On the morning of her birthday, Abby awakened before dawn from a restless sleep. A faint gray light seeped past the curtains and cast a pale luminosity over the bedchamber. The covers lay in a tangle at her feet. Her nightdress, too, was twisted as if she’d tossed and turned. Despite the coolness of the air, she felt damp and overheated.
She had been dreaming of Max.
Of that she was certain, for she could still detect his presence as if he’d lain right here in the bed with her. She had a vague memory of his hands sliding over her body and the breathless sense of being drawn toward something irresistibly thrilling. The very thought of it brought a flush to her skin. Closing her eyes, she sought to hold on to the last wisps of sleep in an effort to recapture the dream.
But it slipped away into nothingness.
Leaning on her elbow, Abby glanced at the softly ticking clock on the bedside table and then plopped back down again. It was only six ten, which meant she had over two hours before joining the girls for breakfast at half past eight. There was no need to arise just yet.
Hugging the feather pillow, she rolled onto her side. After a few minutes, she shifted position again, but to no avail. She had been too disturbed by that erotic dream to slumber any longer.
With a sigh, she slipped from the bed and padded barefoot to the window. She drew apart the curtains and opened the casement. Pressing her palms to the stone sill, she inhaled a deep draught of fresh morning air. The aroma of recently cut grass and the chirping of birds invigorated her spirits. A rosy tinge on the horizon heralded the approach of sunrise, gleaming faintly on the quiet dark surface of the lake in the distance.
Today was her thirtieth birthday, Abby realized with a start. The fateful day that she’d so long dreaded had arrived at last. She smiled wryly, for she certainly didn’t feel any older or wiser. The only discernible difference in her was the longing she felt for Max, heart and body and soul.
Yet he could never be hers.
That fact had been reinforced at the picnic the previous day. The girls had organized a scavenger hunt in which Abby had been paired with Lord Ambrose. He’d proven to have a competitive streak that matched her own, and they’d scurried hither and yon to locate all the items on the list. The first ones to return to the picnic site, they had still been laughing over the silly prize of matching flower crowns when Max and Lady Desmond finally had straggled back in last place, having collected less than half of their list.
Nevertheless, the woman had looked as satisfied as a cat that had lapped an entire dish of cream. By their slightly disheveled appearance, it appeared as though they’d spent their time engaged in amorous activities. Max’s expression had been oddly contrite as he’d sent a penetrating look at Abby. Not that that excused him. Had she not been a peacemaker at heart, she’d have been sorely tempted to hurl a plate of Mrs. Beech’s lemon tarts at the two of them.
Releasing a sigh, Abby stared out at the lake. She mustn’t let herself believe he could change his basic nature, even though he’d helped her overcome her dread of horses and had doctored her injured finger—not to mention employed Miss Herrington after the death of her brother.
No, the Duke of Rothwell was still an incurable rake renowned for his harem of mistresses. If he had once been a sweet, gawky youth, no one would guess it now.
But Abby knew. Perhaps that was why she could not crush this foolish longing for him. Her emotions were still tangled up in the past. How ridiculous that a thirty-year-old spinster should pine for a dashing nobleman who could have any woman he wanted at one snap of his fingers!
Love. It’s merely a romanticized term for lust.
He had told her that on the day they’d gone to the glade, and she would do well to take him at his word. He had grown too cynical, too hard-hearted from a life of dissipation. There could never be anything between them, and that was that.
The serene waters of the lake beckoned to her. She would not waste another thought on Max. Instead, she would celebrate this milestone birthday by doing something bold and improper and forbidden for a modest governess. Something she had not done since girlhood.
She would wash away her troubles with a swim.
* * *
There was something about being in the country that invigorated him, Max reflected, as he pulled on a pair of breeches in the shadowy confines of his dressing room. In London, it was not uncommon for him to fall into bed at dawn and sleep past noon. Society balls often lasted into the wee hours, gaming clubs thrived in the middle of the night, and of course, there was always the demimonde to keep a man awake and entertained. But here, he’d taken up the habit of retiring early on the excuse that he needed to oversee the training of Goliath each morning.
The truth of the matter was, he’d found himself rather bored by the endless rounds of cards and dice with his friends. The gossip and storytelling that had amused him in the city now seemed tedious and sometimes even cruel. And when Elise played the toadying coquette, he found himself unfavorably comparing her to a prickly bramble of a governess who would sooner scold than fawn over him.
It was an unsettling thing for a man to question the state of his life. Especially when only a few days ago, he’d found it to be perfectly satisfactory.
Standing at the washstand, he grimaced as he splashed cold water onto his face. The footman had not yet brought a pitcher of hot water. Toweling off, Max rubbed his raspy jaw and decided that a shave could wait until later. He was in no humor for company, and his valet was too fussy and talkative for any reasonable human being to endure before the sun was even up.
He grabbed a shirt at random from the drawer and pulled it over his head. Carrying the candle back into the predawn darkness of the bedchamber, he set it down on a table. Then he bent over to touch his bare toes a few times to get his blood moving. The ducal apartment was cavernous enough for him to perform cartwheels if he so desired, although there was a stiff formality to the décor of green brocade hangings and heavy mahogany furniture that precluded any such frivolity. The room looked exactly as it had in the time of his father’s reign, a fact that disturbed Max on a visceral level.
If he stayed here for any length of time, he would order Mrs. Jeffries to redecorate …
He stopped himself in mid-thought. Stayed? This was to be a brief visit, nothing more. A prolonged sojourn had never been in his plans. Yet the notion held an indisputable appeal. Perhaps he had avoided this house and its unhappy memories for too long. He certainly would relish the opportunity to gain more firsthand knowledge about the workings of the estate.
And to have the chance to kiss Abby again.
Max gave an impatient shake of his head. No. He was far too dangerously attracted to her, and a liaison with his sister’s governess was out of the question. Long ago, he’d learned to avoid all but the most casual flirtations with respectable single ladies. A careless dalliance could result in being leg-shackled, and marriage was a state he had forsworn after witnessing the tragic end to his parents’ union.
Love didn’t enrich a man; it made him wretched and weak.
His belief on the matter had not changed simply because he had swept Abby up onto Brimstone and ridden with her to their secret glade. Or because he had enjoyed every moment of their conversation. They weren’t children anymore. Although as a youth he’d wanted to wed her, he’d long since acknowledged the value of freedom from emotional entanglements. How much better to be in the enviable position of having any woman he desired!
Except for the virtuous ones like Abby.
He stalked to the bedside table and picked up a book. Nothing was more guaranteed to distract his mind than reading about techniques of animal husbandry. Better he should focus on breeding than brooding.
He carried the tome to a leather chair by the bank of tall windows, where he’d already drawn back the curtains. Over the past few days, it had become his habit to watch dawn spread over the vast expanse of his land. There was something fascinating about the gradual lifting of the darkness. In the city, he’d never even noticed the beauty of the morning sky, perhaps because it was too often obscured by coal smoke or fog. But here, no buildings blocked the sunrise, no gardeners or grooms disturbed the landscape just yet. The quiet was broken only by the trill of birdsong …
He caught sight of someone walking down the path to the lake. It was a slender woman in a pale dress.
Abandoning his book, he threw open the window and leaned out to study her in the grayness of predawn. There was something familiar in the way she moved, the proud set of her shoulders, and the briskness of her heels kicking up the hem of her gown. The sight stirred his blood more than any calisthenics could do.
Abby.
Where the devil was she going?
All prior caution flew out of his head. Here was his opportunity to speak to her away from the nosy eyes of his friends. He’d been wanting to do so ever since the picnic the previous day, when he and Elise had returned late from the scavenger hunt. The cool censure on Abby’s face had disturbed him. He knew she had assumed the wrong idea, and he didn’t owe her an explanation, yet he felt compelled to get back into her good graces nonetheless.
Striding into the dressing room, Max shoved his bare feet into a pair of shoes, not bothering with cravat or coat. Urgency beat in his veins. He had the strange notion that she would melt into the mist if he didn’t make haste.
He flew down a side staircase, his footsteps echoing hollowly on the marble. Not a soul roamed the corridors; not even the servants were about their duties yet. There was just enough illumination from the windows for him to see his way through the gloomy house.
Emerging onto the terrace, he cut through the formal gardens, where the scent of late-blooming roses perfumed the dewy air. Then he proceeded at a smart pace along the path that meandered to the lake. In the ten minutes or so that it took for him to reach the surrounding trees, the barest glimmer of sunshine was beginning to creep over the hills.
Yet he caught no glimpse of Abby.
Nor did he see her upon reaching the water’s edge near the small Greek temple, a folly commissioned by his grandfather to beautify the view. Max glanced quickly around, but detected no sign of movement on the nature trail that encircled the lake. With the lightening of the sky, he ought to be able to spot her. Where could she have gone?
Gentle ripples disturbed the glassy surface of the lake. The sound of splashing caught his attention. It was then that he noticed her dark wet head, and the rhythmic stroking of her pale arms as she propelled herself through the water a short distance out from shore.
By God, she was swimming.
Max stared. Given the prim woman she had become, it was the last thing he’d have expected of Abby. She’d clearly presumed her privacy would not be compromised at this early hour. He ought to depart at once and spare her the embarrassment of discovering she was not alone.
Instead, he was sorely tempted to peel off his clothes and join her.
Quelling the mad impulse, he retreated into the gloom of the trees and leaned against the rough bark of an oak. He watched for a time as her slim body glided through the water. She was wearing some sort of white garment, a shift perhaps. Her strokes were rather inexpert, yet graceful nonetheless.
Much like Abby herself.
The lake had to be cold. With the approach of autumn, the days were beginning to grow shorter. The morning air had a slight chill, for it was already the first of September.
The first of September.
Awareness jolted him. Today was Abby’s birthday. Long ago, they had celebrated it in the glade with one of Mrs. Beech’s honey cakes. That had been their last happy afternoon together before the death of his mother.
Max banished the bittersweet memory. It was no use wishing he could turn back the hands of time and alter what had happened. No use wondering if he might have made better decisions. What was done was done. Damn it, he liked his life exactly the way it was.
Abby stopped swimming. She tilted her head back to watch a large heron fly over the water; then she paddled in place for a few minutes before starting toward the shore.
The time had come for him to leave. He should return to the house and pretend he’d never been here. There could be absolutely no excuse to linger.
Yet his feet felt rooted to the earth. He could not tear his gaze from her.
Upon reaching the shallows, she stood up, emerging from the water like Venus rising from a seashell. The filmy garment she wore barely reached her knees. The dawn light painted her with a rosy glow, and the wet cloth clung like a second skin to her womanly curves.
Dripping, she lifted her arms and squeezed the water from her long hair. All the breath left his lungs. Her graceful action only served to draw attention to the beauty of her form. The damp shift might as well have been transparent, for he could see the dusky points of her nipples and the enticing shadow at the top of her long legs.
In that moment, Max knew his fate was struck. He could no more resist that fate than he could resist breathing. He craved Abby. No other woman would do. She was the one he’d dreamed about for too long, the one against whom every other woman had been measured and found wanting.
His heart pounding, he started toward her.