A Man Of Many Talents (22 page)

“Who?” she asked, her voice odd.

Christian shrugged. “One of the duke of Bedford’s innumerable daughters. Lily, or was it Jonquil? All of them are named after flowers, and each is more spoiled and scheming than the last.” Christian couldn’t help tensing at the memory of his close escape. Too close.

“What happened?”

“Unfortunately she took a fancy to me, and since none of the duke’s daughters have ever been denied anything, she fully expected me, and my grandfather, to fall at her feet, prostrate with gratitude at the opportunity to join her family. When I did not, she used all her wiles to trap me.”

Christian’s expression hardened. “She arranged for us to be ‘discovered’ in the garden, she in a state of dishabille that would require me to do the proper thing. Thankfully, I sent my regrets in answer to her invitation by way of a young man who was eager to take my place. You could hear her shrieks all the way to the ballroom.”

“I see,” Abigail said softly.

Did she? Christian wondered. Then perhaps she might excuse some of his worst behavior. He had become wary after that, wary of women and flirtations and invitations. While he tried to find the words to explain, she set the steaming tart upon the table before him, and Christian gave up all attempt at speech. The scent made his mouth water and his stomach growl, and he wasted no time in cutting into it. He popped the first piece, still hot, into his mouth, and then closed his eyes. Heavenly.

He was tempted to propose right then and there, but the prospect of an abrupt rejection stopped him. Instead, he gazed up at her longingly. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to take over the cooking here, at least during my stay?”

15

A
bigail found herself
wandering the rooms of Sibel Hall, seized by a restlessness that made working in the study impossible. Instead of doing her duty, s
he found herself longing for…
adventure, or at least the exploration of some secret passageways. But Christian had found no other hides and seemed unlikely to do so. And what other sort of adventure could she expect to find here in Devon?

She flushed as the memory of what had happened in the priest’s escape returned in all its lurid glory. It wasn’t as though she was looking
for
…
that.
She was simply bored, not with the deadly dull tedium she had known as a companion but with books and correspondence and such. It was all Christian’s fault. He had awakened her from he
r stupor, and now she wanted…
life. But life usually consisted of obligations and work, not heart-thudding excitement.

Yet even as Abigail reasoned with herself, her steps led her through the house, seeking something. Or was it someone? Perhaps, she admitted. But who could blame her for
forgoing the isolation of the study and the tepid conversation of her cousins for the dazzling company of her houseguest? Abigail frowned at the thought, aware that since she had changed her mind about him, Christian had become far too appealing to her. Now, instead of cataloguing his faults, she could do naught but admire everything about him, even the teasing wit she once would have dismissed.

Abigail had the uneasy sensation that her feelings for the man were becoming far too particular, which could only lead to heartache, as well she knew. That sort of pain had been one of the reasons she had cut herself off from the world, and she didn’t want to go through it again. And yet the reckless embrace of life that had been roused in the passage drove her forward, overriding her reservations.

She told herself that theirs was a harmless flirtation, the kind that she had never had the chance to engage in before. Who could blame her for wanting to enjoy a more lighthearted existence, that which had been denied her after the death of her parents? And if she stole a few kisses? Well, that, too, was an experience she had never known.

Except that she wasn’t getting any kisses.

Abigail stifled a discontented sigh. Since his first aborted efforts to woo her on the stairs, Christian had not approached her again. She could have sworn that a man like the viscount would be undeterred by her refusal, and yet he had behaved like a gentleman. Such conduct proved that he was different from the usual fellows who importuned her, and a woman could hardly find fault with a man who took her at her word, for that was just the sort of man she wanted, wasn’t it?

It was, Abigail confirmed. And yet, she knew an absurd yearning to be importuned once more. Certainly, there had been that time in die passageway, but she had been the one to instigate that, and though she hoped for some kind of repetition, days had pas
sed and nothing had happened. Wh
en she had learned that he was lurking outside her bedroom during the night hours, it had taken all her strength
not to fling open the door and seek him out. She had lain abed, sleepless and breathless, listening for any sound of a knock, but Christian had remained a gentleman.

Truth be told, Abigail was growing rather disgruntled by the whole thing. For the first time since she had expounded on male virtues—virtues she admittedly had deemed lacking in the viscount—she began to wonder if the traits she had listed were as desirable as she had originally thought. Perhaps there was such a thing as too much studiousness in a man, for a devotion t
o books left little time for…
adventure.

The tinkle of piano keys drew her from her thoughts, and she wondered if Sir Boundefort was up and about, now trying to communicate his wishes through music. Although Christian seemed to believe the ghost wasn’t real, Abigail wasn’t so sure. She had no evidence of his existence, and yet she could hardly imagine anyone perpetrating such an elaborate hoax here at Sibel Hall. It was baffling, but she had no doubt now that Christian would solve the mystery. Impatient at first with his seeming lack of progress, Abigail no longer chafed at the delay. In fact, she rather dreaded the prospect of his success, for to whom would she look for adventure then?

Frowning, she told herself she would not need any spurious entertainments, for she would at last have her heart’s desire, her cozy cottage, peaceful and private. But somehow the recitation of her lifelong dream didn’t cheer her as it once had. Dismissing that thought, she turned and headed toward the snippet of melody, uncertain of what she would find and even more uncertain of what she hoped to find.

Abigail entered the music room warily, but she saw no formless pha
ntom, only Cousin Mercia and…
Christian. Drawing in a sharp breath, she tried to throttle the rush of pure pleasure she felt at the sight of him. Now that she had seen for herself that no specter pounded the keys, Abigail knew she ought to leave, but like a drunk eyeing a bottle, she moved forward, unable to help herself.

“Cousin Abigail, hello!” Mercia called out, and Abigail knew a terribly impolite wish that her cousin would disappear, at least for the moment. To make up for such traitorous thoughts, she greeted the older woman twice as warmly.

“I was on my way to the drawing room when I heard the pianoforte and had to come investigate,” Mercia said. “I must admit that I hoped to
catch a glimpse of Sir Bounde
fort.”

“Alas, it was only me, tapping the keys,” the viscount said.

He wore his spectacles, and Abigail wondered if he was a musician as well, such talents often being the outlet of a creative mind. Her gaze met his warm one, then slid away, and she cursed the blush that rose in her cheeks. Her hands moved restlessly, and she lifted her fingers to the brooch that hung inside her gown.

“Oh, but we are always pleased to see you, your lordship. Aren’t we, Abigail?” Cousin Mercia said.

Abigail could only nod stupidly, emulating the foolish young ladies of the
ton
she so despised. Perhaps she had better slink back to the study.

“Do you play, my dear?” Mercia asked.

It took Abigail a moment to realize the older woman was talking to her, and she blinked, uncomprehending.

“The pianoforte,” Mercia said.

“Oh, no!” Abigail exclaimed, with no little alarm. She had a rudimentary knowledge of the instrument, to be sure, but questions like Mercia’s were usually followed by requests for a demonstration.

“Surely you are being modest,” Mercia said, obviously surprised at the lack in Abigail’s education.

“Miss Parkinson has
other
…
skills,” the viscount said, and Abigail glanced toward him with mingled disbelief and gratitude. “But perhaps we can induce you to play for us,” he added, flashing one of his heartstopping grins at Cousin Mercia.

Apparently the older woman wasn’t immune to Christian’s charm, for after a few protests she took a seat and began to play a lovely waltz. Smiling in encouragement, he turned and bowed to Abigail.

“May I have this dance?”

Abigail stared at him wide-eyed. Was he mocking her? He stood awaiting her answer, one hand outstretched, just as though he were inviting her on some new adventure. But Abigail shook her head, unable to join him.

Christian stiffened, his handsome face losing its open, lighthearted expression, and Abigail drew a deep breath. “I’ve never actually waltzed, just watched,” she explained, though it pained her to do so.

He smiled slowly, but it was not a smile of amusement at her expense. It was a gentle, impossibly seductive invitation to join him, to learn from him, to become a part of his world, just as though she had been bo
rn
to it. And Abigail was helpless to refuse.

Without waiting for her demur, he reached for her hand, taking it in his own. This was no formal ball, so neither of them wore gloves, and Abigail reveled in the warmth of his skin against hers. He put her other hand on his shoulder, then rested his upon her waist, making her remember all too vividly the other occasion when he had touched her—and the way he had touched her. Her face flamed, and her breath came short.

“Easy,” he whispered, bending his head close. “Now, take a step back.”

Abigail blinked, then looked down at her feet and obeyed.

“
To the side,” he prompted. “And then forward.” When she followed his movement, he murmured his approval. “One, two, three. See how easy it is?”

Abigail disagreed, for she found it hard t
o
concentrate on her steps when Christian was this close, his hands upon her, his face so near to hers, his body only an arm’s length from her own. But she followed as best she could. At first
he counted out the steps in a low voice, then, as she grew more confident, he simply took her with him, sweeping her about the room as if they were bo
rn
to dance together.

All awareness of her surroundings faded away, and the music seemed to swell beyond Mercia’s pianoforte to a full orchestra, playing inside her heart. Abigail felt breathless and giddy as he whirled her round and round, across the floor, then slowed his steps until they were barely moving at all. She glanced up at him in question and saw the heat in his eyes. It passed between them, ignited an answering warmth in her body, and Abigail wondered, dizzily, if he was going to kiss her, at last.

She waited, breathless with anticipation, for the first touch of his lips, but as she watched, his expression chang
ed gradually until he looked…
uncomfortable. With a sinking heart, Abigail realized that the man she had thought a rake was too much a gentleman to act upon his impulse. Frustration rose up inside her.

What was the matter with a few kisses? She had experienced little enough enjoyment in her life. Why not seize this small pleasure? But seize it she would have to, for they had completely stopped now, and in a moment her opportunity would pass, just like the one in the kitchen when he had taken the apple from her. Helplessly, Abigail realized that if she wanted to be kissed, she was going to have to do it herself, taking the bull by the horns, so to speak.

Eyeing her partner with new purpose, Abigail drew in a deep breath and lifted her hands to his face. She saw surprise cross his face at her touch, but she didn’t hesitate. Pulling his head down even as she stretched up onto her toes, Abigail brushed his lips with her own. It was easy, really, she noted, before surrend
ering all thought to the white-
hot taste of his open mouth upon hers as he drew her into his welcome embrace.

“Shall I play another?”

The sound of Mercia’s voice, rising above Abigail’s thundering heartbeat, must have caught Christian’s attention, for he pulled away and stepped back, shielding her with his body. “Yes, do play something else. A minuet, perhaps?” he said over his shoulder, his easy tone revealing none of Abigail’s agitation.

He was going to ask her to dance agai
n, but Abigail could not. Had Me
rcia seen them? She was all too aware that she had no one to blame but herself for her indiscretion. Face flaming, she whispered her excuses and fled.

C
hristian fully intended
to follow Abigail and
…
do what? Say what? He wasn’t sure, but she had looked so stricken that he felt he ought to do something. But Mercia chose that moment to query him about his investigation and to extol the virtues of her cousin, just in case Christian hadn’t already noticed them. By the time he managed to escape, Alf was waiting ou
tside the music room with a mes
sage for him.

“There’s a fellow at the back of the house, milord. Says he’s got a letter for you, and he won’t hand it over to anyone but you personally.”

At last Smythe must have something to report, Christian thought, with no little elation. He had told the solicitor not to use the post, for fear any information directed to him might fall into the wrong hands, ghostly or otherwise, and so had instructed him to send a messenger.

Hurrying to the servants’ entrance, Christian found a young man waiting just inside the door whom he recognized as one of Smythe’s young clerks. The fellow obviously knew Christian as well, for he swiftly handed over the missive.

“Shall I wait for a reply, my lord?”

“Yes, but give me a moment to have a look,” Christian said. The servants’ hall was deserted, so he walked toward a tall bank of windows and shook open the foolscap. His eyes scanned the page, and he grunted at the information contained there.

“What is it, milord?” Alf asked, suddenly at his elbow.

“Well, it isn’t good,” Christian muttered. He glanced up from the letter. “All three of the cousins receive stipends in the will,” he said, mentioning the amount to gauge Alf’s reaction.

The young man whistled. “Wish some wealthy uncle would leave me that! It’s not a fortune, but a man could get by on it,” the canny fellow observed.

“Perhaps, but with much smaller accommodations than those available at Sibel Hall,” Christian noted. He read further, only to swear under his breath. “And not one of the three now living at the hall has any accommodations at all to return to, as far as Mr. Smythe has been able to discover.”