“We have been sent to find you,” Lord Hammond said with a tentative smile.
After a quick perusal of her companion reassured her of the viscountess’ renewed composure, Isabel nodded and was grateful to return to the manse where concerns of babies and regrets could be momentarily set aside.
The sound of crunching gravel alerted Rhys to the approaching figure. If he’d had any doubt that he was making the right decision, it was dispelled when Abby came into view, bathed in moonlight. The racing of his heart and nearly overwhelming need to crush her to him proved Bella’s words true—Abby was the person he wished to make his life’s journey with.
“I went to your rooms,” she said softly, as direct as always.
How he adored that about her! After a lifetime of saying what was expected and hearing equally worthless discourse in return it was a joy to spend time with a woman who had no social artifice at all.
“I suspected you would,” he replied gruffly, backing up when she stepped forward. The color of her eyes was not visible in the near darkness, but he knew it as well as he knew the color of his own. He knew how they darkened when he filled her, and how they glistened when she laughed. He knew every ink stain on her fingers, and could tell her which ones hadn’t been there the last time he saw her. “And I knew that if you did, I would take you to bed.”
She nodded her understanding. “You are departing tomorrow.”
“I must.”
The determined finality in Rhys’ tone pierced Abigail like a rapier thrust.
“I shall miss you,” she said.
Though the words themselves were the truth, the casual tone she used to impart them was a lie. The thought of the endless days before her without Rhys’ touch and his hunger, was devastating. Even having known it would end like this, she was still unprepared for the pain of separation.
“I will come back for you as soon as possible,” he said softly.
Her heart stilled before leaping. “Beg your pardon?”
“I travel to visit my father tomorrow. I will explain the situation between you and me, and then I will return to London and court you as I should have done from the beginning.”
The situation.
“Oh my.” Abby walked slowly over to a nearby marble bench and sat, her gaze lowering to her twisting fingers. The moment Grayson’s voice had interrupted their kiss, she had dreaded this result. What had been nothing but joy and love for her, was now a lifetime duty for Rhys. She could not allow him to make the sacrifice, especially considering how obviously he resented his craving for her.
She looked at him and managed a soft smile. “I thought we agreed to approach our affair pragmatically.”
He frowned. “If you think I have done anything pragmatically since meeting you, you are daft.”
“You know what I mean to convey.”
“Things have changed,” he argued gruffly.
“Not for me.” She held out her hands to him, then caught the gesture and clasped them back together. Any sign of weakness and he would note it. “Surely Lord and Lady Grayson will afford you their discretion if you ask it of them.”
“Of course.” He crossed his arms. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t want to be courted, Rhys.”
He gaped at her. “Why the devil not?”
She affected a shrug. “We had an agreement. I am not inclined to alter the rules at this point.”
“Alter the rules…?”
“I enjoyed our time together immensely and I will always be grateful to you.”
“Grateful?” Rhys parroted, staring at Abby in confounded wonder. He longed to go to her, to hold her and break through the wall that was suddenly between them, but it was too dangerous. Ravishment was a very real hazard.
“Yes, quite.” Her smile was a thing of beauty that shattered him.
“Abby, I—”
“Please. Say no more.” Rising to her feet, she approached him and rested her fingertips over his tense arm. Her touch burned through the velvet of his coat. “I will forever count you as a dear friend.”
“A friend?” He blinked furiously as his eyes burned. Releasing his breath, Rhys soaked up the sight of her—the tightly coiled dark tresses, the high waist of her pale green gown, the gentle swell of her breasts above the scooped neckline. All his. Nothing, not even her outrageous dismissal, would ever convince him otherwise.
“Always. Will you promise me a dance when next we meet?”
Rhys swallowed hard. There were a hundred things he wished to say, questions to ask, assurances to give…but they were all dammed up behind the lump in his throat. Here he had been falling in love, while Abby had merely been falling into bed? He refused to believe that. No woman could melt for a man the way she did for him and not feel something deeper than friendship.
A harsh laugh erupted without thought. If that wasn’t a perfect comeuppance for a seasoned rake, he had no notion what was.
“Farewell until then,” Abby said, before turning and walking away with undue haste.
Crushed and confused, Rhys sank onto the bench still warm from her body heat and dropped his head in his hands.
A plan. He needed a plan. This could not be the end. Every labored breath protested the loss of his love. There was something he was missing, if only he could think well enough to discover it. He had been with enough women to know that Abby cared for him. If what she felt wasn’t love, surely there was a way to make it turn into love. If Isabel could be swayed, so surely could Abigail.
Lost in the process of thinking while fighting abject despair, he failed to register his lack of privacy until Grayson stumbled out from behind a tree. Disheveled and sporting leaves in his hair, the Marquess of Grayson was an odd sight.
“What are you about?” Rhys muttered.
“Do you know that in the whole of this garden I cannot find one red rose? There are pink roses and white roses, even an orange shade of rose, but no true red.”
Running his hands through his hair, Rhys shook his head. “Is this part of your wooing of Isabel?”
“Who else would I be doing this for?” Grayson heaved out his breath. “Why could your sister not be the practical sort I thought she was?”
“I have discovered that practicality in women is exceedingly overappreciated.”
“Oh?” Grayson arched a brow and dusted himself off as he moved closer. “I take it the situation between you and Miss Abigail is not proceeding satisfactorily?”
“Apparently, there is no situation,” he said dryly. “I am a ‘dear friend.’”
Grayson winced. “Good God.”
Rhys rose to his feet. “So, considering the ruination of my own love life, if you reject my offer to help yours I would understand completely.”
“I will take all the assistance I can get. I’ve no wish to spend the whole of my night gardening.”
“And I’ve no wish to spend the whole of my night pining, so the distraction will be welcome.”
Together, they moved deeper into the garden. Thirty minutes and several pricks of rose thorns later, Rhys grumbled, “This love business is dreadful.”
Tangled in a climbing rose, Grayson growled, “Here, here.”
Chapter 18
Standing in the doorway that separated his room from the adjoining sitting room, Gerard watched his wife glance at the small walnut clock on the mantel, tap her foot impatiently, and then mutter an oath under her breath.
“Such language from a lady,” he drawled, relishing the warmth he felt at the knowledge that she missed him. “Puts me in the mood for sex.”
She spun to face him and set her hands on her hips. “Everything puts you in the mood for sex.”
“No,” he argued, entering the room with a wicked smile. “Everything about you puts me in the mood.”
She arched a brow. “Should I take your disheveled appearance and long absence as a sign? You look as if you’ve been tumbling a serving maid in the bushes.”
Lowering his hand to rub the hard length of his cock, he said, “Here is a sign you can take. Proof that my interest is only for you.” Then he pulled out the hand he had hidden behind his back, revealing a perfect red rosebud atop a very long stem. “But I think you will find this one more romantic.”
Gerard watched Pel’s eyes widen and knew that as far as roses went, the one he held aloft was a prime specimen. After all, nothing but the absolute best would do for his wife.
Her smile shook slightly, and her amber eyes glistened, making the itchy scratches on the backs of his hands pale to insignificance.
He knew that look. It was the smitten glance young debutantes had been giving him for years. That it now came from Isabel, his friend and the woman he lusted for so desperately, made everything he did not understand about courting come into clarity. Finesse may be something his primitive brand of claiming lacked, but he had always been able to be honest with Pel. “I want to woo you, win you, dazzle you.”
“How is it that you can be so crude one moment and yet so appealing the next?” she asked with a shake of her head.
“There are moments when I am unappealing?” He clasped a hand over his heart. “How distressing.”
“And impossibly, you look delectable with twigs in your hair,” she murmured. “All that effort spent on me, and outside of bed, no less. A girl could swoon.”
“Feel free, I’ll catch you.”
Her laugh made everything in the world right again. Just as it had done from the moment he met her.
“Do you know,” he murmured, “that the sight of you—dressed or undressed, sleeping or waking—has always calmed me?”
She tugged the rose free of his grasp and lifted it to her nose. “‘Calm’ is not a word I would select to describe you.”
“No? What would you choose, then?”
As she moved to add the rose to a nearby vase, he shrugged out of his coat. The knock that interrupted her reply surprised him. Then he listened to Isabel instruct the servant to bring hot water for his bath and he nodded to himself. His wife had always been one to anticipate a man’s comfort.
“Stunning,” she said when they were alone again. “Overwhelming. Determined. Relentless. Those descriptors suit you best.”
Pausing before him, she slowly undid the carved buttons of his waistcoat. “Brazen.” Pel licked her lower lip. “Seductive. Definitely seductive.”
“Married?” he suggested.
She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Yes. Definitely married.” Running her hands up his chest and over the tops of his shoulders, she pushed the garment off of him.
“Enchanted,” he said in a tone made husky by the effect of her perfume and attentions.
“What?”
“Enchanted would describe me perfectly.” Thrusting his hands through her rich auburn tresses, he tugged her hard against him. “Captivated.”
“Do you find any oddness in our sudden fascination with one another?” she asked in a tone that begged for reassurance.
“Is it so sudden? I cannot seem to remember a time when I did not think you were perfect for me.”
“I have always thought you were perfection, but never did I think you were perfect for me.”
“Yes, you did, or you would not have wed me.” He nuzzled his mouth against hers. “But you did not think I was perfect for loving, which I am.”
“We really must work on building your self-confidence,” she whispered.
Gerard twisted her head slightly to better fit their kiss and then licked across her lips. When her tongue flicked out to meet his, he hummed a soft chastising sound. “Allow me to kiss you. Just take it. Take me.”
“Give me more then.”
His smile curved against hers. A woman after his own heart. “I want to lick away every trace of any other kiss you have ever had.” Cupping her nape in a hold that established his dominance, he followed the velvety softness of her upper lip with the tip of his tongue. “I want to give you your first kiss.”
“Gerard,” she whimpered, trembling.
“Do not be frightened.”
“How can I help it? You are destroying me.”
He nipped her plump lower lip with his teeth and then suckled it rhythmically, his eyes closing as the wanton taste of her inundated his senses. “I am rebuilding you, rebuilding us. I want to be the only man whose kiss you remember.”
Sliding one hand down to the curve of her derriere, he urged her against him. With his arms filled with alluring softness, his nostrils filled with exotic flowers and aroused woman, his taste buds soaked in rich flavor, Gerard was left with no doubt that he loved Isabel more than anything. It was like nothing he had ever felt for anyone and it made him happy in a way nothing in his life ever had, or ever could. He tasted her tears and knew what she couldn’t yet say.
He was about to say it for her when the scratching at the door parted them. It took far too long to have the bath prepared and the servants dismissed, but the resulting feel of Pel’s fingers sifting soap through his hair and over his back was worth the wait. Then he noted the shaking of her hands and knew he had to distract her from her fears until he could take her to bed. There they’d never had any difficulty connecting intimately. With that in mind, he hurried the process.
“Would you like to discuss what lured you and Lady Ansell out to the garden earlier?” he asked, belting his robe before accepting the warmed brandy she offered him.
“Fresh air?” She took a seat in a nearby chair.
Gerard moved to the window. “You can simply tell me to mind my own affairs.”
“Mind your own affairs,” she retorted with laughter in her voice.
“Now I am intrigued.”
“I knew you would be.” He heard her sigh. “Apparently, conception is a problem for them, and it is causing a strain.”