Abby waited for him to laugh or say he was only jesting, but he didn’t. “Are you mad? Your mother would never countenance such a thing.”
“What she does not know she cannot scold us for later,” he said, tossing her own words back at her.
Abby laughed. She loved that he remembered things she’d once said, teased her about them, and sometimes used them against her. In truth, the thought of playing shuttlecock in the ballroom did excite her, but… but what? This was Brigston’s home, for pity’s sake. If he thought batting around rackets in the ballroom was an appropriate way to spend the remainder of the morning, who was she to argue?
“Do you remember when you inquired about Jasper’s least favorite childhood game the other day?” he said.
“You mean the game you wouldn’t disclose to me?” Abby was still annoyed at him for that. What was the harm in revealing Jasper’s most disliked game? He’d been forthcoming about his brother’s favorite game—Blind Man’s Bluff—but the moment she asked for the opposite, Brigston had become most mysterious, refusing to give her a straight answer.
“I gave you some clues,” he said.
If by clues he meant that he’d turned a simple question into a blasted riddle, she’d have to agree.
Clue #1: Jasper’s least favorite childhood game was my favorite.
Clue #2: It’s a game that requires great dexterity and… juggling.
How could Abby possibly guess from such vague hints? Great dexterity? Juggling? He wouldn’t even tell her if he meant figurative juggling or literal. Her mind conjured up the most absurd games—everything from balancing a pile of books on one’s head to keeping a frog from leaping off the end of a stick. This was the very reason she despised riddles. They plagued her mind until the answer revealed itself, which rarely happened unless someone gave her more obvious clues.
It had taken her hours to rid her mind of the dratted conundrum, so why was he bringing it up again?
“Your ridiculous clues didn’t help at all,” she said with a frown.
He laughed, clearly enjoying her frustration. “Consider my suggestion for today’s amusement as another clue.”
Abby rolled her eyes, wondering why she hadn’t guessed it sooner. What a nincompoop she could be. “Shuttlecock was Jasper’s least favorite game?”
“And my favorite.” His eyes danced with humor. “Care to know why?”
“Not especially.”
He answered anyway. “It’s because I could always beat Jasper soundly. He used to despise me for it.”
Judging by the gleam in his eyes, Brigston was excited about the prospect of trouncing her as well. It pricked at her pride and sense of competition. Did he think he’d beat her so easily?
“What an interesting coincidence,” she said. “Shuttlecock happens to be my favorite childhood game for that same reason.” In truth, she’d played it only once with Prudence when they couldn’t think of anything else amusing to do, but Abby hadn’t been completely terrible at it—or perhaps Prudence had just been more terrible.
Brigston’s lips twitched, probably because he saw through her bluff and didn’t believe a word. “What a fortuitous coincidence. All these years I’ve searched for a worthy opponent only to discover she’s been under my nose these past few months.”
“Fortuitous indeed,” Abby said, thinking the game didn’t sound nearly as exciting as it had before. “My only concern is whether or not the doctor would approve of me participating in such a… er, vigorous activity.”
“I considered that as well, but then I remembered my Mother introduced me to the game only a few months before her lying in with Jasper. If her doctor gave her leave to play at that juncture, surely he wouldn’t see a problem with you doing so now, especially if I promise not to make it easy on you.”
He was baiting her and she, like a fool, was letting him. Abby nearly blurted that she didn’t need him or anyone else to make the game easier for her, but that would have been a third lie, and two lies per conversation were her limit. Goodness, he was aggravating.
“Very well,” she finally relented. “Shuttlecock in the ballroom it is.”
“You sound perturbed. Never say you’re worried you’ll lose.”
“I’m more concerned I’ll fling this poached egg at you if you continue teasing me,” said Abby, thinking it wasn’t a bad idea. Better that than trying to gag it down her unwilling throat.
He laughed and rose, pushing his chair in. “I know a dismissal when I hear one. You’ll find me in the ballroom once you’ve finished with breakfast. Do try and cheer yourself up before then.”
“Only if you try to humble yourself,” Abby muttered as he turned to leave.
She didn’t mean for him to hear, but he grinned back at her. “Won’t you be the one to do that with your exceptional shuttlecock skills?”
Abby picked up the egg, ready to fling it in his direction, but he laughed and quit the room before she could gather the courage. It was probably for the best. They’d already given the servants plenty to gossip about.
MORGAN STOOD IN the ballroom, leaning against the wall near one of the large windows that looked out onto the balcony. He tossed the shuttlecock high into the air and caught it with the same hand while waiting for Abby to join him. What could possibly be taking her so long? Had she decided to change gowns? Was she punishing him for teasing her earlier? Or had she decided not to play after all?
Morgan should be shut away in his study with his bailiff, but he had no desire to do so this morning—or any morning really. Lately, it had been too easy to find excuses and ignore his responsibilities, which was odd. Only weeks earlier, he’d been in such a rush to get everything done.
“You really intend to play?” asked a lovely voice.
Morgan grinned at the sound, something that happened a great deal in Abby’s company. He looked up to find her standing across the ballroom, looking beautiful but much too pale. Black did not suit her at all, and he couldn’t wait for the day she could do away with the drab color.
“I will if you will.”
Her eyes darted from the shuttlecock in his hand to the rackets at his feet. “Since I am at a disadvantage, being in a delicate condition and all, I think it only fair that you have an impairment as well.”
He pushed away from the wall and walked towards her. “Do you intend to whack me over the head with a racket and make me dizzy?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a blindfold,” she suggested. “It might be less painful for you.”
“Unless I trip or run into a wall.”
“True.”
He stopped a few feet away. “Your skills must be pitiful indeed if it’ll take blinding me to make the match fair.”
Her lips puckered into a frown, and he felt the greatest urge to kiss it away. Careful, old goat, he thought, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground and had been for a while now. He should be putting distance between them, not thinking up new excuses to spend time with her.
Which begged the question: Why the devil had he convinced her to stay at Oakley until March?
For your mother’s sake. And Abby’s.
It was true enough. Abby needed a family as much as his mother needed a daughter and a grandchild.
“If you’re truly opposed to being blindfolded—”
“I am.”
“Then… well, I suppose you can complete some sort of dance movement each time it is your turn, before you strike the shuttlecock.”
He stared at her a moment, expecting her to laugh or say she was only jesting. Surely her suggestion sounded as absurd to her as it did to him. “A dance movement,” he repeated.
“We are in a ballroom.”
“I think I’d prefer the whacking.”
She laughed. “Come now, my lord. I’m certain you are a good dancer. How difficult is a bow, plié, or demi-jeté? It really does not matter what you do, only that you don’t repeat any of the steps.”
His eyes widened. “If that
is the stipulation, this game will be over after a dozen strikes. I’m not well versed in dance movements, Lady Jasper.”
She waved her hand as though it didn’t matter. “I give you leave to invent as many steps as you need. Now, do you wish to play or not?”
Morgan rubbed the back of his neck. He had never cared for much dancing, nor did he have any desire to invent new steps. But should he refuse, he could only imagine what Abby would think of next. Would he be asked to play on his knees or stand on his head? Would she require him to drink a glass of port after every point? Would they argue about it the remainder of the day and never get around to actually playing?
He supposed doing a few dance steps between hits would be harmless enough.
“Very well. If it pleases you, I shall make a fool of myself before every turn, but only if you hit the shuttlecock high enough to make it possible.”
“Agreed.”
Morgan tossed her the shuttlecock then removed his coat and slung it over the back of a chair in the corner. Then he retrieved the rackets and passed one to her before bowing gallantly.
“Ladies first,” he said, gesturing for her to begin.
She appeared a little awkward as she tossed up the shuttlecock and hit it with the racket, but it flew towards the ceiling, giving Morgan enough time to drop into a plié before returning it.
She burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her free hand while the shuttlecock fell to the floor at her feet.
Morgan ignored the jeering. “One point for me,” he said.
That put a stop to her laughter. “But I was distracted.”
“If you find my dancing too distracting, perhaps I should desist.”
“No, no,” she said quickly. “I will be better prepared from this point forward. Let’s give it another go.” She picked up the shuttlecock and sent it flying once more.
This time, Morgan waltzed before returning it. She giggled only a little before hitting it again, and play continued with Morgan bowing, triple-stepping, and gliding across the ballroom floor. Each dance movement became more exaggerated than the last, and her giggles more prominent. When he began making up steps of his own, she laughed so hard she missed the shuttlecock more often than not. Before long, the score was eighteen to two in Morgan’s favor. She didn’t seem to care that she was losing, and Morgan enjoyed making her laugh.
For his next move, he dropped to one knee, then launched himself across the floor to get to the shuttlecock in time. It soared high, bounced off the ceiling, and landed squarely on a candle in the chandelier.
“Of all the rotten luck,” Morgan muttered as he pulled himself to his feet and studied the fixture, which towered at least four or five meters above. They’d need a ladder to retrieve it.
Abby moved to stand next to him, looking first at the fixture and then at him. “If memory serves, it’s minus twenty points for losing a shuttlecock to a chandelier.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head in a sorrowful way. “I suppose that means I win.”
Even in her black gown, she looked fetching—flushed cheeks, hair loosened from the exercise, and bright blue eyes. At some point during their play, the storm must have abated. Light cascaded through the windows behind her, making her look angelic, even in black.
You’re stunning, he thought.
She broke eye contact first, pressing her lips together and looking uncomfortable. He realized then that he’d been staring. Morgan drew in a breath to clear his head, trying to remember what she’d said. Oh, yes. Minus twenty points.
He bent to retrieve his racket. “Your memory is faulty,” he said. “First you remember being good at shuttlecock when you’re actually dreadful at it, and now there’s the matter of that nonexistent rule. Twenty points indeed.”
“If you are allowed to invent dance movements, I should be allowed to create a rule.”
“The dancing was your idea, not mine.”
She folded her arms. “Jasper would agree with me.”
Morgan had no doubt that he would, just as he had no doubt Abby would not budge, no matter how absurd her arguments were. He glanced up at the chandelier again. “How about a compromise? If I can knock the shuttlecock down, you must acknowledge me as champion. If not, I’ll concede my defeat.”
She appeared skeptical. “How do you intend to knock it down?”
“With my uncanny dexterity,” he answered, taking careful aim. He tossed his racket toward the shuttlecock, but instead of dislodging it, it knocked a candle from its perch and became wedged in the chandelier.
He muttered a curse and Abby laughed. “Would you like to toss up my racket as well, my lord? Perhaps you’ve just invented a new style of chandeliers. We can call them shuttleliers. What do you think? We can say it’s a fixture that provides light as well as a diverting game, assuming one can extract the accessories.”
Morgan stared at her for a moment before he burst out laughing. He wasn’t sure what he found so amusing—something in her tone or facial expression? Perhaps it was the ridiculousness of the entire conversation. Whatever the reason, mirth poured out of him like a well that had ruptured. He bent forward and clutched his stomach, feeling tears seep from the corners of his eyes.
Gads, it felt good to laugh.
When he finally straightened, he looked at Abby. She was a wonder. When he considered his initial opinion of her—that she was nothing more than an empty-headed fool—he felt ashamed. He’d been the fool. Abby was intelligent, witty, and good—the kind of good that made her vibrant and exquisite. What would he do if she ever decided to leave?
What will you do if she doesn’t?
The thought prodded his feet in her direction. He wanted to touch her, circle her waist with his hands, and pull her close. He wanted to smell the scent of apples that lingered in the air around her. He wanted to taste her lips.
He reached out to touch her face. “Abby, I—”
A throat cleared loudly, and Morgan’s hand fell to his side. His mother stood near the entrance to the ballroom, her features stern and disapproving.
“A word, if you please, Morgan.”
The realization of what he’d nearly done washed over Morgan like a cold rain shower. He’d been so sure he could keep Abby at arm’s length, so sure he could keep his growing feelings for her in check. He should have known better.
Morgan nearly growled in frustration. He’d finally found a woman he wanted to pursue, only he was not at liberty to do so. If his mother hadn’t arrived when she had…
He bowed briefly to Abby before following his mother from the room. She didn’t speak until they were in the library with the door closed. She stood in front of the far window with her back to him for a few moments before turning around to face him.
“Do you have feelings for her?”
Caught off guard, Morgan stiffened. He hadn’t expected her to be so direct, but surely she’d already seen the answer to that. Any man would have to be blind and deaf not to develop feelings for Abby.
“We have become friends, Mother,” he said in clipped tones. “Nothing more.”
“Are you certain about that?”
“Yes.”
She shot him a look that implied she wasn’t convinced. “She is your sister, Morgan.”
“She’s my sister-in-law.” Why he’d felt the need to clarify that, he didn’t know, but the words slipped out before he could swallow them.
“Not in the eyes of the law.”
Morgan sighed and dropped to a chair, running his fingers through his hair. “I know, Mother.” Before, Lord Hardwicke’s Marriage Act had been nothing more to him than an inconsequential law. Now, he thought it an absurd creation of foolish minds.
“I have no intention of dallying with her, Mother,” he said, ready to be finished with this conversation.
“What are your intentions? I saw the way you were looking at her just now, and it was neither friendly nor brotherly. Since you cannot marry her, what am I to think?”
Morgan wanted t
o turn his back on his mother and walk from the room, mostly because he didn’t have an answer for her. What were his intentions? “I hold Abby in the highest of regard and would never dishonor her. We were merely playing a game of shuttlecock, that is all.”
“Shuttlecock,” she scoffed. “I saw no rackets or shuttlecock.”
Morgan opened his mouth to explain, then promptly closed it. Apparently, she hadn’t seen the racket in Abby’s hand or noticed the additions to their chandelier. Perhaps someday he would enlighten her, but that day would not be today.
“Abby doesn’t feel like she belongs at Oakley. Only last week, she expressed her desire to leave. I didn’t think you’d want that, so I made an effort to seek her out, hoping to help her feel more at home.” It was true enough. He’d started off with that intent, at least. Somewhere along the line his feelings had become muddied, but he wasn’t about to admit as much to his mother.
Some of the color drained from her face, and all sternness left her voice. “Leave? Before the child is born? What will she do? Where will she go?”
Morgan’s heart softened at her obvious distress. Despite her reservations with her daughter-in-law, Abby must have grown on her at least a little. Or was it the child his mother did not wish to part with?
“If it eases your concerns, I’ve managed to convince her to stay through the remainder of her confinement and lying in. Beyond that, I wouldn’t be surprised if she returns to the care of Lord and Lady Knave.”
That seemed to appease her, at least a little, but it didn’t appease Morgan. How could it when either way, he lost? Stay or go, Abby could never be his. Jasper had seen to that the moment he’d married her.
His mother’s jaw firmed, and her eyes shone with determination. “I have closeted myself away long enough. As of this moment, I will do so no longer.”
“Glad to hear it.” Morgan didn’t know what she meant to do from this point forward, but he was pleased to see some of her pluck return. Perhaps she would look after Abby from here on out, and he could use the time to determine if his life would be any easier without her at its center.
He stood to leave, pausing with his hand on the library door. “Will you make sure Abby doesn’t convince one of the grooms to let her ride? She seems to think the doctor is wrong to keep her from that particular exercise.” The memory of her flashing blue eyes and insistence that she knew better than any doctor would be forever branded in his mind. He’d miss their daily interactions. He’d miss her.
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