by Olivia Drake
“I do love you, Max. I’ll love you forever.”
“I intend to marry you the moment I come of age. Will you wait for me?”
“Yes! Oh, yes.” Though overjoyed at the prospect, concern for him made her add, “But are you sure? You’ve just suffered a terrible loss. You must be feeling such wretched misery over your mother—”
“I know my own mind! Please … just help me forget.”
Drawing her down onto the grass, he began to kiss her with keen desperation. She delighted in the pressure of his mouth on hers, in knowing that he wished to spend the rest of his life with her. The desire to comfort him in his sorrow filled her with an overwhelming tenderness. They kissed with more boldness than she’d ever known, and a deep excitement swept through her as he caressed her bosom and hips. She could scarcely think or even breathe. Max. He was the one she loved with all her heart and soul …
All of a sudden, she experienced a shocking new sensation. His hand had delved beneath her skirts, brushing against her privates, startling her with a jolt of forbidden pleasure …
She pushed at him. “No! We mustn’t—!”
“Please, Abby, I need you so much.”
When he tried to hold on to her, she twisted away and sat up on the grass, one palm pressed to her wildly beating heart. He sat up as well and stared at her from a short distance away. He looked dazed and dreadfully unhappy, and despite her own rattled senses, she felt a rush of concern for him, realizing that he sought to forget his anguish rather than face it. “I know you’re grieving for your mother,” she said, “but we mustn’t—”
“Don’t speak of things you know nothing about!”
“Then tell me, Max. You must be hurting. It’s better to talk about it than to keep it bottled up inside.”
“She died. There’s nothing else to say.”
His surly aloofness sparked frustration in her. “Of course there’s more to say, and you know it! Why will you never talk to me about your family?”
“Because there’s no point.”
“If you refuse to speak, then I can’t help to ease your pain.”
He sprang to his feet. “Fine. I’ll seek my comfort elsewhere!”
Turning on his heel, he plunged away into the forest, and she felt too cross and upset to go after him …
A horse nickered in a nearby paddock and jolted Abby back to reality. Realizing that a groom was looking curiously at her, she started along a pathway that took her past the carriage house. Perhaps a brisk walk in the sunshine would help to disperse the cloud that dampened her spirits.
Yet that long-ago day remained seared in her mind. She blushed to recall their close embrace, though at least she’d retained the sense to refuse him the ultimate intimacy. After their brief quarrel, when he’d said I’ll seek my comfort elsewhere, he had done just that. He’d gone off to London to live the freewheeling life of a rogue and she’d never seen or heard from him again.
Until yesterday.
No one but the two of them knew about that interlude in the woods or his marriage offer. All these years, Abby had kept the secret from her family and friends. It would have shocked her parents to know that she’d been meeting the duke’s heir in the woods, that he’d proposed to her, and that she’d almost succumbed to his seduction.
Yet now Max—Rothwell—had had the gall to blame her for his own misdeeds. No matter how deeply he’d sunk into debauchery, he ought to be at least a trifle shamefaced over ignoring the many letters she’d written to him. Not to mention, breaking his promise to court her once he’d reached his majority. His father had been dead by then, and there had been no one to stop him from wedding whomever he’d pleased.
Back then, it had been a bitter blow to realize she had meant nothing more to him than a trifling summer fling.
Nevertheless, Abby had long since put the regrettable episode behind her. Though she failed to grasp how he could have twisted around the events of the past, she had come to one conclusion at least. She herself would never behave with such cavalier cruelty toward another human being.
For that reason, she owed Rothwell an apology for gossiping about Miss Herrington. It had been unkind to cast aspersions on her predecessor, who was unable to speak in her own defense. Lady Hester was likely wrong, and Miss Herrington had resigned in order to tend to a family crisis. Abby resolved to express her regret to the duke at the first opportunity. It was not in her nature to speak ill of people, no matter how goaded she had been by his rudeness.
The sound of jeering male voices caught her attention. She heard a taunting cry, then several dull thuds in quick succession. Intrigued, she proceeded around the back of the carriage house and stopped dead.
The sight before her could not have been more startling.
In a paddock behind the stables, two men were engaged in a bout of fisticuffs. The larger of the pair was a baldheaded brute with an ugly, scarred face. His opponent was the Duke of Rothwell.
Both men were stripped to the waist. Sweat gleamed on their bare torsos as they circled each other, their gazes intent. They wore padded gloves and every now and then, a fist whipped out and a blow thumped. In between strikes, they snapped insults at one another.
The huge one must be Goliath, England’s champion pugilist. Although Rothwell had mentioned the boxer would be training for a prizefight, Abby had never dreamed the duke himself would act as the man’s sparring partner.
She told herself to retreat. Clearly, ladies weren’t meant to witness this private training exercise back here, out of sight of the house. There was no one else nearby except for a few stable lads who were watching the bout, along with a husky man in commoner’s garb who observed from a corner of the paddock.
Yet she couldn’t bring herself to walk away. The fight held her too enthralled.
Never before had she witnessed such a display of physical brawn. Until this moment, her only glimpse of the half-nude male form had been statues of ancient Greeks and Romans depicted in books. But those tame illustrations were mere shadows of a flesh-and-blood man.
Her gaze was snared by the allure of Rothwell. His naked chest rippled with muscles, and as he moved, his back and shoulders undulated with strength. Though tall and powerful, he was not quite as fearsome as his burly, gargantuan opponent. Yet he was quicker on his feet and landed his share of punches in between barrages from Goliath. Rothwell appeared to be intent on goading the man to try harder. The duke feinted to avoid being struck, weaving in and out, his keen gaze never leaving the giant.
A flurry of near misses had Abby clutching her hands to her throat. At a glancing blow to Rothwell’s jaw, she cried out and took a spontaneous step toward the paddock. His concentration broke.
As the duke glanced her way, Goliath’s fist caught him solidly in the gut. The savage strike caused Rothwell to stagger backward, his arms wheeling. He tumbled to the ground and lay unmoving with his face in the dirt.
“Max!”
She dashed forward before her thoughts could catch up with the advisability of her actions. How badly was he hurt? Was he only knocked out? Could a hard blow kill a man?
Even as she plunged through the open gate of the paddock, her imagination churning out a host of grisly possibilities, she saw Rothwell push himself up onto his elbow. He half lay there in the dust, struggling to catch his breath.
Goliath stood chortling over him. “Should Oi do the count, Yer Grace? One … two … three…”
In a mighty thrust, the duke surged to his feet. “Excellent knockout punch,” he said, gasping for air. “But take a lesson from this, you blasted jackanapes. Never look away. Especially not at a female.”
Only then did he aim a glower at Abby. “What the deuce are you doing here?”
Without allowing her to reply, Rothwell planted one gloved hand in the middle of her back and propelled her toward the gate. Abby scarcely took heed of his overbearing manner. She was too caught up in noticing the harshness of his breathing, the bronzed chest muscles glistening
in the sunshine, the male scent that ought to repel her, but instead aroused the disgraceful desire to tuck her face in the crook of his neck.
Never in her life had she felt more keenly aware of any man. The fall had done its damage, and as they stepped outside the paddock, she asked, “Have you a handkerchief?”
He nodded at the garment hanging from a nearby post. “In my coat.”
She dug in an inner pocket and found the folded square of linen, then turned back to him, reaching up to swab the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.
He jerked away. “What are you doing?”
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.”
Glowering, he peeled off his overstuffed gloves and threw them to the ground, then snatched the scrap of cloth from her. He gingerly wiped the side of his face, including a smear of dirt from his cheek. Abby knew it was highly improper to stare, yet she couldn’t help herself. No matter how low her opinion of his character might be, she had to allow that in physique, Rothwell was the ideal of male perfection. He certainly was no longer the skinny, gangly Max of her memory. Now, the mere sight of him had the power to weaken her legs and hasten her heartbeat.
To hide her confusion, she picked up one of his leather gloves with its thick padding. “I thought this was to be bare-knuckle fighting.”
“The mufflers protect Goliath during training.”
He tossed the soiled handkerchief aside, then turned to grab his shirt from the fence post. He pulled it over his head, leaving his hair an attractive tousle of chocolate and coffee strands. Only then did he set his hands on his hips and fix her with a penetrating glare.
“Well, Miss Linton?” he demanded. “You never answered my question. Why are you here?”
His harsh tone slapped her. Striving for calm, she handed him the glove. “Your sister just departed on her ride, and I decided to take a walk. It was mere happenstance that I came upon you practicing.”
“You ought to have turned around at once and gone away. That’s what most ladies would have done.”
It wouldn’t do to admit she had been fascinated by the spectacle of his half-naked form. Or that she was sorry he’d now covered himself. She dropped a curtsy lest a blush betray her. “I was startled and forgot myself. Pray forgive me, Your Grace.”
He was silent a moment, and she felt his cold stare as if it were an icicle piercing her bosom. Then he growled, “Don’t ever come back here again.”
Pivoting on his heel, he seized the other glove from the ground and strode back toward England’s champion. A pack of goggle-eyed stable lads watched from a doorway as Goliath hopped around in the middle of the paddock while punching the air at an imaginary opponent.
Abby hastily retraced her steps. The chilliness of Rothwell’s manner had magnified the coil of confusion inside her. She could think only of putting as much distance as possible between herself and the duke.
Abandoning her walk, she returned to the house and entered by a side door, then ran lightly up a staircase. She wandered through a random doorway and found herself in the Long Gallery. The stately chamber displayed portraits of past dukes, illuminated by natural light from the tall windows. It was deserted, which perfectly suited her agitated state of mind.
She sank onto the padded blue brocade of a gilt bench and rested her chin in her palms. How absurd that Rothwell could so easily shatter her equilibrium when she hadn’t thought about him in years! What they had once shared had been mere puppy love. She had long ago reconciled herself to his abandonment and had found happiness by adopting a sensible outlook on life.
What, then, had brought on this mad whirl of disorder inside of her? Why was she feeling like an infatuated schoolgirl in the throes of her first romance?
Taking several deep breaths, Abby decided it was the fault of that lightning bolt of attraction that had struck her in his presence. Even now, the memory of him stripped to the waist made her pulse quicken. The man might be hostile and unprincipled, he might have crushed her youthful heart, yet he still had the power to tug at the core of her femininity.
She mustn’t allow him.
Over the years, she had cultivated an aura of quiet serenity. That composure had served her well in her dealings with her family. She was the one to whom her nieces and nephews came when they’d scraped an elbow, the one who listened to confidences from her sisters and who visited infirm tenants on behalf of her brothers. Her tranquil nature had allowed her to shift smoothly into the role of governess, as well. Yet in less than twenty-four hours, her perfectly ordered existence had been turned topsy-turvy.
Because of Rothwell.
Near him, she felt all the quivering uncertainties of a girl in her first blush of youth. That fluttery awareness harkened back to a time when she’d been a green girl. But surely she’d outgrown such naïveté. Nothing could be more irrational or more ill-advised than mooning after an inveterate rogue.
It was especially ridiculous at her advanced age to succumb to romantic flights of fancy. She was, after all, on the verge of turning thirty. That fateful milestone was creeping up on her, with a mere few days to go before she would don the mantle of spinsterhood once and for all.
Unless, of course, she encouraged Mr. Babcock’s suit.
She latched onto the prospect. The previous spring, the gentleman farmer had promised to renew his offer of marriage once her year of mourning was completed. He would make a steady husband, one who cared more about practical matters like raising sheep than arranging illicit prizefights. His parents might be henpecking and dogmatic, but she had a skill for soothing ill-tempered folk.
This untimely attraction to Rothwell was nothing more than the last gasp of youth. But all of that nonsense soon would be behind her. She resolved to engage Mr. Babcock in conversation after church on the coming Sunday. She would hint to him that a resumption of his courtship would be welcome.
Then her future would be settled once and for all. She need not spare another thought for the wicked Duke of Rothwell.
Her equanimity restored, Abby arose from the bench and paced to the nearest window to gaze out upon the vast expanse of lush lawn. The white marble of the Greek temple gleamed through the trees by the lake. Beyond the rolling hills lay the tenant farms with their fields of corn and rye, and farther still, the faint bluish shape of the downs. From here, she also could see the trail that meandered from the stables to the lake. This was as good a place as any to watch for Lady Gwendolyn’s return.
To pass the time, Abby strolled around the gallery, stopping now and then to study the picture of a somber Cavalier in a starched ruff, or a hunter in red jacket with hounds milling at his booted feet. The Rothwell ancestors appeared to be proud aristocrats, some portrayed with wife and children, others depicted in full ducal regalia complete with ermine-trimmed cloak and gold coronet decorated by strawberry leaves.
A more modern painting brought her to an abrupt halt. She found herself staring at the image of Max sitting at his mother’s side in the garden. Behind them stood the ninth duke, a man with cool gray eyes in a haughty, unsmiling face. His hand rested on his wife’s shoulder. Delicately beautiful with a mass of spun-gold hair, the duchess held in her arms a swaddled infant … Lady Gwendolyn.
This portrait had been painted the summer that Abby had met Max. She remembered him grumbling about having to leave their secret glade in the woods in order to return to the house for a sitting. Having only glimpsed his parents from afar, she had begged him for a description. But as always, he had refused to speak of them.
He caught her close, his lips warm against her brow. “There is little enough to say. Only that I am much happier here with you, Abby.”
Scrutinizing his image, she again felt the swirl of unsettled emotions. Here was the Max of her memory, preserved in oil paints at sixteen years of age. He had been lean and wiry then, and the artist had perfectly captured the hint of gawkiness in the inelegant slope of his shoulders, as if he had shot up too fast to be comfortabl
e with his new height.
How warm and witty he had been, his only fault a sullen reluctance to discuss his family. She had believed the two of them to be kindred spirits. Why, oh why, had he never answered the billets-doux into which she’d poured out her heart?
Abby knew the answer. She had refused him the intimacy he’d desired at their final meeting, and so he had turned his attention to more sophisticated women. Despite the passage of years, his parting words to her still burned. I’ll seek my comfort elsewhere.
The sound of voices penetrated her musings. Whirling around, she saw a pair of couples stroll into the gallery.
Chapter 7
Laughing and chatting, the two gentlemen and two ladies headed straight toward her. These must be the gamesters who had come to attend the prizefight, Abby realized. She schooled her features into a pleasant expression. It was too late to slip away unnoticed, and anyway, she admitted to a keen curiosity about Rothwell’s friends.
Though never having enjoyed a London season, she had gleaned enough from her family members to recognize the sheen of town bronze. Her sisters, sisters-in-law, and nieces could gabble for hours about fashion, soliciting Abby’s opinion on colors and fabrics, discussing how best to accessorize a gown, and poring over ladies’ periodicals for the latest styles. Rothwell’s guests, she judged, could have stepped right off those color-plated pages.
She recognized only one of the quartet—Max’s current mistress, Lady Desmond. Looking like an ingenue in blossom pink, the dainty blonde glided forward on the arm of a gentleman. All that marred her exquisite beauty was a slightly petulant set to her rosebud lips.
“Ah, Miss Abigail Linton. Fancy seeing you here all alone.”
Abby dipped the requisite curtsy. “Good morning, my lady.”
“And where is Lady Gwendolyn?” Before Abby could answer, Lady Desmond turned to her escort. “Ambrose, this is the governess. She always seems to be wandering hither and yon without her charge anywhere in sight. I encountered her yesterday when Rothwell gave me a private tour of the house.”
