The Rake's Midnight Lady (4 page)

Freddy turned to survey the young woman. ‘A cousin, I believe. Come up to town to do the Season. She’s pretty enough, to be sure, but I think you can do better. You are Hanwood, after all.’

His Lordship didn’t appear to hear a word. ‘Do you know her name?’

Freddy frowned. ‘Don’t think we’ve ever been introduced. I daresay it can be arranged if you are so eager to do so. I imagine she would be delighted to make
your
acquaintance.’

‘Now that is where I think you are wrong, Freddy,’ Hanwood said. There was a note in his voice that made the Viscount cast him a searching glance. ‘But never mind. You can leave any introduction to Miss Margate’s country cousin to me.’

‘Are you all right, Hanwood?’

Across the room, Cecile’s cousin looked up and met his eyes and he watched the color drain from her face. ‘Yes, indeed.’ His Lordship said softly, smiling. ‘I can assure you Freddy, I suddenly find that the evening has become a great deal more interesting!’

Two hours later ‘interesting’ had changed to exasperating as Lord Hanwood, Earl of Huntingdon - the most eligible catch in the country - found his efforts to talk to Abigail Margate foiled at every turn. The best he could boast was an introduction and even this had taken a considerable length of time because the lady seemed to be extraordinarily popular, constantly immersed in some group or another. He had done his best to insinuate himself in the conversation but somehow, after only a few words, she had slipped away, leaving him buried in social chit-chat he was loath to continue.

He had maneuvered Lady Embery herself into orchestrating an introduction. Talk would be rife tomorrow that he was interested in the girl for he could not so much as look at a female without gossip suggesting that he was interested. But there was no way that Abigail Margate could avoid such an introduction, although the look of frozen civility on her face was almost worth the trouble he’d gone to.

‘Miss Margate?’ Lady Embery had trilled, ‘May I introduce you to Lord Hanwood, Earl of Huntingdon? My Lord, Miss Abigail Margate of Derbyshire.’ The name of her home county had brought a gleam to his eye.

‘Derbyshire?’ he had murmured, taking her gloved hand in his, ‘Do you happen to know a Selena Bascombe, Miss Margate?’

‘My aunt, sir.’ She’d replied frostily, quickly retrieving her hand. ‘She has a penchant for fat lapdogs of quite amazing ugliness.’

Lady Embery raised an eyebrow at this, startled to hear a chit of a girl speak so to such a notable personage but Hanwood found his lips twitching at the remark. Obviously the country cousin was prepared to go on the offensive. He was intrigued and looked forward to a private conversation with her, his eagerness fanned by the memory of how soft her lips had felt against his own, a memory that had stayed with him all week, haunting his waking hours and a disturbing number of sleeping ones as well. He was determined to discover the reason she had been in his library. Indeed, he was determined to discover every detail of the girl’s life! Introductions made, he was now permitted to address her freely but things had not gone as he had hoped for Abigail had remained as elusive as water.

He had approached her to dance but she’d rebuffed him with her dance card. ‘Unfortunately I am already engaged. My Lord Bassingthwaite? Shall we?’ And Bassingthwaite, who had been mooning around Abigail all night, had fallen over his feet to oblige.

It was, Hanwood reflected, infuriating. To make matters worse, he had no idea what he actually wanted to say to her when he did manage to find her alone. Kicking his heels was not an agreeable pass-time and he was inclined to consign the infuriating Miss Margate to the devil and go home. It was not as if he wanted for company; it had been some time since he had visited Lady Langley… over a week, in fact. Rosie would be furious with him by now, quite possibly throwing half the contents of one of her stylish apartments at him. She was far more beautiful than the rustic little Abigail Margate and she was a sensible woman who would forgive him his neglect and eager to welcome him back to her bed...

Hanwood stayed where he was and continued to regard his quarry with glittering dark eyes.

Seeing Hanwood across the room had brought on a wave of faintness that had threatened to overwhelm her but Abbey had rallied as best she could. It was inevitable that she should meet him
some
time. At least she had formulated a plan for just such a contingency and it had worked rather better than she had ever imagined. Never had Abbey found the strictures of society to be so beneficial; she had managed to avoid any kind of conversation with Hanwood, although Lady Embrey’s introduction had been a small setback. Abbey generally did not dance every dance but tonight she had set out to beguile as many partners as she could and the result had been a full dance card and a pair of aching feet.

Now she was hot and tired. She had stood up three times in the last half hour, doing her best to be civil to each of her partners who had been intent on making polite conversation whenever the intricate steps of the dance brought them together again. She wished they would not bother because she was not in the least bit interested, too preoccupied with her thoughts to do more than make the most cursory comments. She desperately wanted to go home and wondered if she could plead a headache and escape. But first she would have to find her aunt and make her excuses. Abbey sighed. A glass of lemonade would be welcome but that might necessitate falling foul of Hanwood and that she simply could not risk. It seemed inevitable that he had discovered the theft of Abbey’s letters – if indeed
returning
them to their author could be considered theft – and she dreaded what he might say to her.

But it was more her deeds than her actions that made her squirm with inward shame, every time she looked at him. It was not so much that he had kissed her, more that the thought of those kisses still heated her through with a delicious pleasure that made her despair of herself. Hanwood might be
exactly
the kind of man she most disliked but she could not rid herself of the notion that he was exactly the kind of man she wanted most… It was far too demoralizing a thought to dwell on but it seemed to Abbey that she had somehow become infatuated with the man and, do what she would, he occupied far too many of her thoughts.

She was just passing through one salon to the next, seeking her aunt, when a firm hand on her elbow brought her up short. Her heart leapt into her throat when she turned and looked up into the face that had become so familiar to her, despite such a brief acquaintance. Hanwood had orchestrated her capture well, taking advantage of a shallow alcove that afforded some small measure of privacy, pulling her unceremoniously into its shelter. ‘You, Miss Margate, are a difficult lady to talk to!’

Abbey drew in a sharp breath, heart stuttering unevenly in her chest at the heated surge of awareness that flooded her body at his touch. She attempted to pull her arm free but the hand tightened. Hanwood moved a little closer, discreetly shielding her from prying eyes.

‘Let go of me!’

‘I think not. It has taken me far too long to get you alone.’

His nearness made the blood sing in her veins, made something deep inside her unfurl once more, reawakening as it savored his nearness. He smelt of subtle scents, a hint of spice, peculiarly male, peculiarly
Hanwood
. It made her want to draw even nearer, to lay her head against his shoulder and breath him in; tall and strong and infinitely masculine… Abbey moistened her lips and tried to pull herself together. The madness that seemed to possess her body whenever he was near could only be cured by distance. She desperately needed to get away from him and bring her unruly emotions back under control. ‘Do you wish to ruin me?’ she demanded, voice quivering. ‘How must this look if somebody sees us?’

‘It will look as if I am making love to you. Believe me, my sweet, it is not unheard of even at these dreary occasions.’

‘It is unheard of for
me
!’ she hissed. ‘I suppose this is punishment because I took those letters.’

Hanwood looked blank. ‘What letters?’

‘Most amusing.’ Abbey said, voice brittle.

Hanwood frowned down at her. Light suddenly dawned; the ‘country cousin’ had taken Cecile Margate’s letters to his ward Edward. Such had been his preoccupation over the past week that he hadn’t even known they had disappeared. ‘Very enterprising of you,’ he said slowly.
 

Abbey flicked a quick glance up at him from beneath her lashes. ‘I will not return them! They were not yours to take in the first place.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed, ‘But the young fool did leave them unsecured on his desk and I was overcome with the heavy perfume that drenched them. Your cousin has a somewhat… florid style.’

Abbey bit her lip. ‘She is in love, my Lord.’

‘So she says. But half the young ladies in London have been setting their cap for him and will continue to do so. He’s an eligible young man. And far too young for marriage.’

His words acted as a spur to Abbey’s temper. It was so very typical of his highhanded manner. ‘Is that so? Don’t you think it is up to Edward to chose the woman he will marry?’

Hanwood was inclined to consign both his ward and her cousin to damnation. God knows, he hadn’t given them a thought since he had encountered Abigail in his library. Her nearness was just as intoxicating as their last encounter. Standing so close, her full mouth was a ripe invitation, even more so as it was trembling with wrath. The gown that she wore dipped low across porcelain pale breasts, the soft cleft between a shadowy invitation that begged exploration and Hanwood found himself aroused by her all over again. He had believed that his fascination with his midnight visitor would disappear when he saw her against the social backdrop he tended to despise but instead he found her more alluring than ever. The urge to press her back against the wall while he lowered his head and kissed the soft curve of those luscious breasts was almost overwhelming. He would start at her breasts and work his way down until he had discovered every part of her and she was utterly quiescent beneath him… His body stiffened at the thought, so aroused that he was almost painfully erect.

‘My Lord!’ Her voice was a lash, dragging his thoughts back to reality. ‘I demand that you let me go.’

Hanwood let go of her elbow, but only to take her by the shoulders. He shook her a little, cursing softly. ‘I swear you have bewitched me! Do you know what I would like to do to you? Right here, right now?’

Abbey stared up and him and saw her own desire reflected all to clearly in those onyx eyes. Heat flared between them, a flash of fire so intense that Abbey’s knees went weak at the idea of him seducing her, right here, in amongst the polite society surrounding them.
Dear Lord, I might just let him do it
, she thought dazedly. Hanwood sucked in a deep breath, steadying himself. He dropped his hands abruptly and Abbey stepped back. She was breathing fast, shaking like a leaf in a wind. Turning to go, Hanwood reached out to stop her once more. ‘Wait!’

‘If you touch me again I will swoon!’ She told him tightly, ‘Is it a scene you want, my lord? Because if you do not let me be, that is
exactly
what you shall get! I do not want you to come near me again.
Never
again!’

And Hanwood was forced to watch her walk swiftly away from him, swallowed up in moments by the crowd.

Chapter Four

Hanwood stood before his library window and stared unseeingly out at the well- tended gardens beyond. It had been almost two weeks since he had met Abigail Margate and he had learned several things in the intervening days.

The first was that an itch, left unscratched, could slowly become a torment that ended up a relentless fire within. The second was that society, with all of its rules and conventions, was a serious impediment to a man who wanted nothing more than to strike up a conversation with a woman. And the third, by far the most irritating of them all was that Abigail Margate was the one thing in his life he could not order to his liking.

Frustration had been building in him, a slow, steady swell that needed an outlet, sooner rather than later. One thing was certain; he needed to talk to Abigail Margate!

He had chosen to ignore her strictures not to seek her out, calling at the Margate’s residence in Half Moon Street the morning after the ball, something he would never have envisioned doing a week before. While specifically asking to see Abigail, he had found himself making silted small talk with Lady Margate who had appeared both flustered and bemused by his presence in her best drawing room. After no more than ten minutes, when it became obvious that Abigail had no intention of putting in an appearance, he had taken his leave.