Gifford's Lady

by Claire Thornton

  He frowned as he recalled a conversation with Abigail in the Pump Room about the book of hers he'd read. He'd been appalled at the petty restrictions placed upon the lives of women. He could even remember the words he'd used: You have no choice. No genuine freedom of action. You must wait modestly to see if a man favours you. And if his conduct confuses you, you must appear unconscious and pretend indifference.

  Abigail had laughed at him then, but she hadn't laughed very often recently.

  He thrust his fingers through his hair, uncomfortable and disturbed by the direction of his thoughts. He had made love to Abigail, knowing deep in his heart that marriage must be the inevitable consequence of his action—but he had never told Abigail what sharing her bed meant to him.

  Seen from Abigail's perspective, had his conduct been confusing?

  She had made it very clear when they were talking about Charles Johnson's fate that she would never surrender her freedom of choice or her right to make decisions concerning her own future. Was she pretending indifference to him—refusing to marry him—simply because he'd tried to deny her the right to choose?

  He hadn't asked her to marry him—he'd told her! And Abigail had consistently demonstrated she wasn't good at taking orders. Perhaps what she wanted was to be courted!

  Gifford spun on his heel and began to stride back towards Berkeley Square. He'd never accepted defeat before, he wouldn't do so this time.

  It was past midnight when he arrived at the house. Everyone was in bed. His jaw clenched in frustration that he must delay his plans until morning, but he was determined to behave towards Abigail with utmost chivalry. He wasn't entirely sure what that might entail, but he remembered his father talking to Anthony about the tradition of courtly love during medieval times. He took a detour into the library in the hope he might find a book on the subject.

  Unfortunately there were thousands of leather-bound volumes in his father's library. Anthony—and probably even Cole—would have known exactly where to look, but Gifford was completely flummoxed. He scowled at the book-lined shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling on every available wall. The answer to his question might well be here, but there was no possibility he would ever find it. He was damned if he'd ask Anthony to show him the book he needed!

  He stalked out of the library and up the stairs to his bedchamber. He would have to approach the problem from a different angle. Abigail probably wouldn't mind overmuch if he didn't adhere strictly to the rules of chivalry. She would be satisfied—he hoped—if he expressed the spirit of courtly love when he addressed her.

  He stripped off his clothes and climbed into bed. He covered himself with a sheet and lay on his back, his

  hands stacked behind his head as he gave careful thought to the problem.

  A few minutes later he heard a faint sound as someone turned his doorhandle. He turned his head sharply, his body tensing as he watched the door slowly open. To his utter disbelief, Abigail slipped through the narrow gap and stood staring at him.

  He stared back. His instant thought was that she had been hurt or frightened by something—or someone, but she displayed no signs of panic.

  She fumbled behind her and pushed the door shut, her gaze fixed on his face, then leant against it. She held a candle in one hand. Its flickering light illuminated her wide eyes and tumbling hair. Gifford was peripherally aware that she was wearing some kind of pale, silky robe, but all his attention was on her face as he tried to make sense of her presence in his room.

  His heart hammered against his ribs as he watched her warily approaching the bed. At last she was standing on the opposite side to him. He saw that she was trembling. Hot wax spilled down the side of the candle as it tilted precariously in her hand. They gazed at each other for several tense, uncertain moments.

  Gifford removed one hand from behind his head and wordlessly pulled the sheet back. He saw Abigail swallow nervously. She turned and put the candle holder down, then she pushed her robe off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Gifford swallowed. His mouth was dry with excitement, hope and a large portion of confusion.

  Abigail crawled cautiously onto the bed. She sat beside him, her legs tucked under her, and looked at him.

  He looked back. Her Titian hair fell all around her shoulders, rich against the pale cream of her nightgown. He could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the silk and knew that she was extremely nervous.

  He would have said something, but his throat was too tight to speak. He wanted to touch her, but he kept his hands safely tucked behind his head. He was scared if he did or said the wrong thing he would frighten her away, like a wild animal.

  She bit her lip and stretched out her hand towards him. He watched it come closer. Her fingers trembled. She touched his chest very lightly, then instantly snatched her hand away, rather as if she was testing to see if a kettle was hot. When he didn't move, she touched him again, this time letting her fingertips rest on him a little longer.

  At last she rested her hand gently on his chest and smiled tremulously at him. He removed his hand from beneath his head and pulled her down beside him. A moment later her head rested on his shoulder as she snuggled up against him.

  Excitement, satisfaction and triumph surged through Gifford's body. Abigail was in his bed! She was in his arms! Now all he had to do was make sure she stayed there.

  He could feel her trembling. He stroked her hair with one hand and with his other hand he caressed the soft skin of her arm, which rested on his chest. For good measure—and because he wanted to—he turned his head and brushed his lips against her forehead. She quivered responsively. He kissed her again, hoping

  she'd lift her head so he could kiss her properly, but she just rubbed her cheek against his shoulder.

  The silence extended. She obviously wasn't going to say anything. It was clearly up to him to sort out the fiddly details of their situation, and whether her intentions towards him were honourable. The date of the wedding...minor considerations of that nature.

  'Are you...?' He paused and cleared his throat. 'Are you sleepwalking?' he asked, with hoarse caution.

  'N-no,' she whispered.

  'Are you...?' He stopped again. 'Are you...? Do you intend to exile me from the bed at any...crucial... moments?' he asked edgily.

  'Exile ?' She lifted her head, her green eyes wide and startled as she stared at him. 'No!'

  He was uncomfortable with her close scrutiny. He guided her head firmly back to rest on his shoulder. Apparently she hadn't realised how devastating her rejection had been at such a sensitive moment. That was probably a good thing—as long as she didn't do it again.

  He inhaled carefully, strengthening his resolve for the last and most important thing he had to say.

  'You understand that if you remain in my bed one second longer...' he paused for emphasis, and to ensure that his voice was full of authority '...one second longer, you will be duty-bound to marry me.'

  He held his breath. Every muscle in his body was rigid with tension.

  Abigail didn't move. At last she nodded, her hair tickling his chin as she made the affirmative gesture.

  Gifford exhaled. His body went slack with relief. He was glad they were in bed. The impact of her agreement was so profound he doubted he would have had the strength to stand.

  Abigail would marry him! Abigail would be his wife!

  Relief turned to exultation as renewed energy flowed through him. He fisted his hand in her hair, gently obliging her to lift her head. Then he kissed her.

  Abigail kissed him back. He wanted to marry her. He didn't just want to kiss her and make love to her. He truly wanted to marry her!

  His body was hot and urgent against hers. She clutched him, drowning joyfully in the intensity of his passion. He fumbled with her nightgown and pulled it up to her waist. He stroked her hips, her thighs. She tingled and burned, as quickly aroused as he was. She'd missed him, yearned for him, and now she could have him.

  He rolle
d her on to her back and lifted himself over her. She stroked his chest, his shoulders, the taut muscles in his arms. He paused, looking down at her. She looked back, her gaze already hazy with passion, wondering why he hesitated. Then she remembered he'd thought of her rejection as exile.

  Exile had seemed such a strange word to use in this context, yet the implications were glorious. He'd told her that her bed—and her body—were home to him.

  She lifted her knees, rubbing the inside of her thighs against the outside of his, and felt him shudder in response. Then she wrapped her arms and legs around him and drew him home.

  'Abby, why did you come to my room tonight?' Gifford murmured, some time later.

  'Don't you think I should have?' Abigail lifted her head and looked at him.

  'Yes.' He slipped his hand beneath the weight of her hair, holding it back from her face as he pulled her closer for a kiss.

  'I was talking to Anthony,' she said breathlessly, when she could finally speak.

  'He told you to come to my bed!' Gifford exclaimed in disbelief.

  'No, no,' she assured him hastily. 'We didn't talk about this...us...um...'

  'What did you talk about?' he asked.

  'Well...' She played with the curls on his chest.

  He closed his hand around hers. 'Stop distracting me,' he growled, although the gleam in his eye was very far from menacing. 'Tell me what Anthony said.'

  'It was about how you always consider the consequences before you act,' Abigail said. 'And sometimes—we were talking in particular about when the privateers captured you, you understand?' she interrupted herself, looking at Gifford anxiously. 'But I think perhaps, really, we were talking about us—you and me. I think he is a bit exasperated with us. But he was very tactful.'

  'He's so damned tactful I don't know what he said yet!' Gifford exclaimed. 'What do you mean, he's exasperated with us?'

  'He didn't say anything about being exasperated,' Abigail said scrupulously. 'I simply received the impression he might be. And I've already told you what

  he said. He said,' she repeated, 'that you always consider the consequences before you do anything. And sometimes...sometimes, although a consequence might, at first sight, seem to be a...a...a punishment, in fact it could be a...a reward. Only it doesn't always seem like it at first. But...but...'

  'I see,' said Gifford. 'You believe I made love to you, so you'd have no choice but marry me?'

  'Well...' Abigail hesitated. Put like that, it hardly seemed credible, yet he did want to marry her, he'd made it a condition of her remaining in his bed for a single second longer. 'Kemp told me you'd had the pianoforte moved—so no one could startle me,' she said. 'And always, always you have been kind to me. Your hands are kind.' She blushed and swallowed nervously. 'But I told you to get out of my bed. I thought perhaps...perhaps that was why you were a bit...a bit angry with me the next day. I didn't think of that at the time,' she confessed in a small voice.

  'When I ordered you to marry me?'

  'Yes. You said...you said it wasn't what you wanted!' Abigail's voice rose slightly as she remembered how much that had hurt.

  'Abby.' Gifford groaned and pulled her down for another tender kiss. His hands on her body were so gentle and loving she almost cried.

  'I meant I'd planned for you to have a Season,' he explained regretfully. 'That's what I told myself I wanted for you—but what I really wanted...was just you. I didn't fully realise it at the time, but I think I was afraid if I simply asked you—you might turn me

  down. So I took away your choices. Then I felt guilty. So...'

  He pressed his lips together. There was both regret and sadness in his expression as he looked at her. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I'm so sorry, Abby.'

  'Oh.' Tears misted in Abigail's eyes. 'I don't care about the Season,' she said unsteadily. 'I only wanted...' Her voice faltered and she laid her head back down on his chest.

  Gifford held her in a warm, reassuring embrace.

  'Me?' he asked softly, after a while.

  She nodded mutely.

  He brushed his lips against her hair, then found her hand and laced his fingers through hers.

  'Why did you say "no"?' he asked after a while. 'If you wanted me. You could have had me any time. All you had to do was walk into my bedchamber. I'm clay in your hands.'

  Abigail smiled a little reprehensibly and turned her head to kiss his chest. 'No, you're not,' she murmured. 'Clay is soft. And you're...'

  Gifford tightened his hold on her. 'Why did you say "no"?' he repeated. 'I thought it was because you were angry with me for being so high-handed. For not giving you a choice. Was that it?'

  'Partly. But mainly it was because I wanted...I decided it would be a cutting-out operation,' Abigail explained rapidly, before she lost her nerve. 'For your heart—'

  'You wanted to cut my heart out!' Gifford exclaimed incredulously.

  'No!' Abigail lifted her head and frowned at him. 'You know that's not want I meant. Don't be provoking.'

  He smiled a little, very tenderly and stroked her cheek with gentle fingers. 'Then what?' he asked softly.

  'I knew...I believed you liked making love to me,' she said, blushing. 'But I wanted you to...I wanted you to...to 1-1...'

  She couldn't say it. She placed her head on his chest once more and hoped he knew what she wanted him to say.

  'I do,' Gifford said after a few moments. 'I do love you. I will always love you. With my body, I thee worship. I'm all yours. My body, my heart, my soul... they're all for you.'

  Overwhelming happiness flooded like sunshine through Abigail. It was the most powerful emotion she'd ever experienced.

  'I love you too,' she whispered. 'I love you so much. I couldn't manage without you. You know I thought— when I first heard Miss Wyndham left her gowns to me—I thought she meant I was to wear them to attract a rich lover. But I didn't want to do that. Then when Mr Tidewell told us about the jewels, I knew that wasn't what she'd intended and I was pleased. But then when you said you wouldn't marry me because I was an heiress I hated all the jewellery.'

  'I hated Miss Wyndham's jewels from the moment Tidewell started hauling them out of the damned valise,' Gifford admitted gruffly. 'I thought...you wouldn't need me anymore now you're wealthy.'

  'That is very silly.' Abigail propped herself up on an elbow to look down at him. 'In fact, I'm sorry to be rude, but it is just plain stupid," she said forcefully. But she softened the impact of her words by hugging him tightly and leaning over to give him a quick affirmative kiss. 'I don't care how rich you are, or how many houses you've got. I love you. I love you so much that before I came to you tonight I decided that if you didn't want to marry me—if you only wanted me for your mistress—I would be happy with that. Because if you didn't want me—nothing else mattered. I love you for your heart...and your soul—'

  'Don't forget my well-made body,' Gifford interjected with a cocky grin.

  Abigail pushed him indignantly. 'Don't make fun—' She broke off abruptly, then gently touched his damp cheek. 'You're crying,' she whispered, awed.

  Gifford swallowed and tried to turn his head aside, but Abigail cupped her palm against his cheek and wouldn't let him. His fierce blue gaze was softened by tears. For a moment he refused to look at her, but then he lifted his gaze to meet her eyes. His expression was stripped of all its usual arrogant reserve. His face was full of tenderness, love—and an unexpected vulnerability.

  Abigail was overwhelmed. She'd never once considered that Gifford might have suffered as much as she had during their period of misunderstanding.

  'I'm sorry,' she murmured huskily. 'I'm so sorry. I should have agreed to marry you straight away. It would have saved so much heartache.'

  'Would it?' Gifford covered her hand with his. 'It would have spared me heartache—but what of you? If I'd never told you...?'

  'You have told me.' Tears welled up in Abigail's own eyes. 'You have shown me you love me—over and over in so many ways. I should have b
een more perceptive

  Despite the lingering brightness in his good eye, Gifford grinned as he stroked the tears from Abigail's cheeks.

  'Are you intent on quite unmanning me?' he asked, softly jesting. 'If you'd been any more perceptive you would have realised how often I was tongue-tied in your presence. Completely love-struck and reduced to barking orders at you to hide my lack of address.' He smiled ruefully. 'Earlier tonight I went to look in the library for a book on courtly love—King Arthur and his knights and so forth,' he confessed. 'To teach me how to romance you properly. But I couldn't find one.'

  'Gifford!' Abigail was amazed at his admission. 'You don't need a book. You're already the perfect knight—'

  'Baronet,' Gifford corrected, but he looked more than pleased by Abigail's praise.

  'Don't quibble,' she told him severely. 'Every lady needs a champion, and you are my perfect champion. And I love you so much.' Her voice softened on the last few words.

  Gifford drew her down for his kiss. Abigail tasted the salt of their mutual tears on their lips. It was a long, slow kiss in which they both confided and confirmed their love for each other.

  At last Abigail rested her head on his shoulder and they lay in contented silence for several minutes.

  'We must be married at once,' Gifford said briskly at last, sounding much more like his usual, authoritative self, it's a fortunate thing Tidewell and Pullen are both in town. Do you wish one of them to give you away?'

  'Of course not!' Abigail sat up. Then, deciding that wasn't a sufficiently commanding position, she straddled Gifford. She blushed a little at her boldness, but he didn't seem to object. In fact he seemed rather pleased by her action. She looked down at him firmly, 'I do not belong to either Mr Tidewell or Admiral Pullen. Therefore they cannot give me away. I'm not a bunch of roses. I will give myself to you,' she told him generously.

  'Really?' Gifford put his hands behind his head in much the same position he'd been in when she'd first entered the room. 'Show me?' he invited wickedly.