His Christmas Pleasure (3 page)

“Things,” she finished and then repeated the sentence as if she’d meant to say it. “They’ll think things.” Dear Lord, she could feel the heat rise up her neck.

“One can hope that they do,” he replied.

“I’m not that sort of young woman,” she whispered.

“Miss Montross.” His accent, emphasizing the second syllable, gave her name a definite flair. “After your conversation in there with that buffoon, has it not dawned on you that perhaps you want people to be thinking ‘things’ about you? It makes them a bit uncertain, even a little afraid.”

“There is a difference between being well-considered and having my name linked to that of a—” Another dangerous word. She’d almost said libertine.

Her father would not be pleased to see her on his arm.

“You have difficulty finishing sentences, do you not?” the barón pressed, the light of a thousand devils dancing in his remarkable eyes. “Or is it that you are unaccustomed to speaking your mind?” He shook his head in answer to his own question. “No, I sense you have many opinions. You swallow them whole, forcing them back down.” He motioned to her belly with his free hand. “Letting them roil inside you.” He said all of this with his graceful inflection. They said that since he’d come to London, many a fop, taken by his charisma, had started lisping in a poor imitation of his accent—and here he was, so very careful, and intelligent, with his English.

The door to the library opened. Freddie stepped out into the hallway.

For a long moment, he stood there, his gaze going from one to the other, a puzzled expression on his face. Abby’s hand still rested on the barón’s arm, and she realized they must appear very close to Freddie.

“I thought you were going to dance?” Was it Abby’s imagination, or did Freddie sound almost jealous?

“We are … I think,” the barón answered. “Miss Montross?” He began walking toward the ballroom, and Abby had no choice but to follow unless she wished to be rude.

Still, what if Freddie had at last realized what he was tossing aside? What if he was having second notions about offering for Corinne?

She looked over her shoulder to him—

“I need the name of your valet,” Freddie called out to the barón. “How else will my man be in touch with yours?”

Disappointment tasted like bile in her mouth. She knew Freddie cared for her. She knew it … but could she be wrong?

“They won’t be in touch,” the barón said. He had come to a halt, his impatience clear. “I don’t have one.”

“Have one what?” Freddie asked.

“A valet. Come, Miss Montross.”

This time, Abby went with him.

They walked in silence a moment before she confessed, “That was humbling.” She blinked back tears. No crying. She mustn’t cry here.

“What was?” the barón said, nodding at a passing acquaintance in the hall.

The music had started for the next set. A crowd milled around the doorway ahead of them, people talking, coming and going. He slowed his step, as if he was not in a hurry.

Abby knew he understood she spoke of Freddie. She didn’t want to say more. She might shatter.

She changed the subject, once again pretending to carry on, clinging to her pride. “Funny that you don’t have a valet and still can be the envy of every dandy in the city.”

Several women around the doorway sent covert glances in the barón’s direction. And then their gazes dropped on her hand resting on his arm. Lips formed into questions. Fans began fluttering up to hide what was murmured from one person to another.

Abby suspected they wondered why he was with her. Wait until Freddie announced his betrothal. Then they could really laugh at what a silly goose she was.

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to hold on. She’d not cry, not cry, not cry—

“I don’t think so,” the barón said.

She had lost track of their conversation. “Think about what?”

He looked down at her, sympathy in his eyes. He’d noticed how fragile she was.

“I don’t think it is funny I don’t have a valet,” he said.

Abby grasped for context, and then remembered. She forced a smile. “Men of your station usually do. Especially those with a remarkable knot in their neck cloth.”

“Don’t forget, Brummell has pronounced me a fine figure of a man,” he reminded her. “Why do I need a valet?”

His dry irony helped steady her. “That was such an inane thing for Freddie to say.” She paused. “He always was a bit vain.”

“Most of us men are,” he said. “And there is no reason to apologize for having loved. He’s the one who is a fool.”

Shame welled inside her. “I cared so deeply.” And her heart hurt. She wanted to escape, to find a quiet place to break down. Abby started to pull away, but he moved to take her by the hand, his fingers lacing with hers.

“You can’t run yet,” he told her, his voice low, intimate. “You promised a dance—”

“No, you commandeered a dance.”

Amusement lit his eyes. “I did, so you have no choice.” And he led her past the prying, curious eyes and into the ballroom, a room ablaze with candles and the glittering jewels of the ton.

The dance set was winding down on the dance floor. The dancers bowed to each other as the musicians drew out the final note. In minutes, others would take their place for the next set—and she had to admit she longed to be one of their number. She wanted to say that she’d danced at least once this evening. That she’d been a part of it all.

And now she would be.

Some of the tightness building inside her eased ever so slightly. Freddie was going to marry another … and she’d have to go on. Just as she’d had to face marrying Mr. Lynsted. What was it her father had said when he’d informed her of the marriage? “Life has its disappointments.”

“Disappointments about what?” the barón asked, and Abby realized she’d spoken aloud. “I don’t think I’m that difficult to dance with.”

“I’m sorry, it was something my father said to me when he’d arranged my marriage with the man who is now known in our house as ‘that scoundrel Lynsted.’ ”

“And this is the man who jilted you?”

“You heard everything, didn’t you?” There was no heat in her accusation.

He shrugged. “There is nothing wrong with my ears. And I agree you should not settle for disappointments.”

“Do you?”

“I have,” he admitted. “But I don’t think you are one who likes being told what to do.”

Abby laughed. “You are right. I’m too much like my father for my own good. In fact, everyone in our family has strong opinions. Run now while you have the chance.”

Now it was his turn to laugh. She liked the way his teeth flashed white and even in his smile. He was the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on.

And, perhaps, the kindest.

“So why don’t you have a valet?” she asked, truly curious as he started to lead her to the dance floor.

Such was his notoriety that the crowd seemed to part to let them pass.

“I could tell you,” he said, “that it is because I was staying with the duke of Holburn and using his servants, and now that I have my own apartments I have not had time to hire one.”

“Or you could tell me the truth,” she prompted.

He laughed, the sound again startling in its richness. Heads turned in their direction, as if those around them were caught by the sound of it.

“Yes, I would tell you the truth, palomita,” he said, leaning so close that he spoke in her ear. “I’m broke. Done up. Poor. I tie my own neck cloth, and I don’t know what Lord Frederick Sherwin is thinking. I have no special method.”

Abby’s feet rooted to the floor. “Truly?”

He nodded solemnly, and she realized he’d just given her a gift—or a weapon. The gossip she could spread … but she wouldn’t.

And in that moment, she felt a connection to him. A very human one.

She understood him. He was like herself, an outsider. She was viewed suspiciously by their current company because of her father’s self-made fortune and working roots. They had to include her because, after all, she was family.

The barón was seen as foreign. He was exotic and feted, but separate and apart.

Oh, yes, she understood exactly how he felt.

“But you cut a ‘fine figure of a man,’ “ she reminded him.

“Says Brummell,” he agreed and they both laughed, in complete accord with each other….

“Oh, Abigail,” a high-pitched woman’s voice said. “What have you found?”

Her aunt, the duchess of Banfield and this evening’s hostess.

“Hello, Your Grace,” Abby said. Even though the duchess was her aunt, Abby knew she expected every ritual of her station.

“The two of you had your heads close together,” her aunt said. She was tall, like her daughter Corinne, although her hair was silver instead of blonde.

“What’s so secret?” she continued. “Your mother will want to know, Abigail, especially since you are whispering to the one man every woman here is watching. Oh, if only I was half a decade younger.” She rapped the barón lightly with her folded fan.

Abby was tempted to ask her aunt what secrets she held. Certainly the duchess knew Freddie and Corinne were going to announce their betrothal, but she’d not said a word of warning. “We are going to join this next set,”

Abby said instead, nodding to the dance floor.

“Oh, please do. And come join us when you are done. Corinne and I have taken up station by the Greek urn.” She nodded in the direction of a bronze urn the height of most men. A table and several chairs were set up there.

Abby’s mother sat there, along with many of the duke of Banfield’s other brothers and sisters, but Corinne wasn’t with them.

Instead, she and Freddie were having a confab not far from the urn. Corinne, tall, beautiful, blonde, said something angry to Freddie and stormed away, shoving aside several guests who were in her path.

Abby wondered what he’d told her.

“We shall, Your Grace,” she heard the barón answer her aunt, speaking for both of them. He nudged Abby toward the dance floor.

The other dancers had already taken their places. Politeness dictated that she and the barón should stand this one out. The barón, however, was not polite.

He took a spot on the dance floor, bringing her around to face him.

She feared they were going to dance by themselves until another couple stepped from the crowd to join them.

Abby didn’t recognize the couple. There were so many here this evening she didn’t know. She rarely traveled with this set—only when her uncle and aunt gave parties.

The music started. It was a country dance, thankfully one Abby knew. But at that moment, as she moved to take the first step, Freddie came to stand at the edge of the crowd no more than an arm’s length from her.

His expression was serious, distraught.

He looked right at her—and Abby stumbled over her own feet.

She felt herself falling, but before she made a complete fool of herself, the barón’s strong hands took hers and spun her in a circle, as if he’d been improvising a step.

The movement was dizzying, and for the second time in less than an hour, Abby found herself again in the barón’s arms.

“Smile,” he quietly ordered, and she found herself obeying immediately. The smile on her face felt false, but she’d not remove it, not with so many watching.

Not with Freddie watching.

Abby dared not look in his direction. Instead, she placed her focus on her dashing, bold partner, and an amazing thing began to happen: she started to enjoy herself.

The barón knew how to lead. She found herself moving through the dance with an easy grace she’d not known before. He didn’t do anything awkward, just a touch here, a bit of pressure there, and the two of them were moving as if they had danced together before.

The music was lively and long. Apparently, the young people had been waiting for such a robust dance and were making the most of it, their enthusiasm encouraging the musicians.

How long had it been since she’d danced?

Probably before she’d been betrothed to Mr. Lynsted. He’d not been one to take to the dance floor.

The dancing grew more competitive. Couples danced down a line while others clapped, cheered, and stamped their feet. It seemed as if everyone in the ballroom was involved now. Everyone was as caught up as Abby. She didn’t even have the opportunity to hesitate when the barón took her hand and danced her down the center of the floor.

She was not graceful. The music was moving too fast for her to think, and she took a misstep here and there, but she didn’t run for cover. Instead, she laughed her clumsiness away, and no one seemed to notice—save the barón.

He used her lack of grace as an opportunity to rest his hand on her waist, to give her an extra twirl and bring his arms around her. He was masterful, gallant, incredibly thoughtful.

All too soon, the music came to an end.

The applause for the musicians and dancers was deafening.

Freddie was nowhere in sight.

However, her parents watched. Her father had joined her mother by the urn.

Her mother appeared a bit teary-eyed, but her father’s gaze was calculating.

Abby felt her confidence waver. Once again aware of her shortcomings, she hung back, not ready to be delivered to them yet.

“What is it?” the barón asked, seemingly attuned to her every thought.

“Why did you do this?” she asked. “Why did you insist I dance?”

Annoyance crossed his face. “We are guests at a ball. I wanted to dance.”

“You could have your pick of any woman. It’s the library, isn’t it? The dancing has to do with what I saw in the library. You are worried I know something you’d rather keep quiet.”

“You saw nothing,” he answered. “And are you always this distrustful?

Because if you are, no wonder life has disappointments. Or did your father train you to think this way? To look with suspicion on everyone?”

His comment found its mark. He was right. Her father would warn her to be careful. And yet once she started to question, she could not stop.

“You felt sorry for me,” she accused. It was the worst thing anyone could do to her.

“Sí, I did,” he said without hesitation. “I do find it amazing that you interfered, palomita. Most would have opened the door, seen me standing there, gun to my head, and shut it to pretend they had not noticed me at all.