His Christmas Pleasure (28 page)

“Well, if you are so hopelessly in love, why are you here?” her father demanded. “And where is the man?”

For a second, Abby was tempted to lie … but she realized that this was what had hurt her parents from the beginning. She’d cut them out of her thoughts and her life, and it had wounded them.

“I’m here,” she said, “because Freddie Sherwin did something right for once.

He told me you were ill. As for my husband … I’m waiting to discover if he loves me.”

Her mother’s empathy was immediate. “Oh, darling.”

Her father’s brow darkened. “You would be better off without him.”

“Would I, Father? I don’t think our child would agree.”

Abby had surprised her parents few times in her life, but she did so now—

and they each had a different reaction.

“Abigail, a baby?” her mother said. The last signs of illness evaporated. Her eyes took on a glow of anticipation.

“This is a devil of a mess,” her father said, raising a hand to his forehead. He paced the length of the room. “How can we end this marriage if you are breeding?”

“Heath,” her mother admonished. “That’s not the way to talk about our grandchild. She’s not breeding. She’s doing exactly what a woman should do when she is in love.”

Her father grunted his opinion. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his coat, his expression reminding Abby of the Stonemoor barn cat when he didn’t catch the mouse he was chasing.

Her mother ran her hand over Abby’s curls, the way she used to when Abby was a child. “I hope the babe has your hair coloring and your eyes,” she said.

“And your nose.”

“I want him to have something of Andres,” Abby answered.

“Does he know?” her father demanded.

Abby hated to admit, “No. This is something I’ve just realized. We’ve been so busy at Stonemoor that I didn’t notice. However, on my way here, at one of the inns I stopped at, I met a woman who had just realized she was with child. She spoke of the symptoms.” Abby felt color rise to her cheeks over talking so frankly in front of her father. “That’s when I suspected I was. I have many of the same concerns.”

“I always sensed I was right away as well,” her mother said. “Almost immediately. Isn’t that true, Heath?”

“Do you think it might be a good idea to tell the child’s father?” her father asked pointedly, choosing to refuse to take part in good wishes.

Rising to her feet so that she could better face him, Abby kept hold of her mother’s hand as she said, “I will tell him … when I see him.”

“Something is havey-cavey here. Abby, your mother leads with her heart, but you and I always lead with our heads. What are you about?”

“I don’t lead with my head any longer,” Abby told her sire. “This is my heart, out there for everyone to see. I love him, Father, and I need him to love me.”

“And so you are here—?” her father wondered again.

“Yes,” Abby said, “and I hope he comes for me. I want him to care for me as much as I do him.”

“What if he doesn’t come?” her mother asked, doubt in her voice.

“He’ll come,” Abby said. She had to believe he would. She must.

Her father grumbled under his breath before saying, “If you are so certain, why go through this exercise?”

“I needed to see Mother. Freddie made her sound as if she was at death’s door—”

“Do you think I would let her grow so ill and not inform you?” her father said.

Abby knew he was worked up. There was a time she would have met him passion for passion. But she felt older now, and wiser. “I don’t want us estranged. I want my child to know his grandparents.” She released her breath and said, “I know you are angry with me, Father. I defied you, but I think that is because I was meant to be with Andres Ramigio.”

“You thought you were meant to be with Freddie Sherwin at one time as well,” he threw back at her.

“I have no argument,” she admitted. “I was wrong … and if Andres doesn’t love me, he may not come for me.”

Her father shook his head, as if his anger was churning inside of him. He raised a hand, ready to point a finger and speak his mind, but her mother rose. “No, Heath, no more. Have you forgotten what it is like to be so new in love?”

“Catherine, you have always known my devotion for you.”

“Have I? I seem to remember an argument we had a week after we married where I packed my bags and was ready to leave. Do you remember that? You blocked my way, refusing to let me pass.”

“You are my wife,” her father said. “We were married. You couldn’t leave on a whim.”

“A whim?” Her mother gave him a sharp eye. “As I remember, you had grown frustrated with lugging along a wife who was crying for her mother.

And you weren’t going to let me return. Of course, you were very persuasive, sir. Nine months later, we had Robert.” Her expression started to crumple at the mention of her son. She forced a smile through it. “I lost one child, Heath. I won’t lose another, not when she’s made the trip back for us. And this Spaniard, perhaps he is all the things you’ve warned us about. But then you had a roguish reputation, too—and you turned out rather well.”

“I had you, Catherine. That’s what made the difference.”

“And this Spaniard has our daughter. What is his name, Abby? Not his title, his name.”

“Andres. Andres Ramigio.”

Her mother tested the name. “Romantic, no?” she said to Abby’s father.

He frowned. “I can’t like him. He took my daughter.”

“And he is giving us a grandchild,” his wife reminded him. “Another sign of our love for each other.”

“He’ll be half Spanish,” her father muttered. “Heath Ramigio. It’s a silly name for an English baby.”

Abby was about to call him out, but her mother beat her to the response.

And a nicer one it was.

“He’ll also be a remarkably handsome child. Think of it, Heath, he’ll be like Abby, my looks and your brains—with a bit of his father thrown in. And who is to say he’ll be named after his grandfather? Especially if his grandfather continues to have such a hard head?”

“I’ve a hard head because I want what is best for my children,” was his reply.

“It’s not your hard head I worry about, Heath. It’s you hardening your heart.

You must realize they aren’t children any longer. They are adults, and not one of them has listened to you yet. Perhaps your grandson will … and I shall encourage Abby and Andres to name him Robert.”

Suddenly, the anger left her father. Abby had never seen him cry. Not even at her brother’s funeral. He’d stood straight-backed, holding her mother, who’d been consumed by grief—but tears welled in his eyes now.

“I just want to protect all of you,” he admitted. “I want you safe. And I didn’t do such a good job with my boys. One gone, and look at the other two. I don’t want you heartbroken, Abby. I don’t want myself heartbroken again.”

Both Abby and her mother flew to him. They put their arms around him and hugged him with all they had. He hugged right back.

Her mother used her kerchief to wipe away the tear stains on his cheeks in the same gentle manner Abby had used on her earlier. Her father was a bit embarrassed, but he didn’t deny the emotion.

Instead, he said, “If that Spaniard doesn’t come for you, Abby, then he is a fool.”

“I agree with you, Father. I agree.”

The first day home, Abby kept her spirits up. Her mother’s health continued to improve. Her trip had served a very good purpose.

The servants all took a moment to let Abby know that they had genuinely been worried for her. It was assumed everything was fine now that Abby was back.

The second day without word from Andres, Abby wasn’t as strong in her resolve.

What right did she have to test Andres in this way? She knew he could be fiercely independent. If she had been Andres, she wouldn’t have come for her either.

If he did not come for her, did she go to him?

Could she return to her marriage and pretend as if nothing had happened?

Abby feared she lacked that gift.

Jonesy paid a call. She’d heard a rumor that Abby was back, and she fished shamelessly for details about her marriage. Both Abby and her mother managed to keep her at bay, and not one word was said about a baby.

Her mother seemed to understand the doubts Abby was experiencing. It was a good time for the two of them. Instead of just mother and daughter, they spoke to each other as friends, peers.

Abby missed Andres terribly. She missed being her own mistress. She missed the country.

By Christmas, Abby realized her life in London seemed meaningless.

Every year, Abby’s uncle, the duke of Banfield, hosted Christmas Day dinner for those who were still in town. Everyone of any importance was there. It was an enjoyable event.

Abby waited until an hour before her family should depart to inform her parents she’d rather not go.

Her father frowned. “Why not? Because of Freddie and Corinne?”

“I have no difficulty being around them,” she said, and meant it. She was completely over Freddie. She didn’t even consider him a friend. In fact, she felt sorry for Corinne. “I’m just not feeling festive.”

“Abby, you can’t stay home,” her mother said.

“It’s Christmas.”

It didn’t feel like Christmas. Abby missed her husband desperately.

“I shall be fine,” she told her mother.

“You will not be alone this night.” Her father came around to stand in front of her. “Abigail, I shall not have you moping because that foreigner has disappointed you—”

“He has not—” Abby started to defend him.

“Come now,” her father countered, cutting her off. “If things were fine between you, he’d be by your side. How much longer will you wait?”

“He’s going to come for me,” she said, the words starting to sound hollow.

“But not on Christmas Day,” her father said. “In truth, I’m a bit disappointed in him. I rather thought he would.”

“You did? I was under the impression you preferred to believe the worst of him,” Abby said.

“Sherwin would be the worst,” her father answered. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Abby my girl, for the sadness this is causing you.

However, we will not leave you at home, and we must make an appearance to preserve the myth of family harmony. Come with us. We won’t stay long.

You know anything under Banfield’s roof irritates me.”

“I fear Andres doesn’t care,” Abby admitted.

“Don’t give up,” her mother urged. “When we come home, I shall write a letter to him.”

“Please, no, not that.” Abby drew a shaky breath. “He has to come to me on his own.” It was what Celeste had said. “Only then will I know he cares.”

Her parents exchanged a worried look. Abby pretended not to notice, but she did go upstairs and change. An hour later they left the house.

Andres’s goal upon arriving in London was to fetch his wife and take her home.

The trip had taken longer than he’d planned. Rain had caused delays. He’d taken a short way around and discovered the road impassable because a bridge had been washed out. He’d been forced to double back, which had cost time he had not wanted to waste.

His one thought was of Abby. He debated the argument they’d had a hundred times in his head. Sometimes he felt he’d been completely justified.

Other times, he thought he’d been a fool.

He was so focused and intent on reaching London that he didn’t realize it was Christmas Day until he rode down the city’s streets and heard people calling out good cheer to one another.

He reached the front step of Montross’s house, knocked on the door, and was told they were not at home

“Where is she?” he demanded.

The butler looked him up and down. Servants could be haughtier than their masters in this country, but that was fine with Andres. A Spaniard had more pride than an Englishman, and no one could stare down another like a Ramigio.

The butler shut the door in his face.

Andres was incensed. He stomped back toward his horse. He searched the street. There had to be a way to let Abby know he was there. He’d climb the walls if he must.

“My lord? Please, my lord?” a woman’s voice said from the narrow passage between the houses.

Curious, Andres went around the side of the house. A woman stood there with a cloak over her head, but Andres saw a bit of the Montross livery beneath the heavy wool.

“Please, my lord, off the street, please. We can’t have anyone see us,” the woman said.

“Who are you?” he asked. He’d been traveling hard and was not in the mood for mysteries.

“My name is Tabitha,” she said, bobbing a curtsey. “I’m Miss Abby’s maid.”

Ah, yes, the one who had tried to stop them from eloping. “She is here?” he asked anxiously.

The maid nodded. “She is, but the family has gone out for Christmas dinner.

They are dining at the house of His Grace, the duke of Banfield. Do you know where that is?”

Andres nodded.

“You need to go to her, my lord,” the maid said, already backing away.

“Wait,” he said. “Tell me more. How is she?” Does she miss me?

“I daren’t say more, my lord. I’m so sorry. I’ve already caused you and Miss Abby so much trouble. But she needs you. She misses you.”

The maid turned and ran away—and Andres set off to claim his wife.

The gathering for Banfield’s Christmas dinner was a good one hundred and fifty people. Abby’s aunt had ordered the ballroom set up for the affair, and she was in her element. King George had been declared mentally incompetent earlier that month, and there were rumors swirling that the Prince of Wales might make an appearance in town instead of enjoying his customary Christmas retreat. If so, would he not join the duke of Banfield’s festivities?

There was a possibility, or so Jonesy assured Abby as they sat together in the reception room, waiting for the rest of the company to gather.

“Banfield and his wife dearly hope he appears,” Jonesy said. “Their star will know no limit in society’s firmament if such were the case. Look how crowded it is? All for a bit of Banfield’s Christmas goose.”

She laughed at her own small joke while taking another sip of her sherry.