Lord Bachelor

by Tammy L. Bailey

  “I, uh, took the liberty of ordering you some oatmeal,” Edmund said, drawing Abby back to the present. “And orange juice, and yogurt with fresh blueberries…and other things.” It seemed as if listing the items made him notice for the first time just how much he’d ordered.

  With her stomach churning more from his nearness than her illness, she shook her head.

  “Come on, Abby. You need nourishment.” He lifted his hand to fold in hers and pulled her down toward the booth.

  “I need a good night’s sleep,” she said, shoving the oatmeal toward him, only to have him push it straight back at her. She thought about changing the subject. “So, is this our second official date?”

  He glanced at her with his chin tilted toward his chest. “You could say that.”

  She sighed. “And on these dates of yours, what exactly do you do?” His sensual grin made her rethink her question. “And if it involves removing any pieces of clothing, I don’t want to know.”

  He leaned back, assessing her for a moment. “Despite what you think of me, Miss Forester, I am a perfect gentleman.” He bobbed his head, adding as an afterthought, “Besides, clothes don’t come off until week three.”

  She closed her eyes, unable to keep from imagining him in an intimate position with his potential brides. Then her mind wandered to him undressing her and she flipped her eyelids back open. A wily smile lit up his face, and she knew he knew what she was thinking.

  She needed to say something before her cheeks erupted into a full-blown blush. “Well, I think we know each other pretty well already. I own a shop full of items some people have never heard of, and you once had a pet dragon.”

  He chuckled, lifting a finger to rub at his clean-shaven chin. She wiggled in her seat, unable to move away from his scrutinizing glance.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” He shrugged with the innocence of a three-year-old.

  She clicked her tongue, believing he’d escaped countless misfortunes with a simple pout of his alluring lips. “Don’t stare at me as if you’re trying to dissect everything about me.”

  He leaned forward. “But I am. Are you are afraid I might uncover something you don’t want revealed?”

  She scoffed. “Like what? That I come from a humble home, skip breakfast when I shouldn’t, and like the taste of cough medicine?”

  He pointed his manicured index finger into the air. “No, although that last one is a bit disturbing. I mean like, what is your favorite flower, your favorite song?” His voice lowered, silky and deep. “Or perhaps, which sheets do you prefer, Egyptian or pima cotton?”

  He was teasing her, and enjoying every minute. “Carnations and ‘In My Dreams’ by REO Speedwagon,” she answered. “As for the last, is this something you’ve asked the other girls? What kind of sheets they prefer?”

  “It’s an important question, and why isn’t your favorite song by Katy Perry or Beyoncé?”

  She smiled. “Songs hold sentimental value. Just because I’m a woman in my twenties doesn’t mean I have to like what most women in my age group like. To think this would make one…close-minded.”

  He started to say something when she beat him to it. “An important question might be asking how many women you’ve slept with, but you won’t hear me asking you.”

  This left him sitting there with his mouth open. He recovered quickly, quirking one eyebrow and sending her a sultry grin. “Do you want to know?”

  “No!”

  “More than ten, but less than a hundred.”

  She slapped her hands over her ears. “Oh, God.”

  “How about you?” His lips turned upward, his gaze dropping to hers for a long moment. Heat surged through her, consuming and ravenous. He was playing her like a piano, his words, his gaze, his demeanor stroking over her with such eloquent perfection, her body tingled and tightened.

  She cleared her throat, afraid it might sound more like Lauren Bacall than herself. “How many women have I slept with? Oh, a lot fewer than you, apparently.”

  He laughed and pulled back. “Is that so?”

  She nodded. “Yes, and I must add for a properly raised man of title and rank, you show no refinement when it comes to mature conversation.”

  “Bollocks. You’re a bloody virgin?”

  Her mouth dropped open. She wanted to say something, deny his assessment of her. She was sure, if he suspected she was a virgin, he’d no doubt focus on nothing more than ways to get her in his bed.

  She leaned forward, whispering over the swirl of brown sugar in her oatmeal. “Must you exclaim so loudly? I don’t think Delphine in her maid outfit heard you.”

  He met her halfway, his hands coming to rest over top of hers. They were warm and strong, causing heat to tremble straight through her. “Well, are you?”

  The panic in his storm-raged eyes confused her. “Does it matter?”

  His lips parted, but he didn’t answer her, seeming to struggle with the reply. After a few moments of silent contemplation, he graced her with a low and husky, “Yes.”

  She didn’t say anything, which left him unsatisfied.

  “No, you cannot be,” he finally said in a confident, matter-of-fact tone. “I have known virgins, and none of them are like you. So, tell me how many men you’ve slept with, Abby.”

  She pressed her lips together, determined to keep something so private to herself. When he continued to stare at her, she said the only thing that might throw him off the conversation. “That is really none of your business.”

  At last, he slipped his palm away from hers and sank back against the wooden seat. “But it’s your business to know my number?”

  “I didn’t ask you your number,” she reminded him.

  “You don’t have to pose something as a question to present it as an inquiry.”

  Did she actually want to know about his sex life? A little voice in her head said yes. “Fine, but you go first without the ninety-percent differential.”

  “Perfect. We’ve reduced ourselves to a childish game of disclosure.”

  At last catching him in an uncomfortable position, he scratched his temple and slid back toward her. “Very well, but I can tell when you’re lying, Abby.”

  She gawked at him, astonished. “You cannot.”

  He nodded and pointed toward her. “Yes, I can. You do this thing with your nose.”

  Her hands flew up to cover her face. “What thing with my nose?”

  He didn’t answer, bringing his fingers up to pull her hands back down to the table. “Twenty-eight.”

  The number shocked her. “Twenty-eight…really?”

  “Surprised?”

  “Well, I don’t know. What number makes a man…promiscuous?”

  He quirked a dusty eyebrow. “I’m not sure if any, but fifty sounds like a reasonable number.” His gaze lowered, and this time, she felt him pull away emotionally, but only for a moment. “Your turn, Abby.”

  Abby winced and closed her eyes. “Two…and a half,” she confessed on an exhale.

  It wasn’t a complete lie. It was more a fudging of the truth.

  She’d, in fact, slept or lain in the same bed with two men. The half came into play with Derek Crumwell. Although she’d never slept with him, she did have to count him for the three excruciating, horrible, humiliating minutes they had spent in bed together.

  For a few years, she used him as an excuse to avoid relationships and men in general. She knew, one day soon, she’d have to learn to open her heart and trust someone again. Trust they wouldn’t leave her or disappear when she closed her eyes.

  When she felt brave enough to open her lids, one at a time, Edmund was staring at her.

  “You’ve slept with two and a half men, Abby? Who was the poor bastard?”

  “Can we talk about something else now?”

  “Absolutely not. You can’t confess such a thing and not explain.” He paused, his eyebrows narrowing. “Although I am relieved you’re not some innocent with no experi
ence whatsoever.”

  She drew back her shoulders, surprised. “I’m almost afraid to ask why.”

  “Because they are too high maintenance and, afterward, at least in my experience, the woman believes herself in love and vice versa, which is rarely the case. And, besides, I find I have to take extra care with them when I just want to drive deep—”

  “Okay…” She stopped him, knowing quite well he was doing his best to try to shock her. Still, he’d put enough fear in her mind to keep her mouth shut.

  “So besides wooing women into bed with you, what else do you do?” she said, desperate to change the subject from sex to…God, anything else.

  Edmund smiled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You mean, do I have an occupation?”

  Abby nodded, starting to pay more attention to the oatmeal as the sugary fragrance churned her stomach into embarrassing hunger pangs.

  “I am in charge of running a manor and maintaining a title. I’m perfectly comfortable with a butler and a second home in Italy, and women—”

  “And yet,” she said, pausing to wipe from her mind the flashing images of his hordes of naked women, “you are willing to place yourself at the mercy of six of them for a chance to have one to marry.”

  “You make this sound tormenting. It isn’t.”

  “Oh, right. Six beautiful women vying for your affection. Isn’t that every man’s fantasy?”

  “Yes, but why are you excluding yourself out of my blissful adventure?”

  Her head tilted, her eyes blinking with all seriousness. “I was never part of the vetting process.”

  Abby’s words rang with truth. He made it worse by not correcting her. Instead, he continued to stare blankly until she collected her pocketbook to leave. His hand, firm but gentle, reached out to keep her in place.

  “Here comes Will.”

  All of a sudden, her heart dropped into her stomach. “I’m not ready for this,” she said with a shaky inhale.

  Edmund stroked her fingers. “I won’t leave you. Just be yourself.”

  His encouragement elevated her for a mere two seconds until the man behind the camera popped up behind Will, giving her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  “Hey, Edmund,” Will said, jumping up and down as if he’d already drank ten cups of espresso. “Hey, Abby. You look like hell. Holly! Put some makeup on her.”

  Holly followed orders and began powdering Abby with a choking substance, making Abby cough until Edmund poured her some water from a pitcher on the table.

  “That’s enough.” Will pointed toward them, indicating he was ready to start filming. “Now, I want you to act like we’ve caught you in the middle of a conversation.”

  Edmund nodded. “You sort of did, so that won’t be difficult.”

  Abby giggled and then cleared her throat when she remembered the subject he’d walked in on.

  As Will continued to fidget, Edmund leaned across the table. “How about we play a game, Abby? I say a word and you give a response. That might appease George Lucas over there.”

  “Did you play this game with the others?” Oh, she did sound jealous.

  Edmund smiled, picking up on it, too. “Oh, no. They talked so excessively about themselves that I found I didn’t need to pull information from them.”

  “That’s right. Between the two of us, it’s you who does most of the talking, or complaining when we’re together.”

  Worse than jealous, she sounded contrived, and she wanted to start the discussion all over again. She had spent a good night with Edmund, his tender care overshadowing his other faults. However, for the life of her, she couldn’t name one of them at the moment.

  “I don’t complain. I’m just not used to surrounding myself with such simple things.”

  And there it was, his most annoying prominent fault. “And by things, you mean people.”

  “If I remember correctly, it’s a word you’ve used to describe your life. And, no, I didn’t mean people.”

  “But the two are interchangeable in your world.”

  He inhaled and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. “Believe it or not, I try hard not to label anyone. Just because someone is born into a certain class, it doesn’t make them who they are. Admit it. When you first saw and heard me talk, you assumed me arrogant and critical.”

  “You are arrogant and critical.”

  He nodded. “Point taken, but have I not proved myself to be a good companion at your weakest and most unattractive moment?”

  Her eyes narrowed at him. “You know, you really should take a class on subtlety.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Subtlety,” he said after he’d amused himself enough with her comment, “does not earn you any more friends, Miss Forester.”

  Her mouth fell open, her blood beginning to simmer regarding his deliberate accusations. “I’m afraid to ask what that’s supposed to mean.”

  “It means you can spend all your time sparing the feelings of others and still end up alone.”

  “Why do I feel that statement is aimed toward me?”

  He shook his head. “It isn’t. I don’t think, since we’ve met, you have taken any liberty of sparing my feelings.”

  “So, are you waiting for me to apologize?”

  He grinned, melting her resolve. “Oh, no. I like how you say the first thing that pops into your head. I never have to guess. Guessing gives me a headache. I just want you to understand, I’m not used to caring much about what I say to people.”

  “You really should, you know.”

  He lowered his chin and then his voice, his gaze rising at a sultry level toward her face. “I know.” Their gazes collided and she wanted so much to know how their story ended, even before it had begun.

  “Do you think if I take your advice, I will earn your friendship, Abby?”

  Abby found herself lost in Edmund’s blue-flecked, stormy ocean-green eyes, drifting aimlessly toward the unknown. “I…. I thought you were looking for a wife, not a friend, Lord Rushwood.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Edmund lifted a hand to stroke an index finger along his jawbone. Abby knew he’d never have trouble finding either one.

  “A wife, a friend. Six of one and half dozen of the other,” he finally said with an arrogant shrug.

  She felt her nose wrinkle in disappointment. “So far removed from your endearing proclamation in nineteenth-century Women’s Lit.”

  His stare continued to disarm her. “One’s heart is a fickle thing.”

  “You make love sound like a fickle thing,” she mumbled.

  His mouth opened slightly before he glanced away.

  “And we’re clear,” Will declared from the sidelines, startling Abby for a moment.

  “That was good. Really good. You guys should save your verbal blows for the live audience. It makes for great chemistry.” Will turned for a moment to give Joe some directions for the next segment.

  Disheartened about their intimate discussion, Abby didn’t know what to think. Edmund went from Jekyll to Hyde regarding love without blinking an eye. She felt like, at any moment, she would be pulled under, without anything to cling to in case she started to drown.

  “Were you aiming for electrifying chemistry?” he asked, as if unscathed by their banter.

  Her jaw tightened. “The only thing I remember about chemistry is what happens if you combine vinegar and baking soda together.”

  He laughed, humored, she supposed, by her attempt to compare them to two harmless elements that, when placed together, become unstable.

  “Okay, I’ll meet you guys at the studio at nine.”

  Abby released a soft groan, forgetting she had to go in front of a live audience and persuade them she was the one who deserved to marry Edmund. With her store opening at ten, and Raify already there, in case she was late, she had no excuse to tell Will no.

  “I’ll drive you,” Edmund volunteered.

  “Holly will drive Abby, Edmund. Let’s go.”


  Abby didn’t acknowledge, turn back, or say good-bye, still unsure which man she’d see: the arrogant bachelor or the man who’d served her peanut butter crackers the night before.

  “He likes you, I think,” Holly acknowledged, cleaning out the front seat of her rusted-out Toyota Camry. Inside, the car had a distinct odor of greasy fast food and fruit juice. In the back seat was a child’s seat with stale fries stuffed in the cup holder.

  Abby turned back to stare out the bug-splattered windshield, trying not to read too much into Holly’s observation. Instead of giving in, she sought to distract her thoughts with a question. “How long do you think the taping will take?”

  Holly puffed her cheeks out before answering. “Oh, Edmund doesn’t seem to take long at all. His potential brides, however, can gush for almost a half hour over their dates, but that’s because they’ve just come back from some expensive night where he’s lavished them with champagne and lobster. Then we have to edit most of it out before the show airs at noon.”

  Abby nodded, trying to concentrate on the blooming dogwood trees, lining the downtown sidewalks. It was a chillier day than yesterday, and she wished she’d thought to bring a sweatshirt with her.

  At the studio, they brushed makeup on her and then led her to a loveseat below a stream of white lights. Will prepped her and Edmund on key words to say and not to say. They were not to curse, and Edmund could not show any favoritism at this point. The show’s executive producer did not want the audience swayed so early.

  With her nerves jumping, she sat beside Edmund, feeling the heat of his body beside hers. As Will charmed the camera and audience with introductions, Edmund pulled his hand down, his knuckle brushing with slight strokes against her arm. She sucked in a surprised breath and glanced over to see his reaction. Although his face remained steadfastly focused on Will, he smiled, one side of his lip curling upward.

  “So, Edmund, tell me about your date with Abby this morning. How did it go?”

  Edmund chuckled before nodding. “I believe it went well.”

  When he volunteered nothing else, Will blinked and turned toward Abby. “Do you think it went well?”

  She tried to keep from smiling. “Yes, it went well.”