Unraveling Secrets (The Secret Trilogy) Page 10

  She had the urge to pat her carefully arranged locks to see if they were out of place. How peculiar that Lord Ashbury often did a similar thing.

  “Yes, thank you.” Before she could say more, a shiver of awareness ran down her back, giving her pause.

  A murmur rose through the crowded ballroom, and she turned to see what had caused the sensation.

  Perhaps her imagination had gotten away from her after all.

  Her breath caught at the sight of Lord Ashbury striding toward her. Much like Lord Weston, his evening attire was subdued but flawless. His expression was typically grim, but that didn’t matter. Those green eyes were locked on her, making it difficult to do anything other than blink.

  And try to remember to breathe.

  People turned to look as he passed, but he ignored them, his attention fastened solely on her. Her stomach dipped as though she’d spun too fast. The solid strength of him, the intensity of his look made her heart thunder. She couldn’t help but wonder at the myriad of feelings his mere presence created within her.

  His gaze at last took in the people surrounding her. His eyes narrowed as he noticed Lord Weston.

  “Weston.”

  “Ashbury.”

  The tension between them filled the air.

  Catherine glanced between the pair curiously, then slipped her arm through Lord Weston’s with a possessiveness that seemed unwarranted. “Weren’t you going to ask me to dance, my lord?”

  Lord Weston looked down at her and made a visible effort to lighten his mood. He patted her hand. “Indeed.”

  “Miss Bradford, Brighton.” Lord Weston nodded at each of them and guided Catherine to the dance floor, completely ignoring Lord Ashbury.

  Abigail looked up at him to see his reaction to the not-so-subtle snub. His mouth twisted, and he gave a small shake of his head.

  “I say, what was that all about?” Lord Brighton asked Lord Ashbury.

  “Ancient history.”

  Not so ancient, Abigail thought. If she had to guess, she’d say the wounds created by their rift had not yet healed. Though she longed to know what had occurred after the accident to drive them apart, she refrained from asking. Now was not the time.

  “How do you mean?” asked Lord Brighton.

  Abigail couldn’t believe the audacity of the man. Before Lord Ashbury could respond, she turned her back on Brighton and asked, “What brings you here, my lord?”

  He looked at her, his gaze catching on her hair, much like Lord Weston’s had. This time, she couldn’t help but pat the upswept strands to see what might be amiss. “Is my hair coming down?”

  He frowned then glanced at her hair again. “No.”

  “Then why does everyone keep staring at it? First Lord Weston and now you.”

  Stephen allowed himself a smile. Although Abigail did have lovely hair, he doubted that was why Weston had been staring at the top of her head. He wondered what Weston saw when he looked at Abigail’s aura. Was it anything like he saw? So beautiful with gold and blue lights that he wished he could capture it in a glass ball to look at it always? Something about those vibrant colors around her gave him hope.

  Or perhaps it was her.

  With a huff, Abigail reached up with a gloved hand and touched her hair again. “What is so amusing?”

  “Nothing.” He glanced at Lord Brighton who seemed quite puzzled by their conversation but showed no sign of leaving them. The orange waistcoat on the man was hideous. When the lord stared at the low neckline of Abigail’s gown and his aura shot with black, Stephen had had enough.

  He supposed there was no other way to have a private moment with her. He offered her his elbow. “Would you honor me with this dance?”

  Those amazing blue eyes lit with delight, making Stephen wish he’d asked her for no other reason than to please her. “That would be lovely.”

  He took hold of himself. He wasn’t here for her enjoyment or his own. Only for the business they shared.

  “But I thought you hurt your ankle,” Lord Brighton said with a distinct whine to his voice.

  “It’s feeling better now.” Her color high, she turned to Stephen. “Shall we?”

  Stephen watched her to see if her ankle was truly injured as he led her to the dance floor, but detected no sign of pain. He held her as lightly as possible, all the while berating himself for the position in which he found himself. Surely he’d learned by now that being this close to her was pure torture. He’d been wrong to think the crowded ballroom would make any difference.

  She moved with grace, her dark hair gleaming under the lights of the softly lit ballroom. The strands were twisted in an intricate manner then pulled back to tumble in curls down her neck. A neck that begged to be kissed. She fit him perfectly, following his movements as though they’d danced many times before.

  He rarely attended balls or other social events. The crowds here were nearly as painful as the one at the Bull and Boar Tavern. Just as many held desperate urges and his head pounded in response. Yet as he focused on Abigail, the distractions faded, lessening his discomfort. The simple act of holding her seemed to settle the restlessness deep inside him.

  As they spun to the music, Abigail let out a laugh of delight. “You’re very good.”

  He couldn’t help but smile at her enjoyment. More easily than he expected, he pushed the sight of other people’s auras and their urges aside and focused on her. The beauty of the moment, of Abigail, soaked into him. Everything else became a blur. Her gaze held his and even the sounds around him faded.

  Her responsiveness to his every step on the dance floor made him wonder how responsive she’d be in his bed. Would she follow his lead? Go where he guided? Desire spiked through him at the thought.

  When she tipped her head back and laughed, it was all he could do not to pull her close and devour her.

  Heady with need, he knew he had to stop, to end this torture. Yet he couldn’t. This sort of pleasure came into his life—his lonely existence—so rarely; he couldn’t bear for it to end when it had only begun.

  All too soon, the notes of the music faded, and they were forced to stop. He enjoyed the feel of Abigail in his arms, their bodies scandalously close for a long moment, before at last he released her.

  What had made him think he needed to seek her out at the ball? He could never again be part of this world. He might have kept his involvement in The Barbican hidden, but if he moved in these circles, it wouldn’t remain that way. Far worse, if polite society knew of his aura reading, he’d be considered a freak, an oddity better displayed in Covent Garden alongside the fat lady or the elephant man. Not to mention what Abigail would think.

  He was unfit to be a husband. He couldn’t allow his desire for this woman make him forget.

  “Is something amiss?” Abigail’s eyes were full of concern.

  If only she knew how truly amiss things were. He mentally slammed the door on his longing for things that could never be and put his mask firmly in place. He needed to return his focus to the business at hand.

  “We’ve found Simmons’ new lodgings. It’s being watched and we hope to locate him within the next day. I thought you’d want to know.”

  The brilliant light in her cobalt eyes dimmed, much to his surprise. He thought she’d be pleased with the news.

  “Is that why you came here?” she asked, her tone flat.

  He frowned. “I rarely attend balls.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Abigail—”

  “Tell me more of his lodgings.” She seemed to be all business now.

  “He isn’t there often according to the sources we’ve found, but we’ll catch him upon his return.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll keep you apprised of any further progress.”

  “Of course.”

  Blast the woman! Why did he feel like he’d disappointed her? What did she want him to say? That he’d come here expressly to see her? Well, he had. But for her sake as well as his own, the
reason had to be to advise her of the latest development in their pursuit of Simmons. After all, he well knew if he didn’t she’d seek him out. And look at what had happened the last two times she’d done so.

  “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He bowed and left her with her stepmother.

  “And you as well, my lord.” She turned away without a backward glance.

  ***

  The evening passed with excruciating slowness for Abigail once Lord Ashbury had departed. Dancing with him had left her longing for more, but she knew all other partners would fall short. Then again, it wasn’t really dancing for which she longed.

  The way she felt when she was with him was indescribable. Something about him drew forth a yearning deep within her. His slow smile started in his eyes then crooked the corner of his mouth before becoming a smile in full. But it was worth waiting for.

  When she was in his arms, she could think of nothing else. She feared he’d forever ruined dancing for her. They’d moved as though they’d been made for each other. He had an effortless grace with an innate rhythm that made the waltz a true joy.

  Or perhaps she’d just felt as if she were floating because of the way he made her feel, not because of how he danced. She sighed at the thought.

  Though she told herself over and over she was glad he’d reminded her that their relationship was only business, she couldn’t quite convince herself. The pleasure had gone out of the evening and she wanted nothing more than to go home.

  “Mother, are you planning on staying much longer?” Abigail asked, hopeful that she might be ready to leave.

  “I’m rather enjoying myself, dear. Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” she lied. “I just wondered how long you’d like to stay.”

  “Who was the man you were dancing with earlier?”

  “No one special.” Her heart felt heavy at the answer for he wasn’t—he couldn’t be.

  Irene smiled as she glanced past Abigail’s shoulder. “Perhaps you’d like to dance some more. I know how much you enjoy doing so.”

  Abigail’s heart leapt to her throat. She spun to see if Stephen had returned.

  Lord Brighton stood behind her, smiling broadly, yellowed teeth in full display.

  Disappointment speared through her, followed by dread. Something about him made her uneasy.

  “Now that your ankle is better, may I request the honor of this dance?” Lord Brighton’s expression was confident.

  His certainty alone irritated her.

  “Abigail, do grant Lord Brighton’s request. He’s asking so nicely,” Irene implored her.

  She turned to stare at Irene, wondering what on earth had gotten into her. Why was she pleading Lord Brighton’s cause?

  Left with no choice, she reluctantly nodded her acceptance.

  The music swelled and the dance began. He stepped on her toe twice and kept such a firm hold on her hand that her fingers were numb. His performance, or rather lack thereof, was all the more noticeable after her dance with Lord Ashbury.

  She escaped Lord Brighton as quickly as possible only to catch sight of Lord Thompson moving in her direction. She couldn’t stand another meaningless conversation with an overdressed dandy who acted as if he did her a great favor by showing interest in her.

  With a quick word to Irene, she slipped out the garden door into the cool evening air. She watched through a window as Lord Thompson arrived at where she’d been standing moments before and searched the crowd for her.

  She sighed with relief at the near miss then gave a startled gasp when warm hands grasped her arms from behind.

  “I knew you’d eventually follow me outside. I’m glad I waited for you.”

  The strong odor of onions made Abigail turn her head away. “Lord Brighton, I didn’t realize you were out here.”

  He laughed as he turned her around to face him, keeping a tight hold on her. “I don’t believe you, but play the innocent. I must say I find that appealing.”

  She stepped back only to come up against the high, brick garden wall. A flutter of panic tumbled through her, but she pushed it away with anger. “I must return to the ballroom. Mother will wonder where I’ve gone.”

  “I think your mother might approve of us having a little time to ourselves. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity all evening. I’m not about to let you sneak off now.” He moved closer, one finger trailing up and down her arm.

  Trying not to inhale his obnoxious breath, she pushed him back. “You’re taking liberties I don’t appreciate. I’m going back inside.”

  He seized her again, the feel of his gloved hands on the bare skin of her arms repulsive. “Not before you bestow a kiss on me, my dear. You’ve teased me all night.”

  “I have not and I resent you saying so. I was merely being polite. Let me be clear—I’m not interested in pursuing any sort of involvement with you.” Again she shoved him back, but he didn’t budge.

  “You may not be interested in me, but I’m interested in you. I don’t mind your bookish ways overmuch. Intelligence is occasionally an asset in a wife, as long as you keep it to a minimum. We’d make an excellent match.” He held her tight, trapping her arms between them, and attempted a kiss.

  Abigail turned her head and his lips landed on her cheek. She held on to the anger that poured through her at his forward behavior and tried to shove him back but he didn’t budge.

  “Cease this madness at once!” She struggled against him, shocked at how strong he was, unable to believe him capable of this. “What sort of gentleman are you?”

  He laughed—a very unpleasant sound. “The kind who takes what he wants. Just the man a headstrong woman like you needs.”

  “Let me go!” She wrenched one hand free and managed to punch him in the stomach, but as she suspected, he wore a corset. The blow did nothing to deter him.

  “I admit I occasionally like it rough,” he said with another laugh. “But your independent streak will be a thing of the past once I’m through with you.”

  Fear rushed through her and she fought his hold in earnest.

  “Easy now,” he chided. “We’ll soon be interrupted by Lord Thompson, your mother, and Lady Mortenson. I fear I’ll be forced to propose and you’ll be forced to accept.”

  Panic, hot and liquid, surged. She looked him in the eye, determined to make herself clear. “I will not marry you and nothing you do or say will coerce me.”

  He shoved her back against the wall, the force stealing her breath, the violence of his attack shocking her. “You’ll do as I say or pay the price.” He kissed her again, this time finding his target. His tongue filled her mouth, the taste gagging her. Then he drew back and squeezed her breast through the fabric of her gown.

  “Leave me be!” She lifted her knee, aiming for his groin, but he blocked her attempt.

  “Such a fighter. That makes me want you even more.” Again he shoved her.

  This time, her head struck the brick and a black haze filled her vision. Stunned from the impact, she felt his hands at the neck of her gown followed by the cool night air on her naked breast. He pinched her nipple painfully.

  “You are a beauty, Abigail. Too headstrong by far. I can’t wait to tame you in proper fashion.”

  Abigail struggled harder, realizing Lord Brighton might very well succeed in his attempt to compromise her. But he anticipated her every move. Terrified, she tried to clear her head enough to determine a way to escape him.

  Without warning, his bulky form was torn from her. She searched the darkness, dreading the sight of her stepmother’s horrified expression.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rage coursed through Stephen as he shook Brighton like a rag doll. How dare the lecher put his hands on Abigail.

  “Leave me be,” Lord Brighton cried.

  “You bastard.” Stephen let go of Brighton’s jacket and plowed his fist into his jaw.

  Brighton howled in pain, but Stephen wasn’t finished. He repeated the hammering twice more until Brighton
crumpled to the ground. He bent over Brighton’s inert form, ready to do more damage.

  “Stephen?”

  Abigail’s trembling voice pulled him out of the red haze that filled him. He hesitated before looking at her, not wanting to see the disgust and horror her expression would surely reflect after what she’d witnessed him do.

  Before he could utter an apology, she stepped toward him, her expression filled with relief. Then she stumbled, and he swept her into his arms. Her face was as pale as the frost at dawn. Regret washed through him as he realized he could’ve prevented this.

  “I’m sorry, Abigail,” he whispered. “I saw Brighton’s ill intent in the ball room, but I thought it overzealous lust. I never believed the man would orchestrate something like this.”

  He heard voices approaching and could think of no explanation to the scene that would not create a scandal.

  “Please, don’t let them find me,” Abigail murmured as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He needed no further urging to carry her to his nearby carriage. He’d left the ball by the same door as Abigail then had watched her through the window like some lovesick schoolboy before at last walking away. But while waiting for his carriage, he’d been unable to shake off his unease and returned to the garden entrance to find Brighton accosting her.

  His footman hurried forward to hold open the carriage door. “Can I be of assistance, my lord?”

  “Find Lady Bradford and advise her that her daughter isn’t feeling well and is returning home.”

  Stephen stepped into the carriage and settled Abigail on the seat beside him, her head buried in his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  She kept her head down and nodded.

  He eased back so he could look at her in the soft lantern light, searching her face to make sure she spoke the truth. “What were you thinking? What possessed you to be outside with that blundering fool? Surely at your age you know better.”

  “I went out by myself in order to avoid Lord Thompson.” She winced as she touched her head.

  The blood on her fingers caused an odd pressure in his chest. He wanted to hold her tight and never let her go, keeping her safe in his embrace. “You shouldn’t go anywhere alone. Especially not with Simmons lurking about.”