His Christmas Pleasure (2 page)

“My father made the agreement, Freddie. And only because he said you would never ask. He feared I’d end up on the shelf completely … which it looks as if I will.”

“Abby, I can’t be blamed because your father chose the wrong man for you—

”

“The wrong man?” She came to her feet, crossing toward the fireplace as if needing to put space between them. “You were the right man. I waited for you, Freddie. I believed your promises. After Father betrothed me to Mr.

Lynsted, I begged you to elope with me and you said you couldn’t because your family means so much to you.”

“They do,” he replied, also rising. “I won’t apologize for respecting their wishes.”

Andres thought he sounded like a prig.

“Yes,” she agreed with her characteristic directness, “and because you feared being cut off from funds as well.”

“This is an old road,” Freddie answered peevishly. “We’ve traveled this before.”

“I know,” Abby said, hurt etching each word. “I put off marrying Mr.

Lynsted, Freddie. I did everything to delay the marriage, used every excuse I had. Most women my age have a family and a home of their own. I’m five and twenty and I have nothing, just as my father warned.”

“Abby, I’m sorry ….but it isn’t my fault Lynsted jilted you. Really, who would have thought it? The man was so morally upright he could have gone into the clergy. And here he threw you over for an actress. Shameful.”

“Shameful? I rejoiced, Freddie. I wasn’t going to have to marry a man I didn’t love. I thought you would come for me, that I could marry you.”

Andres leaned his head against the floor, understanding the pain behind her words. To love … and not have that love returned. He knew it all too well.

“I do love you, Abby,” Freddie the weasel said. “If I thought there was hope for us, if I could untangle myself from the betrothal, I would.”

“I have money now, Freddie. My grandmother left her money to me.”

“What?”

“Yes, it’s true. You know she passed away last year, and I’m her heir. She didn’t leave even so much as a stickpin to anyone else in the family. Once I marry, it’s mine. Ours. It comes to me upon marriage. And neither you nor I need worry about being cut off by our fathers.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” Freddie demanded. Andres had almost believed it would have made a difference until Freddie added, “How much money?”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters. I’m dependent on Father for funds, but if you have enough, well, it would have been nice.”

“Would have been?” she echoed, sounding slightly dazed, as if she couldn’t believe he argued.

“Abby, you were jilted. Everyone knows. Your reputation is damaged.

There’s been a horrid amount of talk, and you know Father abhors that sort of thing.”

“I’m not overly delighted with it either, Freddie. This is the first time I’ve gone out in society since it happened. I hear them whispering. No one has asked me to dance all night. And that was fine … because I knew you would come for me. I’ve been waiting.”

“I wish I could speak for you,” Freddie said. “However, I can’t jeopardize a match with Corinne. Her father is a duke. That trumps a banker.”

“And love be damned.” Her defiant words, born from the pain of betrayal, rang in the air. She started toward the door. If Freddie had any honor, Andres thought, he’d let her go.

Of course the scoundrel stopped her.

Andres could feel every morsel of Abby’s humiliation, her sorrow. After all, had he not played this scene with Gillian and been publicly rejected?

“Let me pass, Freddie,” she said, a tremor in her voice.

“I can’t let you go out there like this.”

“I won’t break down, if that is what you are afraid of,” she answered, sounding as if she’d fall apart at any minute.

“Abby, Abby, Abby, you are looking at this the wrong way. My marriage won’t prevent us from being special friends. Our love will not die. It can thrive. Many couples do this. They have their husbands or wives and then have those for whom they save their true emotion.”

“Why can’t it be one and the same?” she asked.

“Because that’s not the way it’s done. We marry for advantages. Be honest.

Your father won’t let you marry just anyone. He wasn’t completely pleased with me. Banker Montross thinks highly of himself.”

“I believe he expected you to step forward and you haven’t,” Abby corrected him.

“Yes, well, he’s wrong if he thinks I’m not a man,” Freddie answered.

Andres didn’t know if he agreed.

“Abby,” Freddie said, pulling her close to him. “I do love you. But Father wants me to marry Corinne because he wants the alliance with Banfield. As for yourself, marry someone, anyone, Abby. A married woman has more freedom than a single one. It will be easy for us to be lovers. We just have to put up a good appearance.”

“Appearances? I want more than appearances.”

She deserved more, Andres decided. Well, she deserved anything but this buffoon. Her Freddie was enjoying his position of power. He wasn’t treating her love like the precious gift it was. Only someone who’d had his love spurned could identify with how she felt.

Andres was not going to let her sacrifice her pride. Freddie could go out into the ballroom and, with a casual word here and there, let it be known she’d begged him—and the man would. Andres knew his type. Insensitive, selfish, arrogant … Andres had been those things and more until love had humbled him. Freddie was flattered by her admission. Bolstered by it.

“I don’t think anyone will have me,” she said, sounding defeated. “I’m old now. Too old.”

“Abby, we’ll find someone,” Freddie answered, his voice warm, confiding, seductive. Andres pictured him putting his arms around her, preparing to kiss her. “Being a lover is so much better than being a wife. You can’t envy Corinne, because you will always have my heart—”

Andres had heard enough.

He left the dueling pistol on the floor as he came to his feet, popping up from behind the settee. “I’ve waited long enough, Miss Montross. Let us forget this nonsense and go dance.”

Abby had been so wrapped up in her disappointment, her yearning, her wanting that she’d forgotten the gentleman on the floor.

And now was not the time she wanted to remember him.

At last she and Freddie were talking. This gentleman’s presence destroyed a moment of possible understanding, stealing Freddie’s attention away from her and their love.

“Who are you—?” Freddie started and then stopped, his eyes widening in recognition. “Barón de Vasconia?”

Freddie knew this gentleman? And Abby realized she recognized the name, too.

The barón de Vasconia was infamous. They gossiped about him in all the papers, often referring to him as the “barón V” or “Apollo” because, like the sun god, he was inordinately handsome. The wags said that the one difference was that instead of riding a chariot across the sky, the barón cut a swath through London society, leaving a trail of broken hearts and angry husbands in his wake.

Handsome. For the first time, Abby’s would-be suicide’s physical attributes made an impact on her. She’d been so concerned seeing him with the pistol in his hand that she’d not taken in how tall he was, how broad-shouldered, how strikingly handsome he was. And she knew from tackling him how hard and lean he was.

Of course, she loved Freddie. Worshipped him. He was the most attractive man in the world … but honesty made her admit that when compared to the barón, Freddie came out a poor second. The Spaniard’s presence was so strong, so bold, that a woman would have to be blind, and dumb, and completely without arms and any sense of touch or scent to be unaware of him.

His olive skin and thick, dark hair were what Abby supposed would be called Castilian features. But his aristocratic bearing, straight, well-shaped nose, and lean jaw would have made him a model of masculine beauty in any culture.

Top those features off with straight dark brows over the most incredible silver eyes imaginable and he was breathtaking. A silver-eyed Spaniard. Who would have thought it?

Freddie turned his back on Abby. He walked up to the barón, an eager fawning in his voice as he said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Barón. Our paths have crossed, but we have yet to be introduced. Miss Montross, would you go through the formalities?”

“The formalities?” Abby repeated blankly. Was Freddie serious? Didn’t he realize the man had overheard everything they’d said?

The barón had overheard her beg.

Without waiting for her assistance, Freddie launched into introductions himself. “Lord Frederick Sherwin,” he said with a bow. “My father is the earl of Bossley. You may have heard of him? I’m his heir. We’re quite wealthy.

Well connected.” He paused, as if expecting the barón to recognize him.

“How fortunate for you,” the barón murmured. He shot a look at Abby and raised his eyebrow, letting her know he was unimpressed with her man.

If Freddie had caught a hint of the barón’s opinion, it didn’t disturb him.

“Abby,” Freddie continued, taking on a lecturing tone that always annoyed her, “Brummell claims that the barón is the most handsome figure in fashion. A true original. Do you see why? Don’t you agree?”

“I hadn’t thought on it,” Abby answered. Freddie never complimented her appearance. In fact, she’d rarely heard him sound so enthusiastic about anyone … other than himself.

It was clear that Freddie wasn’t actually interested in her response, because he jumped right back into his thoughts. “What I have wanted to know—and so appreciate this opportunity to speak to you in private, Barón—is how you manage to tie your neck cloth in that manner that they are calling the Vasconia? Quite intricate it is. You can see I have tied mine in my own version, but it lacks something. My friends have all assured me that I am close to it but not exact.” Freddie said this while attempting to peer as close as he dared to the barón’s neck cloth without actually touching it. “What is the secret? Is the creation one of your valet’s? Or did you conjure it up? I mean, that is, if you don’t mind telling me,” he hastened to add. “I understand how you wouldn’t want everyone walking around looking like you. However, I would appreciate even a hint.”

The barón appeared to mull over the request and then said, quite seriously,

“You need thick starch.”

“Yes, yes, understandable,” Freddie agreed. “You need that hard feel.”

“And the secret is that just as you tie the knot, you give it a little twist right, left, right.”

“Right, left, right,” Freddie repeated. “But which knot do you use? The Ajax?

Or is that the Corinthian?” He inched his nose closer to the barón’s neck.

“The Ajax,” the barón said, moving away from Freddie’s scrutiny toward Abby.

“And the twist?” Freddie said. “Is it a sharp turn or do you layer the folds?

Soften it up a bit?”

“I layer.” The barón started to direct Abby from the room, tucking her gloved hand in the crook of his arm.

“That can’t be right,” Freddie countered. “I have tried that. Perhaps my valet can discuss the matter with your valet? My man may not be putting enough starch in the cloths. Of course, I have him using so much right now they take days to

dry.”

“Yes, yes, have the valets talk,” the barón said, opening the door.

“Where are you going?” Freddie asked.

“To dance with Miss Montross,” the barón said.

Abby blinked in surprise. She’d been going along with him, quite astounded by Freddie’s avid interest in the barón’s grooming as well as his knowledge of laundry. She knew he was a dandy, but such an intense interest was, well, frivolous.

“But Miss Montross doesn’t usually dance,” Freddie said ingenuously.

“I dance.” Abby shook her head. “Where did you conceive the idea I didn’t?”

Freddie caught himself. “I didn’t mean it that way, Miss Montross. I know you dance. I’ve danced with you.”

“But not this evening,” the barón pointed out.

“Well, no,” Freddie said, sounding confused. “I haven’t.”

“Why not?” the barón pressed.

“Because,” Freddie said. A spot of color appeared on each of his cheeks. He was flustered … and she knew he had not wanted to dance with her because he hadn’t wanted to be seen with her. His reluctance was more than not wanting to upset Corinne. He’d not wanted to dance with her because not only was she not fashionable but she’d also been jilted. Through no fault of her own, she’d been branded socially inferior.

“I meant you don’t enjoy dancing,” Freddie said as an attempt at apology—

one she would not take.

“Who says I don’t?” Abby demanded. At the very least, she had thought of them as friends, and friends, especially from childhood, stood by each other.

Certainly she would have stood by him if their roles had been reversed.

“You don’t make an issue of not dancing,” Freddie said in his defense.

“Do you believe I like being ignored?” Abby felt her temper rising. “I know I’m not popular … but that doesn’t mean I choose to be a wallflower.”

“You never complain,” Freddie countered, and Abby didn’t know what to say.

Once again he disappointed her, and she had no excuse for him. It was hard sometimes to remember how much she loved him.

The barón gently tugged on her arm, reminding her of his presence. “Miss Montross is going to dance now,” he informed Freddie. “She is a particular friend of mine, and I wish to escort her onto the dance floor.”

“A particular friend?” Freddie repeated. “Abby? What is this?”

Before she could answer, the barón swept her out into the hallway. He shut the door firmly behind them and started walking her down the patterned carpet toward the ballroom.

Abby held back. “A particular friend? Do you know what that means? What Freddie will imply?”

“Do I care?” he answered.

“I care,” Abby said, coming to a complete stop. “You have a reputation.

Everyone will think—” She broke off, suddenly not wanting to put her doubts into words.

“Think what?” he challenged mildly, as if she amused him.

She supposed she did. It was the height of hubris to assume the dashing barón de Vasconia, the Baron V, also known as “Apollo,” saw her as a love interest.