One Night To Be Sinful Read online

  Calvin was impressed. He had never met a woman who would rather devise architectural designs than gossip with her friends or sit comfortably in her parlor reading the latest ton-approved novel. Then again, he decided as he watched Abigail whisper something to her horse then grin when he bumped her beneath the chin with his muzzle, the woman had already begun to strike him as unusual. Something in his eyes must have said as much, because when Abigail turned to face him, she smiled sheepishly.

  "Achilles." She gave the horse one last pat before heading for the opened doors at the rear of the stable. "I've had him for three years now, as long as I've lived here."

  "He seems to be in excellent condition." Calvin followed her to the brilliant light cast by the setting sun.

  "Oh, he is." Abigail nodded as she took to a second path that curved from the stables to the rear of the estate. The delicate violet flowers of the ivy that streamed along the gray stones of the house caught the sunlight like small stars. "He is very smart, and I have never seen him spooked. Even when we ride late at night."

  "Why"-Calvin scanned the lush carpet of grass that spread out around them and the great trees that dotted the property-"at night?"

  Abby came to 'a halt, not looking at Calvin as she dusted away some blades of grass that clung to her coat. "I just prefer to ride then," she said absently.

  Calvin watched as she squinted, still careful not to meet his eye, and did her own survey of the land about them. Even under the golden glow of the sun, he saw the color run from her face before her lips pressed tightly together. Her gaze darkened as she focused on a point in the far distance. Calvin's lashes drew slightly together as he followed her stare.

  He had not noticed them before. The other estate was surrounded by trees and more than a furlong away. The two riders, he was certain, had not been present when they had made their way to the stables from the house. Though they were far enough away that he could make out little of their features, he knew they were a man and a woman, the latter with long hair that billowed out behind her like a cape. Their horses were fixed between where he and Abigail stood and the house behind them.

  "Lord Raleigh's property," Abby said, "begins where you see the downed tree."

  Calvin's gaze moved to the oak that looked as if it had taken the brunt of several bolts of lightning then back to the two not far from it. On the wave of a breeze, he thought he detected female laughter.

  "Calvin." The fact she used his name caught his attention, as did the seriousness of Abigail's tone. "I'd like to believe I do not make harsh requests of those individuals who work in my home. So I will kindly ask that you do not involve yourself with my neighbors or any of their ... goings on."

  Abigail did not wait for his agreement but turned away to continue toward the house. Gazing at the taut line of her back beneath the tapered material of her coat, Calvin lifted a brow.

  He watched with cold eyes, his features impassive, as the object of his attention turned back to her home. From so far away, Raleigh noticed, her disfigurement was indistinguishable. She did not look like one of the weak, open to prey, but just another unimpressive member of the female herd.

  "Well, what have we here?"

  Raleigh knew the attention of the woman at his side was not focused on Lady Wolcott, but the man who walked a step behind. He peered at Katrina from the corner of his eye, noting the interest that gleamed in her beautiful blue eyes as they inspected the man from head to toe. A smile curled her full, pouting lips.

  "The lady has taken a lover, perhaps?" Raleigh said.

  His cousin laughed aloud at that. "Really, Edmund, you go too far. Her face might be deemed comely in the vaguest sense of the word, but that limp of hers is quite unattractive. Rather like a lame horse." Katrina brushed a thick tendril of dark hair behind her shoulder. "What man would take a lame horse into his bed?"

  "Men don't bed slow animals, they shoot them." Raleigh's fingers tightened on the reins of his horse. "When was the last time I sent Dobbs to pay Lady Wolcott a visit, do you recall?"

  Katrina's fine brows drew together, her gaze moving only momentarily to the man at her side. "Surely several weeks ago."

  Raleigh nodded, the setting sun highlighting the silver at his temples. His thin lips curled. "It's about time he paid her another visit, wouldn't you think? Just so the lady of the house doesn't forget her mistake in meddling with her neighbor's affairs." He glanced at his cousin. "And why don't you find out who that man is?"

  "It would be my pleasure, my lord."

  Raleigh could not say his emotions at that time rivaled his cousin's. Turning back to gaze at the man who, in fact, appeared to be looking directly at him, he could say his feelings bordered on disturbed.

  Chapter 4

  "I'm not certain"-Abigail ignored the rush of blood to her head as she frowned under the set- tee-"if Mr. Garrett will make a suitable addition to our household."

  Margot threw back the curtains of the last parlor window so the room was fully illuminated with morning sunlight. Ignoring the lovely scenery, rolling hills of grass dotted with budding trees, she peered behind the length of the curtains. "Why ever not?"

  Abigail sat up, blowing a tendril of hair off her brow. The movements gave her a moment to compose her words carefully. "He is not much like Tuttleton."

  "True." Margot paused to fist her hands on her hips and offered thoughtfully, "Mr. Tuttleton was an excellent man."

  "Yes." Abigail smiled. An image of the older man with snow white whiskers and bare scalp flitted across her mind.

  "And Mr. Garrett is surely much younger andno insult to our dear Tuttleton-a great deal more handsome."

  Abby's smile disappeared when her mental picture of her departed butler was replaced with the features of Calvin Garrett, eyes so blue they were almost black gleaming in the light of the setting sun. "I hadn't noticed," she lied and reached for the crutch lying against the settee beside her.

  Margot's orange brows lifted, but she said nothing as she went to a table in the corner and looked beneath the embroidered cloth that covered it.

  Abigail lifted herself off the soft cushions of the settee and moved toward the tall chiffonier against the far wall. One might have suspected the odds were highly against Harry being able to open one of the cabinet drawers, but once Abby had found him slumbering comfortably at the bottom of a valise in her dressing room. She put nothing past the small beast anymore.

  "What is it you see unfit with Mr. Garrett?" Margot inquired all too casually from across the room.

  Abigail had pushed away the mental image of the man and didn't particularly appreciate the other woman bringing it back. She remembered the very up-close view she had when she all but collapsed in his arms. The hair at her nape rose at the thought.

  "There is the fact that he is a lot younger than Tuttleton was."

  "Only a few years older than you, I'd imagine."

  "Even worse," Abigail muttered as she nudged the drawer she had just opened closed with the toe of her half boot. Her encumbered le- moved stiffly as she let it settle back on the floor.

  She had once fallen in front of Tuttleton. It had been a bad tumble from six steps up the staircase after she inadvertently let the hem of her gown get caught beneath her crutch. She had landed in a daze at her butler's feet. "Awright, m'lady?" Tuttleton simply grasped her beneath her arms and stood her on her feet. The stumble had been embarrassing, but not as much so as the one she had taken before Calvin Garrett.

  Abby had always prided herself on her ability to carry on with ordinary tasks just as well as the next woman despite her encumbered appendage. It was difficult, she learned soon after taking her first venture out of rehabilitation, to convince others of her capability. It would be even harder, she decided the moment she almost hit the floor before Calvin, to convince her new butler of the fact.

  She ignored the nagging tune that surfaced at the back of her head every time she thought of the encounter. When Calvin had caught her before her fall, and lat
e that night, as she lay awake in bed, dreading the nightmares to come, the music returned. The song was from a play she went to see with her dear friend, Augusta. As was the other woman's custom, she chose a romantic story of a love beyond anything Abby had ever experienced in her nine and twenty years. Not even with Patrick. In the play that she could almost hum the song to, there was a scene where the main character-a lovely young woman with golden hair and a perfect stride-was captured in the arms of her hero. Her breasts had been crushed against the hard wall of his chest as his hands pressed into her back, not unlike the way Abigail and her new butler had stood in her foyer after he stopped her fall. Abby had dug her hands into the material of his coat sleeves, just as the heroine had her hero's. The lovers' mouths had been a hairsbreadth apart, much the same way as Abby and Calvin's had been.

  For a moment there in the foyer of her home, with her heart pounding in her ears and her legs shaking, Abby wondered what would happen were Calvin to kiss her just as the handsome actor had kissed the actress.

  "Abby?"

  She blinked, finally focusing on the rows of shimmering silver cutlery she had exposed in the next chiffonier drawer.

  "I said"-Margot's voice was touched with con- cern-"Mr. Garrett isn't much older than you."

  "I should think men, especially those of his age, judge a woman a great deal on her physical qualities," Abigail said, sliding the last drawer closed. "The fact that his sole supervisor will not only be a woman, but one who is somewhat lacking in the physical qualities he is accustomed to, might be more than he can bear."

  She heard the rustle of Margot's skirts before the woman touched her lightly on the back. `Just because a man is young like Lord Valmonte," she said gently, "and almost as handsome, it does not mean he will share the same character. I wish I could make you understand. Then maybe you would not be so contented with this solitary life you've chosen."

  Abigail's head lifted, something hitting painfully close to her heart at her maid's words.

  "Bloody hell, woman! Get out of my room!"

  "What on earth ... ?" Abby turned away from Margot at the gruff male shout.

  "Oh no," Margot said.

  "What is it?"

  "When Mr. Garrett did not show for breakfast, Mrs. Poole appeared very irritated. She mentioned something about not letting the man believe his post would consist of his rousing when he felt like it and slacking on his chores."

  "Oh no." Abby matched the maid's worried tone exactly as she made for the parlor door.

  The dream he'd been having disturbed him, and the face he opened his eyes to in the midst of it was even more disturbing.

  It had begun as a nightmare. He had been alone again, in the workhouse of his youth. The stale odor of sweat was vivid in his nostrils as he stood gazing into the long room with its small, evenly spaced beds and walls covered with block lettering about a God who would never step foot in the hell that was the house. The cold was unbearable and his uniform insufficient. His heart pounded in his ears as he stumbled backward then spun away from the childhood prison.

  Instead of nightmare trickery as he fully expected-turning into the same hall over and over again until he woke up screaming, perhaps-Calvin stepped into the golden warmth of an unfamiliar room. The chamber was all flickering shadows save for the small circle of light cast by the hearth onto the bed. Amidst the mussed bedclothes was a woman, naked-at least from where he could see her bare back to where the white sheet wrapped about her hips. Her dark hair was a stark contrast to the pale flesh exposed, the curves of her shoulders elegant where the firelight kissed them. Calvin seemed to watch himself as he moved toward the bed and ran his fingertips along her spine. The woman sighed, the sound soft and sultry. Calvin smiled, his gaze lifting from his fingers to the crutch propped against the far wall.

  "Here now, we'll have none of that idleness round here!"

  Calvin's eyes opened wide to a badly wrinkled face well suited to the ugly voice that had pierced his dream. The old woman's nose nearly touched his as she glared at him.

  "Get up, I say!"

  "Who the hell are you?" Calvin's own voice was less than alarming, muffled by sleep and his pillow.

  "I'm the cook."

  Then Calvin suddenly remembered where he was and who he was supposed to be. He sat up abruptly, ignoring the old woman's gasp at his naked torso as he focused first on the sun pressing into his window and then the clock atop his hearth.

  "Damnation," he hissed under his breath.

  "I'll not allow," Lady Abigail's cook was going on, the hands on her hips fisted so tight every vein was exposed, "ye to go about as if yer role as the lady's manservant is of no importance. She pays a tidy sum to have ye up in time to get to work on yer daily chores. Ye'll not be lazy or-"

  "Bloody hell, woman." Calvin had thrown his legs over the side of the bed. "Get out of my room!"

  The woman gasped again, her lips nearly disap pearing as she pressed them together. "No," she hissed then, reaching for the blankets that covered him, "ye getup!"

  A stunned silence filled the room the moment the cook yanked away the blankets. Her eyes went round, the wrinkled skin around them going into deep grooves, as Calvin rose naked to his feet.

  "Good Lord," the woman whispered.

  Calvin lifted a brow. "I'll take that as a compliment."

  He savored the quiet that followed the door slamming closed for only a moment before moving to the bag he had yet to unpack from the day before. As he slipped into the clothes he had procured from one of the men who cared for his grounds in Town-the legs of the breeches a little short and the shirtsleeves too tight-he heard a commotion from the hall beyond his door. He dimly wondered what the old crone was saying about him.

  The rap at his bedchamber door was soft, tentative. "Mr. Garrett?"

  At her voice, he felt the tension of putting his first full day at her estate to a wrong start fade. He looked up from his boots and smiled. "It's Calvin, Lady Abigail. Calvin."

  The silence stretched before she spoke again through the door. "I apologize for Cook's behavior.

  "Don't ye apologize, m'lady." The waspish voice followed hers from a distance, as if the woman was moving down the stairs. "He should have been up for ye."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Poole." Abigail's tone became exasperated, but not unkind. "That will be all."

  "She is right," Calvin called as he grabbed his coat and headed for the door. "I should have been awake already. You have my apologies, madam."

  He swung the door open on the last word, apparently surprising the woman who stood on the other side. Whereas he hadn't yet brushed his hair and was in need of a shave, Abigail looked fresh and new. Her hair was drawn back from her clean face, and she wore a pale pink gown. The soft swells of her breasts above her bodice, he noticed before forcing himself to meet her eye, were the same pale hue as her naked back had been in his dream. Once meeting her gaze, he realized she was wearing a peculiar expression. One of her brows was raised, and her lips were curled only at one corner.

  He heard Mrs. Poole call from the end of the stairs, "He talks funny."

  Calvin abruptly wondered if the cook was speaking of the reason his employer was gazing at him so oddly. He tried to remember how his own manservant spoke.

  "It's all right, Mr.-" Abigail's eyes squeezed closed then opened again, and in the shadows they gleamed like dark jewels. "Calvin. I imagine you had a long journey to get here and were quite exhausted. I saw it was past midnight once the light went out beneath your door."

  Calvin looked at the woman before him anew. He wondered briefly if she was keeping a tally on his sleeping habit as what might suit a servant.

  She flushed pink as if reading his thoughts. "I am usually up quite late."

  "You have 'a hard time sleeping, my lady?"

  "It's not the falling asleep that troubles me." She looked down before turning toward the stairs. "It's where I fall once I am there."

  Calvin thought about her words, slipping into h
is coat before moving toward the stairs. Abigail moved slowly down, carefully steadying her crutch with practiced ease before lowering her stiff leg. "Would you like my arm, Lady Abigail?"

  There was that look. A brief flash before she looked down at the steps again. The defiant and slightly angered expression passed through her gaze. "I do not need your help," she said stiffly. "Thank you."

  Light filtered in through the foyer, hitting the end of the staircase the moment Abigail reached it. Calvin saw her look down the hall toward the opened doorway and then frown.

  "Timothy, what is the matter?"

  Calvin came off the last step to glance between his employer and the man who stood in the opened doorway. He was tall and slim, with dark hair that hung over his brow as he bowed his head, which he did the moment he caught sight of the stranger beside Abigail.

  "The stables, Lady Abby."

  "Oh Lord." Margot, who had appeared from the parlor, bore an expression of worried awareness.

  "They were wrecked again, Timothy, is that it?" Abigail's expression remained composed, Calvin saw, though as she moved toward the young man, her mouth drew downward.

  "No, my lady." Timothy shook his head at his feet, then offered the woman a brief and sorrowful gaze of dark brown. "Worse. I cannot say it."

  Chapter 5

  Heedless of the dew that painted the grass and dampened the hem of her morning gown, Abby chose to forgo the path that led to the stables, cutting through the lush greenery in a faster route. Without asking, Timothy had offered his elbow, and she wrapped her fingers around the thick material of his coat. Margot was on her opposite side, murmuring to herself and twisting her fingers in the linen of her apron. Yet Abby was more aware of the man trailing silently behind than she was of either of them, her employees for as long as she had lived in the country.

  He had looked rather grim when he threw open the door of his bedchamber, the lower half of his face covered with a day's growth of beard and his hair tangled. His clothes were wrinkled, as if they had spent the night in the bottom of his valise and had not been folded neatly in his armoire. The day before, she had seen him always in his coat; today, however, he had opened the door in only his shirt and breeches. Abby had briefly wondered if he had had the clothes since his earlier years; the muscles of his arms and shoulders pressed into the shirtsleeves enough to pull the fabric to its breaking point.