“A lady, without a family, was the very best preserver of furniture in the world.”
—JANE AUSTEN, PERSUASION
“May I ask you something?” Max looked up, lowered his newspaper and stood. Abby—Miss Chance, he corrected himself—stood in the door-way of the small sitting room. His gaze went straight to her mouth. He dragged it away.
She looked completely recovered from her ordeal of the day before. For once she wasn’t in one of those drab gray gowns. She wore a dress of dusky pink satin with thin cream stripes and dozens of tiny embroidered roses that echoed the roses in her cheeks. The deep rose hue exactly matched the color of her lips.
He glanced again at her mouth. Instantly the sensation of holding her in his arms swirled through him, as immediate and visceral as if the kiss were only a minute ago, instead of a full day. And a night.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
He realized he’d been staring. “No, no, come in.”
She entered the room. Her dress looked oddly familiar, though he was sure she’d never worn it before. He would surely have noticed; along the scooped, though perfectly decorous neckline rode a narrow line of knotted silk roses that drew his gaze to a tantalizing hint of the creamy bosom beneath.
She looked fresh, pretty and altogether edible.
But she was not for him.
He realized his fists were clenched, crushing the paper, and deliberately forced his fingers to relax. “Please sit down.”
When she was seated he sat too and asked, “Are you quite recovered from your ordeal yesterday?”
“Thank you, yes. A good night’s sleep was all I needed. And your injury?”
He shook his head. “Perfectly all right, thank you.” It ached a little, but that was normal. He folded the paper and set it aside. “So, what did you want to speak to me about?”
She hesitated, smoothing the fabric of her dress with nervous fingers, and for a moment Max wondered whether she was going to confess that she knew the villain after all. He leaned forward.
“Jane said yesterday at breakfast you were asking where I was. And then you followed me to the post office. So did you want me for some reason?” She glanced up, tilting her head. “Or was your being there when that man came after me just a coincidence?”
“No, it wasn’t. Have you had any thoughts about who he might be?”
She shook her head and said with a slight edge to her voice, “I told you yesterday, I have no idea. I didn’t come here to talk about that; I just wondered what was so urgent that you must follow me to the post office.”
“Oh.” He sat back. “It wasn’t urgent. I was on my way to the new house and wanted to talk to you about it.”
“Oh.” An anxious pucker formed between her brows and she leaned forward. “What about it?”
“The furniture.”
She blinked. “Furniture?”
“There’s more furniture in this house than can fit in the new one. Someone must inspect the new house and decide which pieces go and which will remain. Obviously my aunt cannot do it.”
There was a short silence. “You want me to decide what furnishings are to go into your new house?”
He was a little perplexed at her surprise. “Couldn’t you do it?”
“I could, of course. But would it not more properly be a task for Miss Parsley?”
He stiffened. “Miss Parsley?”
“Yes, is that not right? Your aunt told me you were betrothed to a Miss Parsley of Manchester.”
His aunt. He might have known. “Her name is Miss Parsloe. My aunt will make her little pleasantries. And the betrothal has not yet been formally announced.” Now why had he told her that?
She did her best to look contrite, but he could see she was struggling not to smile. “I’m sorry. Miss Parsloe. But most new brides would enjoy such a task, wishing to make their home their own.”
“Miss Parsloe is in Manchester and hardly in a position to make such decisions.”
“Can’t you decide, then? It will be your home, after all.”
He made an impatient gesture. “If the task is distasteful to you, just say so and I’ll put that butler fellow in charge. I merely thought that since women are generally held to enjoy such things, you might like to be of service to my aunt but if you don’t—”
“No, no. Of course I’ll do it.”
“Thank you.” There was a short silence. Her direct gaze was unsettling.
She seemed to be waiting for him to say something. The reminder of his betrothal should have made things easier between them, clarified the boundaries, but instead Max felt more uncomfortable than ever.
He wanted to explain what had been in his mind when he’d kissed her—a betrothed man kissing a woman he had no right to—but he couldn’t find any reason, certainly not anything she could accept.
She kept looking at him with those big wide eyes. Silently asking him questions he could not answer.
He stood. “So, can you be—”
“And what of me and my sisters?” she said in a rush, rising from her chair. Her fists were clutched in knots at her sides. “Do we move to Berkeley Square next week? Or must we leave?”
He frowned. For himself, he didn’t give the snap of his fingers whether her sisters stayed or left—for him, she was the issue. He couldn’t let her stay, not permanently, but equally he didn’t want her to leave.
It wasn’t like him to be so indecisive.
His aunt would create a grand fuss if he tried to throw them out at the end of the week. To be honest, he couldn’t care less if the sisters stayed indefinitely. They made the old lady happy and kept her entertained while she was so limited in her movements.
It was only Miss Chance who disturbed his peace of mind.
And there was his bride to consider. It had already occurred to him that she might not be particularly happy at sharing a house with his aunt. He would stand firm on that, of course; his aunt was in no condition to live on her own any longer.
But would any new bride welcome into her home four pretty and vivacious young women who were no relation to the groom or his aunt? Max didn’t even have to ask the question.
“I do value the service you have done for my aunt,” he said carefully. “And, of course, for the time being you and your sisters are welcome to continue your visit”—he stressed the word, with all its temporary implications—“at Berkeley Square.”
“But?” she prompted.
“The visit must come to an end before my marriage. After that date, my bride will take on the care of my aunt.”
A glimmer of humor lit her eyes. “I’m sure Lady Beatrice will enjoy that.” Before he could respond, she added, “And when is your marriage to be?”
“It’s not yet been decided,” Max told her. “As soon as the move to Berkeley Square is accomplished, I’ll go to Manchester and finalize the arrangements.” He glanced at her and added, “Spring, I expect—isn’t that when most brides like to get married?” He was not looking forward to it at all.
“I see.” That anxious pucker was back, marring the smooth line of her forehead. Of course she’d be worried about her future; she and her sisters seemed to be wholly dependent on the stipend from his aunt.
When they left, he’d bestow on them a handsome sum—not a bribe, as he’d offered her that first day, but a reward for the care of his aunt. He didn’t like to think of her—them—struggling, or worrying about money. Perhaps a cottage, as well as a sum of money . . .
Would she accept such a gift from him? He remembered her anger the last time he’d suggested such a thing. No, she was prickly with pride. When the time came, he’d make sure it would look like a gift from his aunt. In the meantime he could ease the worst of her anxieties. “Naturally you will be paid for your trouble in helping with the matter of the furniture.”
“There’s no need for that,” Abby began.
“There’s every need,” he said in a clipped voice. “You are an employee of my aunt and this is outside of your usual duties.”
“But I am not—”
“You accept a wage from her, do you not?” It wasn’t a question. Lord Davenham was underlining her status as an employee. A servant.
Any warm feelings Abby might have had for the man dissolved. She was not an employee. But there was no word for what she was. Friends didn’t accept a stipend for their friendship. Neither did guests. Abby did what she did for Lady Beatrice because she cared about her, and wanted to help—not for money. If she’d had any choice, she wouldn’t have accepted any payment at all.
But she had no choice. It was horrid being so poor. You couldn’t even afford pride.
“You’re quite right,” Abby said crisply, hoping her chagrin did not show. “If you wish to pay me for the service I won’t argue.” Though it would choke her to accept it.
“You don’t know what I’m offering yet.”
“I don’t care what you’re offering,” she flashed.
He tilted his head. “You don’t intend to haggle?”
Was he deliberately provoking her? Abby wondered. There was a gleam in the hard gray eyes that she found a little disconcerting. “Do you wish me to inspect the house or not?”
“I do.” He picked up his leather driving gloves and rose. “Immediately, if it suits you. We’ll take my carriage.”
She hesitated. “Can you drive with that arm?”
He said brusquely, “Yes, of course. Shall we say in ten minutes? Is that enough time for you to get ready?”
“Of course.” She hurried away to fetch her pelisse and hat. And to regain her temper. She would not allow him to provoke her again.
Eight minutes later Abby hurried back toward the stairs, pulling on her gloves. As she passed the sitting room, Lady Beddington and her friend Mrs. Murrell waved and called a greeting.
“Are you going out, Miss Chance? But I thought . . .”
“Yes, but don’t worry, Lady Beddington: Damaris will read you the next chapter, and I think you’ll find she’s very good.” Damaris’s father had been a missionary of the fire-and-brimstone variety, and Damaris had been his assistant. She knew the value of storytelling and could infuse any text with drama.
Abby smiled to herself as she ran lightly down the stairs. The ladies really were enjoying the novel. It was a good omen.
When she reached the entry hall, it was to find three more ladies arriving. Two were much the same age as Lady Beddington, and one was a young lady about Jane’s age. They handed coats and shawls to Featherby while they chatted with animation to a harried-looking Lord Davenham. They were here, they said, for the book reading.
Abby hugged a small knot of hope to her breast. Her plan was starting to work.
The trouble was, there was no telling how long they had. Miss Parsloe might not want to wait till spring. After all, she’d waited nine years already.
Still, she had to try. Lord Davenham was leaving for Manchester immediately after they moved to Berkeley Square. The day after that would be the first official meeting of Lady Beatrice’s literary society.
Abby hastened to join him. The ladies gave her several curious looks. Abby smiled at them, but Lord Davenham made no effort to introduce her, so she said nothing.
“Well, we must get on. Clara said the reading starts at two,” the oldest lady, a hawk-faced dowager, declared. “Delightful to see you again after all these years, Davenham.” She glanced at Abby again and gave her a brisk, not unfriendly nod.
As the ladies followed Featherby up the stairs, the hawk-faced dowager’s voice drifted back to them. “That’ll be one of Griselda’s gels. Seems Clara was quite right—Davenham don’t acknowledge them. All hushed up at the time and the boy never knew the truth.”
Lord Davenham’s head snapped around, but the ladies had disappeared from sight. Abby stifled the urge to giggle. “Don’t look at me,” she said as he turned toward her. “I didn’t say a word.”
In grim silence he handed her down the front steps to where his phaeton waited. He helped her into the carriage, his hand strong and warm even through his gloves.
He climbed in after her, picked up the reins and gave her a sideways glance. “One of these days I’ll strangle Aunt Bea.” Abby laughed. “You won’t. You know perfectly well she means no harm.”
He snorted.
“You have to admit life with her isn’t the least bit dull.”
He snorted again, but his mouth quirked in rueful acknowledgment. He loved the old lady, she knew, and it seemed he’d even tolerate the eccentric invention of a half sister and a handful of faux nieces—not that he had much choice.
But what, Abby wondered as the carriage moved off, would the unknown Miss Parsloe make of Lady Beatrice and her eccentricities?
The carriage threaded its way through the busy London streets at quite a smart pace. For all his years away in foreign places, Lord Davenham was a skilled driver.
The phaeton was very elegant, of course, but it wasn’t terribly large. She could feel the warmth of his body all the way down her side. An awkward silence fell.
Or maybe it was just she who felt awkward; no doubt he was concentrating on the traffic. How he managed, with horses, vehicles, barrow boys and pedestrians going in all directions, was beyond her.
A dog shot out into the road, and a boy after it. “Look out!” The carriage stopped with a jerk, catching Abby unprepared and throwing her forward. She might have fallen, except that Lord Davenham caught her with his left hand, pulling her hard against him, while with his right hand—his injured arm—he kept his startled horses under control.
“Are you all right?” He glanced at her.
“Y-yes, thank you.”
The carriage moved on. He didn’t release her. He could drive one-handed, it seemed. His arm was warm and heavy around her shoulders. He’d probably forgotten he was holding her; he must be concentrating on the traffic again.
Abby knew she should move away, make some sign to him that he should release her. It was almost an embrace, and in public, so not at all seemly. But she couldn’t bring herself to speak or even move.
It was like the day before, when he’d held her after she’d been attacked. She wanted to close her eyes and lean into his solidity, breathe in the scent of him. Instead she held herself rigidly erect. And tried not to remember the way he’d kissed her. And the way she’d responded.
Piccadilly Circus thronged with carriages. The phaeton slowed, and finally he lifted his arm from around her to better negotiate his way through the traffic. Or perhaps he’d realized the impropriety of their position.
Or was his arm aching? Her own bruises had certainly made themselves felt this morning, and his injuries were much more severe—but he showed no sign of it.
He’d held her only a moment or two, she realized in retrospect; it just felt longer.
After a few minutes they turned down a side street into a much quieter neighborhood. He cleared his throat. “About yesterday,” he began. “I’m s—”
“Please! If you tell me you’re sorry for kissing me one more time, I—I’ll scream!” There was a short silence. She turned her head for a quick glance at him. He seemed to be trying not to smile.
“Actually, what I was going to say was that I’m certain you and your sisters are in some kind of trouble, and if you could only bring yourself to trust me, I’m sure I could help.”
“Oh.” Abby felt herself blushing. Of course he hadn’t intended to apologize for the kiss. He probably hadn’t even given it a thought.
“And while we’re setting stories straight, I’m not sorry for kissing you at all.”
“What?” She whipped her head around to stare at him. “But you said—”
“I apologized, yes. But I’m not sorry.”
Was he flirting? Teasing? Serious? Or was he perhaps thinking she might be willing to become his mistress? She couldn’t read a thing from his expression. Nor could she think of a single thing to say, and when she finally thought of a response—the merest commonplace, but better than stunned silence—it was too late. “Ah, here we are, Berkeley Square,” he said.
They pulled up outside an elegant white house. The groom hurried to lower the steps for them to alight, but Lord Davenham leaped lightly down, and before Abby knew what he was about, he’d put his hands around her waist and swiftly lifted her down. Just as he’d done that first day on the stairs. Leaving her breathless.
“It’s raining again,” he said, when she gave him a surprised look. “Quick, inside before you get wet.”
The house on Berkeley Square might have been small by comparison to the mansion on the Strand, but Abby had never seen such an elegant abode. With a Grecian-style pediment over an entry supported by Corinthian columns, the house rose to four stories, not counting the servants’ quarters in the attic or the kitchen quarters in the basement. Inside it was both grand and spacious. A staircase rose from the handsome entry hall in a graceful sweep rising through several floors before culminating in an elegant domed ceiling.
“Well?” Lord Davenham’s deep, rather hard voice startled her out of her reverie. “What do you think?” Quite as if he hadn’t just knocked her composure endways by the admission that he didn’t regret their kiss. What did he mean by it?
And what was she supposed to think? He’d told her himself he was betrothed. Or was he perhaps thinking she might be willing to become his mistress? Surely not.
Two could play at “let’s pretend it never happened,” she decided. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen such a beautiful house. I think Lady Beatrice will enjoy living here very much. And Miss Parsloe, of course.”
He nodded, looking satisfied.
Abby was a little overwhelmed, if the truth be told. Throughout her childhood, she and Jane had played house, furnishing boxes with tiny pieces of homemade furniture for their dolls, and imagining how one day they’d arrange a house of their own. And now she had this to arrange, this grand, elegant house.
Though it would not be her home.
Abby took a small notebook and pencil from her reticule. She wandered from room to room, Lord Davenham following. Their footsteps echoed in the empty house. On the ground floor she found a large drawing room, several smaller salons, a dining room and a ballroom that opened onto a terraced back garden.
Abby had never been to a ball, but that didn’t stop her imagining all the details—the scent of flowers and perfume, and music, perhaps one of those marvelous new Viennese waltzes, and people twirling around the dance floor, the ladies in beautiful gowns and the gentlemen so elegant in their crisp black and white. It would be a warm evening and the French doors would be open onto the terrace. . . .
If Lord Davenham and his wife entertained . . .
“How formal do you want the house to be?” she asked him.
“Formal?”
She nodded. “I presume, having bought a house with a ball-room, you plan to entertain a great deal.”
He frowned.
“Does Miss Parsloe like to entertain?”
“I have no idea.”
She moved on. Lord Davenham prowled silently along behind her. She made notes, trying to imagine the furniture from Davenham House in this fine new setting. From time to time she asked him about Miss Parsloe’s preferences—did he think, for instance, that Miss Parsloe would prefer to sleep at the back of the house, or the front? The front bedroom was grander, and looked out over the square, but the back would be quieter.
But he seemed to know nothing of her tastes. Worse, he didn’t seem to care.
“I have no idea of her preferences,” he would say indifferently. Or, “It doesn’t matter.” And once, “If she doesn’t like it when she gets here, she can change it.”
“But in the meantime I need to know what you want,” she told him, annoyed with his lack of guidance.
“What do I want?” He paused. They were in a sitting room overlooking the street. He stalked across the room and gazed out of the window across the gray street to the lush green park at the center of Berkeley Square. Abby wondered what he was looking at. All she could see were the leaves of the plane trees just starting to turn. Autumn was coming. By spring he would be married.
Finally he spoke. “Featherby told me the previous servants had left my aunt’s house in a disgraceful state and that you supervised the cleaning and rearrangement of the rooms. And do so still.”
“That’s true.” Why would he bring that up? He couldn’t want her to clean this house. It was already immaculate, not so much as a speck of dust on the glowing parquetry floors or the marble mantelpieces.
“That house was never homelike. In my uncle’s day it was always formal and chilly and . . . unwelcoming. At least, to a boy it was. Now, despite its shabby condition, the house is more attractive and welcoming than I’ve ever seen it.”
Abby felt the beginnings of a glow of pleasure—and then she realized: He hadn’t brought her here to talk about furniture; he wanted a home, wanted her to make him a home.
His next words confirmed it. “I don’t know how the effect was achieved, but I’d like the same to be done for this place. For my aunt.” He turned to face her and added stiffly, “And for Miss Parsloe, of course.”
Abby didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Did he know what he was asking her to do? To make a home for him to share with Miss Parsloe?
Right after his confession—if confession it was. I’m not sorry.
Did he have no idea? Homes were made by the people who lived in them, for the people who lived in them.
Houses were filled with furniture, but homes were made with love.
She looked into his unreadable gray eyes as he waited for her response. No, he had no idea. Somewhere inside this tall, grave man was the lonely small boy who’d waited . . . who’d been abandoned by his parents and left to grow up at school. And had then gone abroad from the age of eighteen.
Like Abby, he hadn’t ever really had a home to call his own.
“Yes, of course, Lord Davenham,” she said softly, “I’ll try to make it as homelike and welcoming as I can. For Lady Beatrice.” And for him.
And for herself. She’d probably never get the chance to make a home for anyone again, so she might as well enjoy this, even if it was only for a few weeks. And creating a homelike atmosphere in this gorgeous house was a lot better than playing with dolls and old boxes.
But she wasn’t going to do it with him watching her every move. She couldn’t think straight. “Now, I’m better able to do this on my own, and I’m sure you have much more important things to attend to,” she told him briskly. “Could you pick me up in, say, an hour?”
He’d been dismissed, and Max was glad to go.
It was hard enough imagining himself married to Henrietta Parsloe—it was so long since he’d seen her—but planning the arrangement of his house with Miss Abigail Chance was proving rather unsettling.
And what the devil had caused him to say he didn’t regret their kiss? He didn’t, but telling her had been a fool’s act. It changed nothing. He was promised and that was that, and the sooner he got himself married the better. That would put an end to these . . . feelings.
He’d travel to Manchester the minute the move was accomplished. To that end, he decided to call on Freddy. He had a favor to ask.
“I’m going to Manchester,” he told Freddy a short time later.
“Good God, why?”
Max hesitated, but he supposed he couldn’t keep it secret for much longer. “I’m betrothed.”
Freddy’s jaw dropped; then a grim expression settled over his face. “Blasted muffins—they’ll get a man every time. Never mind. It’s not over till the parson sounds. Manchester’s an excellent notion! Scotland would be better. The continent, better still. What about Paris? Italy?”
Max stared at him. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“You need to get out of London fast. Let it all blow over. Believe me, I understand.”
Max gave a short laugh. “You don’t, you know. I’m not going to Manchester to escape a betrothal.”
Freddy blinked. “Why else would you go there?”
“Because that’s where my fiancée lives.”
There was a short, astounded silence; then Freddy shook his head. He took a bottle from the sideboard, poured himself a brandy, downed it in one long swallow, shuddered, shook himself like a dog, then returned to Max. “Let me get this straight—you’re betrothed?”
“Yes.”
“To a girl in Manchester?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t want my help to escape to Scotland or the Continent.”
“No.”
Freddy said slowly, disbelievingly, “So you want this betrothal?”
Max hesitated. “I’m betrothed,” he repeated firmly.
“Ah.” Freddy gave him a piercing look. “She’s a muffin, isn’t she?”
“No, of course n—at least, I don’t know what she’s like. I haven’t seen her for nine years.”
“Nine years? Good God!” Freddy returned to the brandy bottle and poured out two glasses. He handed one to Max.
Max shook his head. “I don’t want one. Nor do I want to explain anything. Or escape anything. I came here to tell you I was going to Manchester for a short visit and to ask if, while I’m away, you’ll keep an eye on my aunt and the misses Chance.”
“The muffins?” Freddy eyed him balefully through the fumes emanating from the brandy glass. “Not a chance. Bad enough one of us has been caught in a parson’s mousetrap.”
“Miss Chance was attacked in the street yesterday by a villain with a knife.”
“Good God! Is she all right?”
“Yes, though rather bruised and shaken. But the only reason she wasn’t badly hurt—or worse—is because I was there and stopped the fellow.” He held up his arm. “The swine cut me. So while I’m away, I need someone to keep an eye on them.”
Freddy considered the request briefly, then shook his head. “Sorry, but you can hire someone to look after them. It’ll be less dangerous.”
Max frowned. “Dangerous for whom?”
“For me.”
“No one’s going to attack you; it’s—”
“I’m not talking about getting attacked,” Freddy scoffed. “Knives and assassins don’t worry me. I can look after myself.”
“Then what danger are you talking about?”
“Muffins.”
Max rolled his eyes, but he could see no amount of argument would get Freddy to change his mind.
But there was more than one way to lead a horse to water.
“Going to Barney McPhee’s card party tonight?” Max asked him.
“Definitely,” Freddy agreed.
“What’s the best way to get to Barney’s?” Max asked. “I’m not familiar with the address.”
“Don’t worry; I’ll pick you up in the curricle,” Freddy said. “At seven?”
“Perfect.”
An hour later Max collected Miss Chance from Berkeley Square. They drove home in relative silence.
When they arrived home, however, Featherby drew him aside. “Two footmen have been hired, m’lord—Turner and Hatch, very reliable men—they start today. And Mr. Morton Black is waiting for you in the small sitting room.”