For the Earl's Pleasure (7 page)

But as soon as he had tried to separate from Abigail, his thoughts had started to sieve loose again. The waterfall seemed to be there ever ready to catch him in her current and sweep everything that remained of him away.

It was incredibly frustrating.

Then there was the tug. He hadn’t said anything to Abigail, not that she would care. But it was like a snag in his jacket caught by a sharp hook. There was something definitely wrong. Well, there were many, many things wrong at the moment, but a creeping sense of dread was upon him. He needed to find out what it was and why, before some rogue monster alighted from under the bed.

As Abigail entered the room, Mr. Farnswourth greeted her like an overly excited puppy panting around her legs. A dozen scathing comments popped into Valerian’s head. He had cultivated quite a repertoire when it came to Abigail’s suitors—not that she had ever been able to observe or hear them all. And he had done well to make sure that society wasn’t any the wiser to his attention.

But when she was away, any suitor was fair, fair game and he had delighted in dispatching most of them.

Fifteen minutes later they were roaming around the park in Mr. Farnswourth’s barely adequate carriage and Valerian practiced poking the man between the eyes while Abigail pretended oblivion.

“Isn’t the weather just dandy today?” Farnswourth said as he shook the reins with a bit too much gusto, causing the team to lurch forward.

Valerian snorted and gave him another invisible poke—this time with two fingers right in the eyeballs.
Dandy
described a lot of things today.

Abigail continued to ignore him and responded to Mr. Farnswourth instead. She was completely bored by the man, it was obvious in every automatic response she uttered—displaying none of the fire or brimstone that she possessed when fully engaged.

A man walked along the edge of the Serpentine. He looked reflectively into the depths and tossed an acorn. There was something familiar about the man, but he was too far away to recognize.

Valerian would never admit that glasses made everything in the distance clearer. He’d never worn the blasted things, and as a result he had never been able to best Abigail Smart at shooting because of it.

He couldn’t believe that even in his dream he was poor-sighted for distance. What a stupid thing.

He looked back at Abigail. Mr. Farnswourth was sitting entirely too close to her and his foot was inching closer to hers still. Valerian narrowed his eyes and instinctively ran a finger down her arm, urging her to move away from the man. To his complete shock she shifted, moving her body an inch away. His mouth parted and he scrambled to sit up from his lazy position. He touched her again, wishing that she would tell the man to move them into the more heavily trafficked lanes.

“Mr. Farnswourth, would you care to show your beautiful carriage in the promenade?”

The idiot man straightened proudly. “Of course, Miss Smart.” But Valerian had eyes only for Abigail. Her brows drew together, pinching in thought. He moved his hand away, whistling as all sorts of delicious possibilities presented themselves.

If only he could touch her for real…

Abigail frowned. The thought had just popped into her head. Not that she wouldn’t have ignored it if she hadn’t been getting more bored with the outing. Still…

She looked at Rainewood, but he was merely staring out toward the other horsemen. She wondered what he was thinking.

Mr. Farnswourth moved them into the more well-traveled lanes. They made the standard circuit, promenading, then stopped to speak with a number of other carriages, collecting together. Carriages joined for a few minutes, then moved on to other groups, a constant stream of rotating groups. Women showing off their finery, men showing off their companions or horseflesh.

A chill went through her as Rainewood brushed her and she got the urge to walk.

“Mr. Farnswourth, would you like to walk a bit?”

“Of course, Miss Smart.”

She could see her mother and Mrs. Browning ahead, gathered in a group on foot that was chatting amiably.

They joined the group a few minutes later and a number of younger people did as well. A man that she didn’t know well joined them and gave her an encouraging look. He had always been nervous around her before. Had Rainewood really ruined so many relationships for her? She sent him a dark look. She couldn’t seem to send him anything but.

“Miss Smart, so good to see you.”

“And you.” She nodded to the man, a little surprised by his eagerness.

“Grandfather’s taken crazy,” Rainewood muttered. “Confirmed on that blasted list. Not enough sane thoughts in that family to rub together and make a quilt.”

A chill—from the cold, from his words, and from his touch—rocked through her as his fingers skimmed her arm. “Crazy thoughts seem to be going round though,” Rainewood continued muttering. “Ask him if his father has recovered from his recent bout of insanity himself.”

The fingers skimmed her arm and her lips moved without her consent. “How is your father? Has he recovered?”

Abigail watched, appalled at the question she had just asked, as the man’s eyes widened and he stuttered, “Yes, he is doing much better, thank you.”

Standing at their side, observing the interactions, Mrs. Browning’s lips parted an inch before pinching tightly. The poor man took off no more than twenty seconds later to parts unknown.

“Miss Smart,” Mrs. Browning hissed, under the earshot of the surrounding people. “What was the meaning of that?”

Abigail swallowed, horrified at herself. Rainewood looked smug.

“I had just heard that there was some turmoil in his family and wished to inquire after his father’s health.”

Mrs. Browning tutted. “Bad form. But obviously there is something there,” she said in a fashion as close to mulling as Abigail had ever seen. “Can’t have bad stock like that. I must make inquiries.”

Abigail turned dark eyes on Rainewood. He shrugged. “She’s right.”

It took everything in her to bite her tongue and not respond. The evening only went downhill from there.

She excused herself as soon as they returned home. She threw her reticule onto her coverlet. She didn’t know whether she wanted to follow the collapse of her article now that the day was over or give in to the ire that had grown to a boil.

She pointed at Rainewood. “You ruined my outing. My evening!”

He snorted. “I did not. I was simply trying to spice them up a bit for you. That man is dreadfully boring. And the others…” He waved a hand in disgust.

She poked a finger at him. “I need him. Them.”

His face turned unreadable. “Need them? Whatever for? An early death from complete boredom? If I hadn’t helped you along you might have succumbed.”

The suspicion that had been brewing all evening gelled. “You, you
made
me say those things!”

Rainewood crossed his arms. “And how is that?”

“I would never have said something about that man’s father! I don’t even know him!”

“But you asked the question, so you must have,” he said, a smile working the edges of his mouth. “Unless you are claiming that I have some power over you?”

She sputtered.

“Maybe I can make you do other things while I’m in this state.” He reached out fingers and she skirted them wildly, half afraid he was right.

He looked smug again. “I’m figuring out how to control this dream. Excellent. Soon I will have you begging, Abigail.” His eyes slid half shut and her fear increased. She feared that was all too true.

“Only if you suffer a complete reversal in personality, Rainewood,” she said instead, lifting her chin. “You are hardly someone to whom I will bow.”

“Oh, don’t be too sure, Smart.” He reached across just enough to brush ghostly fingers against her cheek. “So many possibilities in a dream where one can start fresh.”

She wished her mind weren’t just conjuring up the wistful tone to his voice, but this was Rainewood. He didn’t get wistful.

“That is wonderful for you that you can start fresh—be anything you want in your dream state.” She laughed bitterly, because she could never start fresh with him on her own terms and because he still viewed himself in a dream from which he would wake. “But I need those men.”

Need those men? Over his dead body.

“Need them for what? Target practice?” He examined his fingertips. “You are a veritable ogre. Or are you only rude to the men you
want
?”

Hot red—rage or embarrassment?—suffused her face. “You know, I thought it might have just been me who wanted you dead, but obviously there are others out there too! And you really do,
did
, have that bloody list everyone is talking about. You used it on that poor man today. Made
me
use it against him. If only I could give you a good knock on the head,” she said, the color in her face blazing, her chest heaving. “Might put you out flat for a while, and give me some peace!”

The stunned sensation of a missing key fitting into a lock clicked through him. He had no idea what his eyes showed, but he saw her face change from outrage to confusion. The hot color drained to her normal peaches-and-cream complexion. Concern flashed across her face, and she reached out a hand.

Before her hand could make contact, he flickered and was gone.

H
is eyes violently ripped open. But the pain of the candlelight two inches from his eyes and the tear of skin and lashes that hadn’t been opened for days dwarfed under the agony slashing through his body. Pain tore through him again as something crushed his smallest finger on his left hand. His back arched up and he tried to pull away.

“Awake and fighting,” a voice said. “Excellent. It does show some evidence. But can’t have you fouling my work yet. Can’t have that at all.”

His bleary eyes tried to focus on the speaker at his left. Something blocked the sun of the candle, hot liquid poured down his throat choking him, and he knew no more.

A
bigail strode up the stone walk and heavy steps of Grayton House.

“Miss Smart, stop fidgeting with your pelisse. You are the one who made me beg for this invitation. If Henny and I hadn’t debuted the same year, it hardly would have been possible. I expect you to be on your
best
behavior. I swear that if you…”

Mrs. Browning left the threat undefined as the door opened. The butler greeted them, relieved them of their wraps, and showed them to the tearoom. Abigail glanced around the hall, trying to locate her quarry. The insatiable servant spirits chased each other toward the ballroom, and she could hear the echoes of a bawdy ditty as well as see the frittering motions of an older woman dressed far too young for her age. Reliving her days as an ingénue.

But there was no stupidly handsome man with a cutting smile.

Mrs. Browning gave her a sharp pinch in the side as she passed by Abigail and entered the drawing room first.

Abigail knew she had taken a risk coming here. She now owed Mrs. Browning multiple unnamed favors that would undoubtedly be painfully repaid. But she’d been unsettled ever since Rainewood had disappeared.

He was gone. Truly gone. He had disappeared from her bedroom two days before. The whispers in the ton concerning his whereabouts and missed invitations had grown to a dull roar, but there wasn’t a peep of anything other than speculation and dismay. He was just…gone. That fact unsettled her in a way she hadn’t come to grips with upon seeing him as a ghost.

What if he…what if his spirit had moved on? She tried to convince herself that his passing would be a good thing. She stumbled over the words in her mind. He was out of her life for good. He had achieved peace. He had moved on.

He was out of her life
.

Her ears strained more desperately. The house echoed with the sounds of activity, but none of them what she hoped to hear.

“Welcome,” the Duchess of Palmbury, their hostess, said as she motioned them into the room. The dowager duchess gave Mrs. Browning a firm embrace on the forearm before they sat. She wasn’t nearly as cordial to her mother. Bad luck that the two had met before Mrs. Gerald Smart had perfected some polish.

“It’s been nearly a week since I’ve seen you, Mrs. Browning. I’m so glad you could stop in.” The dowager gave Abigail a sidelong glance. “And Miss Smart, how pleasant to see you again.”

“Likewise, Your Grace. It is a most favorable occurrence to see you once more.”

They exchanged the lies with vapid smiles.

“Undoubtedly.” The dowager’s pinched lips formed a point. She was a hag of the worst sort.

The woman had disliked her from their first meeting—when she had caught her by the back of the dress running through the kitchens, giggling riotously, sticks in her hair and a muddied duke’s son in her wake.

The animosity from that exchange had never disappeared. Had in fact grown worse with every scrape undertaken and new meeting discovered.

Her mother, as usual, was oblivious to the undercurrents. She was leaned forward in her seat, eagerness in every movement and a smile that could light the entire west side of London. Abigail loved her mother dearly, despite their problems, but why couldn’t she see…

No.

Abigail rubbed the ribbon running through the middle of her skirt between tight fingers. She just needed to secure a husband. Then her mother could have some social security. Maybe then she would settle like a basset hound instead of bob like a chirping westie.

Rainewood’s grandmother steered the conversation into increasingly inane topics to which Abigail and her mother continuously failed to submit interesting tidbits. There was a sort of clear victory in their hostess’s eyes, as if everything she had ever thought about the Smarts continued to play forth. Abigail could only wish that she hadn’t had the insane urge to come here and search for Rainewood.

“Your other charges, Petunia, how are they?” the dowager asked Mrs. Browning. “I must commend you again on the wonderful matches they made. A viscount for the first, to boot. A complete success all the way around no matter what happens.”

Abigail took a sip of her tea, not tasting the liquid. Not needing to see the significant look that was assuredly being passed from their hostess to Mrs. Browning. A look that said even if,
when
, Abigail failed, Mrs. Browning would still be a success. And at least she’d have a much fuller purse for having gone through the trial of the Smarts.

“Yes, Viscountess Berston is a lovely title and match.” Mrs. Browning touched her hair with her palm, then took her cup in hand. “Your grandson is quite the catch as well. Too bad that he was away when my niece Violet made her debut.”

The dowager inclined her head, tension forming about her eyes at the mention of the missing earl. “Yes, that would have been a splendid match. Violet is such a dear. And already two sons for Mr. Sestner. She would have made a fine duchess. And the fertile nature of the stock is a point in your family’s favor.”

Abigail coughed violently, her cup sloshing a drop of tea over the side.

The Duchess of Palmbury’s pinched features grew more pointed. “But some things, alas, cannot be overcome by—”

“Duchess, Mrs. Browning, Mrs. Smart, Miss Smart. Heston just informed me you had arrived.”

Abigail admired the timing of Rainewood’s younger brother in absenting himself for five minutes of their fifteen-minute visit. Though it was slightly bad form to appear so late, he was able to stretch protocol with a charmed smile. Not finding much use for protocol herself, she had to respect his escape from the inanity.

She gave him a firm nod with her greeting. One groomed brow rose in acknowledgment. Despite having known each other as children, they usually ignored one another out of the discomfort that arose from her feud with his brother.

He was greeted by the other women in turn and he sat down to make quick small talk for the time they had remaining. Lord Basil Danforth, sickly throughout his youth, had turned his frequent convalescences into extreme cleverness. Seemingly, the time that he had spent abed had allowed him to plot out his own future apart from his domineering father and grandparents.

Because of his illnesses she had never known him well. Instead she had spent her days with the unruly, forgotten middle child who had been abandoned by his father—for the heir—and by his mother—for the sickly second spare.

But now it seemed as if the sick child, who no one had expected to make it through childhood, would have the last laugh.

Basil would do well as the future duke. Affable with pleasant features. The type of man who didn’t raise men’s hackles, and who was a conversational hit with the ladies. If there was something entirely too calculating behind his eyes, then most seemed not to notice.

Heston, the butler, silently approached the dowager and whispered something in her ear.

“Invite them in, Heston. I’m sure Mrs. Browning will be charmed to speak with Lady Malcolm.”

Abigail withheld a wince. That meant that Raine wood’s group, or at least part of it, was in the foyer. They often traveled with Lady Malcolm, the mother of Rainewood’s rumored betrothed.

Mrs. Browning inclined her head in a neutral manner. A sideways glance warned Abigail against doing anything odd.

She felt Basil’s eyes on her as well, but no one said anything as the footsteps clicked through the hall, until Lady Malcolm in all her vibrant rose glory entered the room. “Your Grace.” She clasped the dowager’s hand. “Forgive our impertinence in calling, but we just couldn’t wait.”

She handed the dowager a box. “We found these on Bond Street and they are simply too delightful to keep to ourselves.”

The dowager opened the box of sweets as the rest of the party filed into the room.

“These are lovely, Lady Malcolm.” The dowager gave her a smile—though even her gracious smiles appeared like a barracuda about to devour her next meal.

Celeste Malcolm, Aidan Campbell, and Charles Stagen followed behind. Brows uniformly rose at seeing the Smarts. Celeste Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. The gossip concerning Rainewood’s interaction with Abigail was still fresh in the rounds.

It took a minute for everyone to exchange terse greetings and be seated. The fifteen shades of purple in the room became even more overwhelming as matched and complimentary chairs were drawn together.

Aidan Campbell’s chair was a mite closer to Abigail’s than she was comfortable with.

“We were just speaking of the balloon demonstration next week on the green,” Charles Stagen said to Basil before addressing the dowager duchess. “Campbell is just mad for them. He has been up in two already. Still trails Rainewood in number of lifts though.”

“Solid fun,” Campbell said, though his eyes tightened briefly. Worry over his friend? “Just the other day I said to Rainewood, ‘Raine, quite a future in the—’”

Her attention keeled as a more commanding presence, and the current topic of conversation, strode through the door. Something in her chest jerked in response and relief. She barely spared a glance to the others who continued the conversation without her.

Rainewood stopped abruptly when he saw her. He looked as if he’d been running, breath heaving in the way that it had when they’d been small—though without the laughter that had always accompanied it. The stray thought that he hadn’t learned he didn’t have to breathe crossed her mind.

“I thought it was you.” Rainewood took a step forward, then another. “I heard you from the study above, but couldn’t get here until someone opened the damn door. I couldn’t remember what was on the other side and there was a barrier again.” The words tumbled out in a fashion completely opposite from his usual controlled drawl. “I thought perhaps I’d dreamed your voice.”

Her own breath caught.

“I don’t even know how many moons have risen since I last saw your face.”

Her heart could have stopped beating in that moment and she wasn’t sure that she would have cared. Not only did he still remember her, something she had been unprepared for, but he was looking at her as if the sun rose only on her express permission.

“My focus only returned when you did.” He stepped around a chair.

“Miss Smart?”

She batted away the annoying voice that was attempting to divert her attention. Rainewood continued toward her, more quickly now with forceful steps. “I have barely been able to breathe without you. And here you are.”

Her heart vibrated her chest, reminding her that she was still very much alive, and she joined him in his race-worthy furious breathing.

“I could take you in my arms and kiss you senseless right now.”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“Miss Smart?” The voice retreated further from reality.

He reached for her and she closed her eyes. If only she could convince herself to feel the real touches—to feel the tingles turned into solid caresses.

She nearly dropped her cup when partially solid fingers, warm and firm, and
nearly real
, curled around her wrist. The fingers froze and her eyes tore open to stare into shocked chips of brown. Perfect lips pulled apart and a low breath emerged.

“Miss Smart?” Urgency laced the unwelcome voice. She watched the unmoving lips in front of her wishing it were Rainewood speaking instead.

His hand gently squeezed, calloused warmth caressing the underside of her wrist—not quite there, but not quite
not
there either. A question in the action and a stake of some type of claim. Her lips parted, completely undone by the feeling and intimacy.

“Miss Smart?”

The foreign feeling of intimacy made her nervous and something in her finally responded to the outside demand. She tore her gaze away. “Yes, Lord Basil?”

“I’ve been calling your name for many moments. You look as if you’ve been taken by fright.”

She gave a nervous laugh. She hadn’t truly expected to find Rainewood here, even though she had come expressly to see if he would be present. She definitely hadn’t expected that he would recognize her. And to
feel
him…what in the heavens…

She darted a look around the room, cold settling in her bones that perhaps this was all a trick. To think that Valerian would actually care and would touch her with anything other than manipulation…

But she could count on her own mother, in this instance at the very least. And her mother had plastered a friendly smile on her face as she watched with nervousness, awaiting Abigail’s answer. No exclamation was forthcoming about the earl’s sudden presence. No looks sent in his direction.

Mrs. Browning’s eyes reflected the normal shades of disappointment and demand for Abigail to behave properly. The others seemed equally oblivious to what had just occurred. All eyes fixed on her for explanation. Campbell was positioned like he might have been considering reaching over to shake her for good measure.

Rainewood truly was still a ghost. One who could nearly
touch
her.

She grasped for the first thing she could. “I was just admiring your vase there in the corner. The colors are exquisite.”

Basil gave a vacantly charming laugh. “Thank you. I believe Great Uncle Alfred Pennyton picked it up in his travels. Tenth-century Ming.”

Rainewood’s eyes were fixed on her, but he automatically said, “Yuan.”

“Yuan?”

She cringed at speaking aloud and looked over just in time to see Basil’s eyes sharpen.

“There is a great family debate over that piece straddling the dynasties. How did you know?”

“Oh.” She laughed uncomfortably and smiled as brightly as she could manage. “I must have heard it somewhere.” Ghostly fingers caressed the underside of her wrist and then moved up to explore the delicate untouched skin of her forearm, making her nearly forget the thread of the conversation and where she was.

“I had nearly forgotten the lovely feel of a woman’s skin. And yours is softer than any I’ve felt before,” Rainewood said. “Beautiful.”

“Of course,” Basil murmured at her explanation.