The Outcast Earl (31 page)

The shock of her refusal to release him, even as she fisted the last bit of cock that didn’t quite fit in her mouth, was too much for him. He thrust hard, knowing the cream was shooting down her throat and around her mouth. Charles whimpered, the strange sound something he couldn’t have ever made before, and thrust twice more, even amidst the convulsive twitching of his cock and hips.

She loosened her mouth, but didn’t completely release him until he tugged her back, bringing her up to sit on her knees, facing him.

She waited patiently while he stared, then he flopped back against the chaise and groaned. “Whatever possessed you?” he began, but then shook his head. “No, never mind. I mean, where did you learn—?” He stopped that abruptly too. “Ah, damn, I still think you’re going to kill me, but at least it’ll be worth it.” With that exclamation, he pulled her forward into his arms, where she belonged.

Having been sated, at least once, he had near infinite patience for fondling her breasts and pussy to the edge of her climax before pulling back to soothe her and starting it all over again. She uttered a high, keening cry when he finally let her fly, after what felt like hours of delicious, sweet begging from her swollen pink lips. Afterward she slumped against him, worn out. He simply kept her there, caressing her hair with his mouth.

* * * *

Much later, when he could walk, Charles carried Abby to the bed. He still had no idea where or when she’d taken the notion of
touching him
to outright oral copulation, but he wouldn’t complain. He’d never felt the urge to follow intimacy with cuddling, but with Abby in his arms it seemed very much necessary. Once again they were sticky with sweat, semen and her sweet pussy juice, and he honestly hoped this would become the natural state of affairs. It was late, he’d exhausted them both, but he’d care for her first before joining her in the bed. Washing her was a privilege he’d not expected to enjoy when they’d begun this journey, but now the ablutions felt like an honour.

Charles wouldn’t rate her growing attachment to him as devotion, though he knew very well his own response to her could now be classed as just that. But he had seen her demonstrate tonight that she trusted him. It was somewhat fragile, but when she’d stepped into the room and reminded him so very prettily of his promise, seeming assured that he would honour it, he’d known a moment of immense relief and joy. She’d looked at him, so sweetly confident, and he’d caved immediately.

He couldn’t imagine risking that charming confidence, either here in this room or in the wider world.

Working quickly, he straightened, drawing up the luxurious peignoir and draping it over the back of his chair. He hoped to see it often in the coming weeks, and preferably on the floor. Sighing, he fastened his breeches and looked longingly at the bed.

Soon, very soon, he’d sleep next to her naked, and wake with his shaft nuzzled right up against her sweet rear. For now, though, he’d be content with another night with her sound asleep, wrapped in his arms.

* * * *

The church service, and the important socialising done afterward, had seemed interminably long. Of course, Abigail had had to introduce each lady to her aunt, and she hadn’t been able to remember even half their names. Meriden had helped, but he had seemed more preoccupied with keeping her arm wound through his than he had done anything else. The entire village, of all stations, had seemed to press forward to congratulate them.

It wasn’t that Abigail minded, exactly. Indeed, it was only to be expected.

They’d eventually escaped.

Betsy, who had spent long minutes chatting with Lady Kresley before the service and had been on her feet for much too long afterward, was visibly worn. She’d decried lunch in favour of an immediate nap, and had told them she’d have a cold plate in her room after. “As for you, miss,” Betsy frowned at Abigail, “I’ll see you at four, and plan to be occupied until you dress for dinner. We’ll have Jenna come in to help Annie with your hair, and do a last fitting of your gown. Don’t be late.”

Abigail shared a quiet lunch with Meriden. He didn’t speak much this time, and didn’t attempt to flirt or flummox her. Indeed, he seemed a bit wary and strangely withdrawn. Surely she hadn’t shocked any of his sensibilities the previous night?

He had asked her where she’d learnt it. Abigail hadn’t answered, though. Perhaps he thought—

“Charles,” she said impulsively.

He looked up as the footmen took away her plate, then stood, holding out his hand invitingly. “Perhaps, my dear, you can wait for a moment while we retire to the library?” he asked, his voice quiet and eyebrows drawn.

She nodded, confused and quiet herself now.

Meriden guided her through the doors, then shut them firmly and clicked the lock. She looked up and noticed his lips were compressed in a thin, tight line. Disapproval seemed to emanate from him suddenly, as if he’d thrown off a cloak he’d been wearing all day.

“I thought you would like it,” she blurted, a little despairingly.

Meriden glanced down at her and frowned. “Like what?”

“You seem so, well, so upset.” Abigail waved her hands helplessly. “But you liked it last night.”

He stared at her as if confused, then suddenly he realised and his face crinkled as he laughed. She’d not seen or heard him laugh, and looked at him, astonished. But Meriden drew her within the crook of his arm, brushed a kiss to her forehead and sighed audibly.

“I did like
it
last night. I’m afraid I’ll like
it
anytime, anywhere, anyhow I can get it. But I am upset—about something else.”

“What is it, then?” she asked, looking up into his face seriously, one hand reaching up to cup his cheek.

Meriden grimaced and stepped back, heading towards his desk. He passed it and stopped at a far wall, staring up at a portrait—she presumed of his father—that hung above a set of low cabinets. With a sigh, he reached up to the frame and tugged on it.

To her surprise, the painting swung away from the wall. Its frame was hung firmly on a wooden, circular bracket—he pulled it as far as it would go, and stepped behind the painting to the front of what was obviously a wall safe.

Within seconds, he had opened it. Abigail followed him, watching as he stared at the contents for a moment. With one hand, he drew out an old wooden box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and set it carefully on the cabinet. Then, with both hands, he reached in and pulled out a much larger box, and carried it over to his desk. Still silent, he closed the safe and returned the painting to its original position, then lifted the wooden vessel and returned to where Abigail stood at his desk, waiting and now curious.

He lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t know where my private valuables are stored, hmm?”

“Even if I knew,” Abigail said softly, “I don’t know the combination. I didn’t look.”

“If such a time ever came to be where you had no choice but to say something, Abby-heart, there is a safe in the estate office. It has only money in it, but enough. My secretary and the steward know the combination as well.”

At Abigail’s nod, Meriden went on. “This box,” he said, and tapped the larger, walnut case, “contains my mother’s jewels—at least, what she left behind for me when she left for Italy. My grandmother had more, but I’m afraid most of it is damaged or certainly not fitting for a beautiful young woman. I’ve already entrusted those pieces to a jeweller in London who is seeing what is salvageable, and what is too valuable in its current form to break up, even if it is unfashionable.”

Abigail swallowed, unsurprised when he opened the top of the case and drew her around in front of him. He gestured, “You’ll want to go through it, perhaps with your aunt today or tomorrow, and take out what you want. The rest can go back into the safe for now, once you’ve sorted it.” Abigail nodded, still confused. The box was filled with small bags and tiny boxes that she knew would house jewelled stones, but for now it just seemed like a box, not a king’s ransom.

Meriden reached in, and, to her surprise, withdrew a slender, long box. It was worn on the edges, and surprisingly old. “This,” he murmured, “has been in my family for generations. It has always belonged to the countess or, in some cases, to the wife of the heir. My great-grandmother had it for years, and then my mother. I’ve never understood, but my grandmother simply didn’t care. My mother, however, used it frequently. While my father was alive—for as long as I can remember—I never knew her to be without it.”

Abigail opened the box and gasped. It was the knife he’d used to cut her clothes away—the gleaming, sharp metal blade was sheathed safely in a simple, functional leather wrap, obviously made to fit, but the hilt of ivory and emeralds glittered brilliantly in the sunlit room.

Unable to help herself, she traced the intricate inlaid jewels wound around the handle. “It’s exactly like mine,” Meriden acknowledged, clearing his throat. “Someday I hope you’ll give it to our son’s wife, when you think your time with it has passed.”

Abigail nodded. She slipped the lid on the box and looked at him. “I promise I’ll care for it,” she murmured.

“I already know that.” He smiled, stroking her cheek. “I love touching you, Abby-heart.”

Catching her breath, Abigail stared at him in confusion.

“Before you came, I hardly touched any other human being, for any reason. Occasionally the elbow of Margaret Danvers as I led her in to dinner, but I never felt inclined. Now, I can’t seem to
not
touch.”

Abigail blinked. Why did he seem so sadly weary and bleak? He hadn’t needed to give her his mother’s jewellery, apparently opening an old, emotional wound.

Before she could speak, he shook his head firmly and shifted her a bit, directing her attention to the second box. It was crafted from beautiful oak, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The design was his family crest, in a delicate and intricate work of art.

“This,” he said gruffly, “has been in my family for, literally, centuries. No one knows exactly how long, although this box was created to store it during the reign of Henry the Eighth. I know you haven’t perhaps thought of it or asked, but here it is. I haven’t looked at it in years, so it could be in unusable, poor condition, and I should have got it out days ago, but to be honest, I was distracted.”

Abigail’s fingers trembled, and she shook slightly. She carefully lifted the lid off the treasure, then unfolded the velvet wrapping inside.

She gasped.

It was a coronet fit for a princess or a queen—indeed, it rivalled, if not outdid, the ones she knew the princesses to wear, though it did need a thorough cleaning. Certain she’d never dare wear it to Court, Abigail nevertheless knew she’d wear it on their wedding day.

“I would be honoured…” Abigail began in a hushed voice. “No, more than that, I’d be
awed
if you would allow me to wear this on Tuesday.” She gently traced the delicately curved arch on one side, where a line of glowing emeralds intertwined with a length of perfectly matched pearls.

Meriden studied her, a quirk on his lips, before praising her. “It suits you beautifully. I couldn’t have imagined anything better.”

Seriously, Abigail met his gaze. “You must not allow this to be seen in the
ton
. Prinny would fly into a mad rage and insist it be turned over to the Crown jewels. Or he’d have someone steal it for him.”

Chuckling, Meriden nodded his head. “It is something more than a countess’s coronet, isn’t it?” He cleared his throat. “It has been the tradition in recent times to wear it for weddings. Long ago, it did make appearances at royal functions, but since the Wessex family has not always held the same religious or political views as the royals, we’ve been more careful about appearances beyond Warwickshire in the more recent generations.” He paused, then added significantly, “Indeed, our family history goes back much further than William, and into the realm of medieval legend. This particular tiara came into the family well before we were the Earls of Meriden. Someday, if you’re interested in ancient history”—he waved a hand towards a wall of the library—“I have a locked cabinet of very old records.”

“May I take it this afternoon, to try with the gown and things? I’ll clean it myself and return it to you immediately after so you can return it to the safe.” Abigail looked at him uncertainly.

“Abby-heart,” he said gently, “you’re my countess. It’s your coronet. I’m happy to keep it locked in the safe, but you have a locking safe in your dressing room. No one in this house will steal it.” He smiled at her. “I trust that you will care for it.”

Abby blinked at him, then looked down and wrapped up the precious piece in its velvet cradle. “Thank you,” she said softly taking in his hooded eyes beside her before she reverently replaced the lid of the box. “Now then, tell me why you’re upset. If it’s not about what I did—”

“It’s not about
you
at all,” Meriden muttered. “Or me, for that matter. But it is going to upset you, too.”

Abigail felt her stomach quake for a moment. “Charles?” she asked weakly, her face draining a bit.

Meriden leaned his hip against the desk, pulling her against his warm, hard body. “It’s Genevieve, actually. Your father arranged a marriage for her, too.”

Gasping, Abigail stared at him and swallowed hard. “She’s sixteen,” she said faintly.

“I know,” Meriden returned grimly. “I think you had best sit down.”

Her mind blank, Abigail slid down into his desk chair and stared at him. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

“I can’t imagine you’re the only one.” Meriden scowled, not at Abigail, but towards an empty space on the wall. “I had a hastily scrawled letter from Rutherford this morning, along with the announcement from the papers. It ran yesterday. Lennox ran the announcement of Gloria’s engagement to March yesterday, too.”

Abigail swallowed. “Early. Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Abby,” he answered, running a hand through his hair. “I wish I understood what was happening and
why
. But I don’t.”