Muttering something unintelligible under her breath, Dianna wrenched her arm free and began to pace back and forth in front of the shrubbery.
Behind where the two women stood cloistered together the garden ball was a high success, with everyone on the guest list – and some who were not – in attendance. The air rang with music and laughter as dozens of couples performed dance after dance, swinging their partners around with such exuberance that many were left dizzy. Glasses of champagne and wine poured freely. The tables set beneath the white tents were overflowing with food and lined with chairs, but nary a seat was occupied. Every person was on their feet, from the youngest miss to the eldest lord, and every face boasted flushed cheeks and a bright, infectious smile.
It was, Charlotte thought with a deep sense of satisfaction, a far cry indeed from the stuffy, formal balls she had been forced to endure during her come out in London. And although she knew none of the lords and ladies would ever dare admit it, they were having the time of their lives at her “quaint little social function” (as she’d overheard one highbrow viscount’s wife describe it).
Having lost – and quickly regained – the ton’s favor after her impromptu (and deliciously scandalous) wedding to Gavin Graystone, Charlotte was still basking in the glow of not having to live up to anyone’s standards other than her own. As the wife of a commoner she no longer had to abide by the strict guidelines society inflicted on the upper class, and the freedom of doing what she wanted when she wanted was absolutely heavenly.
She wished the same future upon her friend, although she knew Dianna’s parents would never permit a marriage outside of the aristocracy and Dianna would never go so far as to directly disobey them. The blond haired beauty may have been daring when it came to the love lives of others, but she was meek as a mouse where her own life was concerned, as evidenced by her continued engagement to the cad Miles Radnor.
Under normal circumstances Dianna’s fiancée could be ignored. After all, he’d not shown his face nigh on four years and Dianna bore no ring on her left hand. But these were not normal circumstances, and even though it had not been spoken aloud Charlotte couldn’t help but draw parallels between Abigail and her beloved niece.
Both women had been engaged to marry men they loved.
Both women had been left at the altar (so to speak).
Both women had their hearts broken.
But only one woman knew where her fiancée went and why he left… and it was not Dianna.
What would she do, Charlotte wondered, if Gavin suddenly abandoned her without a single word of explanation? She would be hurt, certainly, but more than that she would miss him and she would mourn him. But for how long? One year? Two? Three?
How long did it take for a broken heart to mend and a body to pick itself up and start again? Charlotte had no idea, but she knew it was past time for Dianna to do exactly that. Four years was more than enough time to wait. After all, Miles could be dead – even though his mother swore he was not – and Dianna could have been wasting all these years on a man rotting away in the ground. Not that such a fate would be any less than he deserved, although Charlotte did not truly wish him dead, if not for his sake than for Dianna’s, for the real reason she had not moved on was clear as day in the rigid way she held her shoulders and the warring emotions of hope and anxiety that flickered across her pale countenance as she continued to pace.
Dianna still loved Miles and she believed – foolishly so, in Charlotte’s opinion – that if Ashburn could return for Abigail after all these years, then Miles could do the same for her.
Unable to watch her friend walk herself into a fret a moment longer, Charlotte stepped forward and in a calm, soothing voice said, “I am certain everything will be fine. They must have a lot to discuss. Why do we not go over and have some refreshments? A bit of food will make you feel better.”
Dianna stopped short and pressed her fingers to her temple. “I just want everything to go perfectly.”
“I know you do. But pacing outside your aunt’s window is not—”
“Did you hear that?” Dianna asked, her blue eyes widening.
Charlotte’s forehead creased. “Hear what?”
“Footsteps on the stairs!”
“I do not think—”
“There.” Dianna pointed triumphantly towards a side door half covered in ivy. It opened slowly, and when two silhouettes stepped out, their faces obscured by shadow, Dianna pounced like a cat on a poor unsuspecting mouse.
With Charlotte close on her heels she raced across the lawn, the long train of her gown billowing out like a sheet behind her. “Aunt Abigail,” she said breathlessly, stopping short. “How did – are you crying?” Whirling accusingly to the man at Abigail’s side whom Charlotte could only assume was the long lost Ashburn, she snapped, “What did you do to her?”
If the situation were not so perilous Charlotte would have been greatly amused by the fact that she had to step in and take Dianna – soft spoken, cool headed Dianna of all people – by the shoulders and hold her back from taking a swing at the flabbergasted duke. “Calm down,” she whispered in her friend’s ear. “People are staring.”
It was not an exaggeration. Several heads had swiveled at the sound of Dianna’s raised voice, and more were turning by the second. Since the very last thing Dianna needed was another scandal attached to her name – being left by your fiancée and having your best friend run off with a commoner was bad enough – Charlotte squeezed her shoulders in silent warning.
“Perhaps a more private setting would be best,” she suggested. “We can go to the one of the parlors. Follow me, please.”
To Charlotte’s surprise, they did follow her: first Dianna, her lips compressed so tightly they were turning white at the edges, then Abigail, looking dazed but happy, and finally Ashburn, his expression inscrutable. This, she thought silently as they slipped into the house, is going to be interesting.
Chapter Ten
Inside a small parlor sparsely decorated with a matching set of drawer room chairs and illuminated by a hanging chandelier, Reginald made a concentrated effort not to tap his foot. It was an old habit born of nervousness he’d quit years ago – or so he thought.
He was seated beside Abigail and across from Dianna, while a woman with red hair he did not recognize flitted about the room preparing drinks. When she handed him a glass half filled with brandy he took it gladly, but very nearly bobbled it top over end when she winked at him before sitting down beside Abigail’s niece.
“I am Charlotte Graystone,” she announced without preamble. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Your Grace.”
“Please, call me Ashburn.”
“As long as you call me Charlotte.”
Reginald nodded. He liked Charlotte’s frankness, and the small fact that she did not look as though she was wishing for his imminent death. Clearing his throat, he turned his attention to Dianna, the one woman in the room whose approval he instinctively knew carried great weight with Abigail. It was a bit startling to see her all grown up when the last he’d heard mention of her she was little more than a babe, but there was no mistaking the resemblance between Dianna and her aunt.
It was there in the tilt of her nose, the curve of her lips, and the stubborn glint in her eyes he knew only too well. She reminded him so much of Abigail as a young woman it took his breath away, although Abby had never stared at him with such blatant distrust.
Perched on the edge of her chair with her hands clenched into fists atop her lap, Dianna glared openly at him. “What did you do to upset Aunt Abigail?” she demanded again. “You were supposed to make her feel better, not worse.”
He felt Abigail stir beside him. When he glanced at her sideways he caught the faintest of smiles curving her mouth, but when he blinked the smile was gone, replaced by a sad little frown he would have believed was genuine if he didn’t know any better.
“Brat,” he murmured.
“Forty years ago I tried and failed
to get your father’s approval,” she whispered. “It seems only fair you do the same now.”
“What are you saying?” Her tone sharply accusing, Dianna straightened in her chair. “Aunt Abigail, why were you crying? What has happened? My aunt is the dearest person in the world to me,” she told Reginald. “If you have hurt her again—”
“I asked her to marry me,” he interrupted.
The change in Dianna’s expression would have been comical if the situation were not quite so serious. “You… You did what?”
“I asked if your aunt would marry me.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “She looked a bit like you do now, and then she started crying.”
“How delightfully romantic,” Charlotte sighed.
Looking positively stunned, Dianna sank back in her chair. “Aunt Abigail, is this true?”
“Is what true, dear?”
“Did Ashburn truly ask you to marry him?”
Abigail glanced at Reginald out of the corner of her eye, smiled, and grasped his hand. “It is,” she acknowledged.
Once again Dianna shot to the front of her seat, although this time her blue eyes were filled with excitement instead of trepidation. “Well?” she asked. “What did you say?”
“She has not given me an answer,” Reginald said, trying – and failing – to keep the edge of irritation out of his tone. He already knew what Abby’s answer would be. He’d known it from the first moment they met and every moment after. No matter the time in between, it had always been Abby who held his heart. Even if the woman was as stubborn as a bloody mule.
Dianna seemed to be of a like mind. “Aunt Abigail.”
“What? Oh, do not look at me like that,” Abigail scoffed. “The man made me wait thirty years. The very least I can do is make him wait a few minutes.”
From across the room Charlotte released a very unladylike snort of laughter. “I am sorry,” she said, waving her hand in the air. “But you must admit, she has a point.”
“Thank you, dear.”
“You are quite welcome.”
A quiet knock sounded at the door and Charlotte rose quickly to answer it. A maid stood in the threshold, dressed tidily in black and white. Tipping her head to the side Charlotte listened closely to what the girl had to say before her face abruptly lit with a smile and she quickly excused herself after giving them the best of wishes.
In the quiet that followed Charlotte’s departure Dianna stood. “I should go as well.” She hesitated, her gaze flicking from Abigail to Reginald and back again. “I am happy you are happy,” she said softly. “And now I know why you waited so long.”
“Some things are worth waiting for,” Abigail said simply, “even if you do not know you are waiting for them.”
Her words, gently spoken, struck a chord deep inside Reginald’s heart. Overwhelmed with emotion he cleared his throat once, twice, before fetching a handkerchief from his vest pocket to dab at his eyes. “A spot of dust,” he said gruffly.
Dianna smiled at both of them, murmured something under her breath he couldn’t quite hear, and left the room.
“What did she say?” he asked.
Standing up from her chair, Abigail settled herself in his lap. He took her weight easily, balancing her on one thigh as his arms wound around her chest and he pulled her snugly against him, his chin resting on her shoulder and his mouth pressed into the curve of her neck. “She told us to be good to one another,” she said.
“Is that so.” Unable to help himself, he tasted her skin, nibbling from the hard slant of her collarbone all the way up to her earlobe. Giggling like a schoolgirl, she twisted in his arms and swatted playfully at his chest.
“She isn’t usually so mistrusting. You remind her of him, and it is difficult for her.”
“Him?” Reginald asked, although in truth he was only half listening. With Abby sitting on his lap it was difficult to concentrate on anything else. He cupped her breasts, feeling the soft, giving weight of them through her gown, but before he could close his thumb and forefinger around her nipple she swatted him again.
“Miles Radnor, the Earl of Winfield. Her fiancée.”
He caught a whiff of her perfume and burrowed his face in the crook of her shoulder with a groan. “Abby… I need you.”
“Are you listening to a word I’ve said?”
“No,” he admitted without hesitation. “I cannot entertain a single thought in my head when I have you in my arms. Come to bed with me, Abby. We’ve both waited long enough.”
“Waited?” She rolled her eyes. “Rocky, you have two children.”
“Waited for you,” he corrected before a sudden, very unpleasant, very unwanted thought occurred to him. “As you’ve waited for me… right, Abby?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I am nearly sixty years old. Do you honestly believe I am still a virgin?”
He scowled. “You never married.”
“I was very discreet.”
“I want to know who and when,” he growled, knowing he was being irrational, knowing it truly did not matter, knowing he’d done no less, but unable to stop the surge of jealousy nevertheless. His grip tightened possessively around Abby’s body, holding her against his chest. Mine, he thought.
“You cannot kill my past lovers,” she said matter-of-factly, turning in his arms to give him a stern look.
“Lovers?” he sputtered.
Her smile unmistakably feline, she reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. “I cannot help that I was once exceptionally desirable.”
Lowering his head, he kissed the cheeky grin right off her face. “You are still exceptionally desirable,” he murmured, nuzzling her hair.
How right it felt to have her in his arms. In truth they should have been little more than strangers, uncomfortable and wary with each other. Instead it felt as though no time had passed at all. “Come back to Ashburn with me. We will leave tonight. I do not want to spend another night away from you, Abby.”
She stilled in his arms. “Are you certain?”
“Of course I am certain, Abby I—what?” Alarmed at the sudden sheen of tears he glimpsed in her eyes, he gathered her close, holding her curled protectively against his chest. “What is it?”
Sniffling, she wiped at her face with the back of her hand. “It’s almost too good to be true, isn’t it? I feel as though this is all a dream. A dream I am afraid to wake up from for fear it cannot possibly be real.”
“This is real, Abby.” To prove himself, he gently kissed her temple. “Did you feel that?” he murmured. When she nodded, he pressed his lips to her cheek. “And that?” Another jerk of her head. Slowly, patiently, as though all the time in the world was at their disposal, he lowered his mouth to hers.
The kiss was innocent at first. A gentle brush of lip against lip, of tongue against tongue, before he angled his head to the side and went deeper. She clung to the lapels of his jacket, her small fingers burrowing into the fabric, and lifted herself up to him.
He moaned her name, already drunk on the taste of her. She writhed against him, her deliciously plump derriere pressing against his hard arousal, and the moan turned into a groan. The kiss became feverish, heated by a lust and a need too long denied. He nipped Abigail’s jaw, suckled her earlobe, and began to work his way down her neck. Her head lolled back and this time it was she who gasped his name as he tugged down the bodice of her gown and took one hard, pointed nipple into his mouth.
Their position on the chair was precarious, but they were too absorbed with each other to care. Straddling him, Abigail pulled the hem of his shirt free from his trousers and streaked her nails up and over his naked flesh. Her fingers tangled mindlessly in his hair as he moved to her other breast and suckled the aroused bud.
“Sweet,” he groaned. “Abby, you taste so sweet.”
Her only answer was to arch her back. When the small movement nearly spilled them both onto the floor Reginald picked her up and laid her gently on the thick Persian rug. She sat up on one elbow
, her eyes dark with desire, her hair spilling in a waterfall of white gold over her pale shoulders and the exposed tips of her breasts. Staring at her unabashedly, Reginald knew with complete certainty he had never seen anything more beautiful in all his life.
“The door,” she said softly. “Lock the door.”
He did so with all haste, and when he returned to her they undressed each other slowly, taking time to discover each other’s bodies. When Abigail shyly crossed an arm over her belly, he coaxed it away.
“Do not hide yourself from me. I want to see you.” Stretched out beside her, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her gently rounded stomach. “All of you.”
“I do not look like I did when I was young,” she said softly, her cheeks tinged with pink.
“You are a woman. A stunning, voluptuous, perfect woman.” He covered her body in kisses, working all the way from her breasts to the tips of her toes and back up again. When his tongue slid along the inside of one delightfully plump thigh she started to close her legs, but he wedged his hips between her knees, refusing to let her deny any part of her body to him. “Let me, Abby. I want to taste you. All of you.”
Reginald drank her in as though she were the sweetest nectar, and only when she trembled and sobbed his name did he stretch up, cradle her head lovingly in his arms, and slide slowly inside of her wet, welcoming sheath.
It was like coming home.
They moved in perfect unison for every slow, languorous thrust. Words did not need to be spoken. In the shifting shadows their eyes met and held. Their hands twisted together, finger interlocking, palms molding. When Abigail clenched around him and her breaths quickened he guided her sweetly over the edge and when his own release loomed and his back arched she did the same for him, holding fast to his shoulder and whispering his name against his neck as he succumbed to pleasure and spent his seed.
In a mindless haze of bliss he collapsed to the side and dragged her with him so she sprawled over his chest, her long, tangled curls flying every which way. Catching a golden tendril he wound it around and around his finger, admiring the way it gleamed in the flickering candlelight.
Spinster and the Duke (London Ladies Book 2) Page 8
