His Christmas Pleasure (8 page)

Both her parents gave a shudder.

Her father wasn’t ready to let it go, though. “Abigail, you would have a good life. I don’t want you married to just any man. I want one who has a fortune and won’t be reliant on yours. Do you want someone younger, more attractive—”

“Better personal habits,” her mother interjected.

“Fewer children,” Abby added in agreement.

“Stop that,” her father said. “This is a serious subject.”

“We are being serious,” her mother answered.

“Catherine, we discussed this last night,” her father said. “You agreed that if I could find a man willing to marry Abigail for her money, there was a risk he’d forget her as soon as he had it in hand.” He looked to Abby. “Those sorts of men are philanderers, gamblers, scoundrels. I want much more for my only daughter. I want security for you.”

“I want the same, Father. Can you not trust me to make my own choice?”

“No.”

His answer stunned her.

“I’ve spent years watching you moon over Freddie Sherwin,” he said. “And while you were thinking him so heroic and marvelous, I was thinking him a proper idiot. He can’t make up his mind about anything. A real man sets his sights on a goal and goes after it with the intensity of a dog after a bone.”

“Are you comparing me to a bone, Father?” Abby asked, knowing such a deliberate misunderstanding would annoy him, and it did.

“None of your games, Missy. I’m well aware that you’ve a shrewd mind …

although why you dream of Sherwin is a mystery to me. I’m protecting you for your own sake—and your mother agrees.”

Abby rounded on her, wanting the truth of it from her.

Her mother’s lips parted, as if she’d been caught in surprise before she admitted, “I did agree. We want you well taken care of.”

“And did you marry Father for security, Mother?”

“It was a different day and age,” her mother hedged. “Everything now is so push, push, push. I know what the poets say, but the truth is, Abby, falling in love is a ticklish prospect. As we’ve said to you before, your father and I were most fortunate. And I do think Freddie loves you. But he’s not courageous. Your father was, and perhaps that is the big difference between them. Love calls for courage.”

“There must be someone else,” Abby insisted. “I can’t sleep in the same bed with Lord Villier. I won’t.”

Both of her parents were rather reserved. Her words brought color to her mother’s cheeks.

However, her father surprised her. He muttered something under his breath and then said with steely resolution, “You might not have to put up with him very often. He has enough children as it is. But if it comes to that, daughter, and it must, because a marriage has to be consummated to be valid, then I expect you to carry on smartly. Let him do his diddling while you think on other things. I can’t imagine it will take a man like him more than a minute or two.”

Now it was Abby’s turn for her cheeks to burn.

Her father continued, pressing his case. “Lynsted is a bastard for jilting you, but we can salvage this. Villier is considered a catch by many—”

“None of them under forty, I’d wager,” Abby murmured.

Her frankness earned an amused light in her father’s eye. “It’s a wager I’d not take,” he conceded. He looked to her mother. “This is what happens when I teach my daughter to speak her mind and value her intellect. And I’m not sorry for it, except for times like these, when I must act for your own best interests, Abigail.”

Everything inside Abby wanted to rebel … but there was the small fear he might well be right.

Her father crossed over to her. “You may never understand this until you are much, much older, Abby, my girl, but I am acting in your best interests. I will accept Villier’s offer if he makes one.” He placed a kiss on her forehead and left the room.

A moment later, the front door shut. He was gone, back to his banks, to his investments, his other life.

Her mother broke the silence. “He really does want what is best for you.”

“Thirteen children.” That’s all Abby had to say.

Her mother nodded, understanding.

From down the hall, someone rang the front bell. They had a caller, and Abby thought that both she and her mother were thankful for the intrusion.

Abby had to believe things would be better. She wouldn’t marry a man like Lord Villier. She wouldn’t.

Harrison, their butler, rapped on the door her father had left half open when he’d left. “My lady,” he said, speaking to Abby’s mother, “you have a caller.

It’s Lady Barnes.”

Both Abby and her mother smiled their delight. Lady Daphne Barnes, or Jonesy, as she expected family to call her based upon nothing more than her whim, was her mother’s oldest sister. She’d been widowed for a decade and was dearly loved by both of them.

“She’s waiting in the sitting room,” Harrison informed them.

“Have the Madeira prepared,” her mother said, knowing what Jonesy liked.

“And tea,” she added, following Abby, who was already on her way to throw herself on Jonesy’s common sense and shrewd wit.

“Yes, my lady,” Harrison said.

Jonesy had seated herself in the center of the settee before the fire and was busy unwrapping colorful Indian scarves from around her neck as she made herself comfortable.

The sitting room was one of Abby’s favorite rooms in the house. It was designed for receiving visitors, with guests walking from the front hall through a paneled vestibule into the well-lit spaciousness that spoke louder than words of her father’s wealth. Huge windows draped in gold brocade overlooked the back garden. Thick, patterned carpets in green, blue, and gold covered the floor. Upholstered chairs and settees were positioned in front of two elegantly carved marble fireplaces, one at each end of the room, that provided a friendly warmth against the cold.

“I’m so happy you are here,” Abby said in greeting as she entered the room, her mother at her heels. If there was one person who could sort this all out, it was Jonesy. Always unconventional, always bold, always daring. Abby so wished she was like her.

“I’m happy I’m here as well,” Jonesy said, pointing at a place on her cheek where Abby could place a kiss. She had a deep, almost manly voice. “I have so many questions for you. Of course, I’ve been driving around the block for the past half hour and more waiting for himself to leave.” “Himself” was her favorite pet name for Abby’s father. Jonesy swore that her father had more pride than Banfield, and that was saying quite a bit.

The doorbell rang again.

“You are going to be busy this afternoon,” Jonesy predicted.

“I wonder why. We rarely have visitors. You know that,” her mother said. A maid entered with a tray of wine, tea, and biscuits. Her mother nodded for the tray to be placed on a side table.

“Your daughter is a participant in the most spectacular goings-on at any ball of the last three years and you wonder why? Really, Catherine. I vow your banker has turned you quite provincial.”

“What are you talking about?” her mother asked.

“Did not our Abigail give London’s most eligible bachelor and Lady Dobbins’s cicisbeo a set down at Banfield’s ball last night, or did my ears hear wrong? I’m so sorry I had to miss it. Tortured, really. I would have adored the scene. And were you there when Lady Dobbins had a complete crisis over her Spanish lover’s attraction to Abigail? They said she tore apart Banfield’s supper room, sobbing hysterically and vowing to throw herself into the Thames if he did not come immediately to her. Of course, he didn’t.

The fellow has that much sense. He can glean more out of her and her odd husband by keeping her on pins and needles.”

“Tore apart the supper room?” her mother echoed in disbelief, even as Harrison ushered in Lady Honoria Gilbertson and her daughters Miss Jane and Miss Nanette, who were eighteen and nineteen, respectively. The Montrosses knew them from church but had never received a call from them before.

“Yes,” Lady Gilbertson answered, jumping into the conversation without preamble. “She was knocking over tables and throwing food.”

“And supposedly drinking a barrel of wine at the same time,” Jonesy quipped.

Lady Gilbertson opened her arms. “I had to run over here as soon as I heard.

How horrible for you, Lady Catherine.” She used Abby’s mother’s title, as many did. “How unfortunate! How extremely trying! How will you find a husband for your daughter? Oh, Miss Abigail. I didn’t see you sitting there.”

“Bulls balls,” Jonesy replied, and Abby almost dropped the teapot she’d picked up to pour.

“Tea, Lady Gilbertson?” she managed to ask, choking back laughter.

“Of course,” her ladyship answered without any sign of remorse or consternation over Jonesy’s comment. “How are you, Lady Barnes?” she asked, perching herself on the edge of a chair and motioning her daughters to sit in the chairs next to hers, which they obediently did in the same perching manner.

“Do you care?” Jonesy wondered.

Lady Gilbertson trilled her laughter. “Original! Always so original!”

“Yes, I am, yes, I am,” Jonesy mocked. She leaned toward Abby to confide,

“She probably brought her daughters here for a look at you so they know what not to do in the future.”

Abby knew Jonesy was being waggish, but the comment hit home because there was a good deal of truth in it. Jonesy didn’t notice the impact of her words. She rarely did. She flung them out into the world and ignored how they were received.

More guests were flowing in the door, but Jonesy was too enlivened by so much entertainment to give a care to anyone other than herself.

But her mother had noticed.

From across the room, Abby could feel her mother’s gaze, saw her sympathetic smile, and Abby knew her mother hurt when Abby hurt.

Forcing a smile on her face, Abby continued as hostess. More tea and biscuits were sent for. Amongst the next guests were friends of Abby’s whom she hadn’t seen since they’d married—Lady Edgars and Lady Mortimer. They came with tales of their husbands and their children and how they wished they’d been at Banfield’s ball the night before because they’d heard the most remarkable things.

Polite society dictated that a call was no longer than fifteen minutes, but these women weren’t here to be polite. They were on a mission. They wanted gossip and were using their tenuous connections with Abby to learn information. They’d probably dine on the tales they heard here for a week.

“Everything you heard is true,” Jonesy assured them. “My niece had this Spaniard eating out of her hand and Lady Dobbins whirling like a jealous dervish.”

“What a relief that someone managed to subdue Lady Dobbins long enough for Lady Corinne to announce her betrothal,” Lady Edgars commented.

“Who’d she fix herself to?” Jonesy asked, surprised.

Abby’s mother answered, “You know about this other but haven’t heard the news of the night? Lady Corinne is now betrothed to Lord Freddie Sherwin.”

Jonesy pulled a face over the name. “Don’t know him. No doubt he is boring and wealthy. I can’t imagine Banfield wanting anything less for his daughter.”

“Lord Sherwin is very good looking,” Lady Gilbertson said.

“Well, that is something,” Jonesy said, holding her wineglass out to Abby to be refilled.

As Abby poured wine, she realized a part of her had been hoping the betrothal had not been announced. She shouldn’t have been expecting anything … and yet, she had been.

It was done. Freddie would marry her cousin.

And she would … what? Become stepmother to thirteen children? The task seemed overwhelming no matter how much a marriage to such a powerful man would please her father and elevate her in society.Lady Villier. It had a European flavor, but the name felt to her old, crusty, stifling….

“Miss Abigail, you appear so sad,” Lady Gilbertson observed. “Is your sadness because of the scene last night? I must tell you I think it admirable that you put such a rakehell as this Spaniard in his place. It’s a credit to you, Lady Catherine, that you have raised a young woman with high morals.”

“Yes, high,” Jonesy echoed. “Although every woman in this room has heard bits about him, and from what we’ve heard, we’d like to know what he said that caused you, the most sensible of all creatures, Abigail, to put him in his place.”

And then she would duly report it to the rest of the family. Abby adored her aunt but was wise to her ways. Jonesy’s loyalties often switched.

Her mother came to her rescue. “Please,” she said, raising a hand and letting it waver in the air, as if she’d suddenly been overcome. “The evening was a trial for us all. We do not wish to remember it, do we, Abigail?”

“Um, no,” Abby said, still uncertain what she did want to do.

“It was traumatic,” her mother continued. “The whole evening. We are so glad it is over.”

The women listened to her mother intently. They now turned to Abby, who felt a bit silly once again echoing her mother’s words. “Over,” she said. “It’s over.”

“But what was he like?” The question came from Lady Gilbertson.

“The barón? I don’t know him,” Abby said. “Honest, I don’t.”

“Well, I’ve heard the most incredible things about him,” Lady Edgars chimed in.

“Really, dear?” Jonesy said, drawing out the words. “Do tell.”

Lady Edgars cast a look in the direction of Lady Gilbertson’s daughters.

“Posh, don’t mind them,” Lady Gilbertson said. “Tell us what you’ve heard.”

Her daughters nodded agreement, their eyes alive with anticipation.

Abby thought of the man she’d met in the library. Had sensed his privateness. “Really, this isn’t the place,” she protested, uncertain if she wanted to hear this gossip or not.

“Of course it’s the place,” Jonesy overrode her. From a distance, the doorbell rang again. More guests.

More gossip.

Abby decided the best tactic was to leave. She rose, holding the now empty teapot. “Excuse me, I’ll ask the maid to fetch more.”

She started toward the door, but she came to a stop when Lady Edgars said,

“I’ve heard why Lady Dobbins was so angry with him last night.”

Abby turned and faced the others. They weren’t paying attention to her.