Thea Devine - Captivated

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.

Robert ignored him.

"On the other hand, Abigail, I have in my pocket two other gifts. One goes on the ring finger. The other gift is a favorite device of Lady Pokingham."

Shocked masculine gasps carried on the tide of feminine whispersso-called respectable gentlemen who recognized the name taken fromThePearl. Robert could feel the male attention swivel from him toward Abigail, cold eyes no doubt filled with hot speculation.

Crimson color flared anew in Abigail's cheeks. Her head jerked back as if she had received a slap in the face.

"Sir." It was the butler's voice. "Sir, if you will follow me, please."

Robert's gaze did not waver. "And last but not least, Abigail, I have edition number thirteen."

Three footmen joined the butler. The silk-wrapped package slithered to the floor as Robert struggled to free himself.

Abigail silently watched.

Damn her. She wasn't going to accept either him… or his gift.

She stood there, pristine and remote like the lady she had confessed she wanted to become.

He should be content that he had accomplished one goal, at least.

Her secret was out.

Sir Andrew Tymes would not marry a woman whose name was whispered in the same breath as the name of a heroine out ofThePearl.

But Robert did not feel relief at saving Abigail from a lifetime of ruffled pianos.

For a searing second he hated her.

Hated her with all the passion in the soul that she had given back to him.

She had given him everything;she was his.

He had resigned from active duty… so that he might live.With her.

Fury gave Robert the strength of two men… but not the strength of three.

He refused to look away from Abigail's eyes, losing the battle, both with her and the footmen. He struggled to look back at her over his shoulder as they hustled him out of the funeral-dark salon. Then he struggled to stand up on the cobble stoned sidewalk as pain arched along the entire left side of his body and the sharp closure of the town house doors echoed through the street.

Damn.

Hewould land on his bum leg.

"Ye need 'elp, guv'nor? Cost ye a ha'pence."

Robert stared down at the three-foot-tall street urchin whose age could range anywhere from five to fifteen. A kaleidoscope of activity burst around himhorses trotting, carriage wheels rolling, a man hawking his waresthe vivid awareness that only comes before death.

"No," Robert said shortly. He pulled out a shilling and tossed it to the boy.

Hell, it didn't matter if he gave out all of his money.

Dead men didn't need it.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out everything he had on him.

The boy's too-old face lit up with greedy life. Before the military mort with the scary gray eyes could change his mind, the street urchin grabbed the money and ran.

Without warning, the door to the town house slammed open.

As if in slow motion, Robert turned.

Abigail raced down the steps in a jiggle of silk and bustle. She carried in gloved hands the silk-wrapped package, her dreams, his life.

She was breathless. "You forgot your package, Colonel Coally."

Death did not harbor so much pain.

Neither should life, Robert thought bleakly.

"The package is for you, Lady Wynfred."

"That cannot be, Colonel Coally," she said briskly. "You offered me three gifts, not one."

"I am afraid I am at a loss, Lady Wynfred," he said stonily, imagining her with Sir Andrew Tymes, imagining him pistoning up and downinside Abigail. "Does this mean you are rejecting or accepting the package?"

"It means, Colonel Coally, that I am accepting… all three gifts."

For the first time that day, Robert noticed how very warm the sunshine was and how clear the sky was when free of fog and soot.

"I take it you know what Lady Pokingham's favorite toy is."

Face flooding with bright color, Abigail reached out, lightly touched the front of his scarlet trousers with white-gloved fingers before hurriedly withdrawing her hand. "Oh, yes, Colonel Coally. I know what Lady Pokingham's favorite toy is."

"I am not a gentleman," he warned her stiffly. "Nor am I wealthy. Though I have enough to live in comfort."

"Colonel Coally." The brown eyes staring up at him glowed with amber. "What you have is far more important than wealth or a title."

"And what is that, Lady Wynfred?"

Robert held his breath, not daring to hope, afraid he could not bear the pain if she rejected him now.

A curse rang out on the streeta coachman soothed the lead horse that a lady's parasol had frightened.

Abigail smiled, the smile he had come to love, wild and free as the storm."ThePearl, Colonel Coally."

"Do you take me, Abigail?" The sound issuing from his throat was stark and raw.

"I take you, Robert."

Suddenly the streets of London disappeared and there were only the two of them, a man and a woman.

Laughing, oblivious of the curious, shocked stares, Robert picked Abigail up and swung her over his head. "You are quite wrong, Miss Abigail. Lady Pokingham has another favorite toy, one that can be gift-wrapped without requiring amputation. But you can only have it after we are married. And if I insert it."

BERTRICE SMALL is the author of over twenty-four novels of historical romance. She is a New York Times bestseller, and the recipient of numerous awards. In keeping with her profession, Bertrice Small lives in the oldest English-speaking town in the state of New York, which was founded in 1640. And because she believes in happy endings, she's been married to the same man, her hero, George, for thirty-six years.