His Christmas Pleasure (17 page)

This love felt different than it had with Gillian. She’d been like a holy grail

… but Abby? She was companion and confidante, lover and friend. Love with her was easier and more carefree.

She’d given him so much. And he was going to make her proud of him. He was now a man with an income of two thousand pounds a year. He had an incredible wife, and someday, his horses would be the best in England.

He slept with a smile on his face.

Andres woke the next morning thinking there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. Since he’d met Abby, his life had taken on meaning, and today he was putting the first of many plans into action.

He wanted to make love to her. He held off, because she was walking a little stiffer and he feared they might have already overdone it for her.

But she was game to make love again.

It was a gift to a man to know he’d married a woman who shared his needs.

However, he had to think of her well-being. “Not yet, palomita,” he said.

“Let your body become accustomed to this.”

She pouted. “I thought we would do it three more times.”

He laughed. “Wait until we reach Stonemoor,” he said. “I’ll make love to you in every room.”

“And how many rooms are there?”

“At least twenty,” he guessed. He hoped. If not, he’d build on the extra rooms he needed.

“I shall hold you to that promise, my lord,” she informed him in a voice so husky with lust that he was tempted to set good intentions aside and take her right there.

The truth was, he adored looking at his wife. He liked her untamed curls and regal bearing. His Abby was a study in contrasts, and he thought her perfect.

She let him know she liked him as well. As they dressed, he could feel her gaze shift shyly in his direction as if she, too, couldn’t believe her good fortune.

But he should have known better than to underestimate his palomita.

As he started to open the door for her, she paused. “I have one question, my lord.”

“Yes?” He took his hand off the door latch.

“That night in the library, when I came upon you … you truly were thinking of taking your life, weren’t you?”

There was a question in her voice, but he heard a statement of fact.

“I would not have taken the coward’s way,” he said carefully, uncertain why she brought this up now. Had he done something wrong?

“It would have been a pity if you had,” she said. “I would have lost so much.

Please, don’t ever lose faith in life again.” There was no condemnation in her attitude.

And he realized this woman saw through him. She didn’t look at the features that God had blessed, or cursed, him with; she saw him.

For the briefest moment, he could tell her all, every bloody detail of it. He had a longing to confess the ruses and tricks and the lies he still lived.

But he didn’t. Because right now, she saw the best of him, and he never wanted to disappoint her.

He’d received a gift. Along with the two thousand came a generous woman who was making him believe life was good. And he would see that it was for her, he silently vowed. Today was a new era of his life. He would leave the past behind and truly become the man he wanted her to see.

Andres sealed that pledge to God by kissing Abby. It was both her answer and his promise.

She lifted her hand to rest on the side of a newly shaven jaw. Their kiss ended, and all was well.

So it was in a good frame of mind that they left the bedroom that had brought them so much delight.

The smells of fresh baked bread and frying sausages wafted through the air toward them as they walked down the narrow hallway to the main room.

Abby’s stomach rumbled, and they both laughed when his followed suit, a laughter that came to an abrupt end when they reached the dining room.

For there, waiting for them at the table set for their breakfast, was Banker Montross.

Abby was shocked to see her father.

Guilt, as well as shame, stabbed through her. She’d been so involved with her husband that she’d forgotten all about the man who had raised her. Her first reaction was to go to him, to see that he was truly fine after the accident, but Andres rested his hands on her shoulders, holding her in place.

“Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Barón,” her father said, his tone unwelcoming. “Sit.”

Abby started to obey, but Andres’s hands held her in place. “I sense you are angry,” Andres said to the banker. “Before we talk, understand your daughter is my wife and I will protect her.”

Few spoke their minds to Abby’s father, and no one openly challenged him.

His brows came together in a hawkish expression she knew so well. His jaw tightened, but then he lifted his chin. “I have never taken my temper out on my daughter. Now, please, sit down.”

Andres took her hand and led her over to the table. There was a tankard of ale in front of Abby’s father. “Our plates will be out in a moment,” he said to Andres. “I didn’t know what you wished to drink.” To Abby he said, “I ordered the chocolate you like, but they don’t have it. You’ll have to settle for tea.”

She nodded. What was offered to drink was the least of her worries.

“Abby has been preferring tea,” Andres countered.

Tension lit the air over the challenge concerning Abby’s beverage preference.

Understanding she was caught between two men who cared for her, Abby sought to diffuse the situation. “Chocolate is good. So is tea.”

The men acted as if she hadn’t spoken.

Thankfully, Mrs. Laing came into the room carrying a tray with their plates.

Her cheery presence was a respite from the two glowering gentlemen Abby found herself with. The older woman fussed around the table as if everything was exactly as it should have been. She even declared Andres and Abby

“lovebirds” on several occasions. Each time she said it, her father’s knuckles whitened.

At last she left and they were alone.

Abby didn’t touch her food, but her father and Andres ate as if they hadn’t had a care in the world.

“Eat, daughter,” her father ordered.

“If you do not feel hungry, palomita, you must not force yourself,” her husband said.

“Oh, no, waste away to nothing. That will make your mother happy.

Speaking of your mother, I left her in tears.”

Those words tore at Abby’s conscience.

“A good mother always finds it difficult to release her daughter to the care of another,” Andres observed. “It is the way of the world.”

Abby rested her elbows on the table, burying her head in her hands.

“I want what is best for my daughter,” her father said.

“As do I,” Andres answered. He leaned over to Abby. “We have agreed, Abby. See? It is not so bad.”

“Depending on what you want,” her father responded. “Do you care for my daughter, Barón?”

“I do.”

Her father put down his cutlery. He leaned back in the chair, and his fingers drummed the table in that manner he had when he was not happy.

Abby attempted to intervene. “Father, please. I meant no disrespect. But I could not marry Lord Villier. I wish I could have pleased you, but I couldn’t.”

“All you had to do is say you didn’t want to marry him,” her father answered. “You didn’t need to elope.”

That’s not how Abby remembered her father’s opinion of the Villier match, but before she could respond, he said to Andres, “And don’t think I don’t know what you want. You stole my daughter for her dowry. Well, I have news for you, Spaniard"—he practically spit the word out—"there is no dowry. It was mine to give or keep. I’m keeping it.”

Abby was stunned by his words. “Are you disowning me? You are doing what my grandfather did to Mother?”

Her father acted ruffled at the accusation. The line of his mouth grew more set, as if he wished he could reconsider but was too stubborn to do so.

Andres placed his hand over hers. “I don’t need her dowry,” he informed the banker.

“That’s what you think,” her father answered. His gaze focused on Andres’s hand holding Abby’s. He picked up his fork to savagely stab a sausage, but he placed the fork down instead of raising the food to his mouth. “There is something else you should know, Barón. Something my daughter didn’t know because I never told her. However, this information will change your attitude toward her.”

“Abby is my wife. Nothing can change what I feel for her.”

Her father pushed away from the table and stood. For a second he appeared ready to flee.

He doesn’t like someone else having more control over me than he has, Abby realized. She didn’t think it was out of malice, but for so long she’d done as he’d expected—and now here she was defying his authority, listening to another man.

“You and Mother eloped,” she said, speaking as gently as she could. “Your marriage turned out well.”

“Yes, but I don’t know this man. He has no connections—”

“The same argument Mother’s father used against you,” Abby pointed out.

“At least I was English. Ah, Abigail, Abigail, Abigail … I want what is best for you. This man is a lothario. A rakehell, a scoundrel. A gambler.”

There was no worse accusation in her father’s vocabulary than that of gamester. He never gambled.

But she did. She was gambling on Andres.

Andres spoke. “I understand your feeling,” he said. There was tension in his voice. He was offended, but he was holding his temper at bay. “I don’t want us at odds. Abby cares for her family—”

“Or so I thought!” her father barked.

“Or so I do,” Abby stressed. “Father, you and I are much alike. As are my brothers. We’ve all sought our own fortunes.”

The harsh lines of her father’s face crumpled into sad ones. “You are a woman, Abby. It is my role to see you safe.”

“Now it is my role,” Andres said.

His claim seemed to suck the bluster from her father. He sat heavily on Mrs.

Laing’s wooden chair. “Yes, it is your role now.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out some papers. “Mrs. Laing,” he called.

She appeared immediately at the doorway, leaving no doubt she’d been eavesdropping. “Yes, sir?” she said, sympathy in the look she gave Abby.

“I need pen and ink. Do you have it?” her father asked.

“Aye, sir, I do.”

“Bring it here.”

Her father shoved his plate of uneaten food to one side. “This paperwork concerns the trust Abigail’s maternal grandmother left to her.” He glanced at Andres. “She didn’t like me and wanted to ensure that I never put my hands on the monies that would have come to me through my wife. That was fine.

I knew how to make my own money.”

He said this last in a tone that could be understood to mean he didn’t think Andres could.

Abby laced her fingers through Andres’s as a silent request for patience. They had each other.

The gesture was not lost on her father. “Ah, yes, miss, we shall see how supportive the two of you are to each other. I tried to spare you from this, Abby. But it is your choice. Remember that. This is your choice.”

“I accept responsibility for my actions,” she said.

“Good,” he answered and opened the folded pages of parchment. It was a legal document. She knew her father. He’d meant what he’d said about there not being a dowry. This must have had something to do with her inheritance from her maternal grandmother.

“I have before me the paperwork for a trust that I set up.” Her father took his spectacles from their case and perched them on his nose. “As I said, your grandmother thought to circumvent me by leaving these monies to you, daughter. Her wish was that I should never place my hands on them.

However, I am more clever than she could ever have thought.”

“What do you mean?” Abby asked.

“I placed everything in trust.” Her father looked to Andres. “Do you understand what a trust is?”

“Is it like an entailment?” Andres answered, his brows gathering in concern.

Her father frowned. “Somewhat. Very good, Barón, I didn’t expect you to understand the process.”

The lines tightened around Andres’s mouth at the insult but he kept quiet, which Abby appreciated. Her father would have liked Andres to lash out.

Mrs. Laing entered the room with ink and a sharpened quill. “Thank you, Mrs. Laing,” her father said and unstopped the ink bottle. He dipped the quill in it.

“According to the trust, Abigail may not have access to her inheritance until her twenty-seventh birthday—July 17, 1813—almost three years from now.”

“I thought it was to come to me upon marriage,” Abby protested.

“Yes, those are the terms of your grandmother’s will. However, I set up the trust. Even though you may be married, this trust will hold your inheritance until the stated date. Nor can any changes be made to it without the permission of the trustees, who include myself, my assistant Archibald Vaughn, and your two brothers, until you reach the age of twenty-seven.”

Andres pulled the papers to him. Abby leaned over so that she could read them, too. She didn’t understand all the legalese, but her father was a smart man. If he said he had seen this done, so it was.

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” she asked.

“There was no reason to do so,” her father answered. “I had anticipated giving you a dowry, and this trust fund would have been superfluous—to the proper man.”

He pushed another paper toward them. “This must be signed and dated to show that I have given you the papers of the trust and that you acknowledge receipt. When you turn twenty-seven, Abigail, you can bring the documents to my bank and have access to the money, which is currently sitting in the funds gathering interest for you.”

Abby couldn’t move. She couldn’t believe her father was doing this. She pulled her gaze from the paperwork to meet his eyes and found him a stranger. He was truly that angry that she had defied him.

And he wished to teach her a lesson. She knew it.

Well, she’d not let him have the best of her.

Abby took the quill he offered, dipped it in more ink, and signed her name.

“Very good,” her father murmured. “But the name that matters is your husband’s. You are a married woman now, Abby. You have few rights. As you both pointed out to me, you are in his hands.”