His Christmas Pleasure

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Fate?” She frowned, as if tasting the word and finding it not to her liking. “If you are asking if I believe our lives are preordained, I do not.”

  “Yes, but last night, there was something between us that is not usual,” he pressed. “Would you not say that? In the library, when we met, did you not feel that—” He broke off, searching for the right word. “Specialness? It was as if we were supposed to find each other and at a time when we both needed someone.”

  “I don’t need anyone,” she said, her chin coming up.

  “Yes, you do.” Andres was not going to let her escape with that lie. “I can read it in your eyes. You were not comfortable in that room with those women. That’s why you left so quickly.”

  “I left because you asked me to.”

  He shook his head. “You left because there is this bond between us. A bond that does not make sense. I think you like me, just a little. I like you. I believe we were supposed to meet, and I believe you are supposed to help me with Stonemoor.”

  Her certainty faded. Her chin lowered. “Stonemoor? Is that the name of your estate?”

  Andres nodded. “If I had time, I would woo you—but I have no time. Sometimes life is like that. We must take risks. That’s why I tell you everything so that you know all.”

  Well, he wasn’t telling her everything. He couldn’t. If he did, she’d run away screaming. Besides, it was never good to tell a woman all that one knew. They liked to hear what they thought they wanted to know.

  But just for good measure, he confessed, “I have not always been the best of men. I have done things that were not always legal, but not in this country. I’ve been good in England. I did those things because I thought they were a way to restore my family name and I was desperate and young. I wanted to honor the name Ramigio. I was not wise. I’ve wanted this property all my life.”

  “Is that why you came to England?”

  “Yes,” he said, because it made sense. “But I had to wait for my inheritance. And now that I have it, there is no money.” He leaned close to her. “Last night you asked a man to run away with you. He was a fool. He would not. But I am here. I will run away with you although I’d rather speak to your father first—”

  “No.” She pulled her hands from his, rose from the bench, sat down, rose again.

  He understood her agitation. He came to his feet as well. “I have given you much to think on. This is not what you expected.”

  She glanced at the house. “Look at them,” she said, her voice low, as if she spoke to herself. “They practically have their noses to the window.”

  Andres turned toward the house. Seeing him looking their way, the ladies in the sitting room practically jumped back for fear of being caught watching.

  “Mother and I rarely receive visitors,” she said, “not like we’ve received today. Usually, we’re ignored. Most people feel my mother is no longer important because she had the audacity to marry a man who wasn’t her social equal.” She looked to him. “Mother married for love. And everyone acted as if it is a crime.”

  “If you marry me, you will be Lady Vasconia.” Andres anglicized the title without a pang of conscience. Dobbins’s discovery that he had no claim to the title aside, he’d used it for years to great advantage. If he did as Dobbins demanded and left London, there would be no problems. Abby could safely be titled in Northumberland.

  And he was his father’s son, he reminded himself. “Sometimes it is society who is wrong,” he said, not realizing he’d spoken aloud until she answered.

  “You’re right. They can be so cruel. Jonesy is my favorite aunt, and yet she rarely visits … of course, she showed up today because she wants to know what happened last night with you. I’ve finally become interesting.”

  “Marrying me would make you even more interesting.”

  His promise sparked a laugh out of her. She shook her head and then replied thoughtfully, “You are right. You are the man they all want.” She sat on the bench, her expression serious.

  Andres could feel the wheels of her mind churning and knew the scales were tilting in his favor.

  “I’m tired of being an afterthought,” she murmured. “And I don’t want to be the mother to thirteen children that are not mine.”

  “I beg your pardon?” What thirteen children?

  She saw his confusion and started laughing. “Please, don’t worry about it. My father thinks he has chosen a new husband for me. One with too many children.”

  “He’s chosen a husband?” Andres didn’t like this news.

  “No, it’s not anything firm yet, thank God,” she said, hope rising to her face. “In fact, I will accept your proposal, Barón. I will be honored.”

  “You will?” He almost couldn’t believe his ears. It was too easy, and he’d learned through experience that when things were too easy, something would go wrong.

  “Yes, I will. I can’t marry Freddie. He’s promised to my cousin, and he won’t give a care if I’m married to Lord Villier. But if I married you—“ She laughed again, this time the sound taking on the warmth of anticipation. “Everyone will be jealous. Including Freddie.” She looked toward the house. He could see movement in the windows. The women still lingered. “Everyone will be talking about me but in a good way. You are the catch of the Season.” Her triumph gave way to concern.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked, already leery of Abby when her mind started working this fast.

  “We’ll be married … but I don’t think we should, well, you know—ahem.”

  Andres waited for her to finish what she was saying.

  When after a few seconds she didn’t go on, he asked, “Don’t think we should what?”

  She scrunched her nose as if annoyed and said, “Ahem.”

  “Do you have a tickle in your throat?” he wondered. “Should we go in?” It wouldn’t be good if she caught a cold or the influenza before they left.

  “I’m fine,” she said with exasperation. She stepped closer, as if wanting to block the view of the ladies in the window. “I’m talking about marital relations.”

  Andres was charmed by her reticence. He’d forgotten a woman could be self-conscious, discreet, virginal.

  Abby was a virgin. Her purity touched him. He’d not even considered it. But she would be his and his alone.

  She gathered the cloak around her as if she would hide.

  He reached over and pulled her toward him so he could look into her wide, blue eyes. He wanted to sleep with her. The heat flowing through his veins was hotter and stronger than it ever had been, even for Gillian.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, we must consummate the marriage or it doesn’t exist.”

  “I-I don’t know if I can.”

  Lust died a quick death.

  Andres stepped back. God must be laughing. The only women he wanted were the ones who didn’t want him.

  “I’m sorry, but ours would be more of a business agreement, correct?” she said.

  “Yes,” he reluctantly admitted, every male fiber in his being rebelling at what she was suggesting … and then he thought of his purpose.

  Nothing meant more to him than rebuilding the Ramigio reputation for horses. If he had to remain celibate to do so … ?

  Well, Andres had been working his way around women since he was in short pants. He could win Abby, or at least convince her that sex was a good thing.

  “Actually, it would be better to not, ah—how do you say it?” he asked.

  “Ahem,” she replied.

  “Ay, that is what you meant.” He rolled his eyes. The English.

  “I was being delicate,” she defended herself.

  “It is not delicate that I do not know what you are talking about.” He frowned, wanting this settled between them—to his advantage. “Is it you do not like my plans for Stonemoor?” he asked.

  “I do like them. And save for the horses, it will be exciting to help you build your stables. Certainly it would be better than the tedium of
town as a maiden aunt or the prospect of mothering thirteen young ones. But I think we should agree to only be friends. After all, you took Lady Dobbins to your bed and you are not friends with her any longer. I imagine the same is true for a number of women.”

  Andres shifted, uncomfortable. “If the marriage is not consummated, it can be set aside.”

  “I won’t set it aside. We have a bargain.”

  “How badly does your father want you to marry this Lord Villier?”

  Abby pressed her lips together in concern.

  “He could see the marriage set aside,” Andres suggested.

  “He could,” she conceded.

  “We consummate the marriage. We must. One time, palomita. If you dislike, no more.” But he’d make certain she liked it.

  “Once only?” she questioned. “Not six?”

  “Six?” Her choice of that number confused him. “If you want to consummate the marriage six times—”

  “No.” She took a step closer to him. “And no, I don’t want you to talk to my father. We’ll need to elope.”

  That was not a thought Andres had considered. “We could marry by special license,” he replied. He wanted to do what was right for her.

  She shook her head. “Father really likes Lord Villier. He has connections with the Treasury. You have no connections. That’s why I don’t think it is wise you speak to him. My parents eloped. We will elope.”

  Andres didn’t like the idea of sneaking around. It was not honorable … and yet, what recourse did they have? If Abby said they must elope, he’d be a fool to argue with her, especially when it fit into his plans. “May we leave tomorrow?”

  She stepped back from him, crossing her arms at her waist. But before she could answer, a woman’s voice called her name. “Abigail, is everything fine?”

  Abby looked to the house. “Yes, Mother, it is all good.”

  “Aren’t you cold?”

  “I have on a coat,” Abby said, but she was shaking.

  “Come in, please,” her mother said. “You have been out here a long time.”

  Abby nodded. “We’re coming in now,” she called and turned to him. “Do you know the circulating library on Duke Street? Meet me there tomorrow at one. I’ll be prepared to leave.” She began walking toward the house.

  Andres caught up to walk beside her. “Wait,” he whispered. “How much do you stand to inherit?”

  She didn’t take offense at the question, and he liked that. Abby had a practical mind. “A living of two thousand pounds annual.”

  If the heavens had opened and a host of angels had appeared singing “Alleluia,” Andres could not have been more surprised and blessed.

  Two thousand pounds a year. A fortune. An incredible fortune.

  Abby smiled, a conspirator’s smile. She knew she’d pleased him. “My grandmother left it to me to spite my father and the other family members. I barely knew her, but she didn’t want Father to have the money. And she was furious with my uncle the duke when he welcomed Father into the family with open ams after my uncle died. Everyone was surprised by my inheritance. No one had thought her particularly wealthy, and I suppose she used that to her advantage. Father called her a miser, but then many have used that word to describe him as well. She also left me some of her personal jewelry. Come, you haven’t met my mother properly.”

  At that point, Andres would have walked over burning coals if she’d asked him to do so.

  Two thousand pounds. A house, stables, horses … and a wife.

  Fate had finally blessed him.

  He’d be at the circulating library on Duke Street with bells on. But before he eloped, there were a few purchases he needed to make. He could buy some equipment that he knew he would find here and didn’t know if any of it would be in Northumberland. And the marquis of Salisbury had been talking the other night about a pair of prime fillies with impeccable bloodlines that could be had for a very good price. He wanted to take a look at them as well.

  Andres stayed long enough for introductions. He let the ladies ogle him, and when it was polite, he excused himself and left.

  After all, he had an elopement to plan.

  Chapter Seven

  The moment the barón left the room, Abby found herself confronted by some very curious women. Politeness dictated they keep their questions to themselves.

  Politeness had never been Jonesy’s strong suit. “Didn’t you mention you didn’t really know the barón?” Jonesy asked, as if catching Abby in her lie.

  “Well, of course we’ve met,” Abby replied. “We danced.”

  “And do all the men you’ve ‘met’ whisk you away and fall down to one knee in front of you?” Jonesy queried.

  “Aunt, were you eavesdropping?” Abby returned, helping herself to a glass of Madeira. She was going to need it to steady her nerves. She was eloping. She was acting upon her life. Making her own decisions. The prospect made her giddy.

  She wondered if this was the way her mother had felt when she and her father had planned their own elopement.

  Abby dared not look at her mother. She didn’t know what could be read on her face. And the truth was this wasn’t terribly bold of Abby. She would have eloped with Freddie—if he’d been willing to go with her.

  Wait until he heard what she’d done. The thought gave her great satisfaction. She sipped her wine, its raisiny taste to her liking.

  “If I had been eavesdropping, I would have had my answer, wouldn’t I, niece?” Jonesy countered, a touch of acid in her tone. “It’s not eavesdropping to observe what is happening right outside a window. Now, what is going on?”

  “Yes, what?” Lady Edgars echoed.

  Abby lowered her glass. “He was apologizing,” she said, startled and a bit proud at how easy this deviation of the truth rolled off her tongue. “For last night and creating a scene. He was very gracious.”

  “And?” Jonesy prompted.

  “And nothing else,” Abby said, raising the glass to her lips.

  “The two of you had quite a conversation,” observed Miss Jane, Lady Gilbertson’s daughter. “It seemed very important.”

  Abby smiled at the girl. She was a debutante, one of those who had looked with pity upon Abby because of her unmarried state once word of Richard Lynsted’s jilting had become public knowledge. The girl would choke on her pity come the morrow.

  “He’s an earnest man,” Abby informed them. “I told him no apology was necessary, but he insisted, perhaps because he is Spanish. He looks so distant, so cold and so—”

  “Handsome?” Lady Mortimer supplied.

  “That too,” Abby agreed.“He is very handsome.” She was starting to see what other women did. Strange how it had taken her so long….

  “An Englishman would have laughed off the incident,” Abby continued. “The barón was more serious, more contrite.”

  “More handsome,” Lady Mortimer added.

  “Alicia,” Lady Edgars chided, her own cheeks blossoming with becoming color.

  “I can’t help it,” Lady Mortimer answered. “Seeing him here and so close, he’s perfection. Pure masculine beauty.”

  “No man is perfect,” Jonesy declared. “Not if he is a true man and not one of those foppy fellows.” She stood, gathering her scarves around her neck. “Something is afoot, Abby. You’ve a different look about you. And if that man was on one knee just to apologize, then I am the Queen of Sheba. But I am not going to worry about it. That is for Catherine to do.” She nodded toward Abby’s mother. “If you are wise, you’ll keep an eye on her.”

  Abby’s mother’s brows rose in worry. The other women now considered Abby with suspicion, too. Abby could have boxed her aunt’s ears, and her aunt knew it.

  Jonesy gave her a smile of supreme satisfaction. She paused in front of Abby before leaving the room. Placing a hand beneath Abby’s chin, she said, “I was the oldest of four girls, niece. I have a very good sense of the little games we women play.”

  “But I’m not playing
a game,” Abby said truthfully.

  Her aunt smiled. “I shall go now, Catherine. This was a very entertaining and enlightening”—she directed that word toward Abby—"afternoon. It was a pleasure to make the acquaintance of the rest of you.” She left the room with the air of royalty.

  There was a moment of silence. Abby could feel the other women digesting Jonesy’s words and her attitude. She finished her wine without tasting it.

  “Well, we must be going as well,” Lady Gilbertson said. Her daughters hopped up from their chairs.

  Lady Edgars and Lady Mortimer joined the exodus. Abby smiled her farewell, knowing they would probably put their heads together and have a thorough discussing of the afternoon.

  Too soon, it was just she and her mother alone.

  The maid took away the tray of empty glasses and cups. Abby was conscious that her mother watched her every move while the servant was in the room.

  The silence between them grew oppressive.

  Her mother broke it. “Should I be worried?”

  “About what?” Abby asked.

  Her mother’s gaze narrowed on her. “Your father wants this marriage between you and Lord Villier.”

  “And I don’t understand why you can’t let me choose for myself.”

  “Your father has been very clear—”

  “That he doesn’t like Freddie Sherwin and he is afraid I’ll end up on the shelf, a dried-up spinster of no good to anyone. Yes, yes, yes, I know what he thinks.”

  Her mother’s expression softened. “Abigail, that is not true—”

  “It is, Mother. You and Father had a grand passion. You gave up so much for him.”

  “And I have no regrets,” her mother agreed.

  “I don’t want regrets either,” Abby answered.

  “You would have regrets if you married Lord Villier?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Her mother grimaced. “You are right. I’ll speak to your father.”

  “Thank you,” Abby said, meaning the words.