The Spinster and the Duke Page 8

  “Perhaps a more private setting would be best,” she suggested. “We can go to the one of the parlors. Follow me, please.”

  To Charlotte’s surprise, they did follow her: first Dianna, her lips compressed so tightly they were turning white at the edges, then Abigail, looking dazed but happy, and finally Ashburn, his expression inscrutable. This, she thought silently as they slipped into the house, is going to be interesting.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Inside a small parlor sparsely decorated with a matching set of drawer room chairs and illuminated by a hanging chandelier, Reginald made a concentrated effort not to tap his foot. It was an old habit born of nervousness he’d quit years ago – or so he thought.

  He was seated beside Abigail and across from Dianna, while a woman with red hair he did not recognize flitted about the room preparing drinks. When she handed him a glass half filled with brandy he took it gladly, but very nearly bobbled it top over end when she winked at him before sitting down beside Abigail’s niece.

  “I am Charlotte Graystone,” she announced without preamble. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Your Grace.”

  “Please, call me Ashburn.”

  “As long as you call me Charlotte.”

  Reginald nodded. He liked Charlotte’s frankness, and the small fact that she did not look as though she was wishing for his imminent death. Clearing his throat, he turned his attention to Dianna, the one woman in the room whose approval he instinctively knew carried great weight with Abigail. It was a bit startling to see her all grown up when the last he’d heard mention of her she was little more than a babe, but there was no mistaking the resemblance between Dianna and her aunt.

  It was there in the tilt of her nose, the curve of her lips, and the stubborn glint in her eyes he knew only too well. She reminded him so much of Abigail as a young woman it took his breath away, although Abby had never stared at him with such blatant distrust.

  Perched on the edge of her chair with her hands clenched into fists atop her lap, Dianna glared openly at him. “What did you do to upset Aunt Abigail?” she demanded again. “You were supposed to make her feel better, not worse.”

  He felt Abigail stir beside him. When he glanced at her sideways he caught the faintest of smiles curving her mouth, but when he blinked the smile was gone, replaced by a sad little frown he would have believed was genuine if he didn’t know any better.

  “Brat,” he murmured.

  “Thirty years ago I tried and failed to get your mother’s approval,” she whispered. “It seems only fair you do the same now.”

  “What are you saying?” Her tone sharply accusing, Dianna straightened in her chair. “Aunt Abigail, why were you crying? What has happened? My aunt is the dearest person in the world to me,” she told Reginald. “If you have hurt her again—”

  “I asked her to marry me,” he interrupted.

  The change in Dianna’s expression would have been comical if the situation were not quite so serious. “You… You did what?”

  “I asked if your aunt would marry me.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “She looked a bit like you do now, and then she started crying.”

  “How delightfully romantic,” Charlotte sighed.

  Looking positively stunned, Dianna sank back in her chair. “Aunt Abigail, is this true?”

  “Is what true, dear?”

  “Did Ashburn truly ask you to marry him?”

  Abigail glanced at Reginald out of the corner of her eye, smiled, and grasped his hand. “It is,” she acknowledged.

  Once again Dianna shot to the front of her seat, although this time her blue eyes were filled with excitement instead of trepidation. “Well?” she asked. “What did you say?”

  “She has not given me an answer,” Reginald said, trying – and failing – to keep the edge of irritation out of his tone. He already knew what Abby’s answer would be. He’d known it from the first moment they met and every moment after. No matter the time in between, it had always been Abby who held his heart. Even if the woman was as stubborn as a bloody mule.

  Dianna seemed to be of a like mind. “Aunt Abigail.”

  “What? Oh, do not look at me like that,” Abigail scoffed. “The man made me wait thirty years. The very least I can do is make him wait a few minutes.”

  From across the room Charlotte released a very unladylike snort of laughter. “I am sorry,” she said, waving her hand in the air. “But you must admit, she has a point.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “You are quite welcome.”

  A quiet knock sounded at the door and Charlotte rose quickly to answer it. A maid stood in the threshold, dressed tidily in black and white. Tipping her head to the side Charlotte listened closely to what the girl had to say before her face abruptly lit with a smile and she quickly excused herself after giving them the best of wishes.

  In the quiet that followed Charlotte’s departure Dianna stood. “I should go as well.” She hesitated, her gaze flicking from Abigail to Reginald and back again. “I am happy you are happy,” she said softly. “And now I know why you waited so long.”

  “Some things are worth waiting for,” Abigail said simply, “even if you do not know you are waiting for them.”

  Her words, gently spoken, struck a chord deep inside Reginald’s heart. Overwhelmed with emotion he cleared his throat once, twice, before fetching a handkerchief from his vest pocket to dab at his eyes. “A spot of dust,” he said gruffly.

  Dianna smiled at both of them, murmured something under her breath he couldn’t quite hear, and left the room.

  “What did she say?” he asked.

  Standing up from her chair, Abigail settled herself in his lap. He took her weight easily, balancing her on one thigh as his arms wound around her chest and he pulled her snugly against him, his chin resting on her shoulder and his mouth pressed into the curve of her neck. “She told us to be good to one another,” she said.

  “Is that so.” Unable to help himself, he tasted her skin, nibbling from the hard slant of her collarbone all the way up to her earlobe. Giggling like a schoolgirl, she twisted in his arms and swatted playfully at his chest.

  “She isn’t usually so mistrusting. You remind her of him, and it is difficult for her.”

  “Him?” Reginald asked, although in truth he was only half listening. With Abby sitting on his lap it was difficult to concentrate on anything else. He cupped her breasts, feeling the soft, giving weight of them through her gown, but before he could close his thumb and forefinger around her nipple she swatted him again.

  “Miles Radnor, the Earl of Winfield. Her fiancée.”

  He caught a whiff of her perfume and burrowed his face in the crook of her shoulder with a groan. “Abby… I need you.”

  “Are you listening to a word I’ve said?”

  “No,” he admitted without hesitation. “I cannot entertain a single thought in my head when I have you in my arms. Come to bed with me, Abby. We’ve both waited long enough.”

  “Waited?” She rolled her eyes. “Rocky, you have two children.”

  “Waited for you,” he corrected before a sudden, very unpleasant, very unwanted thought occurred to him. “As you’ve waited for me… right, Abby?”

  “Oh, for heavens sake. I am nearly fifty years old. Do you honestly believe I am still a virgin?”

  He scowled. “You never married.”

  “I was very discreet.”

  “I want to know who and when,” he growled, knowing he was being irrational, knowing it truly did not matter, knowing he’d done no less, but unable to stop the surge of jealousy nevertheless. His grip tightened possessively around Abby’s body, holding her against his chest. Mine, he thought.

  “You cannot kill my past lovers,” she said matter-of-factly, turning in his arms to give him a stern look.

  “Lovers?” he sputtered.

  Her smile unmistakably feline, she reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. “I cannot help that I was once exceptionally
desirable.”

  Lowering his head, he kissed the cheeky grin right off her face. “You are still exceptionally desirable,” he murmured, nuzzling her hair.

  How right it felt to have her in his arms. In truth they should have been little more than strangers, uncomfortable and wary with each other. Instead it felt as though no time had passed at all. “Come back to Ashburn with me. We will leave tonight. I do not want to spend another night away from you, Abby.”

  She stilled in his arms. “Are you certain?”

  “Of course I am certain, Abby I—what?” Alarmed at the sudden sheen of tears he glimpsed in her eyes, he gathered her close, holding her curled protectively against his chest. “What is it?”

  Sniffling, she wiped at her face with the back of her hand. “It’s almost too good to be true, isn’t it? I feel as though this is all a dream. A dream I am afraid to wake up from for fear it cannot possibly be real.”

  “This is real, Abby.” To prove himself, he gently kissed her temple. “Did you feel that?” he murmured. When she nodded, he pressed his lips to her cheek. “And that?” Another jerk of her head. Slowly, patiently, as though all the time in the world was at their disposal, he lowered his mouth to hers.

  The kiss was innocent at first. A gentle brush of lip against lip, of tongue against tongue, before he angled his head to the side and went deeper. She clung to the lapels of his jacket, her small fingers burrowing into the fabric, and lifted herself up to him.

  He moaned her name, already drunk on the taste of her. She writhed against him, her deliciously plump derriere pressing against his hard arousal, and the moan turned into a groan. The kiss became feverish, heated by a lust and a need too long denied. He nipped Abigail’s jaw, suckled her earlobe, and began to work his way down her neck. Her head lolled back and this time it was she who gasped his name as he tugged down the bodice of her gown and took one hard, pointed nipple into his mouth.

  Their position on the chair was precarious, but they were too absorbed with each other to care. Straddling him, Abigail pulled the hem of his shirt free from his trousers and streaked her nails up and over his naked flesh. Her fingers tangled mindlessly in his hair as he moved to her other breast and suckled the aroused bud.

  “Sweet,” he groaned. “Abby, you taste so sweet.”

  Her only answer was to arch her back. When the small movement nearly spilled them both onto the floor Reginald picked her up and laid her gently on the thick Persian rug. She sat up on one elbow, her eyes dark with desire, her hair spilling in a waterfall of white gold over her pale shoulders and the exposed tips of her breasts. Staring at her unabashedly, Reginald knew with complete certainty he had never seen anything more beautiful in all his life.

  “The door,” she said softly. “Lock the door.”

  He did so with all haste, and when he returned to her they undressed each other slowly, taking time to discover each other’s bodies. When Abigail shyly crossed an arm over her belly, he coaxed it away.

  “Do not hide yourself from me. I want to see you.” Stretched out beside her, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her gently rounded stomach. “All of you.”

  “I do not look like I did when I was young,” she said softly, her cheeks tinged with pink.

  “You are a woman. A stunning, voluptuous, perfect woman.” He covered her body in kisses, working all the way from her breasts to the tips of her toes and back up again. When his tongue slid along the inside of one delightfully plump thigh she started to close her legs, but he wedged his hips between her knees, refusing to let her deny any part of her body to him. “Let me, Abby. I want to taste you. All of you.”

  Reginald drank her in as though she were the sweetest nectar, and only when she trembled and sobbed his name did he stretch up, cradle her head lovingly in his arms, and slide slowly inside of her wet, welcoming sheath.

  It was like coming home.

  They moved in perfect unison for every slow, languorous thrust. Words did not need to be spoken. In the shifting shadows their eyes met and held. Their hands twisted together, finger interlocking, palms molding. When Abigail clenched around him and her breaths quickened he guided her sweetly over the edge and when his own release loomed and his back arched she did the same for him, holding fast to his shoulder and whispering his name against his neck as he succumbed to pleasure and spent his seed.

  In a mindless haze of bliss he collapsed to the side and dragged her with him so she sprawled over his chest, her long, tangled curls flying every which way. Catching a golden tendril he wound it around and around his finger, admiring the way it gleamed in the flickering candlelight.

  How many times had he dreamed of this exact moment? Of holding Abby in his arms. Of feeling her heart beat against his chest. Of matching every breath he drew with hers. To finally be with her after all these years… it was nothing short of a miracle. A miracle he had no intention of wasting. “You never answered my question,” he said quietly.

  She lifted her head from the nook of his shoulder. “What question?”

  “You know exactly which one.”

  “Oh.” Her nose wrinkled adorably. “That question.”

  He skimmed a hand up the middle of her back, caught a handful of curls, and gave a gentle tug. “Marry me, Abby. Marry me and be with me for the rest of my life. Marry me,” he persisted when she remained silent. “Abby, you have to marry me.”

  Reaching behind him he took the ring he had already given her once from the pocket of his discarded trousers and held it out in the flat of his palm. It shone a dull gold in the candlelight, reflecting the Ashburn insignia worn smooth by time. His voice gruff, he said, “This was always meant for you. Only you, Abby. Wear it and be my wife, now and always.”

  Abby’s voice was small, her hazel eyes luminous. “I wore it once, and I took it off.” She extended her left hand. “I will not take it off again.”

  Reginald’s heart pounded as he solemnly slipped the ring onto her finger, but it did not beat with anxiety or regret or wayward second thoughts. It sang with joy. Pure, unadulterated joy and a happiness so pure it felt as though a light were bursting inside of him. He gathered Abby close to his chest and kissed her temple before he whispered the words he had been waiting thirty years to speak aloud. “I love you, Abigail Mannish.”

  With a contended sigh Abigail rested her head over his heart. “I love you as well, Reginald Browning.” She left her left hand, twisting her wrist until the ring caught the light. “I cannot believe it still fits.”

  He captured her hand and brought it to his lips. His gaze steady on hers, he said, “We always fit, Abby. Ring or no ring, we were always meant to be.”

  And so they were.

  EPILOGUE

  One month later to the day, Reginald and Abigail were married in a small village church with all of their loved ones in attendance. Abigail wore a gown of pale blue – it was, after all, her new husband’s favorite color – and Reginald was properly dashing in formal gray.

  The reception was held at Ashburn, where Abigail had already been warmly received. The staff took to her instantly and within a matter of days she had transformed the dark, gloomy estate into a warm, sunny home.

  The curtains were the first things to go.

  “I cannot believe we are truly married.” Glancing sideways at Reginald, Abigail reached under the table and grasped his hand. After dancing for nigh on two hours straight they had retired to a secluded table at the back of the ballroom where they could watch the festivities while indulging in a few moments of privacy.

  Threading his fingers through hers, Reginald squeezed tight. “How does it feel to be a duchess?”

  “Wonderful. After all,” she said impishly, “that is why I married you.”

  “Is that the only reason?” Reginald asked, his eyes bright with amusement.

  Abigail feigned a shrug and swallowed back a bubble of laughter. “There are a few more, I suppose, but they are hardly worth mentioning. I – Rocky!” she hissed, tug
ging up the sleeve he had just pulled down to expose the top of one breast. “People are watching.”

  With a lazy grin Reginald folded his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “They have already forgotten all about us. No doubt they think we retired early. We are old, you know.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Abigail snipped. “I have never felt younger.”

  “Or looked more beautiful.”

  She sighed, then sighed again when his fingers closed around the nape of her neck and began to rub in small, soothing circles. When his thumb worked into a particularly tight muscle she could barely contain a moan. “Do not stop.”

  But Reginald did, and quite abruptly at that.

  “What is it?” she asked when he shoved his chair back and stood up.

  “I need you. Now.”

  “Do not be ridiculous,” she scoffed as she twisted in her seat to face him. “The reception will not be over for at least another three hours.”

  “Now,” he repeated.

  To be wanted so fiercely… It sent a thrill of delight shooting through her and she allowed Reginald to pull her up out of her chair without another word. Arm in arm the newlyweds swept through the ballroom, intent on reaching their bedroom as quickly as possible.

  At the entrance to the main foyer, however, Abigail suddenly paused, a line of worry appearing between her brows. “Have you seen Dianna?” she asked, belatedly realizing she had not laid eyes on her niece for quite some time. Turning, she did a quick survey of the guests in attendance, but did not see a petite blonde among them.

  “Perhaps she went out for a breath of fresh air,” Reginald suggested, his mind clearly on other things as he caressed the small of his wife’s back. When his hand slipped lower and playfully pinched Abigail squealed, all thoughts of Dianna’s whereabouts vanishing as she hurried out of the ballroom and up the stairs with her husband right behind.