by Erica Monroe
“What?” He couldn’t fathom her response. “Do you really think I’d play such a cruel trick?”
“No, but—”
“Christ, woman, I’m on bended knee!” He gestured to his current position, waving the box with the necklace in it so wildly it almost upended. “I’ve told you I love you; I’ve told you I want more from you than a mistress. How could you not know that I’m serious?”
“Oh.” She reached, not for the box, but for his hand. Pressing his palm between both hands, she helped him up from the floor. In a flash, she was in his arms, nestled on the blue fabric of his coat, her warm body snug against him. “Then yes, of course I’ll marry you!”
Over in the corner, Smithers struck up a jaunty tune. Mrs. O’Neal followed him on the tin-whistle. As the music played, Michael clasped Abigail to him, consumed by her sweet floral scent, by the joy in her reply. Happiness washed over him in a torrential downpour. Every reservation he’d had disappeared because she’d said yes, and she was to be his forever.
Tilting her chin up to meet his, he enveloped her lips in a kiss. She melded to him almost immediately, giving and taking what he offered with her own brand of passion. His heart beat against his chest, while his blood thrummed to the sound of her sighs.
He could have kissed her forever.
Abigail pulled back from him, her pretty lips puckered. “But what about Lady Elliot? She’ll never speak to—”
He silenced her with another kiss. “You let me worry about Frances. If she can’t accept us, then it is her problem, not ours. I can’t say that I’ll lament the loss of her letters and godawful party invites.”
“Family is important, Michael,” Abigail scolded him, her face paling as a new thought struck her. “Oh God, my family. If we marry, you could be held responsible for all my father’s debts.”
He shrugged, no longer caring about his damn budgets. It didn’t matter, as long as he had Abigail. “So I’ll pay them.”
“You have no idea how much he’s gambled.” She grimaced. “The sum sickens me. At least you ensured he’s not able to gamble any longer.”
“Abigail, all I care about is that you are happy.” He tweaked her nose, delighted when she smiled back at him. He had a lifetime to soothe her worries. Damnation, it felt good. “And your sister, for she matters to you.”
Abigail’s cheeriness had returned. When she smiled at him, she positively glowed. “Bess will be delighted.”
Tugging her closer to him, he kissed the nape of her neck, his tongue caressing her skin. “She’s not the only one who’s delighted. I’m the luckiest man alive.”
Abigail laughed, playfully smacking his chest. “Haven’t we given your poor staff enough of a show?”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “There are some activities much more suited to the privacy of a bedroom.”
Later that night, when they rested intertwined in the sheets, both well sated and fatigued, he wove his fingers in hers and kissed the top of her head. The amethyst necklace he’d sent Mrs. O’Neal to buy for her hung around her neck, long enough that the charm fell in between her breasts.
She wore no gloves. He’d insisted she remove them, unwilling to sacrifice the ecstasy that was her bare hands stroking down his body, encircling his cock. He felt the stirrings of arousal in him at the memory of it.
She rubbed her thumb up and down the length of his index finger. “If this is a dream, please don’t wake me.”
He nipped her ear. “No dream. Just the beginning of a new life.”
She sighed, stretching out against him. “I keep thinking if I blink, it’ll all go away.”
“You won’t get rid of me that easily.” He draped his arm across her side, a niggling feeling in the back of his mind. He’d been about to tell her something in the ballroom before they’d kissed…
She burrowed closer to him. “If Clowes has his say, we might not be here for long at all.”
“Devil take my brain,” he cursed under his breath, remembering what he’d meant to say. Of course, Clowes. In the rush of his yearning for her, the bastard had slipped his mind. “The Met would have my head for being so damn distracted.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I received a message tonight,” he explained. “I expected that my top sergeant would tell me Clowes had been caught.”
She clutched his hand tighter, her nails digging into his palm. “And has he been?”
“No.” He felt her body tense against him and strove to reassure her. “But we have evidence that Clowes booked a ticket on a steamer to Ireland. My men questioned Madame Massle and found the receipt in Clowes’s room at her brothel.”
She relaxed marginally. “Did anyone see him get on board?”
“Sergeant Hume saw the back of his head as the ferry pulled away from the dock. Clowes was about to go into the cabin. Hume dived into the water after the ship, but ultimately the ferry was too fast.” Though he’d certainly have preferred to catch Clowes, he couldn’t help but snicker at the image of Hume soaking wet.
“Will anyone be waiting for the ship when it docks?” she asked.
“We’ve contacted some of our assets in Ireland.” He wasn’t entirely confident they’d be able to retake Clowes, for the Met had little foothold outside of London. Still, having Clowes in Ireland was preferable to him being in the City.
“I hope you catch him.” She drew her foot up against his leg, the touch so casual it made his heart swell.
He’d spend the rest of their lives making sure she was always as comfortable around him as she was in this bedroom. Abigail with her guard down was beautiful. He felt privileged to be the one she trusted.
Her foot trailed a bit higher up his calf. “Do you trust Hume’s judgment?”
“Hume is a good officer; despite his abysmal personality and whatever history he has with my sister.” Michael groaned inwardly at that thought. As soon as things settled down, he’d have to order Hume away from his sister, as much for Hume’s own good as for Frances.
Abigail shifted to meet his gaze, the faint light of hope shining in her eyes. She dragged her fingers up his arm, her touch as faltering as her words. “Are you sure? Is he really gone?”
He nodded. All of the evidence pointed to the jackanape having left town. “I also had my patrollers search his room, and all of his belongings were gone. In Clowes’s second note, he said we’d never stop him. I think he was referring to his departure from England.”
Her lips split into a wide smile. “Then we’re finally free of him?”
“Yes, my love.” He laid a kiss on top of her head and linked his fingers in hers. “We are finally free. You’re going to be mine for a long, long time.”
He held Abigail closer to him, calmed by the feel of her beside him. Their nightmare was over. Their new life had begun.
Abigail settled against him, her eyes drifting closed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt as tranquil as when he was with her. Nothing else was as important as she was.
Michael thought of the day when Knight had told him he was leaving the Met. “You’re giving in to the whims of a chit?” he’d asked, thinking Knight was weak for succumbing. Now, he saw the bond Knight had with Poppy was too crucial to risk. No matter what, he’d fight to keep what he had with Abigail. Nothing would come between them.
He was glad he’d told the Knights about Abigail from the beginning. He wanted to tell them of the love he’d found with Abigail, but he wasn’t so sure she’d support this idea. After all, she and Poppy were still at odds.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he murmured, choosing his words carefully.
Abigail slanted her chin upward so she could see him. “Another question?”
“Of significantly less momentous proportions,” he assured her. “I’d like to tell Knight and Poppy of our engagement, but I know how you feel about them. Perhaps you’ll think it’s none of their business.”
Her face scrunched up. “Is i
t important to you?”
He nodded. Knight was the one colleague who hadn’t abandoned him after his promotion. “He is my friend, and once she was yours. Don’t you want that friendship back?”
She stilled in his arms. Shook her head. “I…I don’t know. Possibly? I miss the closeness we had, the feeling that we’d always be there for each other. I miss being able to talk to her about anything.” The admission came out heavily, as if she’d held it back for a long time.
He remembered Poppy’s face, crumpled by the loss of her friend. “I know she misses you. And if she could, she’d change what happened in an instant. Love, we were all so damned foolish, not taking the Larkers seriously.”
Abigail sat up suddenly, as though she were a marionette whose strings had just been pulled. “What do you mean, ‘we’?”
He stiffened, her razor-sharp tone telling him he ought to be careful with what he said. “When Knight presented Anna Moseley’s murder, we all wrote it off. Everyone in our division. A girl dying in the rookeries is sad, yes, but it doesn’t indicate a conspiracy.”
Her icy blue gaze connected with his and the air crackled with her anger. “You were mistaken. Anna Moseley was murdered, and I paid the price because your department didn’t look into it sooner.”
He struggled to remember what he’d told her when she’d asked about his involvement in the case. I came in after the fact. Shit. It was not exactly a lie, as he’d completed the investigation, but technically….Michael had withheld the complete truth about Knight coming to him with the case before he was dismissed.
He’d believed it was the best thing for Abigail to believe he’d had little involvement with the investigation. Who was he fooling? It’d been the simplest way to ensure she wouldn’t hate him. His earlier justifications for his actions dissipated, leaving only his mistake.
God, he was the worst of bastards. How could he have botched this so badly? He should have told her. He should’ve been honest. Instead, he’d acted as though her thoughts didn’t matter, as if she didn’t have a right to hate him. All because at first, he’d wanted to casually bed her. Then, as he’d begun to fancy her, he’d kept silent because he wanted her to stay with him.
Hadn’t he learned anything from the Old Bastard’s errors? He’d treated Abigail with cavalier disregard, as his father had done to his mother.
“That’s in the past.” He ran his hand down her back, trying to soothe her concerns. He had to get her back to him. One second, they’d been content in each other’s arms, and the next, she was pulling away from him. “What we have now is amazing—why waste more time going over what happened six months ago? I thought we’d moved beyond this.”
As soon as he’d said the words, he knew he’d chosen wrong, for she moved off of him, settling on the other pillow.
“Is that what you thought?” Her fingers toyed with the chain around her neck, almost as if she was ready to tear it from her neck. “Well, I thought you understood.”
“I do understand.” He tried to reach for her, but she slipped from his grip. “I was a coward, a bloody, bloody coward. I didn’t want to be dismissed. Didn’t want to hear the Old Bastard crow over how he always knew I’d amount to nothing. I regret every day that I didn’t get involved when Knight originally came to me.”
She tumbled from the bed in her haste to get away from him. “You knew? You told me you came in after the investigation was over.”
When he started to go after her, she snatched up the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her. As if him seeing her naked appalled her. How had they shifted from sex up against the window to this?
Excuses raced through his mind. Lies. More promises. Anything that would bring back the love in her eyes, replace the revulsion and fury. Damnation, it used to be so easy with other women.
But with her, he couldn’t smooth over her ire with a well-placed line. She was worth more than that. She was the best damn thing that’d ever happened to him, and he’d risked it all by not telling her the whole truth.
“Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you,” he avowed. “I’m going to make this right.”
“When?” She whispered. Her question was so quiet he almost missed it. “When did you know Anna’s death wasn’t random?”
He got out of the bed, not bothering to grab a blanket to cover up. He would not be ashamed in front of her, not when he had the sinking notion that everything between them depended on this one bloody conversation. “Knight had suspicions from the start. But that’s all they were. Suspicions. I didn’t know for sure until Knight was dismissed so Whiting could cover up any involvement he ever had.”
He went toward her, intending to take her in his arms. If he could just reach her—touch her—maybe she’d remember that they were good together. This bond between them mattered more than bygone sins.
She stepped back, holding her hand out to stop him from coming to her. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me, not now.”
“Abigail, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He couldn’t go to her, couldn’t force her to believe him, so he pushed all his emotions into those words. “Please, please believe me, if I’d known what they were going to do to you, I never would have ignored the signs.”
Holding her hand up to him, she advanced closer, until he could’ve stretched out his arm and touched her. But the pale white of her face and the coldness that emanated from her stopped him in his tracks. He saw the defacement of her hand, and bile rose in his throat. Though he had not slammed her limb in that loom, he’d contributed to her torture. The Met had a duty to protect the innocent. He’d shirked that duty in favor of his own career advancement. Now he stood as a newly promoted inspector, wealthy and powerful, while she’d lost everything.
She didn’t close the distance between them, denying him the relief of touching her. As if she was no longer his. Her face had become a cold mask, as she’d looked that first night at Cruikshank’s.
“The signs, as you so put it, cost me the life I knew.” She no longer spoke to him with any sort of affection. “My ability to work. My sense of self. I bear those signs every damn day, and I can’t ignore them.”
“All this time I’ve been so angry at Poppy, but at least she did something! At least she tried to get justice for Anna. My scars aren’t Poppy’s fault. They aren’t Knight’s.” Her words were like bullets slicing through his heart, leaving nothing but shattered organs. “It’s your fault.”
21
She should’ve known better.
That one thought kept echoing through Abigail’s mind. She thought it when Michael got up from the bed, his bronzed body bare, calling to her in the most primal way. She thought it as she approached him, her hand outstretched so he could not ignore her scars. She thought it as he acknowledged his true involvement and asked for her forgiveness.
She should’ve known better.
She was a Vautille, and to be a Vautille meant to live alone. There’d be no happiness for her. In the months since the incident, she’d prayed her life wouldn’t worsen. Surely, she’d received her share of bad luck. The play must alter sometime. How foolish she’d been to think anything could change.
To think he could change.
He was nothing but a self-centered reprobate. In the end, he’d do whatever it took to get what he wanted, and he’d wanted her in his bed. A few lies meant nothing to him. Why had she believed she could alter him?
She should’ve known better.
“Abigail.” He made her name into a desperate plea, and her traitorous heart wanted so badly to crawl back into his embrace. “Before I met you, I was lost, don’t you see? I didn’t know what it meant to care about anyone else.”
Her hand slipped back down. She didn’t have the strength to face him so openly. Where were her gloves? She scanned the area, locating them on the armchair by the door. They’d undressed so quickly upon entering her room last night she hadn’t time to put them away.
She crossed the room, grabbing up her glove
s and sliding them on. She’d hide behind her armor, pretending that he hadn’t seen inside her soul, for it was the only way she knew to survive.
Turning to face him, she drew in a breath. Snapped her gaze back up to his face. “Put on some damn clothes, would you? The sight of you sickens me.”
Hurt spanned his face, setting his jaw. For a second she thought he’d refuse. But he strode over to his breeches and put them on. She breathed easier once he was clothed, yet each gasp for air still sliced away at the softest parts of her. Those weak, wretched bits that loved him still.
She tried to quiet her pounding heart. “You don’t know how to care. If you did, you wouldn’t have lied to me about this.”
His face crumpled at her harsh reply. “You were so angry about what Clowes had done to you. If earlier I said that Knight had come to me and I ignored his deductions, would you have stayed? No. You might have run from me, and I wouldn’t be able to protect you. I thought it’d be easier this way.”
“Easier for you,” she spat, pointing a finger at him. “I trusted you! I thought for the first time, here’s a Peeler who won’t lie to me. Here’s one who acknowledges his prejudice against the rookeries and wants to do better. Here’s one who accepts responsibility for his mistakes.”
“I was wrong. I failed you. I failed that poor murdered girl. I’m a smug son of a bitch who cared more about tupping you than your feelings.” He strode toward her. His expression was properly abashed—devil take her, how she wanted to believe he was sorry. “But I’m not that man now. I want you to know the truth. I love you, Abigail. I love you so much it’s ripped away those narcissistic, foul parts of me.”
She backed away from him, retreating until she was almost on top of the chair. She couldn’t get any farther away from him. Her mind jumbled when he was this near, and all she could think of was that she didn’t want to be the object of his pity. “How do I know it’s really love, and not your guilt?”
