Secrets of a Perfect Night (8 page)

Ten minutes later, she realized Esme was seriously tired. The room was still crowded. At a loss, Abby caught Adrian’s eye, then swept her gaze about the room, bringing it finally to rest on Esme—then she looked back at him. His lips thinned just a fraction as he nodded. She could not understand how he managed it, especially given all those in the room viewed him with suspicion, but he had them all up and moving out within five minutes. And not one of them knew they’d been herded.

There were definite benefits in having a well-trained wolf to call upon; Abby inwardly admitted that as she sank onto the chaise and exchanged a speaking glance with Esme.

“Thank goodness—and Dere—they’re all gone,” Esme sighed. “I don’t think we’ve had such a crowd since your birthday.”

“If then.” The prospect of scandal stirred the locals to action much more effectively than a mere birthday.

Abby heard the front door shut; an instant later Adrian strolled in. He paused on the threshold, and smiled, first at Esme, then at her. More intently at her, his amber gaze steady and direct. Abby returned that intense regard evenly, drinking in the sight of him fill
ing her doorway, elegant and dangerous and ineffably assured. A wolf indeed.

Unfortunately, not a tame one.

The next morning they woke to the sound of steady dripping. During breakfast they heard the soft, long-drawn
swoooosh
as snow slid from the roof. After consuming tea and toast, Abby made for the front door; having devoured a much larger repast, Adrian followed.

Abby stood at the open front door, peering out at the lane. “The ice has gone.”

Looking over her head, Adrian saw two brown furrows showing through the snow where some carriage had already gone past. “You have a gig, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Abby turned to look at him. “Are you really intent on pushing on to Bellevere?”

“I promised Kilby, after all.”

Abby humphed. She looked across the moor to where heavy clouds hung low on the horizon. “There’s more snow on the way.”

“It won’t reach us until late afternoon.”

Abby stared at the clouds. After a moment, she said, “There’s only the Crochets out there—I seriously doubt Mrs. Crochet will have put enough by to cater to your appetite.”

Adrian lowered his gaze to her profile. “Mmm.”

“It might, perhaps, be better to just visit today. That way she’ll have warning of your intention to reside there and will have time to get supplies in from the village.” Abby turned and met his gaze. “And we can leave Bolt here so he won’t risk a relapse.”

Adrian managed not to smile. “That’s certainly a consideration.”

Abby glanced at the clouds, and frowned. “Perhaps we’d better put off your visit until tomorrow.”

“No.” As much as he enjoyed the company at Mallard Cottage, Adrian was eager to see his home again. He glanced at Abby. “We’ll go today.”

They set out an hour later, Abby, wrapped in a traveling rug, perched beside Adrian as he guided her old dappled mare through the village, then out along the lane to Bellevere. She kept an eye on the storm clouds; the weather across the moor was unpredictable at best, but the clouds seemed to hover, edging closer perhaps but not racing across the desolate expanse. Tonight, she estimated, then they’d have more snow. Adrian had been right to grasp the opportunity to visit Bellevere; they might again be immured for days.

The fact that she now deemed that a thoroughly desirable happening was not one she allowed herself to dwell on.

Her first sight of Bellevere, as always, stole her breath—it was one of the few large houses built right out on the moor, partially sheltered by a low ridge at its back. Built of red bricks, mellowed now with age, with tall chimneys crowned with ornate pots, the house stood as if it had been planted into the earth and was now a part of the landscape. Mullioned windows reflected the day’s gray light all along the Elizabethan facade. As they drew nearer, the Georgian wings with their cleaner lines came into view. The sweeping front
drive separated the wide lawn from the front steps; all the gardens were tucked away behind the house, enclosed and protected from the weather.

From the first glimpse, Adrian had slowed the mare, drinking in the sight of his home as if checking the reality against his memories. The snow in the forecourt lay pristine and undisturbed; they were the first to visit since the snowstorm. Very possibly the first to come to the front door in years.

Adrian tied off the reins and handed her from the gig. Abby shook out her skirts, then, her hand in his, climbed the snow-encrusted steps. Adrian hesitated, then tried the front door, but it was securely bolted. He rang the bell; they both listened and heard it peal in the distance.

Footsteps approached, slowly and rather warily. Bellevere was too far from the village for the Crochets to have heard the news. Then the bolts were shot back, the door cracked open, and Crochet looked out. Abby saw Mrs Crochet peering past her husband.

They hadn’t seen their master in seven years, but they recognized him instantly. Mrs Crochet gave an uncharacteristic squeal of delight; Crochet simply beamed. They entered and Crochet shut the door. Abby stood quietly in the shadows of the paneled hall as Adrian greeted his caretakers, explaining his presence and his intention to resume permanent residence.

“If only I’da known,” Mrs Crochet wailed. “All the holland covers are still on.”

Adrian smoothly reassured her, explaining that today he would just look over the house. “I’ll return to
Mallard Cottage this afternoon. Bolt’s there. I’ll transfer here once you’ve had a chance to reprovision accordingly.”

Mrs. Crochet nodded. “Aye—that’ll be wise. We’ve most things put by, but there’re some items I’ll need.” She smiled brightly at both Abby and Adrian. “I’ll clear the family parlor and the dining room, then, and get the kettle on, and when you’ve had your look around, if you just pull the bell in the parlor, I’ll bring you in a nice lunch.”

Beaming, she bustled away to the kitchens. With a nod, Crochet left to tend to the gig. Adrian turned to Abby. “Would you like to wait in the parlor?”

“No.” She stepped to his side. “I’ll come with you.”

They went through the downstairs rooms first, Adrian pausing in his father’s study to locate paper and pencil. The huge reception rooms were in remarkably good condition. The conservatory would need to be completely remodeled but once done, the views across the enclosed gardens would be magnificent. As for the library…

“This will have to wait until spring, when we can open all the windows.”

Nose wrinkled at the must and the quite incredible dust, Abby nodded. They climbed the wide staircase together, pausing on the landing to exchange a glance, then peek inside the visor of the suit of armor that stood in the landing alcove. Abby giggled; Adrian grinned. They went on.

The accommodations upstairs were extensive. Adrian took copious notes, examining fragile furnishings and demanding Abby’s opinion on what should
be replaced. In the viscountess’s boudoir, after admitting that, in her opinion, the entire room would need to be redone, she glanced around his shoulder at his list. “It’ll take a small fortune to do all that.”

He glanced up; their eyes met. “So?”

She blinked at him; his lips curved. “I have been doing
something
other than bolstering my reputation over the past years, you know.”

Abby straightened. “I didn’t know”—she strolled to the door, then glanced innocently back—“but I suppose you had to do something to fill your days.”

He grinned and followed her. “Just so.”

The words thrummed along her nerves; Abby suppressed a reactive shiver and led the way out.

On finishing the main suites, they descended to the dining room and consumed a light repast, then returned upstairs. “The minor rooms can wait.” Adrian turned to the nursery stairs. “The essentials first.”

Abby trailed in his wake. She leaned against the doorframe of the schoolroom and watched him wander, touching dog-eared books, running a fingertip over the model of a galleon. A kite hanging in a corner caught his eye; she watched as his face lit, the wonder of boyhood revisited.

She wouldn’t have missed these stolen moments for the world. As they’d passed through the rooms, she’d seen glimpses of the boy and youth she’d known—precious fragments of memory come alive again, glowing for one fleeting instant. She grasped each image, anchoring it in her memory. Memories were all she would shortly have left—of him, of what had been.

If he rated the nursery as essential, his nuptials could not be far off. She wondered, again, what the lady he had chosen was like, what manner of woman she was, whether she would understand him, his inherent wildness, whether she would understand she moor and how much he needed to be here.

That last, to her, was very clear. Adrian at Bellevere was a different man from the dangerous London rake. It was as if the crisp wind off the moor stripped away his mask, leaving the real man revealed. Not that the real man was any less dangerous—quite the opposite, in fact, especially to her. She reminded herself of that as, at his insistent beckoning, she followed him into the next room.

Continuing to voice her opinions on demand, she seized the opportunity to study him. He was fascinating in a way she hadn’t imagined him being—he had changed, so was unknown in some respects yet so very familiar in others, hence comforting and challenging at once. The contrast appealed to her artist’s soul. His resolution was new, a definite sign of maturity, evolving from his youthful wildness and stubbornness. And it was focused, too, although she wasn’t quite certain on what—his future, and Bellevere, and…something else. Perhaps she who would share the house with him?

As she ambled in his wake, she inwardly frowned. Whoever the paragon was, he was keeping her identity a close secret. Did the lady actually exist, or was she reading too much into his behavior?

They reached the principal suite. The furniture was swathed in dust covers, but appeared in relatively
good repair. Adrian prowled the room; Abby perched on the bed and watched him.

“Why have you come home?”

Across the room he met her eyes. “I got tired of it all, tired of accomplishing nothing—or at least, nothing that lasted, nothing of any significance.”

Abby frowned as he went into the dressing room. “But I thought you’d made your fortune.”

“
Increased
my fortune.” His voice floated out to her. “I’ve been dabbling in business to good effect, and my Sussex and Kent estates are thriving. But neither of them ever felt like home.” He reemerged. “So here I am, returning to pick up the reins and rebuild, older and hopefully wiser.”

She eyed him as he strolled toward her, an oddly intent gleam in his eye. “Rebuild what?” she asked as he stopped beside her.

He tilted his head, studying her face. “A home, a family.” His eyes met hers and held. “To put down roots, here, on the moor.”

Abby’s heart leapt, then plummeted, like plunging off a cliff. She forced herself to nod, stand, and lead the way from the room.

His determination had rung in his voice, shone in his amber eyes. The image that had flashed across her mind was a vision of her personal Holy Grail, but…the one thing she could swear to about his intended bride was: It wouldn’t be her.

“It must be getting late.” She threw the words over her shoulder. “We should start back.”

“The gallery.” He was just behind her. “After that, we can call it a day.”

They returned to the stairs, then climbed the short flight to the long gallery that ran across the back of the main block. Its many-paned windows looked down over the gardens, presently a white wilderness. Adrian paused and glanced around. During his childhood, the gallery had been a favorite place, the deep window embrasures with their padded seats wonderful places to curl up and hide. The eighty-seven landscapes hanging along the inner wall had become old friends. They were still there, as if waiting behind their shrouds of dust for him to return.

Abby, of course, was instantly diverted.

Suppressing a smile, Adrian left her staring at a large painting and walked to the far end to begin a quick inventory. Beyond needing a thorough cleaning and a polishing of their frames, the pictures were in good repair. As he’d expected. As he strolled, he glanced time and again at Abby, wishing he could understand her as easily as he could the landscapes.

Quite how he’d expected her to react to him, he couldn’t have said, but given she was unmarried, given he was here, given their past, he hadn’t expected to find her so…detached. Her behavior, the way she responded to him, gave him little clue as to what she thought. How she felt. Knowing how Abby felt, especially about him, was suddenly of paramount importance.

She turned from the landscape, glanced briefly about to place him, then moved to a window.

Lips tightening, Adrian pretended to study a small painting. He’d been spoiled, he supposed. For the past four years, the ladies of the ton had gone out of their
way to let him know how they saw him—he hadn’t had to exercise any of the talents that had earned him the title of master seducer.

He hadn’t, of course, lost those talents—they were merely dormant. Perhaps a trifle rusty. Glancing again at Abby, now staring out at the snow, he felt the predator in him rise, savoring the challenge. Given his plans, and the part he wanted her to play in them, it was perfectly justifiable to turn those talents on her.

He deserted the painting and strolled toward her. His gaze skated over her profile, pure in the clear light, over her hair, soft waves of silky brown, over her figure, curvaceously alluring. When he’d decided to return to Bellevere, he’d had a picture in his mind, but it had had a blank space at its heart. That internal picture—his vision of his future life—was now complete. He knew who he needed at its center.

Abby.

The realization hadn’t come in a blinding flash; instead, it had rolled over and through him in the past days with the undeniable force of a natural tide. She had never been anything but Abby to him—not on the same plane with any other woman; no other could reach the place inside him that she had occupied for so long.