Chapter 9

The master was in a towering rage.

That’s what Bessie had whispered that morning as she’d brought Abigail her chocolate and helped her into a simple morning gown.

Riding was off the table for a while, until she could do so without remembering every minute detail of her kiss with Robert Forsythe.

When she’d seen him at breakfast the morning after he’d insulted her so, he’d offered a stilted apology, which she’d awkwardly accepted.

And then they’d both sat in silence, whilst the dowager smoothly made conversation between them with all the grace of, well, a duchess.

God help the woman who married the current duke.

Keeping him from scaring the wits out of or scaring off every person in the vicinity would be a monstrous task.

When she’d asked Bessie what exactly had set him up in the boughs this morning, she’d been informed none-too-sweetly that it was the flowers Abigail kept parading around the house.

It was ridiculous in the extreme that the man should have such an aversion to harmless things like flowers.

But this wasn’t her house, praise the Lord! And she had no desire to have him take his towering mood out on the poor staff who worked for him.

So, Abby had apologised profusely, promised to never bring another bloom into the house, and now here she stood outside his closed study door, shaking with trepidation and all manner of other emotions she didn’t want to explore.

Just knock¸ she was telling herself firmly. Lift your hand and knock.

Um…no, came the answer from another part of her brain. Clearly, the more logical part that didn’t actually have a death wish.

She had marched down here, nearly tripping over her pale blue skirts, determined to take the blame for the flowers and his subsequent temper. She would appeal to his possibly non-existent better nature and ask that he be nicer to the staff who had fetched her the vases she’d requested that morning after an early stroll.

But as she stood here, her bravery seemed to be deserting her with every second that passed.

The study door might as well have been the gates to Hell, so scared did she feel.

Perhaps he should have “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here” engraved on the woodwork.

She smiled to herself, distracted by her thoughts. She’d only read Dante’s work last year and had been enthralled by it.

Did Robert Forsythe read Dante? Probably not, she conceded.

Though the subject matter of that particular book would suit his mood no end.

A sudden crash, followed by a loud and rather impressive string of expletives sounded from inside the room, and Abigail nearly jumped from her skin.

Perhaps it would be better to come back later…

“You know, if you stand there long enough, the door might just disappear.”

Abby whipped around at the sound of James’s voice, and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment at having been caught lurking outside the duke’s study.

“Good morning, James.” She smiled brightly, feigning nonchalance.

“Abby, what on earth are you doing?” he responded, grinning at her.

“I-I was just—well the maid said h-his grace was angry about the flowers, and since it was my fault, I thought—”

“You thought,” James smoothly interrupted her, “that you’d go charging in defending everyone’s honour. And now you’re scared because—well, it’s Robert.”

“I am not scared,” she defended hotly. Which was a lie. But still.

James merely raised a brow in response, and it was enough to set her to banging on the door before she even thought it through.

There was an immediate cessation in the swearing before the duke’s deep baritone commanded that she enter.

“Good luck,” James whispered with a grin, and her answering rude gesture sent him off down the corridor chuckling as he went.

Abigail opened the door and stepped inside the room, feeling as though she were walking to the gallows.

Honestly, this man was the most terrifying, handsome, brooding, strong, powerful—

“Miss Langton?”

“Yes? What?”

She looked up to see the duke frowning down at her.

“I asked if I might help you, since you’ve come to my study.”

Once again, heat flooded her cheeks. She’d been wantonly ogling the man while he stood there awaiting her answer.

He towered above her, and the severity of his black jacket only made his eyes seem more silver, more striking.

The fawn breeches that encased his legs couldn’t hide the muscles there, and his—

“Miss Langton?”

“Oh dear,” she blurted in response.

Abigail Langton. Stop it right now, she scolded herself.

Lord Montvale was staring at her as though she’d run mad, which seemed fair given the situation.

But it was slightly embarrassing, nonetheless.

“Miss Langton, I am a busy man. So, if there’s nothing that you want?”

This wasn’t going at all as she’d planned and her embarrassment, coupled with all sorts of memories of his kiss, and his lifting her onto her horse, and his being so rude to her and mean to the servants loosened her tongue.

“I want you to stop being so mean to everyone,” she blurted.

A deafening silence met her outburst.

After an age, he spoke so softly that immediately Abigail was on her guard.

“I beg your pardon?” he whispered.

“Well, it’s just that y-you haven’t been happy with the flowers, I understand. A-and the servants, well they aren’t to blame,” she muttered.

Had a hole ever opened in the ground and swallowed someone, just because they wished it so? Probably not, but oh would now be an excellent time for such an event to occur.

“I’m well aware of who has been covering my home in flowers, Miss Langton,” he said softly, dangerously.

“Oh. Well, yes. So—”

“What I am less clear on,” he continued, prowling—yes, prowling—closer to her.

Abigail felt herself back away on instinct.

“Is why my home continues to be flooded with flowers after I expressly said that I do not care for them.”

“R-right,” she croaked, as he took another step forward and she stepped back.

“Care to explain?”

She came to an abrupt halt as her back came into sudden contact with the wall.

Robert stopped mere inches from her.

Abby sighed, knowing that she was about to sound utterly ridiculous to a man who saw sentimentality as a weakness.

“My parents,” she began, still unable to take a proper breath with him so deliciously close to her. “They didn’t—well, I was—” She drew to a stop, wondering how she could possibly put into words how unwanted she’d been.

“Let’s just say that I was more an inconvenience than a beloved firstborn.” She tried to smile but suspected the expression was more grimace than ought else.

“Anyway, once, when I was eight and my sisters were six and four, we caught a fever. We were sick and bedridden for weeks. The doctor came every day and just seemed to make it worse.” She grinned. “Ally and Beth got better and were able to leave the nursery, but I was sick for weeks longer and stuck inside, miserable and alone for hours at a time.”

Abigail couldn’t meet Robert’s eyes as she spoke, staring furiously at his cravat instead.

She had no doubt that he would be bored stiff by her sad little tale. And it certainly wouldn’t sway him, she knew. He was unswayable.

Still, she’d started now, so she might as well plough on.

“One day, I was alone as usual, lying in bed and feeling mightily sorry for myself, when my mother came in. She’d checked on us occasionally but for the most part, our care had been left firmly in the hands of our nurse and governess.”

Abby swallowed a sudden, unexpected lump in her throat.

“I was so pleased to see her. Even my mother’s company was better than none at all,” she grinned.

“She came in and she was carrying a bouquet of wildflowers. She had been for a walk, she said, and spotted them in a field near our house. And she knew that I was lonely and sad, so she picked them. My mother, who never got her hands dirty, who never did anything for herself if she could help it, got down on her knees and picked me some wildflowers, just to cheer me up. It never happened again. A visit alone, I mean.”

Abigail blinked furiously as tears threatened. Tears would no doubt make him as uncomfortable as this conversation surely did.

“She never did anything for just me before then, or after. That one small thing—well, it meant the world to eight-year-old me. And ever since, I’ve picked wildflowers.”

Abigail drew to an embarrassed stop. She hadn’t really meant to reveal so much of herself, and she felt exposed and vulnerable.

She heaved a sigh and finally brought herself to meet his gaze, feeling their impact immediately and fiercely.

“I just thought you’d get used to it,” she finished, pitifully.

Abigail could hear the breathless quality to her voice but could do nothing to control it.

Standing so close to him, she was once again overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. The broadness of his shoulders. The masculinity that seemed to ooze from him.

His eyes were molten silver, surrounded by the thickest, darkest lashes she’d ever seen.

And he smelled divine—sandalwood, and brandy, and pure, sinful temptation.

All of which was very pleasant, but hardly conducive to having one’s thoughts in order.

He watched her for what seemed like an age, before finally laughing, a raw, husky sound that skittered along her nerves and set her heart pounding.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” he answered roughly.

Abby swallowed loudly past the sudden lump in her throat.

“You really don’t like the flowers?” she whispered; her voice made crackly by the desire slamming into her. Maybe she had managed to sway him somewhat.

“I really don’t like the flowers,” he answered, leaning slightly closer.

So, she hadn’t swayed him at all, then. But she couldn’t feel overly disappointed. Not when he was awakening so many other feelings within her.

If he wasn’t careful, she’d end up in a puddle at his feet. And he probably wouldn’t like that, either.

“W-well, I’m sorry, then. But it’s my fault, not the servants’.”

“Oh, I know that,” he answered dryly.

There was a pause fraught with tension.

“I-I should go then. And take care of them,” Abby said, though she was loathe to move and very likely incapable of doing so.

“Yes, you should,” he agreed, still watching her intently. Still agonisingly, wonderfully, torturously close.

“It seems a shame, though,” she said, now feeling suddenly emboldened and a little mischievous. “They really are beautiful.”

“Very beautiful,” he agreed smoothly, still gazing at her, and all the air left her body with just those two words.

She knew he was going to kiss her even before his head dipped toward hers, before his hand lifted to cup her face, bringing her mouth up to meet his own.

And she craved it more than she craved oxygen to breathe.

She should probably push him away. Even slap him for good measure.

Instead, she lifted her hands to grip the front of his superfine as her knees gave out beneath her.

I need to stop this, she thought.

I need to leave.

But as he coaxed her lips open to plunge inside them, only one thought remained.

I need to keep kissing him.

I need to stop kissing her.

Robert knew he should stop, yet nothing could have made him do so.

Not when he felt her hands grip the front of his jacket. Not when he heard her sigh of capitulation. Certainly not when her tongue moved to dance with his own.

What was this madness she awoke within him? What spell did she cast upon him that made him forget everyone and everything but her and the feel of her in his arms?

She’d come in here looking for all the world like an innocent angel, blond and blue-eyed and bedecked in a gown that matched her eyes.

When the hell had he started noticing such things as the colour of women’s fashions?

He’d been in high dudgeon all morning, he knew.

And now, only minutes later, he was terrifyingly close to losing all control and just drowning in this wave of passion that was consuming him.

Her and her damned flowers!

God, he’d give her every single bloom in Christendom if he could just continue holding her like this.

You deserve someone to share your soul.

Sudden and unbidden, his mother’s words slammed into him with enough force to send him stumbling back.

Abby’s wide blue eyes, glazed by what he assumed was a desire that matched his own, stared at him in confusion.

And who could blame her? He was acting like a madman. Cornering and kissing her in one moment, dragging himself away the next.

He was confusing himself, let alone her.

They stared at each other across the small distance he’d put between them, her breathing as laboured as his own.

He should apologise, of course. But he was not sorry.

Yet he should be. He could offer her nothing. Would not want to.

The silence went on, but he had no damned clue how to end it. And all the while, he had to clench his fists to stop from reaching for her.

“P-perhaps I should go?”

She phrased it like a question.

Was she waiting for him to ask her not to leave? Didn’t she know the danger she was in, allowing herself to be kissed by a monster such as he?

She was too trusting, too innocent, too naïve. And she would be his undoing.

The thought was terrifying.

“Yes, you should,” he growled, panic making his voice harsher than he intended.

He saw the surprise, the hurt, and it twisted his gut. But it was for the best.

Until he got control of this incessant need for her, she would do well to keep her distance.

Without another word, she turned and fled, and it was all he could do not to reach out and stop her.