by Olivia Drake
Private tour of the house, indeed! It was more of a private tour beneath the woman’s skirts. The thought tickled Abby’s sense of the absurd, but she mustn’t laugh, for that would be out of keeping for someone of her station.
The gentleman beside Lady Desmond was a tulip of fashion, from his artfully barbered sandy hair down to his polished black Hessians. A gold watch fob dangled against his biscuit-colored silk waistcoat, and his pomona-green coat fit so flawlessly that it must have required the assistance of a valet to shoehorn him into it.
“Lord Ambrose Hood, at your service,” he said, closely eyeing her as he gave a slight bow. “Dare I say you’ve a pretty name, Miss Abigail? It matches your remarkably pretty blue eyes.”
Abby found herself the focus of a caressing smile as her fingers were clasped in a firm male grip. She wasn’t so rustic as to fail to recognize an accomplished flirt. “How do you do, sir?” she said, withdrawing her hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“She has the name of a servant,” Lady Desmond said, clearly irked to be displaced, even for a moment. “I refer to my maid as my abigail.”
“I believe that particular meaning came from a character in a popular old play, The Scornful Lady,” Abby said. “Or so my papa told me.”
“And who is your papa?”
“Was,” she corrected. “He passed away last year. He was a scholar of English history, and he owned Linton Manor, the neighboring estate, which my eldest brother has inherited.”
Lady Desmond’s brow furrowed. “Landed gentry?”
She looked as if she’d have been happier to learn that Abby had grown up in a poorhouse. Perhaps it was understandable that the woman had taken a dislike to her, Abby mused, for she had caught Lady Desmond in an embarrassing indiscretion in the library the previous day. Yet there seemed to be something more, too. Had Lady Desmond guessed that Abby had had a past acquaintance with the duke? Was it possible she viewed her as a rival?
The notion was beyond ludicrous. Not only did Rothwell care not a jot for Abby, but there could scarcely be a sharper contrast than a spinster governess in sober slate gray and Lady Desmond’s youthful perfection.
“But why are you not living with your brother, then?” Lady Desmond continued. “Why must you earn your bread—”
“Oh, bosh, Elise, don’t grill her with impertinent questions,” the other lady broke in. “Miss Linton, if I may present myself, I am Mrs. Chalmers. Mrs. Sally Chalmers, I might add. One cannot help one’s birth name, and with an ordinary tag like mine, one would expect to find me not as a guest here, but churning the butter or making up the beds.”
Abby appreciated the twinkle in Mrs. Chalmers’s warm brown eyes. She had a lively manner, soft black hair, and a boldly stylish elegance in a peony-red muslin gown.
Her companion gave a gravelly chuckle. “Now that would be a sight to behold,” he drawled. “Sally’s fine posterior bent over a mattress.”
The others seemed to find his outrageous comment amusing, for they all laughed, including Mrs. Chalmers, who playfully struck his arm with her closed fan. “This naughty man, Miss Linton, is Lord Pettibone. And he is hereby ordered to bide his tongue while we’re at Rothwell Court. Else you will think us all dreadfully rag-mannered!”
Abby did find them a trifle shocking, though intriguing as well, affording her a glimpse into Rothwell’s life in London. “I daresay one’s manners may be easier when one is among friends.”
“Ah,” Lord Ambrose said, “so you’re a diplomat as well as a governess.”
“And a dashed pretty one, too,” Lord Pettibone added bluntly. “Every bit as fetching as the last one. Rothwell does know how to pick ’em.”
With a languid hand, he held up a quizzing glass so that Abby found herself scrutinized by a magnified hazel eye. She took his flattery with a grain of salt and gazed levelly back at him, for she had the dubious distinction in her family of being the champion of staring contests. Lord Pettibone couldn’t have been much older than herself, yet his dark hair was receding and his prominent aquiline nose kept him from true handsomeness. His foppish tastes included a wasp-waisted coat of claret superfine with collar points so high they nearly grazed his cheeks.
He lowered the glass. “By the by, Miss Linton, you never answered Elise’s question. Where is your young charge?”
“Indeed,” Lord Ambrose echoed. “We should very much like to meet Rothwell’s sister.”
“Lady Gwendolyn is presently out riding with a groom,” Abby said. “I was watching for her return from the window here.”
“How peculiar,” Lady Desmond said. “I could have sworn you were ogling that portrait of Rothwell with his parents.” She cast an arch look at Abby, then strolled away with Lord Pettibone to examine the painting.
The snide comment confirmed that Rothwell’s mistress intended to guard against any poachers. Abby was struck by a distasteful thought. Perhaps the duke had such an incorrigibly roving eye that he kept several chères amies at a time, preying even upon the servants.
Her attention was pulled back by a reference to Lady Gwendolyn.
“Rothwell won’t let you within a hundred yards of her,” Mrs. Chalmers was telling Lord Ambrose. “Even if your pockets weren’t to let, Lady Gwendolyn is only fifteen, a mere child. When she makes her bows three years from now, she is bound to command scores of brilliant offers.”
“All the more reason for me to get a jump on the pack,” Lord Ambrose countered with a devilish smile. “I may be a trifle in the suds at the moment, but may I remind you, my father is the Duke of Chesterton. The title is even more ancient than Rothwell’s, for my family counts its lineage back to the time of the Conqueror.”
“Oh, la, and I trace mine back to Adam and Eve,” Mrs. Chalmers said with a merry laugh. “Do come off your high horse now. My only point is that you mustn’t badger Miss Linton for an introduction.”
“It isn’t my decision who Lady Gwendolyn meets,” Abby pointed out. “That is something you shall have to take up with His Grace.”
“Where is the old boy?” Lord Ambrose asked. “If he’s sparring with Goliath, it should be a bang-up match. Max is the best amateur heavyweight in England.”
“He warned us not to disturb him,” Mrs. Chalmers said. “And don’t think I tumbled off the turnip cart only yesterday. I know you want an excuse to tarry around the stables and await his sister’s return.”
While they squabbled, Abby stepped to the window. Was Max truly a famous bruiser? No wonder he’d been so furious when she’d destroyed his concentration. Because of her, he had taken a punch that had knocked him down. She would never forget the sight of him stripped to the waist, his broad chest bathed by sunlight. He had surged toward her with swift, angry strides and pressed his gloved hand to her back, marching her out of the paddock. They’d been so close that the heat of his body had scorched her—
Abby swallowed a gasp as Lord Ambrose materialized at her side. A blush warmed her cheeks. For one mad moment, she feared he had read her lascivious thoughts.
He bestowed a charming smile on her. “Forgive me for startling you, Miss Linton. Perhaps you would care to join us for luncheon later. We’re three gentlemen and only two ladies, so you would round out our numbers quite nicely.”
She almost laughed to imagine Rothwell’s reaction to finding her seated among his cronies at the dining table. Half of her was tempted to needle him by doing just that, but thankfully, her rational half prevailed.
She glanced out the window. “I believe I see Lady Gwendolyn in the distance. Thank you for the kind offer, sir, but duty calls.”
Sketching a curtsy, she left the gallery in a whirl of skirts, her swift steps carrying her along an echoing corridor and then down a marble staircase. Abby didn’t pause until she caught sight of herself in a large gilt-framed mirror.
Pinkness still tinted her face, and she hoped Lord Ambrose hadn’t interpreted the blush to mean she harbored any interest in him. Both he and Lord Pettibone
had been lavish in their compliments, but they were surely quizzing her, for she was mystified as to what they could see in a spinster of her advanced years.
She scrutinized her reflection. The large blue eyes were perhaps her best feature, the color enhanced today by the bluish-gray of her gown. Her skin was unblemished save for a few scattered freckles, and her eyebrows merely had a nice curve. Her mouth was a trifle generous, her nose unremarkable. Her hair was a wavy reddish brown, drawn up into a simple knot, a few wisps having escaped her lace cap to frame her face and neck.
She could spot nothing particularly noteworthy in her appearance. It was the same ordinary face she saw every day in the mirror.
Her customary levelheadedness reasserted itself. These London gentlemen must be accustomed to flirtations. It was a habit for them to use charm to ingratiate themselves with any female they met. Nevertheless, she allowed it was quite delightful to have been the subject of flattery by not one but two London dandies.
As for Rothwell, if he chose to be rude, then he could go to the devil.
* * *
Max was late for luncheon. Having sent orders for his guests not to wait, he trod downstairs to find them already seated around the linen-draped table in the dining parlor, a sunlit chamber with sea-green walls that his mother had liked to use for informal meals.
A chorus of greetings met his ears. Ambrose saluted him with a crystal goblet. “A fine French burgundy you’ve been hiding here, old chap. Given your long absence from the ducal seat, I was anticipating a week of swilling vinegar.”
“My father laid the cellar,” Max said. “One can only suppose aging did the wine a service. Now, pray forgive my tardiness in joining you.”
Finchley stood waiting at the head of the table, the chair drawn out by his crabby hands. The old butler had withered to a husk over the past fifteen years. His posture was hunched, his face a patchwork of wrinkles beneath a fuzz of white hair. “Sit you down, Your Grace,” he said, helping to push in the chair for him as if Max were still a lad in short coats. “I’ve saved a nice mushroom broth for your first course, though it’s a mite cool by now. Would’ve been piping hot if only you’d arrived on time.”
Max took the scolding with forbearance. It touched him to know that the old retainers still had an unwavering loyalty to him. They had been his closest allies in a youth that had been unsettled by screaming quarrels, fits of hysteria, and slammed doors.
The cavernous house was much more tranquil now. Yet how strange it seemed to occupy his father’s chair. Though the dukedom had been his for a decade, Max felt like a usurper within these walls.
He shook off the vague impression and surveyed the rest of the party. The women sat to either side of him, with Pettibone flanking Mrs. Chalmers to the left and Ambrose beside Lady Desmond on the right. They were already halfway through a course of quail and asparagus.
“My dear Rothwell,” Elise said, her soft green-gold eyes fixed on him, “though your kindness is to be admired, you mustn’t let the staff serve you cold food. The soup should be sent back to the kitchen to be properly heated.”
She fluttered a pale hand at the blue-liveried footman, who stopped uncertainly, gripping the large silver tureen.
“Nonsense, I’m not waiting half an hour over so trifling a matter.” Max motioned the young man forward, then reached for the ladle to dip the broth into his bowl. “I believed this was to be a cold luncheon, anyway.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Elise said in her most ingenuous tone, “but I took the liberty of ordering a heartier meal. I thought you might need more sustenance after your exertions this morning with Goliath.”
She had dipped her chin, gazing at him from beneath her lashes, looking for all the world like an adoring wife. The observation stirred uneasiness in Max, and only an ingrained civility induced him to say, “How kind. Though cold ham and chicken would have suited just as well.”
“I trust you had a productive session with our champion, eh?” Pettibone said. “How’s the old boy’s form? Is he keeping up his strength?”
“He’s a trifle off his stride, but that’s likely due to missing a day of training while we were traveling. Nevertheless, he managed to land his fair share of solid strikes.”
Remembering one strike in particular, Max had to force his jaw to relax in order to swallow a spoonful of lukewarm soup. His companions needn’t know that he’d been laid out flat, the air knocked from his lungs, all because Abby had distracted him. The alarm on her face as she’d run toward him had served only to hone his ire. Then, as he’d ushered her away, those expressive blue eyes had aroused an entirely different sort of fury in him—the desire to lay her flat on the ground in order to ravish her.
Nothing could be more idiotic.
“Goliath’s forte is his ability to take plenty of bottom,” Ambrose was saying. “Though the amount of punishment he’ll face from Wolfman remains to be seen.”
“I understand the frontiersman is devilish quick on his feet and faster than lightning,” Pettibone commented. “He’s reputed to have killed a wolf with his bare hands.”
A rapid argument circulated among the men and Mrs. Chalmers, debating the pros and cons of each pugilist, while Elise appeared a trifle bored, nibbling on bits of roasted quail from her mostly untouched plate.
“My money is on Goliath,” Max asserted. “And not only because I’ve a stake invested in him. The man’s an ox and he’s deuced hard to cut down. He can outlast any opponent.”
“That’s why he’s the champion,” Ambrose agreed. “No backwoodsman from America can beat the best brute in all of Britain. Nevertheless, our man mustn’t slack off in his training over the next few days.”
“Hear, hear!” Pettibone took a swig of wine. “To England’s champ! We’re counting on you, Rothwell, to fill our pockets with gold.”
“Crabtree is keeping Goliath on a tight regimen,” Max replied, naming the trainer he had brought from London. “A brisk five-mile walk after luncheon, then he’ll practice his punches on a straw dummy until dinnertime. Beefsteaks, egg yolks, and mutton to build up his strength, a pint of porter, and off to bed with him.”
Finchley came to remove the empty soup bowl. “Never fear, Your Grace, you may depend upon Beechy to take excellent care of the monstrous heathen. Why, she’s been frying chops for half the morning!”
Elise narrowed her eyes at the butler. Her lips parted as if to object to his unsolicited commentary.
Luckily, Mrs. Chalmers spoke first. “Will Prinny attend the bout?” she asked. “He came to the last one.”
“According to the latest gossip column, the Prince is presently in Brighton,” Elise said. “It seems the poor man has been laid low with an acute attack of dyspepsia.”
“Now there’s a stroke of good fortune,” Max said, taking a portion of poached fish in wine sauce from the platter Finchley offered. “If Prinny were to attend, I’d doubtless be obliged to offer him accommodations here. Imagine what a disruption that would cause, housing and feeding his entire retinue on short notice. And worse, having to entertain his set of courtly fustians.”
“Why, I would be more than happy to help,” Elise said, leaning closer and affording him a view of her creamy bosom. “Managing large parties involves hundreds of details, all of which should be handled by one who is skilled in such affairs. You must promise me, my lord duke, that you shall ask for my assistance in any domestic matters that may arise.”
He inclined his head in a nod. “Let us hope that will not be necessary.”
“There are other ways in which I can offer my support. Perhaps I might review the menus during our stay here. Although the meals have been quite tolerable—”
“Tolerable? They’ve been delicious,” Ambrose said. “I’ve always found country cooking to be an agreeable respite from the fancier fare of London.”
“For a bachelor living in rooms, perhaps,” she said archly. “However, His Grace is accustomed to a higher standard. He surely must be mi
ssing Gervais and his array of French delicacies.”
Finchley brought around a platter of roasted potatoes. “Frenchie grub is fit for frogs,” he rasped, “and not proper Englishmen.”
“I beg your pardon!” she said, glaring at the butler. “Rothwell, surely you will not allow your servants to continually interrupt us like this.”
Max cast a stern look at the old man, who promptly shut his trap, though not without cocking an impertinent eyebrow. “Finchley, pray go and inform Hammond that I’ll meet him in my study in half an hour.”
“As Your Grace wishes.” With an air of injury, Finchley tottered away and gave the party one last baleful glance over his stooped shoulder before vanishing out the doorway.
Max turned back to Elise. He didn’t know who had irked him more, her or the butler, who had fallen into shabby conduct since the time of Max’s father. “As to altering the menus, the answer is no. Cook has already taken her instructions from me.”
Her eyes widened at the rebuke, and he felt a moment’s remorse to have spoken so sharply. The young widow was a vision of loveliness from her golden hair to her shapely figure and kissable mouth. She was the most sought-after temptress in the ton, and everything he desired in a woman. Nevertheless, he felt curiously relieved to have postponed his campaign of seduction. With his sister and aunt in residence, any dalliance must be off-limits until he departed the estate next week.
The necessity of the delay irritated him not just for the most obvious reason of living as a monk, but also because Elise clearly was intent on making herself indispensable to him. She had her eye on the role of duchess, and he needed to put a stop to that notion posthaste. The surest way to thwart her man trap was to establish her in the role of his mistress. Yet he dared not do so just yet. Not after Abby had witnessed that scorching scene in the library the previous afternoon.
His mood souring, he took a swallow of wine. Of all the women in the world, she had to be the one who’d forced him to face the recklessness of his actions. The one who had made him realize he hadn’t spared a thought for propriety, that he had sunk so low as to engage in depravity when his sister or aunt might have walked into the room.
