The Outcast Earl (8 page)

Unable to will her eyes to stay open, Abigail felt them close and concentrated solely on his hand, which massaged gently for a moment, then slid farther down to explore the shape of her hip, then her thigh through her garments. Leaving one hand on her outer thigh, he lifted his other hand to her hair, stroking a fingertip against the pale pink ribbon wound through the updo holding her chestnut locks in place. “I think this might be my favourite ribbon already,” he murmured huskily against her lips.

When he touched her, thinking rationally was nearly impossible. Abigail swallowed and licked her lips before whispering, “I took it off my wrist when I woke. It was still on the dressing table when Annie did my hair.”

“Wear it as often as you like,” Meriden growled. “Especially if it serves to remind you—” He stopped abruptly and released her, standing swiftly.

Abigail blinked, feeling a little lost at his unexpected desertion. She looked up at him, but he was already turning away. “Or rather,” he went on, his voice somewhat more normal as he stepped through the room towards his desk—“I have something that will serve to remind you.”

“Remind me?” Abigail spoke carefully, sitting up and rearranging her skirts over the sofa, so that there was no room for him to return without crushing them.

Meriden fumbled for a moment in a drawer of his desk but then turned towards her again, his eyebrows lifting as he approached her. With a clear look of disapproval on his face at her subtle rejection, he paused not a second, but sat on her skirts, causing Abigail’s eyes to lift to him in alarm.

“Clearly not a moment too soon,” he said stiffly.

“They’ll be rumpled,” she fussed, suddenly stiff as well. Indeed, she was terrified to move, for if she pulled too hard the fabrics were likely to pull or tear.

“Naturally,” he said sternly, capturing her hands in his. “But then you will learn not to try to make yourself untouchable to me.” His face was alarmingly forbidding now, and Abigail felt an apprehensive wave rush over her. “That may be an effective parlour trick to ward off some formal, namby-pamby suitor, but you will not play such games with me, Abigail.”

“I-I—” Abigail began to say, then stopped. She had meant to withdraw a bit, to collect her mind and recover her inner balance. “You got up,” she finally said, defensively.

Meriden raised an eyebrow, then spoke soberly. “I only left your side to collect this,” he said, lifting her left hand and sliding a ring over her finger. Abigail blinked and stared, but he went on, “I’ll have it sized in Birmingham immediately after the wedding. I can see it’s a bit too large, but it will do for now—it will serve to remind you.”

“Remind me of what?” Abigail bit out, frustration edging her tone even as she tipped her hand to admire the brilliant emerald surrounded by a circle of diamonds.

Meriden was smiling now at her distracted question. He watched as she tilted her hand to the left and then the right. The filtered rays of light caught each gem differently. Eventually he replied, obviously struggling to choose the right words.

“I am—can be—a difficult man. I won’t deny it. Marriage to me won’t always be easy. I foresee myself expecting—no, demanding—significant amounts of your time and attention, in addition to the house and the nursery and whatever social obligations befall you as the countess. So, I suppose, the ring is a statement to you, and to the world, that you are mine. To the world, you are under the protection of my house and title. Wearing it symbolises to them that you represent me in all that you are and all that you do, and I have no doubts you will perform that office better than I ever have. However, to you—to us—it is also a reminder that I am a somewhat selfish man. I want—no, I
insist
, and will rarely be denied—that I have first call on your time and attention, that you consider my needs and wishes first.”

He stopped, and the room was quiet while Abigail let all he had said swirl inside her head. She blinked, shocked by such a blunt assessment of his expectations. She let her hand drop to her lap and cleared her throat a bit in the now noticeable stillness.

How was she expected to respond to that? She felt a strange sense of admiration for his honesty. Still, wasn’t the presentation of a betrothal ring supposed to be lovingly romantic, with vows of eternal faithfulness and devotion?

Of course not
, she scolded herself, astonished at her sudden susceptibility to the modern expectation of romance. This engagement of hers was for an arranged marriage. For the ring to be accompanied by a list of expected duties made some sort of sick, practical sense. And, she decided, if he’d pledged his undying love, she’d not have believed a word of it.

“Well, then,” she eventually said, her voice forced to a carefully modulated tone as she suppressed a growing sense of outrage. “It seems that my mother and father were wise beyond their ken in deciding to make me the sacrificial lamb. Fiona would never have been able to tolerate such a—a—an arrangement of the sort you describe.”

Meriden appeared to take stock of her state of mind quite well. He lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers, and whispered with a husky laugh, “I trust that there will be suitable compensations for your time and trouble, dearest. I may act like an arrogant ass but I am not completely a fool.” With that, he feathered kisses over both cheeks before capturing her mouth again.

This time, he let his hands drift downward from her shoulders in tandem, rubbing his palms over her breasts simultaneously before cupping both of them. They were magically sensitive to his touch. Warmth exploded in Abigail’s middle and she whimpered under his mouth, the idea of Meriden’s hands on her skin suddenly forming behind her closed eyes. As the long seconds passed, Abigail tentatively wished he would continue. Without asking, he did, moving his fingers and hands in a dance over her bosom that had her shuddering with a sudden, strange emotion.

Abigail
wanted
. The tingling, warm sensation that erupted inside her when he was near was a desire for
this
, for the touch of his hands, the hard caress of his palms over her awakening nipples. She
wanted
him to push down her bodice and relieve the ache. She
wanted
him to touch her skin—her bare skin. Abigail pressed herself up into his hands, against his chest, and wondered if he would know how she felt, if it was normal to feel so desirous of a man’s kiss. She never had before.

When he withdrew his hands and stood, she was actually—momentarily—indignant.

He took three steps away from her before stopping, then stared out through the French doors at the far end of the room. Abigail inspected the damage to her skirt, inwardly sighed, and rose. It would need to be pressed, certainly, but he hadn’t ripped it.

“As for the unavoidable business I mentioned last night,” Meriden offered after a moment, “I am afraid we do have some. You’ve signed the marriage contracts, of course, but I have the deeds for your signature now, and I wished for us to agree on some critical details of the wedding itself this morning. Prior to the accident, I had invited the rector and his wife to dinner tonight. They consented yesterday—I did not think to cancel until the middle of the night and it would be in poor taste now to do so.”

Swallowing, Abigail forced herself to focus. “It will be odd, however, to have them to dinner while unmarried and entertaining alone. Aunt Betsy will obviously not be present.”

“I’m sure they will excuse it upon learning the reason, and I have invited James Franklin to join us. It will make for an odd number, but should have been anyway with your aunt in attendance.”

Abigail nodded. “I see no objections as long as the staff can cope with the added requirements, unless my aunt turns somewhat worse.”

“As to the wedding, I will craftily admit that we have not had opportunity to discuss specific arrangements and that your aunt’s care has been our primary concern. However, I do not wish to entertain any discussion of delaying the actual wedding date. Indeed, I would like it to be next Tuesday. It will surely be sufficient for your aunt to mostly recover, and it is perhaps as long as we could stretch the lack of chaperone anyway without some repercussions to your reputation, which I would not countenance. Indeed, any delay in the wedding now would cause more gossip among both locals and those in London, as I’m sure you must recognise.”

“I see your point. However, I do not wish to embark upon the process of wedding planning by myself, and really know very little of it, as I have never had one or planned one before. Aunt Betsy expected, and I needed her, to take charge of that part of the business.” Abigail’s voice was quietly practical and reasonable, and she breathed a sigh of relief when he took her objection in stride.

He nodded, still facing away from her, and said, “I would not claim to be an expert on the matter, either. In any event, we can return to the subject tomorrow or the next day. I cannot see that a delay of a few days is likely to have significant impact, except in the issuing of invitations. My secretary has a list of local personalities to invite. It remains to provide him with your list and the invitations will be complete. Only you might think of what might be customary or pretty—I’m afraid my knowledge of weddings is limited to noticing pastel colours on otherwise vibrant persons and extravagant flowers, and the presence of a carriage to whisk the couple away to a large meal where they are required to play host and hostess.”

The library they were in featured an elegant plaster ceiling, with geometric starbursts that created a lovely pattern. Abigail studied it thoughtfully before saying, “You mentioned the marriage contracts, before. You said I had signed them already. But I have not signed anything.”

At her words, Meriden turned to her and blinked, then walked across the room to his desk and sorted through some papers. Abigail followed him, and realised that he was laying out the sheets methodically, an unmistakable frown on his face.

When finished, he looked up and waved his hand at them. “You did not sign these?” he asked quietly, severely.

Swallowing heavily, Abigail looked again and shook her head. “It is not my signature,” she whispered. “I imagined you would have them here for me to sign when I arrived.” A wry smile touched her face. “I imagined it was my last line of defence. If you were indeed appalling and unbearable beyond acceptable limits, I could simply refuse to set my name to them.” She blinked, openly battling tears, and admitted quietly, “Indeed, my sisters suggested I do that very thing.”

“Your father forged your signatures,” he murmured, reaching out to wipe away a stray tear with his finger.

The gentleness only made her eyes brim with more. “Years ago, they promised us that we could make our decisions independently of their interference. But it was all a lie,” she went on, suddenly angry. “No wonder they refused to come here themselves—they knew they had robbed me of my independence, of one of my few free rights.”

“What independence?” Meriden retorted, but he said it kindly, reaching out an arm and drawing her into a loose embrace. “The only independence they could have provided for you was a guarantee of poverty, of being cast from your home with your mother and sisters with nowhere to go. Going out to work for a living as a governess or nursemaid or, God forbid, some man’s contracted mistress is no sort of independence, particularly with a belted earl who would have been exiled to the Caribbean for a father. Indeed, there are very few women or men who are truly independent. The modern notion of it as reality is enough to cause much heartache.”

Abigail’s lips twisted. “I wanted nothing more than the freedom to choose my future, the same as you,” she returned with an edge of anger and bitterness in her tone.

“I did not choose my future,” Meriden objected quietly. “Nature and birth placed me in a position where I am required to be farmer, soldier, politician, husband, father and magistrate, whether I wish it or not. It requires me to marry and have children, whether I am suited to it or not. I was lucky in that I am mostly suited to the roles of magistrate and soldier. I am an inadequate farmer but have compensated as an excellent landlord, I believe. As for husband and father, I beg you to grant me the opportunity of a few years to grow into the roles before rendering a final judgement in the matter. And I have utterly failed as a politician—I do believe that if I could be ousted from the House of Lords they would happily dispense with me. They are ever so grateful whenever I depart.”

Unable to stop the bubble of laughter that rose in her throat, Abigail stared down at the contracts for a moment, then whispered brokenly, “I will never be able to trust them again.”

“Perhaps someday you will be able to trust me instead,” the earl comforted her quietly, stroking her back gently as she stared at the desk. She looked at him, startled, but Meriden raised an eyebrow. “I do
not
approve of your parent’s manipulations, Abigail, even if daughters were married against their wills in decades past. It was my understanding that you had accepted our marriage and I—well, I would not have had the banns read without your consent, but it is too late publicly to pull back now, especially with your aunt’s condition as it is. You, however, have my permission—” At Abigail’s widening eyes, Meriden stopped abruptly, bit his lip, then corrected himself. “I mean to say, I have no objections if you wish to take up the matter with them directly, either now or after the wedding. I can see where you would interpret this as a betrayal.”

Her jaw tight, Abigail nodded. Lost in thought, she explained, “Mother had taken us to Brighton the week before. It was on a whim, but turned out to be a pleasant diversion. We returned on a Wednesday night. On Thursday, we did the usual round of luncheons and the Park, and teas and dinner and balls. I believe you were closeted with Father that morning. The next I heard of it was late Saturday night, although Mother and Father had been debating it since you departed. Father called me into his study upon our return from the theatre and told me that I was to marry you, and that you had returned to Meriden Park without even seeing me so that the banns could be read on Sunday in your parish church. The engagement announcement was in
The Times
that next morning.” Her voice died away at the end, then she grimaced, remembering. “I don’t think I ate for two days. On Monday afternoon I was fitted for my trousseau, and we left London the following Saturday morning and arrived Sunday—last—night.”