FIFTEEN

In her younger years, Abigail had often dreamed of storming away from the arms of some darkly handsome lover and into the moonlight.

The reality was rather less romantic. The feathers tickled Abigail’s nose abominably, her shoes scrabbled against damp pebbles of the lakeshore, and her dress was coming undone in the back. She felt neither fleet nor graceful nor passionate, and to make a sorry situation worse, her nose was running, too.

“Damn it, Abigail!”

Wallingford’s roar floated in the air behind her. Wallingford, that beast, that rutting boar. He hadn’t even fully undressed her, had he? Simply pushed up her chemise and shoved away, no preliminaries, no caresses, no loving exploration of her anatomy. Two thrusts, two heaves of his massive body, and he was groaning out his release, while her torn flesh still burned with pain, and her body still arched for more.

More. Just . . . more. More of that sweet melting sensation, as he had unfastened her dress and held her breasts in his warm hands. More of that thrill, as he’d swept her up and placed her on the blankets, and his hungry gaze had enveloped her, and his rigid organ had searched out her tender flesh. More of those mighty thrusts, of the way even in the shock of pain she had felt an impossible pressure that made her hips tilt and her body strain to meet him.

“Abigail! Stop right now, by God!”

No! Not more. What was she thinking? Never, ever again. No more romantic illusions, no more dreams of transcendent sexual union, no more Wallingford heaving atop her with sinews flexing and face desperate. The dream lay shattered, the scales had fallen from her eyes, the . . . the . . .

The muscles between her legs ached like the devil.

The lakeshore gave way to the grass and the olive trees, the gradual slope upward to the castle. Abigail slowed her steps and picked her way through, trying to discern the path in the shadows. Somewhere ahead lay Mr. Burke’s workshop, her customary landmark; she looked for its dark shape amid the trees. Wallingford’s voice still echoed behind her, a little fainter. Perhaps he’d lost her in the darkness.

There it was! A great dark mass, moonlight glinting from the stones. The path should lie just to the left.

She plunged forward and stopped.

A light shone from inside, a flickering light. Which was not odd in itself; Mr. Burke often kept late hours, tinkering about on his machine, Alexandra at his side.

But tonight the workshop should be dark. Tonight Mr. Burke should be deep in Alexandra’s arms, his body coursing with Morini’s lemony drink, vowing eternal and faithful love to break the ancient curse.

And what was that smell? Odd and chemical. Rather like . . .

Gas.

Abigail took a step closer, and as her foot touched the ground she felt a percussive jolt shudder through the air. An instant later, a bright flash filled her vision, and she went flying to the ground.

*   *   *

For a moment, she lay stunned. She was not hurt, except for the ache between her legs and the buzz in her ears, but she could not quite seem to move.

“Abigail!” Wallingford’s voice rang frantic in her ears. His hands took her shoulders, turned her over. “Abigail!”

“I’m all right!” she gasped. “I’m all right! The workshop! Quickly!”

He looked up. “Bloody hell!”

They scrambled up together. Flames shot out from one of the windows; the stones around it were already black with soot, and glass covered the grass outside.

“Your shoes!” Abigail said. “Put on your shoes!”

She didn’t stop to make sure he had. She ran forward to the pump, the blessed pump, which sat to the side of the building with bucket in place. Mr. Burke had always been particular, with all his chemicals and batteries about. She grabbed the handle and pumped with all her might, and when the bucket was full Wallingford appeared at her side, trousers and shoes fastened, and snatched it from her.

“Find another bucket!” he shouted over his shoulder, and he ran forward and tossed the contents into the flames.

Buckets. Buckets. Near the back door, perhaps? She ran around and saw two of them sitting next to the double carriage doors. She snatched them and ran back around to the pump, where Wallingford was already heaving, his shoulders bunching with effort, gleaming wet in the moonlight.

“I’ll pump! You throw!” she screamed.

He took the bucket and ran, and she put the next one down and began to pump, and a new pair of hands grasped the handle just as the water hit the rim.

Alexandra’s hands.

“What the devil . . .” she began, but Alexandra was already off with the bucket, and Abigail started another. She looked up and saw Mr. Burke was there, too, breaking down the wooden door with a massive thrust of his shoulder. Another bucketful, taken by Alexandra, handed off to Wallingford, and Burke came bursting through the door with a stack of blankets. He dumped them at her feet and ran back inside, together with Wallingford.

“Oh, you clever brute!” She took one of the blankets and began pumping, wetting it thoroughly, and then she lost track of the sequence of it all: buckets and blankets, the men and Alexandra running back and forth, Alexandra taking over when her arm tired of pumping.

She took a wet blanket and ran to the workshop. Everything was wetness and soot and heat. Wallingford handed her an empty bucket and snatched the blanket from her. “You’re not going in!” he shouted at her. His face was gleaming and blackened, like a chimney sweep, and his voice was raspy with smoke.

“Oh, God! Are you all right?”

“I’m fine! Get more water!” He turned away and ran into the workshop. Through the window she saw him standing next to Burke, side by side, beating away the flames, and something rose in her throat and choked her.

She ran back to the pump, snatched a full bucket from Alexandra, staggered back with it. The flames were nearly gone, but the smoke still snaked through the window and from the roof. A pair of hands took the bucket from her and handed her an empty one.

Back and forth, again and again, until the urgency seeped at last from the air. The fire was out; the workshop still stood, its stones black with soot, reeking of smoke. A bucket lay on its side near the doorway. She picked it up, and another. The third sat next to the pump. She stacked them neatly, one inside the other, and straightened.

The window was shattered. Through the open frame, Alexandra and Mr. Burke stood in the darkness, hardly visible, speaking quietly. Burke’s head hung downward, its ginger color obscured by darkness and damp and soot. As Abigail watched, transfixed, Alexandra’s white arms slipped around Burke’s lean waist, and his hand rose to cover hers.

She loves him, Abigail thought in wonder. Amid the debris and the grime, the water puddling in the grass about her feet, she felt a curious tranquility steal over her.

And without warning, her belly heaved, and she turned and vomited thoroughly into the grass.

*   *   *

Early one fine crisp October morning, many years ago, Wallingford had been making his way to the Eton playing fields for a bout of honor, when he had encountered none other than the ginger-haired bastard son of the Duke of Olympia in the footpath. The familiar bile had risen in his throat. “Move aside, you whoreson bastard,” he’d said—as one did—and young Burke had demanded immediate satisfaction for libel, and Wallingford had told him straight-out that it wasn’t libel, and that as Burke’s mother accepted money and gifts in exchange for acts of carnal gratification, and as the Duke of Olympia had not in fact been married to her at the time of Burke’s birth, Wallingford had only been speaking the truth.

Burke’s right fist had shot out with reflexive speed to connect with Wallingford’s eye, and before Wallingford could so much as stagger backward into the grass, Burke had followed up with a punishing left to the lip. Blackened and bleeding, Wallingford had shaken hands, called him a good sport, and brought him home to Belgrave Square at Michaelmas to meet his bemused father.

Since then, they had stood by each other through thick heads and thin company, not giving a particular damn for the opinion of society. When Wallingford had once found himself fleeced at Oxford by a publican running a racing book, Burke had come to his rescue and slipped a fierce chemical purgative in the house ale.

When Burke’s workshop caught fire in the middle of the night, risking everything he’d labored over his entire adult life, Wallingford picked up a bucket and ran into the flames.

By the grace of God, the workshop was built of stone and they’d caught the fire quickly. Wallingford had helped Burke roll the automobile through the carriage doors and out of harm’s way, and both Lady Morley and Abigail had pumped water and carried buckets like heroines.

In half an hour, the flames were out. Burke stood at the remains of what had once been the long counter, near the cabinet where Lady Morley had hidden herself all those months ago. A large black hole split the wooden surface in two, right near the window.

“It was the gas ring,” Burke said quietly. “I must have left it on.”

“Nonsense. You’d never have left it on,” said Wallingford. He glanced around the room and shook his head. Most of the space had been spared, but the corner where the flames had burst out was charred and blackened, the contents irreclaimable. He cleared his throat. “I’ll clean up the glass outside, before someone comes to grief.”

Burke said nothing. Wallingford found a broom and went outside, where Lady Morley still pumped frantically into a bucket. Her hair was loose, her dress soaked and streaked with black. “That’s it,” he called out to her, but she didn’t seem to notice, simply went on pumping.

He went to her and put his hand on her arm. “Alexandra, it’s out. You can stop now.”

She looked at him blankly. Her eyes had that glassy look of a prizefighter at the end of the bout, not quite certain who has won.

“It’s out,” he said again.

She turned to the workshop and stared at the broken window, the hole gaping in the roof. She pushed back a lock of hair and tucked it behind her ear. “Where is he?” she asked huskily.

He gave her arm a little squeeze. “Inside. I’m awfully sorry, Alexandra. We did the best we could.”

“Thank you.” She gave his hand a pat and hurried into the workshop.

Wallingford looked down at his bare chest and went to retrieve his shirt and waistcoat from the spot where Abigail had fallen. He put them on swiftly, closing his eyes at the memory: the flash of light, the crash of sound, Abigail landing in the grass. The bolt of pure terror in his heart, until she’d lifted her head and met his gaze.

He picked up the broom and walked back toward the workshop and stopped. Abigail stood there in the grass nearby, bent over, one hand braced on the pump, sick as a dog.

In an instant he was at her side.

“My God! Are you all right?” He took her by the shoulders.

“Yes, I’m quite . . . just . . .” Abigail straightened and patted herself, as if searching for a handkerchief.

His own handkerchief was long gone, of course. He tore off a strip from the bottom of his shirt instead. “Here.”

“Thank you.” She wet it from the pump and wiped her face, not looking at him.

“I’ll take that,” he said, shoving the linen in his pocket.

“I was just gathering the buckets, and . . . all that smoke and excitement, I suppose . . .”

“Abigail, I . . .”

“But I’m quite all right now. Thank goodness we found the fire in time. Was Mr. Burke able to save his machine?”

Her voice was false and bright, and her eyes lay fixed on the stone walls of the workshop, avoiding him. Wallingford’s throat ached. Had he really made love to this woman, not an hour before? Had he really held her in his arms, kissed her, laid atop her, and taken her innocence? She spoke to him as if he were an acquaintance in a ballroom.

“Yes,” he said. “We managed to roll it out back, through the carriage doors.”

“Oh, good.” She looked at the broom in his hand. “Shall I sweep up the glass, then?”

“I’ll do it. Sit and rest.”

“Oh, but I . . .”

“Abigail, you must. You must rest.” He put his hand to her cheek, and she drew away instantly.

Cleaning the glass was the work of a moment. When he finished, she was sitting on a stack of buckets, staring at her hands. “Come,” he said. “I’m taking you to your room.”

She rose. “We must say good-bye first.”

Inside, Burke and Lady Morley were standing together, embracing quietly in the darkness. “I’ve stashed the buckets and swept up the glass outside,” said Abigail. “How are things in here?”

Lady Morley disengaged from Burke. “Absolutely buggered, but we’ll manage. The automobile’s all right.”

Burke stood still, arms empty. Behind him, the cabinet was a charred ruin, the long counter all but obliterated. But the rest of the room had been largely spared, Wallingford saw. He couldn’t tell if the blackness were soot or shadow, but the furniture was intact, the machinery and tires still standing.

“Burke, old chap,” said Wallingford. “What a damned nuisance. Are you all right? Anything I can do?”

Burke made his way across the puddles and debris and held out his hand. “You’ve done more than enough, my friend. I can’t begin to thank you.”

“You know damned well there’s no such thing as thanks between us.” Wallingford grasped Burke’s hand and met his gaze. A steady gaze, a living gaze; no signs of shock, thank God.

Burke spoke up briskly. “I’ll just tidy up a bit. You head on back to the house and let the stable lads know. I shall require carts to haul off the rubble, that sort of thing.”

“Done. Lady Morley?”

She lifted her chin and smiled at him. It rather suited her. “I’ll stay and help. But I’d be much obliged if you’d see my sister safely back to the house.”

Abigail made a little snort. “I should think I’d be much safer without his help.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Wallingford took her firmly by the elbow and led her outside.

“That’s not necessary.” She drew her arm away and increased her pace.

“Abigail! You will not run away from me again!”

Abigail stopped and turned. They were standing in the trees, shaded from the moon, and Wallingford couldn’t see the expression in her face, couldn’t tell if she were angry or tired or sorrowful. He wanted to touch her, but the air around them bristled with her disinclination to be touched. “I am not running away,” she said.

“You are.”

“I’m simply going back to my room to sleep. It’s late, it’s been a trying day, and I’m eager to go to bed.”

“Very well. And I shall see you there. It is both my duty and my right.”

Her chin snapped up at that. “It’s neither your duty nor your right.”

“Do not pretend, my dear,” he said quietly, “as if nothing has passed between us.”

“Do not pretend, my dear, as if what passed between us gave you any right over me, any dominion over me.”

“By God, it does!”

“It was brief, and unpleasant, and I would prefer simply to forget it occurred at all.”

A curious ringing began to sound in Wallingford’s ears. He clenched his fists at his sides, to prevent them from closing around Abigail’s shoulders, from holding her to him as securely as she held him. “But it did occur, Abigail. We lay together, you and I, and it does not mean nothing. It means everything. It has bound me to you in honor, if not in fact.”

She folded her arms. “Has it, now? What a string of brides you must have collected by now. You might set up your own harem with them, like those marvelous Persian chaps.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t understand me. A gentleman does not take a young lady’s innocence without . . .”

She turned and began to stride up the path. “Oh, don’t recite that rubbish to me! You know I wanted a lover, not a husband. I made that clear from the beginning. You have no obligations whatsoever.”

“We might have conceived a child. Have you thought of that?”

“No doubt you have dozens of natural children running about by now. One more won’t make any difference.”

“I have none, as it happens.”

She hurried between the trees, tossing her words at him as she went. “Oh, rot. I do know my pistils from my stamens, Wallingford, and I assure you, you can’t have spread your seed about so freely without some sort of harvest, unless you’re incapable of children altogether.”

He took in a steadying breath. The air smelled of smoke, everything reeked of smoke: his clothes, his hair, his skin. What a sight he must be. No wonder she wouldn’t look at him.

“I may or may not be incapable,” he said. “That remains to be seen, I suppose. But I have not spread my seed about, as you so candidly put it. Until tonight, I have taken the greatest possible care not to do so.”

Abigail walked on steadily. “I don’t believe you. Why would you care?”

“Because.” He hesitated, then said softly, “I made a pact, long ago.”

She did not reply. The terrace wall loomed ahead; she found the steps in the moonlight and climbed them, her loose hair swinging around her shoulders and back. Wallingford followed her up, watching the curve of her backside slide beneath her dress, wanting her again with a kind of agonized soul-deep desire.

They were halfway down the first row of vines before she spoke. “With Burke, I suppose. You promised Burke, because he’s illegitimate, because he knows what it means.”

“Yes.” He wondered if she knew he’d just delivered her a piece of his soul.

Silently they climbed the terraces together, walked down the rows of vines. The grass was soft and silent beneath their feet, dampening slowly in the night air. Wallingford breathed in the lingering reek of smoke, the lazy hint of ripening fruit, and thought how much he should like to draw Abigail down into the sweet-smelling turf, to lie with her in the enchanted Italian midnight, to watch the glow of her skin as the moon crept across the sky.

The courtyard was empty and quiet, the trestle tables removed, the musicians and villagers gone home. Abigail crossed the flagstones without looking and found the door.

“Wait,” Wallingford said, and she turned with her soot-smudged fingers on the latch. “I must go to the stables and tell Giacomo what’s happened. May I walk you to your room first?”

“Of course not. If I can find my way around Tattersalls on auction day, I can find the way back to my own bed. Do excuse me.”

He tried again. “Look here, Abigail. Are you really all right? Let me . . . let me do something for you. Warm water, or . . . or perhaps tea . . .” He had no idea how to make tea, but surely it couldn’t be that difficult, if kitchen maids could manage it.

A flash of white from her eyes. “Don’t worry. You haven’t rendered me an invalid, I assure you.”

He placed his hand on the doorjamb and leaned against it. He felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to his innards and demolished everything inside. “Abigail, I’m sorry. I was a brute. I’d been waiting so long, I was blind with it. I do want to please you, if you’ll allow me another chance. If you’ll show me how to please you.”

“I shouldn’t have to show you. That was the point.”

He closed his eyes. “For God’s sake, Abigail. I’m only a man.”

Something warm and soft landed on his cheek, and he realized it was Abigail’s hand. He reached up to cover it with his own, but it was already gone.

“Yes, you are only a man, Your Grace,” she said. “But you see, I was hoping for so much more.”