For the Earl's Pleasure (8 page)

“Well, we were speaking of the races while you were woolgathering.” Celeste Malcolm looked down her pug nose.

“Yes, the next race,” Stagen said. “What a lot of good it will do us if Rainewood doesn’t show his pretty face.” It suddenly seemed quite obvious that everyone was trying to suss out where he was without asking straight out. “Where did he store the filly?”

“Oxting Stables,” Rainewood said automatically as he continued to stare at Abigail like she was something rare and precious.

“Oxting Stables?”

It took her a second to register the stunned silence. She looked around in dread to see what she had done this time. The males in particular stared at her with expressions ranging from complete surprise to deep mistrust. She withheld her nervous laugh this time and just pretended that she was in full possession of her faculties.

“I mean, that is where some people store prime cattle, is it not?” She had never even heard of Oxting Stables, so she could only hope that she hadn’t said something completely unforgivable—like the name of a house of prostitution. Filly could mean anything if one were to rely on the cant that the younger bucks loved.

Aidan Campbell’s eyes were narrowed upon her, a darker light there than she was used to seeing. Charles Stagen just looked considering.

Rainewood stroked her arm again causing her to shiver. She had to remember that he had some strange way to influence her. She put up a blocker in her mind.

Stagen looked at Basil and something passed between them. “Good suggestion, Miss Smart. We will look there indeed.”

Basil picked up a small plate. “Biscuit?”

She nodded and accepted the offering, trying to focus on the least unnerving of the room’s inhabitants instead of the one
petting
her.

“I haven’t met a woman who is so interested in ancient pieces and horseflesh. Perhaps we may discuss it more in the future?” Basil said.

Her mind was too full of his brother and how he could almost fully
touch
her,
was
touching her as he continued to stroke each bit of uncovered territory she possessed, to formulate a mother-approved, appropriate response. “Oh, I’m n—”

“Abigail is interested in many things.” Her mother waved an excited hand and smiled. “She would be delighted.”

Abigail noted that the Duchess of Palmbury’s mouth turned down as she looked toward her youngest grandson. Likely wondering what in the heavens he was thinking to encourage any sort of attention with her.

“Yes, that would be…wonderful,” Abigail said to Basil.

Something about the exchange snapped Rainewood back to himself and he jerked his hand back, gazing around the room with narrowed eyes. “What is happening here? You can’t go on an outing with
Basil
.”

She swallowed and tried to pay attention as Basil set a meeting date. Campbell’s eyes were remote and unnerving. Stagen’s were unreadable. The three other women—Celeste, Lady Malcolm, and Mrs. Browning—were clearly displeased. The duchess just looked furious.

Rainewood started muttering and pacing around, trying to touch the others and inspecting everything—crouching and staring up into their faces, poking fingers through them.

The dowager shivered as his fingers fell through her. She put on a good face as they all rose, but in contrast to the warm greeting she had given Mrs. Browning, she offered a much more stilted send off. She barely acknowledged Abigail. She gave her the bare minimum attention that she could engender while still maintaining a veneer of the polite hostess.

She was obviously displeased with the youngest member of the family.

“I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Smart.” There was a wealth of warning in the dowager’s tone. Abigail knew exactly what the warning conveyed, and it wouldn’t be kind for her if she captured any more of Basil’s attention. One outing far exceeded anything that the Duchess of Palmbury would allow.

“Likewise, Your Grace.”

Abigail had only taken two steps before Rainewood was striding next to her, his gaze more focused and sharp. “Stop. Where are you going? I can’t speak to any of them. Tell them about me.”

His voice had lost the slightly dreamy, worshipful tone and had returned to its more demanding notes.

She continued following her mother and Mrs. Browning through the long gilded hall.

“Turn around,” he demanded. “Tell my grandmother.”

“Tell her what?” she whispered. “That you are a ghost? No.”

“Turn around.” His voice grew sharper.

“Are you mad?” She whispered harshly, looking around to make sure no servants were observing her. “They will think I’ve gone round the bend permanently. Your grandmother would love to have that type of ammunition.”

“So?”

She tightened her lips. “I
have
gone round the bend to have come to find you once more.”

That shut him up, but only for a second. “You did come for me, then.”

She covered her mouth and pretended to cough as they reached the entrance hall. “A momentary lapse, I assure you,” she said behind her raised hand to hide her moving lips. “I will happily leave you behind next time.”

A light finger brushed her arm and she shivered. “No, I don’t think you will, Abigail.” The finger continued up to her elbow, her skin shivering beneath. “And isn’t my ability to touch you an interesting development to this continued dream?”

She tried to ignore both his words—stupid man still thought he was dreaming then, did he?—and his questing fingers.

There was a moment’s hesitation at the door as she wondered if he would be able to follow her out. His mahogany gaze grew more intense as he looked upon her and he walked right through as if it was nothing. She stared for a moment before proceeding down the walk several paces behind Mrs. Browning, as usual. Rainewood kept pace closely next to her, so close that if others could see him, tongues would be set to wagging. His footfalls fell silently on the stones.

A boy hawking papers called out loudly from the walk crisscrossing the front of the property. He threw a paper onto the pavement. It disappeared as soon as it touched.

Rainewood’s finger brushed her arm.

Impetuously, Abigail pulled away and walked over to the newsboy. She extended her hand. The boy paid her no mind, continuing to try and sell his papers with his slightly desperate air and frayed cuffs. She slowly reached out to him, her fingers inching toward his, which were curled tightly around the paper he held aloft.

She swallowed as her first finger touched him. But then it almost immediately dipped through, the rest of her fingers following suit as her hand fell back to her side.

Nothing had changed, then.

Except that
Rainewood
could touch her, which meant
everything
had changed.

“Miss Smart. Stop dallying. Now.”

She walked back to the carriage, unnerved, noting Mrs. Browning’s irate look, her mother’s nervous one, and Rainewood’s unreadable expression.

Rainewood held out a hand to assist her into the carriage. She reacted without thinking, barely catching the footman’s surprised glance as her arm hovered two inches above his outstretched hand as she ascended.

She closed her eyes, frustration and immediate regret running through her. The servants would be gossiping again, but at the moment that wasn’t the important thing. Her entire world had turned on end.

“What are you?” she whispered to Rainewood as he settled next to her on the seat, pressing his leg into hers. So comforting to feel the slightest weight against hers. A terribly dangerous thought.

“What did you say?” Mrs. Browning asked sharply.

“I told you, I’m not dead,” he said. He looked away, his eyes narrowed on the window. “Well, not yet,” he said tightly.

There was a part of her starting to believe him, though Mrs. Browning’s next words laid that to waste.

“Miss Smart, cease your mad mutterings. That recreational visit to Bedlam addled your head. Only the weak-minded allow themselves to be addled thus.”

Her mother’s eyes widened and she looked fearfully between Mrs. Browning and Abigail. But Mrs. Browning couldn’t know anything more about her. Her mother had kept the doctor and his visits secret. The one thing that Abigail could count on since her mother was so determined to succeed in society.

Abigail pushed away the nightmarish memories of the doctor and the recent visit to Bedlam—all the rage to go and gape at the patients—and turned her head. “I am not addled, Mrs. Browning. I was simply commenting on Lord Basil. I didn’t finish my thought. I want to make a good impression. He is second in line to a dukedom, after all.”

Rainewood jerked as if burned.

“I was merely wondering at what qualities he’s looking for in a wife,” she finished. She suppressed the memory of a distant, bitter conversation and kept her gaze firmly away from the ghost at her side.

“Someone not addled!” Mrs. Browning yanked the hem of her dress from where it had become caught beneath her. “And someone with social polish and grace. I don’t know
how
you managed to interest him.”

“It matters little,” her mother said as brightly as she could, though her eyes said that she would be watching Abigail more closely for mind weakness. “Just do not toss away this chance like you have the rest.”

Abigail smoothed her skirt and tried to put an inch between her leg and Rainewood’s. He simply moved his closer again, though there was a promise in his eyes that he was going to punish her for the thought about his brother. And for her words.

“I have not tossed away any chances, Mother. I can accept the fact that some men are simply not interested in me, why can’t you? I do not possess a magic wand to entrance a suitor. If I did, I would assure you that I would not
toss
them aside willy-nilly.”

The prolonged contact with Rainewood was making her antsy.

“You are growing more impertinent, Miss Smart,” Mrs. Browning growled. “I do not know if I will allow much more.”

Rainewood touched her again and her lips moved without her consent. “Allow it, Mrs. Browning? I do not find plain speaking about my marriage chances to be impertinent.”

Normally she wouldn’t give in to her irritation in front of her mother or their companion—especially the companion who could drop them and claim them “unmanageable” while still collecting her presentation fee. She blocked Rainewood’s influence from her mind.

“Impertinent, Miss Smart? Why, I’d say—”

“What a troll. I’d say, good riddance.” Rainewood lazily swatted a hand toward Mrs. Browning’s arm. Abigail’s breath caught, but his hand passed through and Mrs. Browning shivered, the action seeming to derail her from a full-blown rage.

“—I’d say you’d just better mind your tongue.”

It was nowhere near the type of tantrum the woman could normally manage and Abigail had a feeling it was completely due to Rainewood jabbing repeated fingers into sensitive parts of Mrs. Browning’s anatomy. Mrs. Browning shuddered and turned to focus on something through the window, her lips pressed together, the line of them almost disappearing completely into blanched skin.

A silent vigil fell upon the interior for the rest of the carriage ride. Rainewood seemed uninterested in conversing. He stopped tormenting Mrs. Browning and instead repeatedly reached over to touch Abigail.

Fleeting, butterfly touches as if to reassure himself that she was real. Then bolder strokes along the skin of her cheek, her throat—still light touches, not quite real, but there all the same. Pulling the capped sleeves through his fingers, then sliding down her arm, into the crook of her elbow and firmly circling around.
Bare
fingers, not gloved and removed.

She couldn’t keep the vibrations of her body hidden as he continued to touch her, and she couldn’t tell him to stop with her mother and Mrs. Browning waiting to pounce on any mention of insanity. The feelings coursed through her and as his bare fingers moved along the sensitive skin of her throat she tipped her head back.

“Miss Smart!”

She wrenched her head forward at Mrs. Browning’s outraged call and swatted Rainewood’s hand away. “I find myself quite tired, Mrs. Browning, Mother. I nearly fell asleep. I believe I will rest before we call on the Barretts.”

Mrs. Browning’s lips pulled even tighter, and Abigail felt no small amount of relief when they pulled up to Number Forty-seven. Abigail didn’t make the mistake of accepting Rainewood’s hand this time as she scurried out of the carriage and into the house with as much bearing as she could muster.

“Miss—”

Abigail bypassed her maid on the stairs. “Telly, wake me in half an hour to freshen up.”

“But, miss, do you—”

“No, nothing, Telly. Half an hour.”

She didn’t turn around to see Telly’s reaction. She could feel the press of Rainewood’s presence behind her, vibrating with energy for her to move more quickly.

She slammed the door behind her as soon as she entered her room, intent on keeping him out. He simply strode through the wood.

Against her better judgment she held out a shaking finger and pressed it into his chest. The pressure held for a moment, as if pressing into a real body, before her finger fell through. “How are you still able…
What
are you?”

His head slowly shook from side to side, his eyes never leaving hers. “I don’t know.”

“You can touch people.”

He caught hold of her hand against his chest in another butterfly-soft touch. “No. Only you.”

She stood stock-still as he held her forefinger and pulled it from socket to tip between three of his. Captured. Then his fingers seemed to lose hold and they disappeared through hers.

“But I don’t understand—”

“You came back for me.”

It was a statement, not a question. She swallowed. “I thought maybe there was a chance that you might be there.”

“And you came.”

“I—I…you just disappeared. I was simply curious.” She lied.

“I’m being held somewhere. My body. One moment I was with you and the next I was there. I need to return.”