by Erica Monroe
He ignored her watching him appreciatively. Ignored the swing of her seductive hips as she went to the water basin and scrubbed her face.
“I have a surprise for you tonight.” He didn’t answer her earlier question, deciding this was a better course of action.
She turned around, the rag in her hand. “What kind of surprise?”
He wouldn’t go to her, no matter how that nightrail hugged her curves and displayed them in the most tempting fashion. No. He’d stay the course and get the hell out of this room. He strode toward the door, not acknowledging that she followed him. Only when his hand was on the doorknob did he turn around.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” He leaned in, allowing himself the quickest kiss to her forehead. That at least was a more innocuous part of her anatomy than her lips. “Mrs. O’Neal will be in soon. I was going to suggest changing the sheets so she wouldn’t know I’d been here, but I suppose that’s pointless now.” He blanched. “I’m sorry. I meant to keep your reputation intact in the eyes of the staff…”
She shrugged. “Let them judge.”
He hadn’t heard her right. “Pardon?”
“I said, let them judge.” She gave another shrug. “For the past six months, all I’ve cared about is what people think of me. But last night, you looked at my scars, and you didn’t flinch. Michael, you acted as though it was no big matter. As if I’d just been scratched.”
“I didn’t mean to make light of your injuries,” he apologized.
“No, that’s not what I mean at all.” She was quick to correct him, smiling. “I mean that for the first time, my past didn’t define me. So if your servants want to talk about what happened between us, then let them, because I’m finished caring what others think. I won’t feel ashamed about being with you. I love you, and I don’t need anyone’s damn approval for that.”
He couldn’t hold back the grin that formed at her audacious declaration. He laughed as he had when he was a boy, one loud whoop of delight after the next, for this woman made him feel alive. He gathered her in his arms once more, kissing her hair, her cheeks, her nose, her lips, anything he could touch. “Christ, I’m glad to hear you say that.”
But as the kisses grew more passionate, he parted from her, though it took everything within him to do so. “Mrs. O’Neal will come by before dinner to ready you for the surprise. I’ve got some work to do in the office until then, so I’ll bid you adieu now.”
She reached for him, but he wagged his finger at her. “Enough, my wanton lass. If I don’t leave now, I never will, and then where would your surprise be?” With one last wink, he hurried out the door.
19
When Mrs. O’Neal came to prepare her for dinner, Abigail had been ready for hours. She’d started the day in the library, but she couldn’t focus on any of the books. Finally, after a half hour of pretending to read the same page, she’d given up and retreated to her room. She’d taken Northanger Abbey with her, in case by some miracle she was able to think straight, but it had sat unread on her bedside table.
She’d managed to fix the curtains so that there was no sign of what they’d done that morning. But all the tidying up in the world wouldn’t obliterate the memory. Would Mrs. O’Neal treat her differently now? Servants, especially those in the Strickland townhouse, were probably used to scandal. Though she’d meant what she’d said to Michael about not wanting to care about anyone else’s opinion, she didn’t want the kind old housekeeper to dislike her. Mrs. O’Neal and Smithers had been so welcoming to her. She’d come to regard them as friends.
Last month, she would have stated unequivocally that she’d never have friends again. Friends were a liability. Yet as she opened the door to Mrs. O’Neal, Abigail couldn’t deny the fact that she’d missed having companions. She’d thought she’d never trust another person again as she’d trusted Poppy, but Michael had proved her wrong on that too.
“Come along, dear, we’ve got a lot of work to do,” Mrs. O’Neal bid her, gesturing toward the dressing table in the corner of the room.
Abigail followed her, sitting down on the stool. “Do you have any idea what surprise Michael is planning for me?”
In the mirror, she saw Mrs. O’Neal’s lips start to turn up in a smile, but then her expression resumed its characteristic flatness. “If you think I’m going to go against the master’s instructions, you’ve learned nothing about me.”
“Just a little hint,” Abigail wheedled, as Mrs. O’Neal picked up a brush and began to tackle her unruly curls.
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. O’Neal stated. “What in the world did you do to your hair to make it so tangled, child?”
Abigail blushed, looking down at her hands. Was Mrs. O’Neal hard of hearing? Or perhaps this was the housekeeper’s way of telling Abigail that she’d ignore any signs of her activities with Michael.
Mrs. O’Neal stopped, brush poised in the air. “Oh. I see.” There was that hint of a smile again, gone so quickly Abigail wasn’t certain she’d really seen it. “Well, we shall have you cleaned up in two shakes of a hog’s tail.”
“Did you know that in Whitechapel, hogs wander the streets?” Abigail blurted, first to change the subject and second because she wanted to see how the prim Mrs. O’Neal would react to such knowledge.
Mrs. O’Neal’s nose wrinkled as she spun the stool around. “That’s quite unseemly.”
“That’s life,” Abigail stated. “When you don’t know any different, it doesn’t seem so strange.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Mrs. O’Neal agreed, helping her up from the stool. “Now off to the bath with you.”
After her bath, Abigail returned to her room clothed in a dressing gown. Mrs. O’Neal went to the armoire, selecting from the bottom drawer a pair of gold gloves with tiny roses embroidered at the cuffs. Before Abigail could ask her why she’d need such fine ornaments, Mrs. O’Neal set the gloves aside. Next, she pulled from the wardrobe the extravagant golden ball gown that Abigail had assumed wasn’t meant to be in Lady Elliot’s gifted dresses. She’d half-expected Lady Elliot to demand it back when she’d visited.
Mrs. O’Neal placed the frock on the bed, along with the requisite petticoats.
Now it was Abigail’s turn to raise her brows. “Are you sure this is what he wants me to wear?”
Mrs. O’Neal gave her a look that said precisely what she thought of Abigail’s second-guessing. “I’m to dress you and do your hair before you go downstairs.”
“Is Michael taking me somewhere?”
Mrs. O’Neal started to fix Abigail’s hair, ignoring her question.
“He said not to leave until Clowes was caught,” Abigail mused, more to herself now than the other woman. “So whatever he’s planning must be somewhere in this house. But that gown is far too nice for a simple dinner.”
She considered the possibilities while Mrs. O’Neal tended to her appearance.
Under the housekeeper’s skilled hands, her rambunctious hair was schooled into submission. Her ratty curls became luxurious locks, somehow spun from Rumpelstiltskin’s prized thread. Abigail’s tresses had been coiffed so that the top swept upward, but the rest loosely cascaded around her shoulders. Simple golden balls adorned her ears. She wore no necklace.
Mrs. O’Neal applied pink stain to her lips, and rouge to her cheeks. After affixing a crown to her partial up-do, Mrs. O’Neal stood back to survey her handiwork. “Magnificent.”
Abigail had to agree. “I look like a princess.”
“A princess needs a proper dress,” Mrs. O’Neal said, collecting the ball gown from the bed. She helped Abigail shrug off her wrapper, and then assisted her with the full petticoats that made the dress fluff out properly.
When it came time to step into the dress, Abigail hesitated. She’d never worn anything as elegant as this.
Mrs. O’Neal did not care if Abigail faltered. She slipped the dress over Abigail’s head and tugged it down, cinching up the duskier bodice. The cap sleeves were film
y, different from the usual horsehair puffed sleeves Abigail was used to. The insubstantial fabric lined her bodice too, coming together in a vee above her breasts.
“There,” Mrs. O’Neal said with satisfaction. “A true princess if I ever saw one.”
Abigail stared at herself in the mirror. The wide skirt flared out in shiny waves of gilt. Darker half-moons in the same color as her gloves accented the dress. She gave a tug to her gloves, swallowing down her trepidation.
In a dress like this, she could be anyone. She might not come from the expected aristocratic roots, but she was just as worthy as the other women who wore clothing like this.
I love you, Abigail. Never doubt that.
She had Michael’s love. If ever in her life she’d felt like a princess, it was now.
He waited for her at the top of the stairs, his tall frame outfitted in a royal blue coat, a yellow waistcoat, and a starched white shirt with a mustard neckcloth. While she remained uneasy in this extravagant dress, he stood with his shoulders back, his head held high, every bit the confident man she knew. He belonged in these accoutrements as much as he belonged in his blues.
She had not before, but with him, she believed she could belong anywhere.
As she stepped toward him, the train trailed behind her across the floor, and though she had viewed this part of the gown as impractical at first, she now understood why women insisted upon it. She felt as though she were walking on clouds. For the first time since she’d been here, she didn’t exhibit the staggered drag that was her natural gait. She simply floated.
But as she neared him, she no longer thought of the trappings of finery that adorned her. His eyes fixed on her, love shining in his brilliant blue gaze. Everything else faded away as she returned his smile.
She took the arm he extended and together they descended to the main hall. When they reached the ground floor, instead of ushering her out the door, he led her down the hall and into a wing she hadn’t visited since the initial tour of his house. If her memory served, this space had been his mother’s conservatory, built onto the back of the house and facing the garden. The heavy curtains were drawn back from the floor-to-ceiling windows to let in the moonlight. Candles glimmered in every wall sconce, splashing the room in bright light. All the furniture had been cleared from the room, except for a long table off the side brimming with delicious-smelling food.
Music began to play. She startled at the noise, but Michael turned her toward the right corner. Smithers sat at the pianoforte. Next to him, Mrs. O’Neal stood regally, a tin-whistle in her hands.
Abigail dropped his hand, surveying him quizzically. “I don’t understand.”
“You said you’d never been to a ball,” he answered. “So I brought the ball to you, or at least the best parts of it. No mandatory idle chatter with ninny-hammers at dinner. No forced partner switches, and certainly no ridiculous rules about the number of times I’m permitted to dance with you. Just you and me, my love.”
He’d remembered. Not only had he remembered, but also, he’d gone out of his way to arrange this dinner and dance. Tears sprung at the corner of her eyelids at his thoughtfulness, and she touched her glove to her eyes to staunch the flow. “I love it,” she breathed, hugging him. “It’s wonderful.”
He took her arm again and led her to the dinner table, where Cook had been drafted into serving, since Smithers was otherwise employed. “It’s a bit unconventional, yes, but I thought that fit us nicely.”
“We’ve never done things the standard way,” she agreed, as the cook placed a sumptuous rack of lamb on her plate, along with roasted potatoes, gravy, and carrots.
“Ah, but that’s the best part about us,” he teased. “Why be ordinary when you can be extraordinary?”
So the rest of the dinner went, with him making jokes and her laughing. Conversation with him was easy—words ebbed and flowed, and when they’d run out of things to say they sat in a comfortable silence. Perhaps that was what she appreciated most about him. She need not be anyone but herself.
When they’d finished the last of the chocolate cake, Michael pushed his chair back and then helped her up from hers. “May have I this dance, my lady?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to say anything that wouldn’t come out like a gleeful shriek.
Mrs. O’Neal started the song, high-pitched, breathy notes pouring from her tin-whistle. On any other night, Abigail would have called the tune melancholy, but as soon as Smithers joined in on the pianoforte, she thought she’d never heard such beautiful music before. The two instruments blended in perfect harmony; discordant on the surface, but melodic when paired the right way.
Just like her and Michael.
He escorted her out into the middle of the room, his hand joined in hers. As the music swelled around them, he placed his hand on her waist, and waited for her to assume proper position.
“I’ve never waltzed before,” she confessed. “Somehow I don’t think the dance halls the costers host is what you have in mind.”
He pulled her close to him, placing her hand on his shoulder. He then lifted their joined hands so that he could lead her. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” he said as they began to glide across the floor. “You just follow my steps. And if that doesn’t work? You teach me how to dance like a coster.”
She beamed up at him, her anxiety soothed. “I think that could be arranged.”
Michael’s firm hands steadied her. Her skirts swirled about the floor after him in a filmy tempest. Soon she was able to follow the steps to the waltz without having to exert a great amount of effort.
She could focus instead on the nearness of him. The way his hand at her waist made her all sorts of tingly, though he’d touched her far more intimately before. But it was this—the gentlest of touches—that nearly undid her. His scent filled her nostrils. Pine, cigar smoke, and something undeniably male. She couldn’t breathe without smelling him, without feeling him, without looking into his eyes.
It was intoxicating. Could she be drunk on love? Doubts hummed in her mind, but she ignored them. So what if Michael hadn’t formally acknowledged her as his new mistress? He’d planned this beautiful evening for her and admitted his love for her.
A wave of giddiness swept over her. As he twirled her around the room, quizzing her about this and that, she laughed until her breath was short and she was dizzy from the many spins. She hardly recognized the passage of time. All that mattered was that she was in Michael’s arms. She felt loved.
When her back wasn’t to the servants, he caught her eye, winking at her as his hand slid down from her waist and cupped her bottom. He ducked his head to whisper into her ear. “All I can think about is stripping that bloody gown off of you.”
His breath against her neck and the heat of his palm on her rump brought a flush to her cheeks. She’d thought he would tire of her after the first two times, but he was still as randy as a young buck.
He swirled her around, his hand still on her rear, even though she faced his staff now. His wicked grin was enough to forestall any objection from her. She’d wanted sex against the window, and she wanted this too.
“You’re a little exhibitionist,” he murmured. “I like that about you.”
Her brows furrowed. “It doesn’t make you think I’m tawdry?”
“It makes me think you’re honest.” He spun her around and brought her back to him. “I never want you to question yourself when I’m around. I like that you’re open about your desires. It makes it easier on me to fulfill them.”
“Ah, you’re so certain you can satisfy me,” she jested.
“I haven’t had any complaints yet.” Smoothly, he turned her again, the grace of his movements reminding her just how skilled he was in bed. He laughed, apparently sensing the shift in her thoughts, for his smile was smug.
Last week, she might have tried to deny her attraction to him so that he wouldn’t get the upper hand. Now, there was no point. He held her well within his grasp.
> She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder as they swayed in time. “This is an amazing surprise.”
He held her closer. Mischievous mirth sparkled in his eyes. “It’s not over yet.”
She drew back from him skeptically. “There’s more?”
Releasing her, he waved to Smithers. The butler ceased playing. The sound of Mrs. O’Neal’s tin-whistle filled the air, sweet and harmonious. Michael dropped down on one knee before her, pulling out from the pocket of his coat a square box.
He couldn’t be proposing. She must squash the hope that desperately cloyed within her. Their difference in social standing eliminated all possibilities of equality.
“Abigail Vautille, you have entranced me since the first moment I saw you.” He opened the box, revealing a gold necklace with a tiny amethyst heart on it.
So this was a formal acknowledgment of her position as a mistress. She should nod. She should thank him. She should kiss him.
She should do anything but fervently wish he’d ask for her hand in marriage.
But he continued, and all certainty about what should exist between them vanished. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
20
A terrible silence filled the conservatory. One, four, then twelve seconds ticked by, until Michael was convinced time had stopped between when he’d asked the hardest question of his life and this moment, as he awaited Abigail’s response.
Abigail stood above him, an impenetrable fortress of woman, while he remained on this damnable floor beseeching her to accept him. He was more vulnerable than he’d ever been. His knee ached from bearing the weight of his body.
He never begged.
But she was worth it.
Say something, please.
Her words came out in a fit of jerks and halts, the trepidation in her voice killing him. “Are—are you jesting me?”
