Abby. For someone who had never cared much what she wore, she suddenly found herself surrounded by exquisite fabrics, hundreds of the latest dress patterns and an entire room filled with seamstresses occupied with making her wedding gown and her trousseau. To her chagrin, she discovered that she was quite readily caught up in the feminine excitement of choosing colors and designs that suited her and that might please her fianc;aae.

In fact, pleasing the Earl of Wilton had become quite deliberately her single-minded goal. She believed with all her heart that if she pleased him well enough, then she could ultimately get her way and be invited along the first time he prepared to go off on some exciting, exotic adventure. She would show him that they could be real partners. Once he had accepted that, there were no limits to what they could accomplish together.

She was so uncharacteristically biddable, unfortunately, that he began to get suspicious.

“Lady Abigail, if you are any more accommodating, I fear you will choke,” he said, regarding her with some amusement as they took tea one rainy afternoon only a week or so after their betrothal.

It had become his custom to call on her every afternoon, and if she were to be perfectly honest, his presence was taking a toll on her. She was indeed about to choke on her own sweet words and tame behavior. It was unfortunate he had recognized that fact, though she intended to deny it. Perhaps a little more believable acting was called for.

“My lord?” she said, feigning puzzlement. “I am afraid I do not understand your meaning.”

He laughed. “Of course, you do. If there is one thing I know about you, Lady Abigail, it is that you never do anything without design.”

Abby scowled, her temper sorely tested. “I do not find that observation particularly flattering.”

“Nor do I,” he said bluntly. “So, tell me in plain words what you are about.”

Obviously she needed to perfect her demure tone. She tried again. “I assure you, my lord, I look only to your comfort,” she said sweetly. “More tea, my lord?”

“Balderdash!”

“My lord!”

“Abby, you are testing my patience.”

She turned her most innocent expression on him. “Truly, my lord, that is not my wish.”

His gaze narrowed. “What is your wish? To put an end to this betrothal? I am here to tell you that will not happen. You might as well make up your mind to that.”

Abby regarded him with honest dismay. Warning him off was not what she was about at all. “Sir, I never dreamed of such a thing.”

“If you say so, my lady.”

“I do,” she assured him emphatically.

“Then explain yourself. What are you attempting to accomplish with all of your sweetness and accommodation?”

“To please you, my lord.” Dear heaven, this was difficult, she thought miserably. Worse, it appeared to be wasted effort. He looked about to burst with anger.

“Why?” he inquired, still regarding her with impatience and skepticism.

“Is it not a wife’s duty to please her husband?”

“So they tell me. Personally, I cannot imagine anything more tedious than a wife who never speaks her own mind,” he said, giving her a look she interpreted as a warning. “Had I wanted so much honey in my life, I would have sought out a hive of bees. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite, my lord.”

He gave a nod of satisfaction. “Then I am off.” He paused by her chair and drew her to her feet. “When I return tomorrow, my lady, will you see to it that the Abby I first met at the Foxworths’ ball is back? I feel a desperate need for a little vinegar.”

“If that pleases—”

He cut off her accommodating words with a kiss that left her gasping. This was no chaste peck. The slow, rhythmic thrust of his tongue made her knees go weak. The sensation was highly provocative. Thoroughly decadent, in fact, and most inappropriate. She might have offered up some pale protest out of a sense of duty, but he never gave her the chance. He was off before she could quite catch her breath. The man really was a scoundrel, a most devious one, if the truth be told.

One thing she was discovering rapidly about the earl was that it wasn’t always possible to tell which one of them had come out the victor in this battle of wits in which they were engaged. She would have to say, though, that this round appeared to have gone to him. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, she did not feel herself to be entirely the loser.

She uttered a small sigh of regret. Things, indeed, had gotten very complicated. The truth of it was that for all her claims to being worldly, she knew very little about conquering the male of the species.

* * *

Riley woke with a start, his gaze immediately, inevitably drawn to Abby. Had she moved? Made some sound he had missed? A sigh, perhaps? There was no way to tell. She looked unchanged to him, as still and silent as ever.

The small hospital room was bathed in shadows. It had been hours since the nurses had come by and dimmed the lights, no longer bothering to question his presence by her bedside. He’d grown used to the long, uncomfortable, silent nights in a chair more suited for torture than sleep.

He had not grown used to Abby’s stillness. He longed for just one tart word, one challenging glare, one hesitant touch. He would have preferred accusations and disdain to this awful silence.

“Oh, Abby,” he whispered. “Please, come back to me. Yell at me. Kick me in the shins, if you must. I deserve that and a whole lot more.”

His gaze, fastened on her face, caught what seemed to be the faint beginning of a smile. Could it be she had responded to his voice? More likely she had greeted his suggestion about that kick with enthusiasm.

“Abby? Can you hear me?”

To his regret the smile faded so

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