trying to be polite. It didn’t matter if he didn’t like her much himself. Somehow, seeing another man showing an interest made him possessive and downright boorish.
Which probably explained his inability to say something nice to the woman with whom he would soon face a vicar. Her cheeks had turned a delightful shade of pink, not that he cared. And she was eyeing him carefully from beneath her lashes, as if looking at him directly required extreme caution.
He, on the other hand, was determined to be direct. “I’m sorry on both our behalves that we must marry. You may rest assured that if I could somehow prevent it from happening, I would.” Her eyes widened and started to shimmer, which made no sense at all. After all, she was the one who had said she couldn’t tolerate him. And yet...a tear now slid down her cheek.
James’s chest grew suddenly tight. He tried to think of what to say, but before he managed to do so, Lady Abigail had risen and walked away. He stared after her as she stepped down onto the grass and walked toward a flowerbed filled with roses. As she went, she dismissed the maid, who quickly disappeared back into the house.
Puzzled and unsure of what to do, James stood and glanced around. On one hand, he was tempted to leave and avoid further conversation, but on the other, he was curious to know what was going on. Lady Abigail’s response to his proclamation was downright bizarre if she felt the same way as him about the wedding, which he’d been certain she did in light of what she’d told him.
Raising his eyes to the sky, he blew out a breath before striding after her. With two sisters, one would think he’d have some understanding of women by now, but either he didn’t or this one was simply proving to be particularly complex.
Lady Abigail's Perfect Match Page 4
