Lady Abigail's Perfect Match Page 3

  “An excellent observation, dear brother,” Charles said.

  “But that still doesn't mean I like her,” James said before Charles started thinking he might be willing to accept what had happened.

  “Perhaps you should try to,” Bethany suggested. “After all, you will have to live together.”

  “Not necessarily,” James informed her.

  Charles snorted. “You can't remain here and you aren't moving in with us either. And besides, Papa is sacrificing Arlington House just so you and your lovely bride can have a magnificent home of your own. After everything, I dare say he'd take you outside and shoot you himself if you turn your back on that.”

  James grimaced. “You're right of course. I just—”

  “Wish you'd had more say in your own future?”

  “Precisely!”

  Neither Charles nor Bethany responded to that pronouncement, for which James was grateful. In truth, he felt they’d been churning the matter for too long already. Now it was time to act, and if he were being honest, Bethany’s suggestion that he try to make the most of things wasn’t the worst. In fact, he’d be less unhappy about all of this if he and Lady Abigail could at least find some way in which to get along. Just enough to make the wedding tolerable.

  With this in mind, he stood. “I’m heading out,” he said.

  Charles straightened and gave his wife a quick glance before asking, “Where to?”

  “Why, to call on my betrothed,” James said. It took some effort not to regret the decision once he’d made it. Instead, he strode to the door. “If all goes well, I’ll find that my first opinion of her was entirely wrong.”

  Doubtful, he reckoned, but certainly worth praying for.

  DETERMINED TO PROVE to all of London, and to herself as well, that marrying James Townsbridge would make her splendidly happy, Abigail made her way along Murray Street with Petra by her side. I am wrong about him, she silently chanted. He is not the rude, obnoxious man I think him to be. Lance was an excellent judge of character, so if he said James Townsbridge was an amicable gentleman, then that was what he was and she was quite simply wrong about him.

  “Abigail.” Petra’s hand grabbed hold of her arm, causing her to jolt. “Is that not him right now, coming toward us?”

  Abigail stopped as if some sort of wall had materialized before her. She stared straight ahead, acknowledged that the handsome man approaching was indeed the very same one to whom she would soon be married, and quickly ducked behind her sister.

  “What are you doing?” Petra asked, her voice teetering between annoyance and exasperation.

  “What does it look like?” When Abigail had envisioned how calling on Townsbridge House would go, she’d pictured a butler granting her entry to a parlor. Miss Townsbridge and Miss Athena would come to take tea with her. They would discuss something mundane for the sake of smoothing things over, after which Abigail would take her leave. The prospect of seeing Mr. Townsbridge himself had not entered her head at all, allowing her to steady her nerves.

  “Being a nitwit?” Petra suggested in answer to her question.

  “What is he doing here?” Abigail asked while her stomach began flapping about like a fish out of water. Her own brother never left home before three in the afternoon, and when he finally did, it was by carriage in order to visit his club.

  “Taking a walk,” Petra replied. She blew out a breath. “I think he’s seen us.”

  “What?” Abigail peeked out from behind Petra’s shoulder. And was instantly met by Mr. Townsbridge’s censorious scowl. Her flapping stomach did a somersault while her heart started fluttering like a piece of fine linen caught in a breeze.

  “Good morning,” Mr. Townsbridge said as he came to a halt. His eyes met Abigail’s and his frown seemed to deepen, if such a thing were possible. A pause followed, during which he glanced at Petra before returning his gaze to Abigail. He waited for a good three seconds, and then he said, “Ordinarily, you would greet me in return and then introduce me to your companion.”

  He was right, of course, but that did not entitle him to be so overbearing. Swallowing, Abigail took a step sideways and tried not to think of how queasy she felt. She tried to tamp down her nerves. even though she was trembling from head to toe, and did her best to straighten her spine while raising her chin just enough to suggest she would not be cowed by the likes of him.

  Inhaling deeply, she gestured to Petra. “My sister. Lady Petra Bright.”

  Mr. Townsbridge’s dark brown eyes bored into hers, increasing her desire to make a hasty retreat. Instead, she held his gaze until he looked away, giving his attention to Petra instead. “A pleasure,” he murmured and touched the brim of his hat.

  “Likewise,” Petra said with what sounded like a sigh of relief. “I’ve been very eager to make your acquaintance since learning of my sister’s betrothal to you. Congratulations on that, by the way. I have no doubt the two of you will be immensely happy together.”

  Abigail stared at Petra and so did Mr. Townsbridge. “Indeed,” he murmured, after what felt like the most awkward moment ever.

  Petra just smiled as if all were as it should be. “We were actually on our way to visit you, if you can believe it,” she continued while Abigail began to wish this was all a nightmare from which she would soon awaken.

  Mr. Townsbridge raised both eyebrows. “Is that so?”

  Abigail cleared her throat and shifted from one foot to the other. “Not you,” she managed while clasping her hands together. “Your sisters.”

  “Ah. Well...” He paused as if considering something, then sighed again. His shoulders sagged and then he said, “As it happens, I was on my way to call on you.”

  “Oh,” Petra said with a beaming smile that put a neat row of white teeth on display. “How serendipitous.”

  Abigail cringed, dreading what would happen next since it very likely involved Mr. Townsbridge making an awful suggestion like—

  “But since we are both out of doors,” he said, “perhaps we ought to continue our walks together?”

  “But your sisters,” Abigail tried, attempting to extricate herself from what promised to be the most trying hour or two of her life.

  “We can call on them tomorrow,” Petra said.

  Abigail turned to her with a glare. “I’ll get you for this,” she muttered, so low only Petra would hear her. And then Mr. Townsbridge grabbed her by the arm and began leading her away.

  WHY DID IT HAVE TO be this particular Bright daughter to whom he’d gotten engaged and not the other? James glanced over his shoulder at Lady Petra, who trailed behind. At least she knew how to smile, though he had to admit she looked a bit too young to consider marriage.

  Lady Abigail, on the other hand, consisted of shapely curves and the sort of kissable lips most men would dream of in a woman. A pity all of this was ruined by her ill-tempered disposition. And yet, there was nothing for it but to make the best of the situation since, as Charles had already pointed out, he was stuck with this woman for better or worse.

  With that in mind, James decided to make an attempt at small talk by commenting on the weather. “We’re lucky it isn’t raining,” were the first brilliant words to leave his mouth.

  As expected, Her Haughtiness responded with a thin smile and a nod.

  Well, James decided, he wasn’t going to walk in utter silence, so if she wouldn’t speak, he would, whether she liked it or not. “If it were raining, you see, we’d be much worse off than we already are,” he went on without knowing where these words strung together would lead. “Although, getting drenched might be a welcome distraction, don’t you think?”

  He hadn’t expected an answer, so he was surprised when she turned her head sideways, as if addressing the street, and muttered, “It would if we were to catch our deaths.”

  Surely he’d misheard her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What?”

  He frowned at her and caught a flicker of something curious in her eyes before she ave
rted her gaze once more. He also saw her blush – a deep crimson hue creeping into her cheeks.

  “Well,” he said, “I suppose some of the guests would be disappointed if that were to happen. Especially those from your side of the family. But at least the vicar won't mind.”

  At some point while he'd been talking, she'd focused her eyes more fully upon him, forcing him to acknowledge that they were the most perfect shade of blue he'd ever encountered. They weren't the washed-out hue he'd seen so often before, but a far more solid color that reminded him of forget-me-nots.

  “The vicar?” she asked, as if unsure whether or not pursuing this issue further was wise.

  “Well, he'll still have a service to perform either way, so—”

  A snort, the most indelicate one he'd ever heard, travelled up Lady Abigail's throat in a croaking and grunting sort of way. The color in her cheeks deepened and her face contorted into something that looked almost painful.

  And in that moment, James realized Lady Abigail had an intriguing sense of humor. He also learned that she wasn't accustomed to laughing. At least not in public. In fact, upon further reflection, it occurred to him that she looked incredibly uncomfortable. And then the oddest thing happened. She simply trained her features, like a school mistress putting her students in line, until every trace of amusement had vanished.

  But James wasn't going to accept her aloof demeanor anymore. Not when she'd just revealed there was more to her than met the eye.

  So he drew her slightly closer and leaned in to whisper next to her ear. “Whatever your reason for acting as though you detest everything, I mean to discover it.” She inhaled sharply, which gave him the satisfaction of knowing she was indeed hiding something. “Of course, you could simply tell me about it right now.”

  They entered the park and were instantly met by curious gazes from those who knew them. James smiled and nodded by way of greeting in order to try and convey the outward appearance of a man enamored, instead of one heading for the gallows.

  “No,” she said, so softly he scarcely heard her above the sound of a carriage’s wheels crunching the gravel as it rolled past.

  That was all. Just one word and not a very helpful one at that.

  James frowned. He’d been doing a lot of that since making her acquaintance last night. Glancing at her, he noted her free hand was now pressed to her belly and that she was taking deep breaths. “Are you unwell?” he asked. If so, it would explain a great deal.

  She looked at him in surprise and then quickly nodded. “Yes. I believe so.” The delicate lines in her neck moved as she swallowed. “Must be something I ate.”

  He felt his frown deepen. “Then I must apologize to you, my lady, for I was not aware. You should have said something when I suggested the walk.”

  “I tried.”

  “By insisting you call on my sisters!” What the devil was wrong with this woman?

  “It seemed like the right thing to do,” she muttered.

  James blinked. While logic compelled him to shake her for such a misguided idea, something inside James softened in response to her wanting to make things better. Deciding that chastising her wouldn’t help at this point, he drew her to a halt and turned to face her, then gently asked, “Did you by any chance happen to eat the same thing today as yesterday?”

  Her eyes widened for a second before clouding over with hesitation. “Perhaps. I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose.” The words were spoken in a rush, as if she were somehow afraid to acknowledge them.

  Clearly, she found the subject embarrassing, but it was a necessary one, James decided. So he ignored Lady Petra, who’d now caught up with them, and told Lady Abigail plainly, “I think you ought to consider the possibility that there is a food that does not agree with you.”

  “I...um...”

  “Is something the matter?” Lady Petra asked, looking from James to Lady Abigail and back at him again with interest.

  James glared at her. She was Lady Abigail’s sister, for God’s sake. How could she not have noticed that something was wrong? In fact, upon further observation, James decided that Lady Abigail looked rather pale.

  “Your sister is feeling poorly,” he told Lady Petra. A thought struck him – one he had not considered until this moment because he’d been too annoyed and self-absorbed and utterly convinced she had wronged him by being a fool. But there was another explanation for why she’d been in that parlor last night and why she’d not noticed him there. “Were you trying to escape the ballroom last night because you felt ill?”

  Lady Abigail nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said. “My stomach—”

  “Please,” James hastened to say. “You need not apologize when I was there for much the same reason as you. My head, you see, was in tremendous pain. So much so I would not have noticed you either if you’d been the one on the sofa.”

  “I...I had no idea,” Lady Abigail said, her expression easing a little in response to his confession.

  “Neither did I.” He turned to Lady Petra. “I think the best course of action right now is for you to take your sister home. She clearly needs rest.”

  Lady Petra raised an eyebrow, but rather than argue as he feared she might be about to do, she nodded. “Of course.”

  “And have a word with your cook,” James said. He met Lady Abigail’s gaze. “I’d like to get to the bottom of this so you can start feeling better.”

  Lady Abigail took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

  James nodded. “I’ll call on you in a couple of days to see how you’re doing.” And then he took his leave, walking one way while Lady Abigail and her sister went another. By the time he returned home he’d decided he was an imbecile. He’d completely misjudged the woman with whom he was destined to spend the rest of his life, and it was time for him to right that wrong.

  Chapter Four

  It was almost a week since Abigail had last seen Mr. Townsbridge, a day she recalled as the one where he’d proven he had a good reason for being ill-tempered the night they’d met, and the one where she’d proven herself a liar. It had been wrong of her to mislead him – even Petra had disapproved – but when he’d inquired about her wellbeing, blaming her ailment on something she’d eaten had seemed so much simpler than telling the truth.

  Because really, how did one inform a man that he was responsible for her fluttering heart, the reason she feared casting up her accounts, and why she could never think of what to say while in his presence? It was impossible to do so.

  And so she’d dreaded having to see him again. For she’d known her palms would start sweating, her legs turn to jelly, and her brain to mush the moment she did. But contrary to what he’d told her when they’d parted ways in the park, he hadn’t come to call in the days that followed. Instead, he’d sent a letter, excusing himself until further notice and inquiring about her health.

  And since writing a letter was simple enough and something she actually excelled at, Abigail had responded, informing him that her health was much improved. She’d added a few extra points about the wedding preparations, signed it, and paused. For long moments after, she’d stared at the piece of paper and then, recklessly, she’d added: P.S. I am also planning a funeral. Just in case.

  A day had gone by without a response, during which she’d started to fear that she’d gone too far. She’d even begun wondering if there were a way for her to retrieve the blasted letter and tear it to shreds before he read it. Perhaps she’d misread him when he’d made that comment about the vicar. Perhaps he hadn’t been joking. In which case he must think something was wrong with her for responding as she had, as if what he’d said was incredibly funny.

  But then, when she’d just about convinced herself that her only viable option was to leave the country and never return, she’d received another letter from him, this one slightly longer than the last and with a post script of his own which read: If you would be kind enough to tell me your height, I can order the caskets.

  A smile
had spread across her face, replacing all doubt with joy. And then she’d laughed. Not only because of his perfect response but because it had given her hope. If she could just get her nerves under control where he was concerned, then there was a chance of things turning out well between them.

  Additional letters had followed, during which Abigail had become increasingly certain that when she met Mr. Townsbridge again, she would be able to speak with him properly. She even fantasized about what she would say and how he’d respond, about sharing smiles and laughter, and slowly falling in love.

  Until she arrived at Bethany Townsbridge’s home for dinner one evening and realized fantasy was very different from reality. Because the moment she followed her parents into the parlor and actually saw him, her heart leapt into her throat and her stomach began turning inside out. His eyes, fixed solely on her, seemed brighter than ever before. And then he smiled, the sort of smile that spoke of shared secrets and something bordering on sin.

  Abigail felt the familiar queasiness swamp her. She took a deep breath and attempted a smile of her own, only to find that it felt too tight.

  Abigail’s parents, Miranda and Edward, wasted no time in greeting Bethany and her husband, Charles Townsbridge. Abigail followed suit and even managed to address Viscount and Viscountess Roxley, her soon-to-be parents-in-law with a polite, “How do you do?”

  But when she was faced with James Townsbridge himself, the air seemed to thicken, making it harder to breathe. She tried to inhale, to force her quickening heartbeats into a calmer rhythm. But it was to no avail. The effect he had on her was so intense, she started to fear her knees might buckle beneath her weight.

  He frowned at her. “You do not look well,” he said while searching her face in a way that only increased her discomfort. “Based on our correspondence, I imagined you’d found the source of your malaise, but that’s clearly not the case.”

  “I...um...” Oh, how she wished she could get both her mind and body under control. Instead she just stood there, unable speak.