Married to the Viscount (17 page)

Her throat tightened. “Why would Lady Tyndale invite her here for this?”

“Lady Tyndale probably doesn’t know who she was to Ravenswood. Genevieve was always discreet in her affairs, as was Ravenswood—few people realized she was his mistress. Besides, she’s now married to some baron and quite respectable.”

“Yes, I can see how respectable she is.”

He squeezed her hand. “Really, Abby, the woman means nothing to him.”

It sure didn’t look that way. “Even if she does, I have no
right to complain, do I? I mean, it’s not as if I’m really his wife.”

“You still have the right to his respect. But I think you have it. I wouldn’t make too much of this.”

How could she not? After she and the captain reached their companions, she couldn’t even concentrate on their conversation. Too many unanswered questions plagued her. Did Spencer have a current mistress? Would he expect to continue his visits to her while Abby pretended to be his wife? Did she even have the right to ask him not to?

Of course she didn’t. But oh how she wished she did.

Abby made desultory conversation with the Blakelys even after Spencer joined them. But she brightened when the orchestra struck up a familiar piece of music for a cotillion. “Oh, I do love this song. They played it at all the balls when I was a girl.”

“Then shall we?” Spencer offered her his arm with a smile.

She hesitated. That Genevieve was still in the room. What if Abby made some dreadful error in front of her? But this was her favorite, and she did know how to dance the cotillion very well. “All right,” she said, taking Spencer’s arm.

Unfortunately, fate seemed determined to vex her tonight. They’d already taken the floor when she felt a pin fall down inside her gown. Her earlier exertions in the Scotch reel must have worked it loose from the fichu.

Too late to do anything about it—she refused to stop short on the dance floor again. Besides, surely one pin wouldn’t make a difference in how well her fichu stayed put. Would it?

But as they took their places in a circle of eight and began to dance, she realized one pin could make a lot of difference. Every movement prompted her fichu to creep. It crawled up from inside her bodice with demonic persistence.

Dear heaven, not now. If she could only make it to the end of the dance, she could escape to the ladies’ retiring room to
repair it. That was her only option. She couldn’t shove it back down—there was no way to do it surreptitiously in the middle of the dance floor. And doing it blatantly would be almost as vulgar as letting it fall out.

For a brief moment, it seemed to halt its upward move, and she relaxed, figuring the other pins had caught it.

Then Spencer twirled her in a turn, and sly thing that it was, it leaped to safety. She made a grab for it but missed. In horror, she watched as the demon fichu fluttered to the floor and landed beneath a man’s dancing shoe.

On the highly polished floor it might as well have been a marble, for the man’s foot found no purchase and shot right out from under him. His partner followed him down with a little cry. Then two people tumbled over them until the entire group of dancers collapsed in a tangle of limbs and bobbing heads.

Except her and Spencer, of course. He’d managed to grab Abby and jerk her out of the way before she could be dragged under with the rest.

Now he stood gaping at the others as if they’d lost their minds. “What the devil?” he growled as he held out his hand to help up the first man who’d fallen.

The man came up with the fichu clutched in his fist. Stony-faced, he held it out to Abby. “I believe this is yours, madam,” he said with that hint of a sneer all the English gentlemen seemed to affect.

Her mortification was complete.

Snatching the fichu, she fled, pushing through curious onlookers, disapproving matrons, and a score of laughing dandies. She couldn’t stay there one more minute or she’d die of shame.

She headed for the retiring room, praying it would be empty. For once her prayers were answered. Slipping inside the deserted room, she sank into a chair and began to cry.

Tears poured out of her, too many to hold back, and they
turned to deep, wracking sobs for all the indignities she’d suffered. Her misery was so complete that she didn’t hear the door open until somebody stepped inside. Why hadn’t she thought to lock it?

But it was Lady Clara. The woman took one look at her and locked the door herself, coming to her side with such sympathy in her face that Abby cried all the harder.

“There, there.” Lady Clara knelt before her to clasp her hands. “It’s not as bad as all that.”

“I br-brought down an entire d-dance floor with a f-fichu!” Abby blubbered. “How m-much worse can it be?”

“Not an entire dance floor—just a few people.”

“It might as well have been the whole country,” she whispered.

Lady Clara handed her a handkerchief. “It’s not your fault, dear. Evelina told me that Ravenswood
made
you wear the fichu. If anybody should be blamed, it’s him.”

“I-I felt it slipping out…I should have refused to dance or…or…something.”

“That would have been worse. You did what any of us would—hoped it would hold and made the best of a difficult situation.”

Abby lifted her face to Lady Clara’s. “I made a fool of myself. I made a fool of
him
.”

Lady Clara’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “I wouldn’t worry about your ‘husband,’ if I were you. He doesn’t deserve your concern after how he’s coerced you into this silly scheme.”

“B-but he only did it to prevent a scandal. And now I’ve put him in the middle of one. I’ve been the most horrible wife he could have chosen, and he knows it, too, or he wouldn’t be talking to that…that woman.”

Lady Clara looked perplexed. “What woman do you mean?”

“His mistress. Well, your husband says she’s Spencer’s former mistress, but—”

“My husband has an imprudent tongue,” Lady Clara retorted, eyes ablaze.

“Don’t blame him. I could see that she meant something to Spencer just from how she touched him. I know I shouldn’t care, but…” She trailed off with a sob.

Sympathy suffused Lady Clara’s face. “Oh, Abby, you poor thing. You love him, don’t you?”

“No! No, don’t be silly. It’s just that when I came here I really thought we were married, and when I found out that we weren’t…” she blew her nose without a care for how unladylike it looked. “And I-I did like him, you see. It’s silly, but I wanted him to like me, at least a little.”

“I think he does—in his own way. God knows I’ve always found the man too haughty for words, but when he’s with you, he…softens.”

Abby shook her head morosely. “He won’t after tonight. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t put me on the first ship to America.”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

Abby stared down at her hands, remembering how Spencer had kissed her last night. “Sometimes I do. But sometimes…Well, it doesn’t matter. After tonight, he’ll hate me.”

“If he does, he deserves nothing but censure.” Lady Clara squeezed her hands tightly. “Don’t let that arrogant scoundrel bully you, do you hear? You are doing
him
a favor, no matter what he claims.”

“But if I hadn’t listened to his brother—”

“Stuff and nonsense. His brother wronged you, not the other way around. If you want to return to America, then demand your money and threaten to expose everything to the press if his lordship doesn’t give it to you. But don’t let him push you around. He has no right to do that.”

Drawing her hands from Lady Clara’s, Abby stared at the woman’s fierce expression. Abby had been so caught up in her mortification that she’d forgotten whose idea this was. It
certainly wasn’t hers. She hadn’t wanted to play this charade; she hadn’t asked to be deceived and manipulated. That was all his and his brother’s doing.

She tipped up her chin. “That’s true—he doesn’t have the right, does he? And I’ll tell him so, too.”

“Good for you.”

Abby frowned. “But not here. Not with all those people out there watching.” She glanced beyond Lady Clara to the mirror, and her heart nearly failed her. Dear heaven, she looked awful. Her hair had completely fallen. Her ringlets were a straight curtain about her face, her eyes were bloodshot, and her nose shone as rosy as a tippler’s.

“I can’t talk to him looking like this.” She shot Lady Clara a desperate look. “I can’t go back out there. Not until I appear at least moderately dignified. I have to go home before I can face him or anybody else. Will you take me?”

Lady Clara hesitated, then nodded. “But remember what I said—don’t let him bully you. Because the minute you give a man an inch, he’ll take more than a mile. And frankly, Abby, you can’t afford to have anything more taken from you.”

Chapter 11

When your employers leave the house to attend a ball, be waiting with liquid sustenance upon their return. Anything can happen at a ball.

Suggestions for the Stoic Servant

S
pencer paced the edge of the ballroom, too frustrated to do anything else. He couldn’t forget Abby’s expression when she’d gazed on that ridiculous scene on the dance floor. He’d had more of an impulse to laugh at the tumble than anything. Until he saw her misery-ravaged face. Then she was gone before he could even think to stop her.

And now she’d apparently closeted herself off somewhere with Lady Clara. No one could tell him where, and it was driving him mad.

Evelina approached, but before she even reached him, he growled, “Where is she? Where’s Abby?”

“Lady Clara took her home. I am to say she’s indisposed. Will you make the announcement or will I?”

“You make it,” he snapped and turned for the door. “I’m going after her.”

Evelina blocked his way. “Not if you’re planning to lecture her.”

He glared at the generally angelic Evelina. “What I do with my wife is my concern.”

“You bullied her into wearing that fichu, so I shan’t let you chastise her for it.”

“I don’t plan on chastising her, for God’s sake. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Just remember when you speak to her that we’re not all as smooth and collected as you. She’s tried very hard to be what you wish, and right now she feels like a failure.”

Her words brought him up short. Had he really seemed so exacting, so demanding that something like this could send her fleeing his presence in shame?

The scene in her bedchamber earlier came back to him—his insistence on the fichu, his comments about her hair. He’d instructed her on things she hadn’t needed instruction on and had neglected to tell her what she desperately wanted to know.

No wonder she refused even to tell him she was leaving.

He looked at Evelina’s determined expression and softened his voice. “I promise not to lecture her, poppet. Now will you let me pass?”

“After I say one more thing.” A faint blush rose on Evelina’s cheeks. “In future, you might consider not flaunting your…former paramours in front of her.”

“Former paramours?” he asked in bewilderment. Then memory slammed into him. “But Abby didn’t know who Genevieve was.”

“Your idiot friend Captain Blakely told her.”

Bloody hell. He had even more to apologize for than he realized. He could kick himself for talking to Genevieve, though it had been innocent enough.

Evelina went on. “I’ll admit it was wrong of Mother to invite the woman in the first place, but she was peeved that you’d turned my engagement ball into a ball for yourself, and she did it out of spite. If I’d known, I would have discouraged it.”

More mistakes to lay at his door. Good God, would this
night never end? “I shall make amends to my wife for conversing with Genevieve in her presence,” he said tightly. “Anything else?”

Evelina swallowed, as if suddenly remembering that she never did things of this sort. “That’s all.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “It’s enough, isn’t it?”

“She deserves your respect, you know, even if she’s not your true—” She broke off suddenly.

His eyes narrowed. “My true what, Evelina?”

“Your true love.” Evelina squared her shoulders, then soldiered on. “I know you probably married her because you took pity on her situation with her father, but that doesn’t lessen your obligation to be a good husband.”

Once again, he wondered if she might know the truth. Could Lady Clara have told her, or even Abby? But if that were the case, why would she pretend not to know?

Unless…

“Have you spoken to Nathaniel since the betrothal dinner, Evelina?”

She paled, though she didn’t flinch from his steady gaze. “How could I? You had him whisked away to Essex before I could even see him.”

He stared at her a moment longer. But it seemed impossible that she could be in league with his brother. The honest Evelina would never approve of Nat’s stealing a dowry. No, she was probably just upset about all that had happened.

“Very well,” he said. “I have to go. Tell your guests that my wife fell ill and I took her home, all right?”

She bobbed her head.

He left after learning from the butler that Lady Clara and Abby had departed only a short time before. Good. He didn’t want her to suffer in unwarranted misery longer than necessary. Evelina was right—Abby
had
tried hard to please him, and all she’d gotten to show for it was humiliation, the very thing he’d promised to spare her.

Well, he’d make it up to her somehow. Tomorrow he’d go buy her something special—some jewels or a fancy gimcrack or some such. Women liked those fripperies. And then he would engage her a dance master and a tutor. That way she’d feel better prepared for future social events.

But first he had to talk to her. To apologize. To soothe her wounded feelings and promise he’d be more careful of them in the future.

Fortunately, Lady Clara had already left by the time he reached home. He was in no mood to deal with both of them tonight. Bad enough he had to deal with Abby. The woman was a sensitive little thing—she’d probably be crying.

But he knew how to handle storms of female emotion. He’d had plenty of experience dealing with his former mistresses’ tearful complaints—this couldn’t be much different.