Carrying through with the rescue, he pulled her along, her body light and willing to follow. At a tall cushioned bar stool beside an empty pool table, he stopped and sat down, pulling her between his legs. The atmosphere was quieter, darker, and much more intimate. There were so many reasons for him not to care, so many wealthy, legitimate reasons to get up and leave her there.
“You’re not a waitress, are you?” he asked.
She blanched, and then reached up to grasp a locket that lay at the base of her throat. “I—”
He waited for an answer, his gaze roaming over her exquisite face and glittering blue eyes.
“I was handling them. I didn’t need you jumping in like a refined superhero.”
Her anger baffled him, his ego used to women thanking his gallantry with unbridled kisses, not narrowed eyebrows and pursed lips.
“I saw with my own eyes who was handling whom, Abby,” he said, unable to hold back the raw tone of his emotions.
Her lips parted in a rush of breath, her small hands lifting to press through his thin gray button-up shirt, her timid touch causing his body to respond with a surprising jolt.
“Well, in my defense, I expected the bottle to break when it connected with his thick skull.”
“Of course you did.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He released a loud sigh, refusing to answer. She was working at a job she didn’t belong in and making rash decisions based on Hollywood special effects. She was the most lost person he’d ever met.
“I guess I owe you now?”
He shook his head. He had enough women problems without tangling with another female, especially someone like Abby Forester.
“No, but next time, before smashing a bottle over a bloke’s head, have every intention of rendering him unconscious first.”
Her head canted at an adorable angle. “Who…are you?”
“No one you should care to know,” he said, low and honest. She was everything he stayed away from in his promiscuous life. He gravitated toward the rich and the seductive, not the needy and innocent.
Resigned to let go, he watched her graceful steps weave through the loud and expressive crowd. Across the room, the bartender glared at Edmund with a menacing and jealous scowl. Not looking for a fight, Edmund nodded toward the man and then returned to Will on the other side of the cramped bar.
“So chivalry still lives?”
“No, not exactly,” Edmund said, every nerve in his body longing to experience one small physical appreciation from the young American.
“So,” Will said, sending Edmund a lopsided grin. “Tell me again why you’re here.”
Edmund leaned back in the tall chair and shook his head. God, he didn’t want to relive every moment until now. It had been devastating to learn the lifestyle he’d come to enjoy and know was about to be pulled right out from underneath him. Born rich and privileged, he had no idea what it was like not to drink champagne every night or have a butler wait on his every whim.
“I must marry.”
Will, who’d just chomped down on a pretzel, began coughing it up. “Wha…What?”
Edmund shrugged, his stomach tightening from the thought of losing his bachelor lifestyle just to keep hold of his expensive lifestyle. What did he know about sacrifice?
“In summary,” Edmund began, trying not to clench his teeth, “before my father’s death, he put in place a proclamation. I shall choose a rich and sociably acceptable bride by my twenty-sixth birthday or I will lose my entire inheritance.”
Will’s eyes widened. “That’s a new one.”
Edmund agreed. “Yes, and damned inconvenient.”
Despite the headache it caused, Edmund reflected over the last forty-eight hours. It had started out well. He had awakened beside a half-naked woman whose name still eluded him and indulged himself in warm champagne and caviar. His life disintegrated soon after the woman’s departure. In what appeared to be an intervention, his mother, his mother’s friend, Dowager Hemsley, and his father’s cousin, Sir Richard Mosley, gathered at Edmund’s ancestral home of Danwick Manor to relay the dire news.
Edmund’s mother’s words still echoed deep in his mind.
It is in your father’s will, Edmund, that you must marry both wealthy and well, or, at least provide the name of the affluent bride before your twenty-sixth birthday, or everything you are determined to squander on women will be lost.
Not lost entirely, Edmund thought, as Sir Richard lingered in the background waiting for him to fall on his father’s sword. Edmund fared no better, as far as lectures went, with Dowager Hemsley. Sixty-five, thin, and eloquent with quick and philosophical advice, she scolded him daily, and gave guidance on where to find one of these so-called brides. “America,” she’d said, although Edmund scoffed at the simplicity of such a notion.
Sir Richard didn’t like the idea either, since he’d hinted at having his cousin Blaire marry Edmund in the hopes of acquiring some of the Rushwood wealth that had, so far, eluded him.
Thus counseled, Edmund left Danwick, his butler, and countless bottles of champagne to come here, to Portland, Oregon, to visit his friend, and escape.
Edmund still remembered the day they met at the airport in Heathrow. Will stood speaking to a tall woman in black stilettos until he said something that caused a slap loud enough to echo between terminals one and two.
As fate would have it, Edmund and Will ended up sitting at gate B28 for an hour. Amused by the man, Edmund upgraded Will’s seat to first class, and invited him to Stonebridge Mansion in the Cascade Mountains. Since then, they had shared enough women, champagne, and caviar to make Leonardo DiCaprio jealous.
“So, let me get this straight,” said Will, the white scar on his left eyebrow showing under his long bangs. “You have to find a woman to marry, who is rich and high class, from America or wherever, or you lose everything? What century are you from?”
Edmund felt his gut twist. “My father was extremely old-fashioned, to say the least.”
Will cursed under his breath. “This sucks.” On cue, two young women in black pumps and thigh-high skirts sauntered close to their table. Edmund glanced at his friend, more conceited than he was good-looking, and then to the tallest girl with sultry eyes and pouty lips.
“What are the chances either of them have ties to good blood?” Edmund said, jerking his head in their direction.
“As opposed to bad blood?” Will laughed. “You British folks are so Downton Abbey…and strange.”
Edmund twisted to his right, letting out a relieved breath at finding Abby back at the bar. He tried to glance away, but her pert and animated form kept him engaged longer than he cared to admit.
“How well do you know her?” Edmund asked, still fascinated. Despite his better judgment, he’d enjoyed meeting her, talking to her, inciting her…saving her.
“Trust me, she’s not worth the headache,” his friend said, reaching up to rub at his scar.
Edmund took one last glance at Abby before turning back to concentrate on rescuing his own arse. “So, can you help me?”
“Oh, sure,” Will nodded, and then hesitated. “Help you with what?”
Edmund closed his eyes and exhaled. “I was hoping you might know an American debutante viable enough to become my bride, or pretend to become one,” he added under his breath.
“Viable? Now’s that a word you don’t hear in a sentence when discussing a future wife.”
Disgust welled up inside Edmund, but he said nothing. He was glad he didn’t as Abby returned, placing two green bottles of Weaver’s between them.
“Compliments of the house,” she said, unable to hide a sarcastic smile.
He stole a glance toward her beguiling face. She didn’t have the perfected or injected features he’d kissed in the dead of night. Instead, she wore only a tiny amount of makeup, showing off a creamed honey complexion and rising blushes, the first he longed to touch, the second he dared to elicit.
; “My shift’s over in fifteen minutes,” she said toward him.
He dropped his gaze, her outward invitation disappointing. He at least expected her to play harder to get. Regardless, he needed a distraction. “Is that so?”
She nodded and sent him an enchanting smile, her round cheeks lifting and tinted, as if another blush lay under the surface, just ready to burst forth if he dared to say something inappropriate or daring. “Judy will be your server for any further reading of the menu.”
Then Abby smiled, turned and walked away. He shook his head, her departure leaving him both speechless and intrigued.
“Do you want to get married?”
Will’s words yanked Edmund back around to face him. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”
“But your birthday’s in three months,” Will said, taking a long swig of his skunk-fragrant beer. “Do you even know who you want to spend the rest of your life with?”
Edmund drew back, taking the beer with him. His gut sank even lower. “I haven’t quite thought that far.”
On the television above them, there stood a normal enough man surrounded by twelve gorgeous women. Edmund glanced from Will to the screen and back again, watching a slow smile stretch across his friend’s face.
Edmund shook his head. “I recognize that look, and, it’s terrifying.”
Will eased away, his gray eyes growing larger by the second. “You can come on Love Match. We’ll bring on six or seven contestants, with a few of them influential enough for you to marry. Although the audience participates on you choosing who you should end up with, you have the ultimate say in the matter.”
Edmund sat staring at his friend. “Absolutely not.”
“Hear me out, Edmund. The producer is getting bored with the premise of the show. Since the stakes are higher in your case, and you’re not only looking to date them, but marry one of them, we advertise you as a titled British bloke, searching for his one true love. We’ll call you Lord Bachelor. Women will eat that stuff up.”
Edmund sat in stunned silence as his friend rubbed his hands like a black-caped 1920s villain.
In a psychotic rush, Will explained his plans. “This city has a few bluebloods, and I happen to know where a list exists where we can find at least two or three more of them.”
“Will, I don’t think—”
“Do you want to be poor, Edmund? Don’t you see? This is a win-win where everyone lives happily-ever-after.”
Edmund sent his friend a questioning glance before shaking his head. “First, no such thing exists, and second, despite my family’s advice, I didn’t come to America to search for a future wife. I came to have a two-week debauchery fest at Stonebridge.”
Will ignored him. ‘Hey, you’re in a desperate situation. You can speed up the process by dating six or seven women at the same time, or you can end up a pathetic bastard, living in a one-room flat in London, internet dating in your robe and a pair of boxer shorts adorned with little green alligators.”
Edmund swiped a hand down his face and tried not to resent his father as much as he did at this moment. The late Lord Rushwood, when alive, didn’t take much time for Edmund. He’d existed as a person who provided a home for his family, and that was it. If love lived inside the large stone walls of his ancestral home, Edmund didn’t remember it, or he’d somehow blocked it out. No matter which way he looked at this, he realized he had few choices. Still struggling with saying yes, he sat silent and sick as Will came to life, his hands in constant motion, and his smile growing more sinister by the moment.
“We can make this work. Most of the show will be scripted, and since the audience chooses for you, you don’t do anything but sit back and enjoy the view. If you want, you can contest the choice. And the best part, I’m sure to get a promotion.” Then Will shrugged. “Who knows, Edmund? You might just uncover enough lust to marry one of those women. In the end, everyone lives happily ever after.”
“I wish you’d stop saying that,” Edmund said with a deep exhale. In between conversations with Will, Edmund glanced around, realizing with great disappointment that Abby had turned in her apron and left.
It didn’t surprise him to find the American fascinating. She was vulnerable and misplaced and precisely what he didn’t need in his life right now. Besides, there were at least half a dozen women who’d dropped their numbers in his lap on their way by him.
“This can’t possibly work,” he mumbled, loud enough for Will to hear.
“Do you have another plan, bro?”
Edmund inhaled a plume of department store perfume and stale beer before giving in to his friend’s insanity. “No. If you can find a way to put it together, I’ll surrender to this maddening scheme.”
Will nodded. “Good.” He paused, chugging the rest of the detestable beer and then beating his chest a few times to make it go down easier. “Now, for the hard part.”
Edmund’s optimism sank, if he even had any at all. “There’s a hard part?”
Will shrugged and wobbled his head like a bobblehead doll. “I don’t have the list with the names of the few bluebloods.”
Edmund nodded. “Well, who does?”
Will dipped his head. “Oh, that little fire flower, Abby Forester. So, let’s go. We’ll take your car. I’ll drive.”
Chapter Three
Abby shook the spring rain from her jean jacket and sank on the love seat inside her father’s record shop, What Goes Around. She loved spring in Portland, Oregon. The dogwood trees were in full bloom, and the breeze showered cherry blossoms onto the concrete sidewalks outside the door.
“What a wondrous night,” Raify D’Gothomer said, lifting a dainty teacup toward Abby. Although she guessed the woman to be in her early seventies, she had a youthful gleam in her eyes and a zest in her movements.
“If you say so,” Abby said, and filled the cup with fragrant bergamot tea.
“Thanks for covering for me.” Abby smiled at her friend and then hesitated to ask, afraid of the answer. “Did Kendra drop by?”
Raify’s ornamented hat waggled with her answer. “No. The vulture must have thought it wise to stay away.”
Abby sighed, wishing her father had not been so hasty to attach himself to such a horrible woman after her mother died. Abby also wished he’d thought twice about making Kendra part owner of his shop before he passed away.
As loneliness wrapped around her, Abby grabbed at the locket around her neck. She would be graduating from college soon. Even with a business degree, she was afraid to look too far into the future. Would she still want to live her father’s dreams for the rest of her life? Or did she dare create dreams of her own? Until she figured everything out, Abby settled on letting Kendra take money from her cash register whenever she wanted.
“It’s still early,” Abby said, her mood thoughtful and turning to someone else. By now, she had no doubt Will’s friend was still at Tommy’s, a giggling bridesmaid perched upon his lap.
“What’s the matter, dear?” Raify asked, too observant and curious.
Instead of telling the woman of a man she’d most likely never see again, Abby responded with the next available grievance. “Nineteenth-century Women’s Literature. Since I chose to watch—as opposed to read—my assignment, Fairchild is giving me until next month to find a parallel to my life as it compares to either Jane Eyre or Elizabeth Bennett.”
The older woman lifted her teacup and sipped in a graceful manner. With eyes the color of emeralds, and hair the color of platinum, Raify reached over and gave Abby’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Whether fictional or real, most women have one thing in common.”
As usual, Raify didn’t explain her meaning, forcing Abby to jab her with a question. “And this one thing is?”
“To be rescued.”
Abby scoffed. “Then I’m not like most women. I don’t need anyone to ride into my life and save me.”
“Oh, child,” Raify said with true exasperation. “Just keep in mind that love is a rescue in one
form or another. As long as we’re willing to reach out our hands, we’ll find it when we need it most.”
Abby harrumphed. “The last time I reached out, I got burned.”
She received a questioning smile, a teacup raised as a toast or challenge. “Not all men are like Derek Crumwell, Abby. You must keep this in mind.”
The conversation on heroes, heroines, and poor attempts at boyfriends reminded Abby of the Englishman again. No. They had nothing in common, except Will, a thought too depressing to contemplate.
Exhausted, she stood and reached for the light switch. When the door to her shop clanked open, she whipped around to see Edmund, the very one who who’d teased, scolded, and rescued her, ambling into her shop behind Will.
“But…but how did…you get in?”
Will winked. “The sign says Closed, but the door was open.”
Damn. She must have been daydreaming when she thought she closed the place, daydreaming about a man whose personality oscillated between hero and arrogant jerk so often, it made her dizzy.
Her heart knocked at his presence. She attempted to hide her sudden nervousness by bustling around the shop and putting away several displaced items. Will followed at a nonchalant pace behind her as his friend rifled through a display of used Beatles albums.
One fell to the floor, and as he dipped to pick it up, another dropped, causing him to spew a colorful stream of British expletives, few of which Abby understood. Out of the corner of her eye, Raify nodded her head, the gesture seeming to cause the last of the collection to descend to a neat pile at his feet
“Don’t mind him, Abs.”
“Don’t call me Abs. Only people I loathe call me that. On second thought, have at it.”
Will smirked and looped a hand through her arm. “Look, I’m sorry about leaving you to do the report alone. I wanted to call, but my girlfriend dropped my phone in the toilet.”
Abby scoffed, unsure if he was being serious or making a joke. She, unfortunately, allowed him to dive into the real reason for the impromptu visit.
“Do you still have that genealogy paper with the list of names we worked on?”
Lord Bachelor Page 2
