Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) (31 page)

THIRTY-SEVEN

Snuggled on Hux's lap, I fell into a dreamy stupor during the carriage ride. 'Twas as if all the starch had dissolved from my bones and left me floppy as jelly. I stirred only when Hux carried me into the inn. A yawning proprietor came down the stairs to greet us. He did not ask any questions when Hux introduced us as husband and wife in need of lodgings for the night. As the innkeeper arranged to have his best rooms readied, Hux said to me in a low voice, "You do not mind, do you, Abby? As soon as I can procure a special license, we will be wed in truth."

I smiled drowsily at him. "It is the truth of my heart already."

Our suite turned out to be clean and comfortable. A bath had been brought up, curls of steam rising from the old-fashioned tin tub. With fatigue weighing my eyelids and limbs, I thought the bed held far more appeal. Hux murmured, "Relax, Abby. Let me take care of you."

Too tired for modesty, I let him undress me as if I was a child. He lowered me gently into the fragrant water. Silky waves lapped at my shoulders. My neck resting against the tub's edge, I felt strong fingers massaging soap over my scalp and skin. Relaxation spread as his deft touch soothed away all aches. I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew I was being lifted again. After toweling me off, he brought me to bed and tucked me in the soft, warmed sheets.

Sighing, I reached for him. "Stay with me ..." I mumbled.

"I'm filthy, love. But after I bathe, I'll be back," he whispered. "And I promise to hold you the rest of the night and all the nights beyond."

I nodded against the pillow, my eyes already closing.

I awoke to the morning light and a buzz of invigoration. It took me a moment to recall where I was. Feeling the solid, warm presence nestled against my back, I smiled. Hux had kept his promise. He had held me all through the night. Hearing his deep, even breathing, I eased over carefully to face him. Translucent ribbons slipped through the shutters and fell upon his sleeping face. They burnished the silver in his hair, softened his austere perfection with a boyish glow. He looked peaceful ... and utterly delicious.

Unable to help myself, I kissed his bristled cheek. I followed the rough trail of his evening beard, nuzzling his jaw, the clean-smelling hollow of his throat. I heard him murmur sleepily as my fingers cruised over the paved muscles of his chest. Delighting in the textures of satin-smooth skin and wiry hair, I let my mouth follow. I licked softly at the discs of his nipples, loving how they stiffened beneath my tongue. Feeling something else harden against my thigh, I purred. I heard his breath quicken as my fingers brushed the straining shaft.

Throwing aside the covers, I admired his long, sculpted form. I stroked the quivering, taut bands of his belly before diving head-first toward the object of my attention. With my lips and my hands, I worshipped his rampant virility. I heard his breathless groan, his fingers clenching in my hair as his hips pressed upward into my kiss. Reveling in his pleasure, I relaxed and tried to take as much of him as possible. I sucked his cock deeper and deeper as my fingers played with the heavy, shifting weights beneath. I adored the feel of him, the taste of him, the primal sounds of his passion.

Suddenly, fingers dug into my hips, and I was hoisted to a startling new position. I now lay atop him, my intimate flesh poised over his mouth. Shivers racked me as he held me open, his tongue laving hotly up and down my slit. My head fell against his thigh as he suckled and licked. My breath formed a staccato of quick, ecstatic pants.

"Don't let me distract you," he said thickly, and I moaned as his fingers filled and stretched me. "Keep at it, my darling. Let me feel your beautiful mouth while I feast on you as well."

His words ignited a trembling excitement. Such a thing could be done? Eager to discover, I did as he bade. The two-fold pleasure roared over me like a waterfall. Sensation cascaded, so much of it that I lost track of its various tributaries. I moaned around his cock as he rocked me over his own voracious mouth. Bliss skewered my insides, the decadent pleasures swamping me from head to toe. I experienced the stiffening tension, the instant before the storm, and then a wild and wondrous release ricocheted within me.

Before I could regain my breath, I was upon my back, Hux hovering over me. He entered with a strong thrust, and his lashes trembled as my still quivering flesh enveloped him.

"I love you," he said gutturally, "so damned much ..."

"I love you, too," I whispered back, my fingers finding his on the mattress.

With our hands tightly linked, he began to move within me. The thick, tender surges brought heat to my eyes. Looking up into his beloved face, I felt his love filling me, expanding my limits. The joining transcended our physical bodies. Every part of me yearned for every part of him. His eyes darkening to indigo, he quickened his pace, his loving so deep and powerful it nudged the center of my soul. Tremors loosened within me as I chanted his name in helpless delight.

"So beautiful," he groaned as my flesh rippled and pulled at him. "You are so beautiful and you're mine—"

He shuddered. The waves of his fulfillment coalesced with mine, the world washing over in a sparkling deluge. For many moments after, we lay there, silent and entwined. No words could express the thudding contentment, the glorious peace of knowing love without barriers.

As I listened to my beloved's heartbeat, I could scarce believe that a lifetime of such moments would be ours.
Could be
, a voice within me corrected.
There's more to talk about, more to decide.
Like a pesky insect, awareness pierced through my sensual daze. We had yet to discuss the remaining hurdle ahead. I had yet to convince him of the necessity of seeing his quest through together. As one, united against the dark.

Taking a deep breath, I said, "There is something I want to ask you."

"Whatever you want, the answer is yes."

Amused in spite of myself, I tilted my head to look at him. His eyes were closed, his lips faintly curved. "I'm being serious," I said.

"So am I," he replied. "Whatever you want, Abigail, it is yours."

"In that case, I want to know if you still have anything in your possession—any object—that belonged to your wife."

I felt him tense. "Why?"

"Because I want to use it to help you find Lilith."

"No." In a flash, he rolled over me, fixed me with a forbidding look. "I won't have you involved any further in this. The terms of our agreement have not changed. We are getting married, and then you are going to Yorkshire to wait for me. Edgar will accompany you. You can trust him."

"Bollocks to our bargain. I am not going anywhere without you," I said stoutly. "Besides, you don't need to go off chasing demons any longer. That is what I'm trying to tell you. I have figured out a way to locate Lilith."

"You're not coming hunting with me, and that is final," he said.

Resisting the tug of impatience, I said, "You are not listening to me. I don't have to go anywhere. I can track Lilith from the safety of my own room, if need be. My visions, Hux—I can use them."

I saw comprehension flash in his eyes; the next instant it was replaced by a stubborn crease between his brows. "You said yourself those visions were virulent, like a madness. I will not have you deliberately exposing yourself to such danger. What if they overpower you, what if the darkness claims you as it did your mother?" His jaw tightened. "Forget it, Abigail. There is no way in hell I am letting you take that risk."

"I can resist Lilith's power," I reminded him. Laying my palm against his bristled cheek, I felt the hard-edged tension. "I have the necklace, remember? I can spy on her, but she cannot sense me. All I require is an object that she has touched. Have you one, Hux?"

For several moments, he stared down at me with bright frustration. I knew he wanted to argue, but he could find no fault with my logic. Something bleak clouded his eyes. Rolling off the bed, he stalked to the window in naked splendor. His arm bracing against the pane, he said in a ragged voice, "Simon was right. It kills me to say this, but he had the truth of it. You would be better off with him."

"I don't love Jack," I said. "I love you."

"At the least with him, you would not be harrying off after demons, risking your life ... and for what? For a bedeviled man. For the sake of a vengeance I cannot let go. Hell and damnation, why can't I let Lilith go?" He turned, and my chest throbbed at the anguish in his eyes. "I am damaged goods, Abby, and you deserve better. You deserve someone who can devote his entire self to your happiness. Who can protect you from darkness, not invite it to your doorstep. That is why I left you yesterday—to finish this so that I can come to you a whole man."

"You are whole." I went to him. Pressing my hand to his chest, I felt the thundering, vital core of him beneath my palm. "She destroyed your life, but not your heart. That is mine now, Hux, and I will guard it with everything in me."

A tremor stole over his powerful muscles. He was battling the demons within him, I realized. The ones whose power surpassed even Lilith's. "I am cursed," he said hoarsely. "Everyone I have ever loved, my brother, my son—"

"There is nothing wrong with you." Constraining his jaw with a tender touch, I guided his gaze to mine. "Listen to me. You are not to blame for the past, nor can you change it. But there is a future waiting. One we will create together, side by side." Another shudder went through him, his lashes dark spikes over reddened eyes. "Together we can face anything," I said softly. "You trust in me, in our love, don't you? You must, or Lilith will win."

With a rough sound, he hauled me against him. He buried his face in my hair. "I don't know if I can go down this path—I cannot lose you, Abigail."

Wrapping my arms around him, I whispered, "You won't lose me, my love. We will keep each other safe. I promise you our love will keep us safe."

THIRTY-EIGHT

Given the state of my clothes, we went directly to a dress shop after breakfast. By a stroke of luck, the seamstress had on hand a lace-trimmed blouse and burgundy velvet skirt that fit me spot on. She finished the ensemble with a fitted silk vest, a saucy feminine version of a waistcoat. Now suitably garbed, I accompanied Hux to our destination in Chelsea. Built in the last century, the houses on Cheyne Walk were mostly large and rambling, many with views of the Thames. Hux had the driver stop in front of number 16. Possessed of a plain Georgian front of brick and wood, the building had broad pilasters and well-proportioned windows which likely let in good light—an important characteristic, I surmised, given the nature of the occupant's profession.

As we mounted the steps to the porch, I said, "Do you think he will remember you?"

"He ought to," Hux replied, "given what I paid him for the painting."

He rang the bell. I had only a moment to wonder what the famous artist and his sensual muse might be like before I heard scuffling steps from within.

The door opened, squealing in protest.

"What's yer business then, eh?"

Startled by the greeting, I blinked at the woman filling most of the doorway. She seemed characterized by an excess of flesh, and much of it revealed by the flowing, semi-transparent pink robe she wore. As her eyes squinted out from her puffy face, I experienced an odd flicker of recognition. She gave her head an impatient shake, and her loose tresses rippled like a river of copper.

"Good day, Miss Cornforth," Hux said, bowing. "I'm sure you don't remember me—"

"Well, blow me down the riv'r. If it ain't the bloody earl!" she exclaimed. To my shock, she threw herself at Hux. "'Tis been 'alf doz'n years, at least. Give us a kiss, then, fer ol' times."

With a pained look in my direction, Hux extricated himself from her embrace. He took her hand and kissed it.

"Ooo, such a gent, ain't you?" Her thick, sticky-sweet Cockney was beginning to grate on my nerves. That, and the coy way she batted her lashes at Hux. "I remember that 'bout you, Huxy, I do," she cooed. "But there's no call to be shy 'round Fanny."

"Miss Fanny Cornforth," Hux said, clearing his throat, "I'd like to introduce you to Miss Abigail Jones. My fiancée."

"Fiancée?" she gasped, pulling back from him. "Well, blow me o'er again. Yer getting' hitched? To 'er?"

For some reason I nodded, though the question was not directed at me. I was still reeling from the fact of who it was eyeing me up and down. This was Fanny Cornforth. The model for the infamous painting of Lilith. It appeared she had changed much during the past several years—mostly in the outward direction. Yet I was beginning to see the similarities. The thick, red-gold hair hanging nearly to the floor. The voluptuous lips, the way the bottom one extended beyond its counterpart by a sensual millimeter or two. Behind pads of fat, light hazel eyes scrutinized me with frank curiosity.

"We've come to see Rossetti," Hux said. "On a matter of business."

Snorting, Fanny ushered us in. "Sure o' that, are you? Wait 'til 'e gets 'is eyes on this one." Before I could ask what she meant, she opened her mouth wide and yelled, "Ri-ssetty! You's got comp'ny!"

"'E'll be 'ere shortly," she informed us. "Why don't you make yerself at 'ome. We'll 'ave a spot o' tea in the sittin' room."

We followed her through a little hall paved with black and white squares. She turned right into a front parlor, and I saw that my earlier speculation had been correct: the rooms did have excellent light. The walls were a lush, leaf green, the perfect foliage for the vivid paintings crowding its surface. The odd, exotic knick-knacks cluttering the mantle and the heavy, medieval-looking furniture contributed to the bright, eclectic feel of the room.

"I'm a terrible 'ousekeeper," Fanny announced, throwing some books off a couch and indicating for us to sit upon the vacated cushions.

Carefully navigating around crumpled pieces of parchment, I wondered if that indeed was her role in the household.

As if reading my mind, she gave me wink. "But Rissetty don' mind. 'E's got other uses for the likes o' me."

I smiled weakly.

Next to me, Hux wore an expression of impatience.

Trying to think of something polite to say, I looked to the stuffed peacock next to the fireplace. Its beady eyes were forever frozen in a fierce glare, its tail feathers fanned out in warning. "That is an ... interesting sculpture, Miss Cornforth," I said. "Is Mr. Rossetti a collector of animals?"

She laughed, the sound rich and appealing. "Don' you know it. Ol' Roderick there used to 'ave the run o' the 'ouse 'til the neighbors complained 'bout the squawking. Can't say I mind—'im was a nasty brute, despite them fine feathers. But wait 'til you meet the wombat. 'E's 'round 'ere somewhere."

"The wh—" I began, when I felt a sharp yanking on my skirt.

I looked down and screamed.

The giant-rat-tiny-bear-creature grinned up at me.

"Don't mind Willy," said a new male voice. "He's just curious about visitors."

Hux had already shooed the thing away, and it—Willy—lumbered off with a little smile on his furry face.

"Rossetti," Hux said as he stood to shake hands.

"Earl Huxton," the portly man replied, "a pleasure, a pleasure. Please, have a seat. Dear Elephant, haven't you served them tea yet?"

My mouth gaped at the awful endearment.

"Not yet, Rhino," came Fanny's nonchalant reply. "'Ad to entertain them, didn't I, since you were takin' yer sweet time."

"I'm here now," Rossetti pointed out.

With a grunt, Fanny departed.

"Women," he said. Then his eyes shifted to me.

His was an arresting face, despite the weight and lines that the years had added. On the ride over, Hux had filled me in on the details he knew about Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Half-Italian and half-English, Rossetti had been known as a hot-blooded man in his youth. His paintings of mystical women, sensual and undeniably erotic to the eye, continued to fire the imaginations of those who purchased them.

The painter bowed before me. He was a portly man no taller than five feet seven or eight, yet his bristling presence seemed to fill the room. To my surprise, he reached for my hands and pulled me to my feet. With his dark curling hair and warm complexion, one would have expected darker eyes. Instead, his were a curious light blend of blue and grey, and they skimmed over me with disconcerting interest.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss ..."

"This is Miss Jones. My fiancée."

Hux's emphasis on the last word did not escape Rossetti, who chuckled and pressed a lingering kiss on the back of my hand. "Ah, you do well to guard her, my lord. She is a treasure indeed. I should like to paint her—the eyes especially. They capture light in the most intriguing manner." I swallowed as he circled me, his hand to his chin, his movements charged with energy. "Yes, you see? Different from every angle. You cannot tell if the light is being reflected, or if it is coming from within. The shining beacon of a pure soul. Yes, yes, I must have her …"

I stared at him.

"Sit for me," he clarified.

Hux's teeth were bared. "Her services are not for hire, Rossetti, so best get any thought of that out of your mind."

The painter looked affronted. "I wish only to paint her, my lord. A portrait. For your own collection. Though," he added, with a sly smile at me, "I reserve the right to do a sketch or two for myself."

"That is enough," Hux said, jaw clenched. "We have come today about the painting I purchased from you years ago."

Rossetti's heavy eyelids lowered as if in memory. "Ah, yes.
Lady Lilith.
One of my finest works, my lord. To this day, I regret how I parted with her for a song."

"'Twas more like a full-length opera, and you know it. At any rate," Hux said, his eyes turning to me, "Miss Jones has seen the painting, and she fancies the idea of having the bracelet in the picture for her own."

Rossetti looked at me with a puzzled frown.

Time to play my part. The one we had rehearsed on the ride over.

"Yes," I put in with a silly laugh, the kind I imagined a society belle would have, "I thought to myself, wouldn't it be splendid to wear the same ribbon round my wrist as is in the painting? It would make a delightful conversation piece. Me, accessorized with the picture! Why my friends would simply die of envy."

"Hmm. I am not sure where the bracelet is anymore," Rossetti said. "I painted that portrait years ago."

"Surely it must be somewhere," I said. "If it cannot be the bracelet, then the comb would do. How lovely it would be to have the same tines running through my hair as did through Lilith's."

Too late, I caught my slip; my gaze shot to Hux, who gave a faint shake of his head.

Fortunately, my ploy to appear as an empty-headed debutante was having the desired effect. Rossetti beamed a charming smile upon me. "How you flatter me, my dear! 'Tis an artist's greatest achievement when the subject becomes reality in the viewer's eyes. Very well, then, we will search for this magical comb and bracelet, the accessories of the Queen of Demons herself!"

Taking my arm, he propelled me toward the door. Just in time to narrowly avoid collision with Fanny, who bore a heavily laden tray in her hands.

"Come, Elephant," he cried, "we are on an expedition today! To the studio!"

Fanny's response singed my ears.

*****

The artist's studio occupied what I imagined to be the original dining room of the house. After passing out of the hall through a deep archway, we veered right through a door and into a spacious room with tall windows and a high ceiling. It was clearly a working area: canvases in various states of completion leaned against the walls, and notebooks and paper lay scattered in piles upon the furniture and the bare wood floor. Shelves lined the entire end of a room, crammed with books and boxes and various oddities.

"It's in here somewhere," Rossetti announced.

Muttering to himself, he headed for the desk and began shuffling through the drawers. The three of us waded in after him. I looked at Hux, who shrugged. Going to the bookcase, he pulled a box from the top shelf. He reached in and retrieved what appeared to be a human skull decorated with sequins and feathers.

"Just' make yerself at 'ome, dearie," Fanny advised. "This could take a while."

As Hux continued to go through the shelves, I wandered the perimeter of the room, sifting through the various baskets and boxes upon the floor. I could not help but study the paintings I passed, marveling at the jewel-like tones and the dreamy realism of the scenes. One unfinished canvas in particular caught my eye: it featured a woman fallen by the side of the road. Her face was averted, her figure hidden by a gaudy shawl. An earnest young man stood beside her as if trying to help. In the background, there appeared to be a calf; it was only half-painted, the beginnings of a rope extending around its grayish cream flanks.

A chill ran through me at the animal's eyes: they were dark, flat pits, devoid of any spirit.

"What do you think of it, my dear?"

I turned to see Rossetti behind me, his eyes upon the painting.

"Oh, I do not know much about art, sir," I said quickly.

"'Tis not art I am asking you about, but this painting. What does it evoke for you? What is stirred in you, looking at this scene?"

Hesitant, I studied the picture a few moments more. "'Tis a powerful allegory," I said finally. "I suppose it makes me feel ... grief. For the girl who has lost her innocence, the boy his first love. Like the calf, they are victims of a natural order."

Rossetti's eyes darkened, his expression emanating a sudden intensity, as if lit by an inner flame. "Yes, that is it exactly, Miss Jones. We are all subject to forces beyond our control. Loves lost, lives given to meaningless sacrifice. Things that cannot be changed no matter how we wish them otherwise."

"But surely there is self-will involved," I said, my skin prickling. "Some degree of control over one's destiny."

"Is there, Miss Jones?" The artist's light, piercing eyes caused disquiet to dance through me. "Or are we simply fooling ourselves into thinking we can determine what the universe has already set out for us?"

I licked my dry lips and tried to quell the apprehension sown by his words.

"Rissetty, stop pesterin' the guests." This came from Fanny, who came up to us with a lidded basket balanced against her hip.

"I am not pestering her," Rossetti said. "I am merely conducting a meaningful discussion about the nature of art. Something you apparently know little about, though God knows I've tried."

"Sit bloody still for 'ours at a time, don't I? Don't move an 'air, do I, while you wait fer the light to be
jus' right
. Wots that, if not sacrificin' fer bleedin' art?"

Throwing his hands in the air, Rossetti stalked away.

Fanny rolled her eyes in a good-natured manner. "Ne'er mind 'im. 'E's jus' full o' piss 'bout this 'ere picture."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Been workin' on it for o'er ten years, 'e 'as. That piece o' cloth an' paint 'as more commissions than an army. And 'e still can't finish what 'e started." Fanny sighed with dramatic flair. "Ain't that jus' like a man."

I managed a little smile.

"Anyhow," she continued matter-of-factly, "I think I found what yer lookin' fer."

She flipped open the lid of the basket, and my breath jammed in my throat.