by Cheryl Bolen
“I overheard we may have odd numbers for dinner. Melanie will talk of nothing else for a month if that is the case.”
Abigail worried at her fingertip briefly. “Did David decline the invitation?”
One of Imogen’s eyebrows rose. “They say he never answered it. No one has seen him since the men went sea bathing this morning.”
Abigail took her place beside Valentine Merton at the table and participated in the general dinner conversation, but her thoughts remained on the man she had kissed by moonlight last night. Had David taken ill after the swim? Was he all alone in his dark town house? That thought didn’t rest easy with her. Shouldn’t someone check to see if he were well?
CHAPTER SEVEN
David groaned and rolled onto his side as his stomach bitterly complained it was empty. Pale light pierced the gloom through the gaps around his bedchamber drapes and he fumbled for his pocket watch. The hands showed eight o’clock had just passed. He must have dozed off for a few minutes.
He crawled out of bed, stretched his aching limbs, and peeked outside. The sunny day had turned dreary with rain. He frowned as he parted the drapes wider. There hadn’t been a cloud in the sky when he’d been swimming this morning. The swift change in the weather surprised him. He’d been asleep less than an hour.
Bemused, he scratched his head, noting that salt had stiffened his hair until it stood on end, and looked for his discarded clothing. But although he searched, everything he’d left on the chair next to the wardrobe was gone. His housekeeper must have crept in and taken them to wash while he’d been napping. Odd, given that Mrs. Lynch had never come into his bedchamber before while he was in it. He didn’t care for the idea. He’d only been asleep for a short time.
When footsteps approached, tapping lightly up the stairs, he dived back into bed and pulled the covers up his chest so he wouldn’t shock the poor woman. Mrs. Lynch only came in to clean in the mornings and to set a pot on to cook during the day. He had no need of a full-time servant. Not for one week a year.
He saw a breakfast tray first, and then his eyes widened as Abigail Watson’s face peeked through the gap, only to quickly vanish again.
Horrified, David sat higher against the headboard and yanked the covers all the way up to his shoulders to cover his nakedness. “What on earth are you doing here, Miss Watson?”
“I was worried about you. May I come in?”
David’s body tensed, everywhere, at that idea and he quickly tamped down such improper thoughts about his innocent neighbor. “No, you may not. I’m not decent. Go home, Miss Watson.”
There was a long silence from the hall, and then Abigail muttered to herself. “Not particularly friendly in the mornings. Must remember that.”
Regardless of his request that she leave, Abigail entered his room carrying a breakfast tray. The smell of ham, chocolate and fresh baked cake came with her and his empty stomach tumbled over itself loudly.
She approached and set the tray over his thighs, a bright blush making her cheeks rosy in the half light, her smile timid. “It is good to see you finally awake. I feared a physician would be needed.”
He pulled the tray higher, attempting to hide the effect her nearness had on his body. “Miss Watson, what are you talking about?”
As she opened the drapes a touch more and then faced him, he noted the apron tied around her waist and her small bare hands fumbling with the material. “It’s Monday. You’ve been asleep since yesterday morning as far as your housekeeper and I can determine.”
“Monday?” David stared at her in shock and then picked up his pocket watch again. The hands hadn’t moved since he’d last looked at it. “What time is it?”
She lifted a chair and relocated it close to the bed. “A little after two o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve never heard of someone sleeping so long unless they were gravely ill.”
Her concern touched him. “I’m not ill.”
A frown crossed her face as she sat. “So you say. But most people don’t lie as still as a corpse either, ignoring young women creeping into their bedchamber.”
She appeared so worried he forgave her for the impropriety of invading his home. However, no one else would if they discovered she was here. “You were here while I was sleeping? Is Peter with you?”
“No. Peter does not know I’m here. I begged your housekeeper to let me check you were still breathing as she was too afraid to come near you.”
She twisted her hands in her lap, reminding him the girl should be sent away for her own good, although it was likely far too late to save her reputation. Someone may have seen her enter his bachelor household. They would make the wrong assumption about her presence and any talk would ruin her. She had to leave. “Mrs. Lynch,” he bellowed.
“She cannot hear you. Mrs. Lynch needed to visit her sister in Hove urgently and I gave her permission to go since you were still asleep. I told her our housekeeper would watch over you in her place. Of course, my housekeeper knows none of this.”
David shook his head. “Miss Watson—Abigail. What of your reputation? What were you thinking to invade a bachelor residence? If word of this gets out, there will be hell to pay.”
She’d have no choice but to marry him and that wasn’t what he wanted for her. Abigail deserved a choice in who she wed.
“I was thinking someone I considered a friend might need someone to look after him,” she said softly. “Your breakfast is growing cold.”
David glanced down at the overflowing tray. He couldn’t deny he was starving. To sleep even half as long as he had was unusual for him and his stomach protested the lack of nourishment. He’d eat first and then see Abigail returned home and deal with whatever consequences befell them later. He glanced at the tray and at her apron again.
“I promise my cooking will not harm you. Peter suffers it well enough when I can convince Mrs. Simpson to let me into the kitchen.”
David groaned at the thought of Abigail slaving over a hot oven on his behalf. That was not the life she should have. She should be pampered not put to work. How could he possibly repay her kindness and concern? Words were his only choice for now. “Thank you, Miss Watson. I may sound churlish and severe about you being in my home and unchaperoned, but I do appreciate your efforts. I just hope we can return you to your house before you are discovered.”
He attacked the plate, savoring each bite as he tried to adjust to the lost time. He couldn’t believe he’d been quite that tired as to sleep through an entire day, a night, and half another day. Abigail perched on the edge of her chair. She studied him, or rather stared at him, eyes wider than he’d ever seen them. When he glanced down, he realized his sheet had fallen, exposing his bare chest to her innocent eyes. He jerked it back up again and tucked it under his arms. “This is delicious but if you’re not going to leave, I’ll need a shirt or robe to put on.”
Young women would not be used to seeing so much of a man. He was surprised she hadn’t fled but then she had seen naked men before, albeit at a distance when she’d followed her brother to the beach. Hopefully, she didn’t remember much of that. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get out of bed to cover himself decently. He hadn’t a stitch of clothing on and he didn’t want to shock her if she saw any more of his skin at close range.
“Of course, you must be cold.” She bounced up from her chair and flung his wardrobe doors wide.
Actually, he wasn’t in the least bit cold. David’s pulse raced and his body burned with unaccustomed heat. Keeping hidden how she affected him proved difficult. He’d never imagined Abigail might sneak into his house—or any man’s house—for that matter. He’d always thought her rather proper and restrained until the day before yesterday. What else about her had changed during the last year?
She stood before his wardrobe, her fingers sliding over his clothing as she searched for what he’d requested. When her hand passed over his robe twice, he cleared his throat. “That’s my robe on the right.”
She jumped and quick
ly acquired the garment, but then she lifted the material to her nose as she turned. Her gaze flickered over his body and he tensed again at the odd expression in her gaze. As she drew closer, her bold appraisal added to the torture. How much more of this he could stand before he pulled her into his bed he didn’t know, but it was imperative that she leave. Now. Before he dragged her against him and completed her education on kissing and expanded her understanding of male anatomy.
She held out the robe. “I have a problem.”
David had one, too. His attraction to Abigail was an unforeseen complication to his life which would make calling in Peter Watson’s debt that much harder. He quickly settled the material around him, belted it at the waist and repositioned the tray to cover his aching privates. “Oh?”
“I have no idea how to convince my brother to marry.”
David picked up a piece of cake and bit into it as he considered how to answer. “There is an old saying that you can lead a horse to water but you cannot make him drink,” he said eventually.
Abigail slumped back in her chair. “Exactly. I can dangle many pretty girls beneath his nose, but bringing him to the point of proposing is beyond my experience.”
David frowned. “Forgive me for being indelicate, but I had recently heard you’d had experience with marriage proposals. Three wasn’t it?”
Her eyebrow arched. “Who told you about my suitors?”
“Mr. Merton mentioned them yesterday. He saw you—us—in the lane the other night.”
A bright blush swept over her cheeks. “Did he threaten to tell my brother?”
“Surprisingly, no. However, I did promise him no further mistakes would be made.”
Her nose wrinkled quite adorably as she frowned. “And I’ve ruined that for you today by coming here unescorted. Never mind that now.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “The proposals I received were a surprise to me. I did nothing to bring them about. One fellow asked me immediately after our first dance. I’d never met him before that night so I was taken aback by the abruptness.”
“And the next?” David took a second bite into the seed cake, cursing himself for asking about her suitors in the first place. Who had asked her for her hand in marriage would gain him nothing but prolong her time in his house.
“By letter. Anonymously.”
David choked on the cake and coughed to clear his throat. He reached for the tea and swallowed some. “How on earth could the fellow have expected you to accept if he didn’t identify himself?”
She chuckled. “That was my first thought, too. I didn’t meet with him at the arranged time and place.”
“I should hope not,” David bit out savagely. What if she had gone? What fiend might have been lying in wait for the innocent woman? “What does your brother say about this?”
“I think my brother prefers to forget I’m of marriageable age.”
Damn, but Peter Watson was a fool. He should be keeping better watch over her than this. “And the third?”
“The very first actually, and it was awkward to say the least.”
Full to the brim, David set the tray aside and repositioned himself in the bed. He was still aroused, but he could listen to Miss Watson talk all day and never tire of hearing her confidences. “And who was that?”
She clenched her hands together. “Walter George.”
“Ah, perhaps not the young man for you.”
She twisted her hands together. “I felt so bad for refusing. Imogen and I are the best of friends but Walter is . . .”
He laughed at her inability to describe their rather staid neighbor. “Walter.”
She threw both hands up in the air. “Exactly. He’s not dashing or heroic. He’s pleasant but unexciting,” she complained softly.
Miss Watson had clearly spent some time determining what she didn’t want in a suitor. What she might want intrigued him. “And you require excitement?” David scrubbed at the stubble on his jaw and grimaced at how rough he must appear. “I imagine dashing off to suitor number two’s rendezvous could have proved an adventure.”
Her brow rose haughtily. “That would depend on your definition of excitement.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
David spluttered at her bold answer, unable to believe the direction their conversation had taken. Never in a million years had he thought of engaging in banter of this nature with his innocent young neighbor. He leaned forward, eager for her next response. “There’s more than one?”
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “In my experience, yes.”
David stifled a laugh as he sat back. Quite a bit had altered in the last year and in Abigail’s case the changes were rather pleasing. “I still find it hard to remember you’re all grown up. Sometimes I still think of you sneaking apples from our tree, your long hair tangled in the branches.”
“I haven’t been that young or naïve in quite a while.” Abigail stood and reached beyond him, stretching to grab the tray he’d set aside. Because of her position, her bottom was enticingly displayed before him.
The image of young Abigail Watson was banished forever, replaced by the siren leaning over his lap. He clenched the sheet and groaned. “And other times I can barely think. Abigail, take yourself out of my house before I do something we will both regret.”
She lifted the tray, her smile serene and unaffected by his warning as she lingered at the bedside. “I still need your help, but if you think better with clothes on, I’ll await you downstairs in the parlor.”
If he stripped Abigail of her clothes, and dragged her into his bed, she’d understand his predicament and state of mind. “That would be appreciated.”
“Oh, and David. What could you possibly do that would give me any regrets?” She disappeared quickly, leaving him with the compelling desire to chase after her to show her exactly what game she’d started by coming into a bachelor’s home alone. He wasn’t so old that he didn’t know how to seduce a woman if he set his mind to it. However, for the present he was undecided about the wisdom of such an action. Given what he knew of Abigail now, he wasn’t sure who’d be seducing whom.
He listened to her retreating footsteps and breathed a sigh of relief to have behaved as a gentleman despite the temptation. Abigail had taken too great a risk with her reputation by coming here, by not leaving a partially covered man as soon as she discovered him awake. Honor demanded he do the right thing by her, not seduce her. That meant sneaking her out of his house before she was discovered, and, if they were found out, ensuring they married immediately.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and hoped he and Abigail didn’t have to marry because of necessity. In his experience, that sort of union was never a happy one. No matter how the circumstance came about, both parties were often plagued by doubts and insecurities.
For David, he could imagine a life with Abigail’s honey-soft lips molded to his, her lithe body pressed against him. Conversation, too, would be worth the time spent. He’d always enjoyed their short talks. But he lived in London and worked a great deal. She’d be miserable as his wife.
He stripped off his robe and dressed in record time, ignoring the stubble darkening his jaw for the present. The sooner he answered her questions, the quicker she could leave. He’d deal with everything else later if action became necessary.
He rushed down the stairs and barreled into the parlor. Abigail had made herself at home, slippers abandoned, feet curled beside her on the sofa. She’d removed the apron but had not restored her gloves to her hands. To see her arranged so contentedly on his furniture made him wish he were not quite so honorable. After a moment, her cheeks turned a startling shade of red and she scrambled to put the slippers back on. “That was quick. Peter takes an age to dress.”
“I had a pressing need to hurry.”
She smiled, and David did his best to convince himself her look was one she might bestow on a favorite uncle. Full of trust. However, he didn’t deserve her trust. He longed to scoop her up in his arms and tast
e her lips again. He sat in a chair opposite, far enough away that he couldn’t take liberties if the opportunity presented itself. He would treat her as a customer of the bank and not as a pretty young woman with incredibly tempting curves. “Right then, what exactly do you need help with?”
She folded her hands in her lap. “I’d like to know what would make a man propose marriage.”
David rubbed his hand over his mouth to hide a smile. “Miss Watson, I’ve never proposed marriage before so I wouldn’t know how to answer that.”
Her frown returned and he was still smitten. “Well, I had guessed that. You’re unmarried which I find quite ridiculous. But, if you should one day consider it, what might prompt you to go down on bended knee? Theoretically, of course.”
David laughed. The conversation was simply too absurd. He’d been woken by an adorable virgin, fed, and now questioned about how he would acquire a theoretical future wife. Did Abigail not understand the danger she was in? Dowered or not, a man of lesser character would have tossed her over his shoulder and made her his already. Instead, she waited patiently with her hands folded in her lap. Perhaps she didn’t consider him a catch for marriage after all, and the growing attraction between them was all in his imagination. “First off, I’d want to know we had something in common.”
“Like a love of Brighton?” she asked.
He studied her. What could he and Abigail possibly have in common? There was eight years between them in age. He knew her to be generous to those she could help, loyal but occasionally untruthful. However, she’d appeared utterly contrite when he’d caught her the other night and given the impending eviction, he couldn’t hold snooping against her. “Hmm, not so much the attractions of Brighton alone, more the style of living that would come with being married to me.”
Could she bear to leave Brighton and all her friends behind if they had to marry? Would she really be miserable in London as his wife?
