A Lady's Pleasure (11 page)

Was gone.
He distinctly recalled placing that sponge inside Abigail.
Either she wore it still ... or she had taken it with her.
And with the incongruous thought came reason.
He had left her at the crack of dawn to hunt down the cursed horse that had thrown him two nights ago. She had been curled against him, soft and replete.
He had thought to find the damned horse by the time she was awake. Instead, it had taken half the day.
The bargain had been
everything
for as long as the storm lasted.
If he had been Abigail, what would he have thought if he had awakened, alone, in a cold bed with sunshine pouring through the window?
Damn.
Why hadn't he asked for her last name? Or even more importantly, where she lived?
But the old caretakers would know.
It took Robert three hours to locate the Thomass. He was met with stoic silence.
"Her didn' leave no address." Mrs. Thomas's weathered eyes were full of hostility. "I drove 'er to the train station an' that be that."
Robert clung to his patience. "Then give me her family name. You must have that information."
"It 'pears to me, ye bein' 'er mister, ye should know that yerself," Mr. Thomas said craftily.
Short of beating the information out of the old man and woman, there was nothing Robert could do. Except try the train station.
Which was closed.
He returned to the cottage by the sea.
There were candles in the cupboardbut no butter; Mrs. Thomas's doing, clearing out the perishables. Lighting a candle, he contemplated the stripped bed and the trunk at the foot of it. Then, calmly, methodically, he retrieved the pistol from his saddlebag and blew the lock off.
The sponge lay on top of
The Pearl,
edition number twelve.
Blistering pain enveloped Robert's chest.
Grimly he picked up the sponge. It still smelled of brandy and hot, wet woman.
How does the sponge feel?
It feels there.
I'll take it out for you ... After I soak you in hot water to relieve the soreness.
Bottomless brown eyes alight with amber fires stared out of the sponge.
And what then, Colonel Coally?
Then I'll put it back in for you.
A wave of exhaustion rolled over him.
It was immediately followed by a rush of rage.
By leaving behind the trunk and the sponge Abigail had made clear her decision.
He should let her walk away. He should let her have her cold, passionless reality.
But he wasn't going to allow that.
Abigail would not get away from him that easily. He was a soldiera damned good oneused to tracking down far more wily quarry than a genteel lady.
He would find her. If not tomorrow, then the next day. Or the next.
Robert picked up the journal. It was marked by a dark wet circle.
And when he found her ... he would know every sexual act that she had ever read about. That she had ever fantasized about.
The next morning found Robert a thoroughly educated man. Acting on impulse, he packed the twelve copies of
The Pearl
into his saddlebag.
Old man Thomas was tending a pig and a dozen squealing piglets when Robert reined in his horse.
"Miss Abigail left a trunk inside the cottage. Store itI'll arrange to send it to her later. Meanwhile, I will give you a sovereign if you will take me to the train station and feed and care for my horse until I return."
Old man Thomas upturned a bucket of slops into the sty. "Miss Abigail said we wus to throw that trunk away. Ain't no need to store it. 'Less you care to buy it, of course ..."
Robert grimly dug out another sovereign.
"I don't suppose Mrs. Thomas remembers what town Miss Abigail was getting off at?"
The birdlike eyes fastened onto the gold. "We don't keep track of renters. In an' out like flies, they are."
"And of course you don't know the name or address of the owner of the cottage," Robert remarked cynically.
Thomas licked his lips. "We just does what we're told."
The old man stuck to his story all the way to the station.
The ticket seller was more helpful. He remembered selling a ticket to a lady"going to London Station. She didn't look too happy going there, neither. Her eyes were all redlike she'd been crying. You her husband?"
Robert hardened his heart at the image the ticket seller painted.
Abigail had given him everythingand had left him with nothing. Tears seemed a cheap price for the pain she had caused.
He purchased a ticket without answering.
In London a cab drove Robert to an affordable hotel on a quiet street like the ones on which he used to work when helping his father sell ices. After visiting a tailor, he commenced his search.
The thought of Abigail turning thirty without him there to celebrate with her spurred him on.
Unfortunately, he was not of the upper ten thousand. Nor had he ever made friends with commissioned officers who belonged to that prestigious club.
After three weeks in London , Robert was no closer to finding Abigail than he had been when questioning the Thomass. Until he picked up a newspaper.
There was her face, in the society section.
Underneath it hailed the news that Lady Abigail Wynfred, sister of the Earl of Melford, was marrying Sir Andrew Tymes, eldest son of Baron Charles Tymes and Lady Clarisse Denby-Tymes.
The wedding was to be a small family affair, the article went on, that would take place on the twenty-seventh of June at the Earl of Melford's London town house.
Robert could feel the color draining out of his face.
Abigail was the sister of an earlthe
William
who would die of an apoplectic fit should her trunk of erotica be discovered.
No wonder she had not offered Robert her last namea liaison with a common colonel would rock society.
Had she been simply a woman born into gentility, Robert could afford the simple luxuries due to her station in life. But she was of the aristocracy.
There was nothing a man like him could offer a woman like her.
He studied the picture of her fiancé.
Sir Andrew Tymes had side-whiskers framing plump, round cheeks.
No doubt he and Abigail would own several pianos.
And every one of them would be draped with ruffles.
I killed my first man three months to the day of my enlistment, Abigail, and I have been killing ever since.
You had no choice, Robert.
He crumpled the paper between his fingers.
Perhaps he
had
had no choice twenty-two years ago. But he did now.
Abigail did not deserve ruffled pianos.
Today was the twenty-fifth of June.
Robert hoped the earl's town house could accommodate one more guest.

contents
Abigail stared into the full-length mirror and knew that she had accomplished her goal.
The pale, brown-eyed lady with her hair pulled back in an elaborate French bun did not read erotic literature. She did not have forbidden fantasies.
She had no dreams other than to be what she wasthe daughterand now the sisterof an earl who was aligning the House of Melford monies to the House of Tymes money.
For the first time in her life she was content.
There was no pain in that pale, expressionless face. No lust. No loneliness.
Abigail liked that.
It was everything and more she had ever wanted to be.
A sharp knock interrupted her complacent perusal. There was a genteel fussher sisters. Elizabeth, the middle one, twitched Abigail's heavy, dove-gray skirt over a fashionably full bustle; Mary, the youngest next to Abigail, daintily wiped a tear out of the corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief. Victoria, the eldest, waited by the door to give Abigail into the hands of their brother, who would then give Abigail into the hands of the man who was waiting to become her husband.
Abigail liked the fact that there were no raw emotions intruding on the serenity of the occasion.
It was a beautiful day, a perfect day.
One of those rare London mornings where all the soot had settled with the morning dew and the sun shone out of a blue sky with picturesque clouds that a less pristine lady might mistake for a face with stark gray eyes or a cottage with a thatch roof or some other silly pipe dream, when really clouds were merely particles of dust and moisture marring the horizon.
Victoria opened the door and shooed out Mary and Elizabeth. Faint piano chords drifted into the bedchamber.
Abigail smiled at her sister's whispered instruction to lie back and think of England when her husband did his duty. Then her brother stepped through the doorway and took her gloved hand.
"This is an extremely important day for you, Abigail. Sir Tymes is a fine man; you will want for nothing. We trust that you will not do anything to disgrace our family name."
Abigail smiled.
Of course she would not do anything to disgrace the family name.
She was happy in her new life.
She wanted this marriage.
She wanted to be the Lady Abigail Tymes.
Abigail Wynfred had died three weeks and two days ago; it was time that she be buried.
Robert waited long minutes after the last carriage pulled away from the tall, narrow town house before mounting the cobblestone steps. Faint music penetrated the closed double doors.
He gained entrance by the simple maneuver of elbowing aside the butler when he opened the door in response to a brisk knock. Robert's scarlet dress uniform complete with a sword that was not ornamental prevented retaliation.
The butler clearly knew his duty; it was equally clear he was reluctant to carry it through. "May I help you, sir?"
"I am a friend of the groom's," Robert said grimly.
"I am afraid the wedding is for family members only, sir." The butler stared warily at Robert's dark-brown hair that was overlong and not pomaded, then at his tanned face that was shaved clean and spoke of climates and practices more barbaric than those belonging to England . "If you will give me the package, you can be assured that I will"
Robert hoisted high the silk-and-ribbon-wrapped box. "I will deliver the package personally, thank you. Carry on with your duties. There's no need to show me the way."
His heels clicked along the length of the elegant black-and-white marble floor. He followed piano music and the low murmur of voices to a dark salon filled with vases of flowers and a ruffled grand piano. Rows of chairs were positioned so that an aisle led to a white marble fireplace. The chairs were occupied by over bustled women in subdued colors and too tightly collared men in funeral black with slicked-back hair tamed with grease and side-whiskers that bristled like wire brushes. A crow of a minister and a plump cherub of a man, both with the same pomaded hair and bushy side-whiskers, flanked the marble fireplace.
Robert had timed it perfectly. No sooner did he enter the room than a hush fell over the crowd of politely expectant faces and the pianist ended the recital in a soft crash of chords. He stepped aside at the sound of rustling silk.
Abigail.
She wore a dove-gray dress with a tent-size bustle and she had never looked worse, he was sure, he thought with a stab of vicious satisfaction. Her face was chalk white with dark circles underneath her eyes. The man leading herher brother, the earl, no doubt was the same height but at least fifty pounds heavier. He, too, had pomaded hair and side-whiskers.
Abigail's back was ramrod straight as she faced the minister to take her vows. The groom, Robert noted, had a fat bottom. And he was two inches shorter than the bride.
The minister's voice was a pompous drone. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God ..."
Robert leaned against the wall and waited for his cue.
"... Therefore if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace."
Robert stepped away from the wall into the aisle. "I have just cause."
The slender back underneath the dove-gray silk grew even more stiff; suddenly Abigail pivoted, caught on the train of her gown. She floundered for a second before catching her balance.
Brown eyes were snared by pewter gray.
If it was possible, she turned even paler. Then bright crimson flooded her cheeks.
Shocked murmurs filled the dark room.
The minister lowered his spectacles. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said I have just cause to stop this wedding." He held up the beribboned silk package. "Twelve reasons, to be exact."
Abigail knew what was inside the pretty white-and-silver box. She had left behind her twelve issues of
The Pearl .
The bright red color drained from her face. "Robert"
It had been three weeks since he had heard her voice. Not one single person had used his christened name since she had left him.
He didn't want to hear her say
Robert
with that cold, polite ring of command. As if they had never been as close as it was possible for two people to be.
He wanted to hear his name husky with her passion. Or on a scream when she found release.
"Twelve reasons," he repeated. "If you can accept this gift, Abigail, and marry that man, then I will accept the fact that what meant more to me than life itself was nothing more to you than an
anomaly
caused by a storm. And I will heartily beg your pardon for this intrusion."
"Who is this man?" The groom raised a monocle and stared at Robert from an eye the size of a saucer.
Robert ignored him.
"On the other hand, Abigail, I have in my pocket two other gifts. One goes on the ring finger. The other gift is a favorite device of Lady Pokingham."
Shocked masculine gasps carried on the tide of feminine whispersso-called respectable gentlemen who recognized the name taken from
The Pearl .
Robert could feel the male attention swivel from him toward Abigail, cold eyes no doubt filled with hot speculation.
Crimson color flared anew in Abigail's cheeks. Her head jerked back as if she had received a slap in the face.
"Sir." It was the butler's voice. "Sir, if you will follow me, please."
Robert's gaze did not waver. "And last but not least, Abigail, I have edition number thirteen."
Three footmen joined the butler. The silk-wrapped package slithered to the floor as Robert struggled to free himself.
Abigail silently watched.
Damn her.
She wasn't going to accept either him ... or his gift.
She stood there, pristine and remote like the lady she had confessed she wanted to become.
He should be content that he had accomplished one goal, at least.
Her secret was out.
Sir Andrew Tymes would not marry a woman whose name was whispered in the same breath as the name of a heroine out of
The Pearl .
But Robert did not feel relief at saving Abigail from a lifetime of ruffled pianos.
For a searing second he hated her.
Hated her with all the passion in the soul that she had given back to him.
She had given him everything;
she was his.
He had resigned from active duty ... so that he might live.
With her.
Fury gave Robert the strength of two men ... but not the strength of three.
He refused to look away from Abigail's eyes, losing the battle, both with her and the footmen. He struggled to look back at her over his shoulder as they hustled him out of the funeral-dark salon. Then he struggled to stand up on the cobble stoned sidewalk as pain arched along the entire left side of his body and the sharp closure of the town house doors echoed through the street.
Damn.
He
would
land on his bum leg.
"Ye need 'elp, guv'nor? Cost ye a ha'pence."
Robert stared down at the three-foot-tall street urchin whose age could range anywhere from five to fifteen. A kaleidoscope of activity burst around himhorses trotting, carriage wheels rolling, a man hawking his waresthe vivid awareness that only comes before death.
"No," Robert said shortly. He pulled out a shilling and tossed it to the boy.
Hell, it didn't matter if he gave out all of his money.
Dead men didn't need it.
He dug into his pocket and pulled out everything he had on him.
The boy's too-old face lit up with greedy life. Before the military mort with the scary gray eyes could change his mind, the street urchin grabbed the money and ran.
Without warning, the door to the town house slammed open.
As if in slow motion, Robert turned.
Abigail raced down the steps in a jiggle of silk and bustle. She carried in gloved hands the silk-wrapped package, her dreams, his life.
She was breathless. "You forgot your package, Colonel Coally."
Death did not harbor so much pain.
Neither should life, Robert thought bleakly.
"The package is for you, Lady Wynfred."
"That cannot be, Colonel Coally," she said briskly. "You offered me three gifts, not one."
"I am afraid I am at a loss, Lady Wynfred," he said stonily, imagining her with Sir Andrew Tymes, imagining him pistoning up and downinside Abigail. "Does this mean you are rejecting or accepting the package?"
"It means, Colonel Coally, that I am accepting ... all three gifts."
For the first time that day, Robert noticed how very warm the sunshine was and how clear the sky was when free of fog and soot.
"I take it you know what Lady Pokingham's favorite toy is."
Face flooding with bright color, Abigail reached out, lightly touched the front of his scarlet trousers with white-gloved fingers before hurriedly withdrawing her hand. "Oh, yes, Colonel Coally. I know what Lady Pokingham's favorite toy is."
"I am not a gentleman," he warned her stiffly. "Nor am I wealthy. Though I have enough to live in comfort."
"Colonel Coally." The brown eyes staring up at him glowed with amber. "What you have is far more important than wealth or a title."
"And what is that, Lady Wynfred?"
Robert held his breath, not daring to hope, afraid he could not bear the pain if she rejected him now.
A curse rang out on the streeta coachman soothed the lead horse that a lady's parasol had frightened.
Abigail smiled, the smile he had come to love, wild and free as the storm.
"The Pearl ,
Colonel Coally."
"Do you take me, Abigail?" The sound issuing from his throat was stark and raw.
"I take you, Robert."
Suddenly the streets of London disappeared and there were only the two of them, a man and a woman.
Laughing, oblivious of the curious, shocked stares, Robert picked Abigail up and swung her over his head. "You are quite wrong, Miss Abigail. Lady Pokingham has another favorite toy, one that can be gift-wrapped without requiring amputation. But you can only have it after we are married. And if I insert it."