“Of course,” her ladyship answered without any sign of remorse or consternation over Jonesy’s comment. “How are you, Lady Barnes?” she asked, perching herself on the edge of a chair and motioning her daughters to sit in the chairs next to hers, which they obediently did in the same perching manner.
“Do you care?” Jonesy wondered.
Lady Gilbertson trilled her laughter. “Original! Always so original!”
“Yes, I am, yes, I am,” Jonesy mocked. She leaned toward Abby to confide, “She probably brought her daughters here for a look at you so they know what not to do in the future.”
Abby knew Jonesy was being waggish, but the comment hit home because there was a good deal of truth in it. Jonesy didn’t notice the impact of her words. She rarely did. She flung them out into the world and ignored how they were received.
More guests were flowing in the door, but Jonesy was too enlivened by so much entertainment to give a care to anyone other than herself.
But her mother had noticed.
From across the room, Abby could feel her mother’s gaze, saw her sympathetic smile, and Abby knew her mother hurt when Abby hurt.
Forcing a smile on her face, Abby continued as hostess. More tea and biscuits were sent for. Amongst the next guests were friends of Abby’s whom she hadn’t seen since they’d married—Lady Edgars and Lady Mortimer. They came with tales of their husbands and their children and how they wished they’d been at Banfield’s ball the night before because they’d heard the most remarkable things.
Polite society dictated that a call was no longer than fifteen minutes, but these women weren’t here to be polite. They were on a mission. They wanted gossip and were using their tenuous connections with Abby to learn information. They’d probably dine on the tales they heard here for a week.
“Everything you heard is true,” Jonesy assured them. “My niece had this Spaniard eating out of her hand and Lady Dobbins whirling like a jealous dervish.”
“What a relief that someone managed to subdue Lady Dobbins long enough for Lady Corinne to announce her betrothal,” Lady Edgars commented.
“Who’d she fix herself to?” Jonesy asked, surprised.
Abby’s mother answered, “You know about this other but haven’t heard the news of the night? Lady Corinne is now betrothed to Lord Freddie Sherwin.”
Jonesy pulled a face over the name. “Don’t know him. No doubt he is boring and wealthy. I can’t imagine Banfield wanting anything less for his daughter.”
“Lord Sherwin is very good looking,” Lady Gilbertson said.
“Well, that is something,” Jonesy said, holding her wineglass out to Abby to be refilled.
As Abby poured wine, she realized a part of her had been hoping the betrothal had not been announced. She shouldn’t have been expecting anything … and yet, she had been.
It was done. Freddie would marry her cousin.
And she would … what? Become stepmother to thirteen children? The task seemed overwhelming no matter how much a marriage to such a powerful man would please her father and elevate her in society.Lady Villier. It had a European flavor, but the name felt to her old, crusty, stifling….
“Miss Abigail, you appear so sad,” Lady Gilbertson observed. “Is your sadness because of the scene last night? I must tell you I think it admirable that you put such a rakehell as this Spaniard in his place. It’s a credit to you, Lady Catherine, that you have raised a young woman with high morals.”
“Yes, high,” Jonesy echoed. “Although every woman in this room has heard bits about him, and from what we’ve heard, we’d like to know what he said that caused you, the most sensible of all creatures, Abigail, to put him in his place.”
And then she would duly report it to the rest of the family. Abby adored her aunt but was wise to her ways. Jonesy’s loyalties often switched.
Her mother came to her rescue. “Please,” she said, raising a hand and letting it waver in the air, as if she’d suddenly been overcome. “The evening was a trial for us all. We do not wish to remember it, do we, Abigail?”
“Um, no,” Abby said, still uncertain what she did want to do.
“It was traumatic,” her mother continued. “The whole evening. We are so glad it is over.”
The women listened to her mother intently. They now turned to Abby, who felt a bit silly once again echoing her mother’s words. “Over,” she said. “It’s over.”
“But what was he like?” The question came from Lady Gilbertson.
“The barón? I don’t know him,” Abby said. “Honest, I don’t.”
“Well, I’ve heard the most incredible things about him,” Lady Edgars chimed in.
“Really, dear?” Jonesy said, drawing out the words. “Do tell.”
Lady Edgars cast a look in the direction of Lady Gilbertson’s daughters. “Posh, don’t mind them,” Lady Gilbertson said. “Tell us what you’ve heard.” Her daughters nodded agreement, their eyes alive with anticipation.
Abby thought of the man she’d met in the library. Had sensed his privateness. “Really, this isn’t the place,” she protested, uncertain if she wanted to hear this gossip or not.
“Of course it’s the place,” Jonesy overrode her. From a distance, the doorbell rang again. More guests.
More gossip.
Abby decided the best tactic was to leave. She rose, holding the now empty teapot. “Excuse me, I’ll ask the maid to fetch more.”
She started toward the door, but she came to a stop when Lady Edgars said, “I’ve heard why Lady Dobbins was so angry with him last night.”
Abby turned and faced the others. They weren’t paying attention to her.
“I thought he was trying to untangle himself from her,” Jonesy said.
“Yes, he is, but she doesn’t want to be untangled.”
“I understand that,” Jonesy replied. “What I want to know is why is she so upset? The woman has"—she made a loud ahem in place of a word—"with half the male population of London. What is so special about this one?”
Abby had to leave. She wasn’t certain she wanted to hear this—except she did. A bit. Just a little.
“Lady Dobbins may have lovers, but she’s only"—Lady Edgars made a loud ahem just as Jonesy had—“once with him,” she ended triumphantly, knowing this was gossip few had heard. “She lets on as if it has been more often, but I was in a dressing room at Madame Giselle’s being fitted for the dress I need to wear next month to my cousin’s presentation and I overheard Lady Dobbins talking about him to someone in the next room.”
“Who was she talking to?” Lady Gilbertson asked.
“I don’t know,” Lady Edgars said.
“Tell them the part that is so unbelievable,” Lady Mortimer urged, excitement bubbling to the surface.
“Yes, tell us,” both Jonesy and Lady Gilbertson encouraged, speaking the same thought aloud.
“Well,” Lady Edgars started, obviously enjoying being the center of attention, “she said that he made—ahem—to her no less than six times that night. Six. One night.” She held up her fingers to demonstrate the numbers so there could be no mistaking her.
Lady Gilbertson made a shrill, strangled noise—not because her daughters were listening but because she was impressed.
“Six times?” Jonesy said. “No man can—ahem—six times in one night.”
“That’s what her friend in the dressing room said,” Lady Edgars reported, “and Lady Dobbins said he ‘drove her to madness’ each time.”
“Well, that might be a short trip for someone like her,” Lady Gilbertson declared dryly. “But I’ve heard rumors those Spaniards are bulls. And have you seen how handsome he is?” She started cackling and didn’t stop, sounding very much like a crazed hen ready to lay eggs.
And she wasn’t the only one. All the women joined in, giggling and casting looks and making that chuckling sound at each other as if sharing the grandest secret. Even Jonesy.
But not Abby and her mother.
&nbs
p; Her mother looked like she wished she could disappear. She wasn’t laughing.
Abby wasn’t completely certain what they were going on about. She didn’t think Miss Jane and Miss Nanette were either, although they snickered with the rest. Perhaps this was something only a married woman could understand. She did know what they meant by the “ahem.” She wasn’t naive. However, she didn’t understand why the number six was so important—
Their cackling came to an abrupt halt.
Their eyes widened, then took on a look of appreciation as they stared at a point beyond where Abby stood in the doorway, the teapot still in her hand.
That’s when hairs on the back of Abby’s neck tingled.
Someone stood behind her. She caught a whiff of shaving soap. She remembered how warm the spicy scent had seemed the night before. How she’d liked that extra hint of sandalwood … only now it was mixed with the cold of the autumn wind, and she knew who had arrived.
Abby turned to face the barón. “Hello,” she said, her voice faint. It was embarrassing to be caught gossiping, except he didn’t appear to have noticed.
She sensed his tension. He’d come with a purpose. His silver eyes didn’t look around the room but focused on her, a small frown between his brows.
And she knew something was wrong. He still wore his greatcoat, although he had removed his hat and gloves.
He didn’t even glance at the other women. “May we talk?”
“Right now?” she asked, ruffled by his intensity.
“Yes.” He looked up then and noticed they were not alone. He seemed puzzled by it.
The women all watched him, their expressions a sight to behold. This was the first time Abby had ever seen Jonesy look impressed.
Well, the barón was a handsome man, and his accent was enough to make any woman swoon. It wasn’t that Abby hadn’t registered his attractiveness … but she noticed other things about him as well—such as this air of urgency about him. Whatever difficulty had brought him to her, it was of great import, and she felt a need to respond.
“Mother, everyone, will you excuse us a moment?” she asked, handing the teapot off to the footman who had escorted the barón into the sitting room.
Her mother said with no little confusion, “Where are you going? We have guests.”
“Yes, we do,” Abby replied. “But the barón needs to speak to me.”
“I am so sorry,” he apologized to the roomful of women as he took Abby’s hand. The night before, she’d worn gloves. Now the touch of his skin on hers felt intimate.
“Where are you going?” her mother demanded.
“For a walk,” he said. He glanced at the other women in the room. “If you will excuse us. It will be for only a moment.”
“A walk?” Lady Gilbertson questioned. “It’s brisk outside. It’s not walking weather.”
“We shall just take a turn around the garden,” the barón answered, pulling on Abby’s hand so that she would follow him.
And she went. Her curiosity was in full spin now.
Behind her, she overheard Jonesy say, “And she said she didn’t know him, hmmmm?” Her poor mother would have to be the one to answer for her.
As for herself, she was following the barón. He led her out into the front hall, then she guided him toward the back door.
He grabbed a cloak hanging from a peg by the door and threw it over her shoulders. He opened the door.
She went outside and was conscious they were being watched. A glance at the windows told her that all their guests, as well as her mother, stood peering out the windows.
However, the barón seemed undeterred by the audience. He took Abby’s arm and guided her into the bare autumn garden, moving toward a bench beside a fountain. In the summer, the splash of the fountain’s water was one of Abby’s favorite things about the garden. Today, it was quiet. As they approached, a squirrel scurried for cover amongst fallen leaves, but even the hubbub of London seemed miles away.
“What is it?” she asked. “What has you so upset?”
He didn’t answer until they’d reached the bench. He sat her down and knelt on the ground in front of her.
His expression was so serious that Abby didn’t know what to make of him or his actions.
“Does this have anything to do with last night?” she pressed. Her breath came out as puffs of frigid air. The bench’s wooden slats were cold even through the cloak.
“Will you marry me?” he answered.
Chapter Six
Andres had not intended to be quite that blunt. He could see by her wide eyes and dropped jaw that she hadn’t expected a marriage proposal. It was just that his mind was brimming with opportunities, challenges, things that must be done; he hadn’t really developed his thoughts toward her completely … and yet she was instrumental to his reaching what he desired.
He wrapped his hands around hers, both for warmth and to keep her where she was until he could finish building his case.
“I’ve surprised you,” he said, thinking rapidly. “I’ve surprised myself. I mean, I’ve thought about this … a little—well, a lot—”
“You can’t have thought about it a lot. We’ve just met.”
“In my life, twenty-four hours can be a long time,” he confessed, and that was true. He’d never been afraid to make a quick decision and stick to it … although this was the first time his decision depended upon another person.
Lord Dobbins hadn’t been jesting. He’d signed the deed to Stonemoor over to Andres. It was his now. His. He didn’t know if she could understand what this meant to him.
And he prayed he had the right words to convince her. He’d never asked a woman for anything. He might have had a reputation for being a ladies’ man, but that had more to do with them flocking to him than vice versa.
“Please, Miss Montross, hear me out before you make any decision.”
She glanced at the house. “They are all watching us.”
He didn’t turn to look. He didn’t care. His focus was on her. “I have property. Good property. It’s a house, a huge house like what Holburn has,” he assured her, knowing that if he confessed he’d never seen it, she’d wisely run. “And I have stables and land.” In his mind’s eye he could picture them. He’d spent the night plotting them out.
The stables looked like what his father had owned. He started describing them to her. “They are built around a shaded courtyard so when you go to relax or saddle the horses you are not burned by the sun—”
“Is this in Spain?” she asked.
“No, in Northumberland,” he answered, the name still a bit alien on his tongue. Northumberland. It sounded very English.
“There is no sun in Northumberland,” she said.
“You have been there?” he countered, her words interrupting his dream.
“No, but it’s further north. I assumed less sun. People have said it is not as hot as London.”
“There is still sun,” he assured her. “And there is a bubbling spring nearby with the freshest water in the whole country. The tile roof is of the finest red clay and keeps everything cool—”
“A tile roof out of red clay? I thought they were slate.”
Andres shook his head, realizing in his enthusiasm his mind was playing tricks on him. Of course it wouldn’t be red clay. “It is clay,” he said, uncertain and not wanting to be distracted with details.
He rose to sit on the bench beside her. “What it is, is mine. I am going to build something magnificent there. My horses—” He paused. It didn’t sound right, not if he wished to win her over. “Our horses, the ones we shall breed, will be the most famous in all of the world.”
She looked at him as if he’d turned into a troll. “Horses? Our horses? Barón, I don’t like horses.”
Andres had never heard of anyone not liking horses. He couldn’t imagine such thing. “How do you travel?” he wondered.
“In a coach or a carriage or on my two feet. I don’t ride,” she said emphatically. �
�I’m not good at it. They are dangerous animals. I fell once.”
“And?” he prompted.
“And what?” she asked.
“So you fall. You climb back on the horse. I’ve fallen many times.”
“I fell once,” she informed him. “I broke my collarbone. I don’t need to fall again,” she assured him.
“How old were you?” he asked.
“Young,” she said, her annoyance coming out. “Eight, maybe seven.”
Andres shrugged her fear away. “Of course you fall when you are young—”
“I don’t like horses,” she reiterated. “They smell.”
For a second, his confidence wavered, but a man who had nothing to lose and stood everything to gain could not be choosy. “I will deal with the horses,” he said, smiling. “You can see to the house and the gardens.”
“Your house?” she confirmed.
“Yes,” he said. “But it will be our house.”
She studied him a moment. He waited, anxious for her answer.
“You want my money,” she said at last.
“I’m being very honest about it,” he answered.
“Perhaps too honest?” she suggested. “How did you come by this house?”
She was being prickly, and she really didn’t need to know all. He lied. “I inherited it.”
“Oh.”
“I will be honest with you,” he said, knowing that some of the truth must be told. “I have very little. I have my family name, Ramigio, which I hope to make once again important. That I value. I have the title. And I have a mare of my father’s stock. She is in foal. With those two horses, I will make my mark. And, before you think I truly have nothing, I do own a silver mine.”
“Where’s the silver?”
Banker’s daughters were not romantic. “It wasn’t such a good investment. The silver ran out.”
“Where is it?”
“In Peru.”
“Where is that?”
“Far from here,” he said and brought the subject back to where he wanted it. “Miss Montross, Abby, we can both help each other. You were angry last night—and I still don’t understand why—but it is fine,” he stressed, since she looked as if she was ready to jump in with a comment and he didn’t want her once again distracted. “What is important is that we met. You do believe in Fate, do younot?”
His Christmas Pleasure Page 7
