Captivated

He crumpled the paper between his fingers.

Perhaps hehad had no choice twenty-two years ago. But he did now.

Abigail did not deserve ruffled pianos.

Today was the twenty-fifth of June.

Robert hoped the earl's town house could accommodate one more guest.

chapter 8

contents

Abigail stared into the full-length mirror and knew that she had accomplished her goal.

The pale, brown-eyed lady with her hair pulled back in an elaborate French bun did not read erotic literature. She did not have forbidden fantasies.

She had no dreams other than to be what she wasthe daughterand now the sisterof an earl who was aligning the House of Melford monies to the House of Tymes money.

For the first time in her life she was content.

There was no pain in that pale, expressionless face. No lust. No loneliness.

Abigail liked that.

It was everything and more she had ever wanted to be.

A sharp knock interrupted her complacent perusal. There was a genteel fussher sisters. Elizabeth, the middle one, twitched Abigail's heavy, dove-gray skirt over a fashionably full bustle; Mary, the youngest next to Abigail, daintily wiped a tear out of the corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief. Victoria, the eldest, waited by the door to give Abigail into the hands of their brother, who would then give Abigail into the hands of the man who was waiting to become her husband.

Abigail liked the fact that there were no raw emotions intruding on the serenity of the occasion.

It was a beautiful day, a perfect day.

One of those rare London mornings where all the soot had settled with the morning dew and the sun shone out of a blue sky with picturesque clouds that a less pristine lady might mistake for a face with stark gray eyes or a cottage with a thatch roof or some other silly pipe dream, when really clouds were merely particles of dust and moisture marring the horizon.

Victoria opened the door and shooed out Mary and Elizabeth. Faint piano chords drifted into the bedchamber.

Abigail smiled at her sister's whispered instruction to lie back and think of England when her husband did his duty. Then her brother stepped through the doorway and took her gloved hand.

'This is an extremely important day for you, Abigail. Sir Tymes is a fine man; you will want for nothing. We trust that you will not do anything to disgrace our family name.'

Abigail smiled.

Of course she would not do anything to disgrace the family name.

She was happy in her new life.

She wanted this marriage.

She wanted to be the Lady Abigail Tymes.

Abigail Wynfred had died three weeks and two days ago; it was time that she be buried.

Robert waited long minutes after the last carriage pulled away from the tall, narrow town house before mounting the cobblestone steps. Faint music penetrated the closed double doors.

He gained entrance by the simple maneuver of elbowing aside the butler when he opened the door in response to a brisk knock. Robert's scarlet dress uniform complete with a sword that was not ornamental prevented retaliation.

The butler clearly knew his duty; it was equally clear he was reluctant to carry it through. 'May I help you, sir?'

'I am a friend of the groom's,' Robert said grimly.

'I am afraid the wedding is for family members only, sir.' The butler stared warily at Robert's dark-brown hair that was overlong and not pomaded, then at his tanned face that was shaved clean and spoke of climates and practices more barbaric than those belonging to England. 'If you will give me the package, you can be assured that I will'

Robert hoisted high the silk-and-ribbon-wrapped box. 'I will deliver the package personally, thank you. Carry on with your duties. There's no need to show me the way.'

His heels clicked along the length of the elegant black-and-white marble floor. He followed piano music and the low murmur of voices to a dark salon filled with vases of flowers and a ruffled grand piano. Rows of chairs were positioned so that an aisle led to a white marble fireplace. The chairs were occupied by over bustled women in subdued colors and too tightly collared men in funeral black with slicked-back hair tamed with grease and side- whiskers that bristled like wire brushes. A crow of a minister and a plump cherub of a man, both with the same pomaded hair and bushy side-whiskers, flanked the marble fireplace.

Robert had timed it perfectly. No sooner did he enter the room than a hush fell over the crowd of politely expectant faces and the pianist ended the recital in a soft crash of chords. He stepped aside at the sound of rustling silk.

Abigail.

She wore a dove-gray dress with a tent-size bustle and she had never looked worse, he was sure, he thought with a stab of vicious satisfaction. Her face was chalk white with dark circles underneath her eyes. The man leading herher brother, the earl, no doubt was the same height but at least fifty pounds heavier. He, too, had pomaded hair and side-whiskers.

Abigail's back was ramrod straight as she faced the minister to take her vows. The groom, Robert noted, had a fat bottom. And he was two inches shorter than the bride.

The minister's voice was a pompous drone. 'Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…'

Robert leaned against the wall and waited for his cue.

'… Therefore if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.'

Robert stepped away from the wall into the aisle. 'I have just cause.'

The slender back underneath the dove-gray silk grew even more stiff; suddenly Abigail pivoted, caught on the train of her gown. She floundered for a second before catching her balance.

Brown eyes were snared by pewter gray.

If it was possible, she turned even paler. Then bright crimson flooded her cheeks.

Shocked murmurs filled the dark room.

The minister lowered his spectacles. 'I beg your pardon?'

'I said I have just cause to stop this wedding.' He held up the beribboned silk package. 'Twelve reasons, to be exact.'

Abigail knew what was inside the pretty white-and-silver box. She had left behind her twelve issues ofThePearl.

The bright red color drained from her face. 'Robert'

It had been three weeks since he had heard her voice. Not one single person had used his christened name since she had left him.

He didn't want to hear her sayRobert with that cold, polite ring of command. As if they had never been as close as it was possible for two people to be.

He wanted to hear his name husky with her passion. Or on a scream when she found release.

'Twelve reasons,' he repeated. 'If you can accept this gift, Abigail, and marry that man, then I will accept the fact that what meant more to me than life itself was nothing more to you than ananomaly caused by a storm. And I will heartily beg your pardon for this intrusion.'

'Who is this man?' The groom raised a monocle and stared at Robert from an eye the size of a saucer.