Forever Yours (The Forever Series #1) Read online

  She was stunned to have mentioned Miss Robertson and that she’d uttered such a clingy, possessive remark, but she’d vehemently meant it. From the very first minute, she’d felt as if he was hers and should never be anyone else’s.

  He liked her in an insane, inexplicable fashion, and clearly she was suffering from the same deranged condition. Where would it lead? Nowhere good she was sure, but when she was snuggled in his arms she just didn’t care.

  He reached for the blanket and drew it over them, shielding them in a warm cocoon. He kissed the top of her head and said, “I’m off to London in the morning.”

  “For how long?”

  “Probably several days. My friend, Lord Pendergast, has been invited to a big gala and he asked me to accompany him.”

  “I’ll miss you while you’re gone.”

  “I believe you’re the only person who’s ever said that to me.”

  “I will miss you. I’m serious.”

  “Try not to fight with Camilla while I’m away.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Stay out of her way, but if you have a quarrel with her, you are not to depart. No matter what.”

  “No, I won’t. No matter what.”

  It was awful of him to traipse off to town and abandon her—alone and unprotected—with his mistress in residence. But she was in no position to offer comments on how he should run his life so she bit down any words of complaint.

  Instead, she said, “I love fancy parties. Pay attention at the gala so you can describe every detail after you’re home.”

  “I will, and I’ll hurry back.”

  They were quiet then, and she yawned and must have dozed off because some time later she roused, and she was by herself in the bed. The candle was out, the coals in the stove barely glowing. He’d tiptoed out while she was sleeping.

  She glanced around and located the towel he’d used, crumpled in a ball on the floor. If it hadn’t been there, she’d have suspected she’d dreamed the whole encounter.

  The room was cold and empty without him in it, and she wrapped the blanket more tightly across her and stared out the window at the black sky. She wished she could see the manor. She wished he could hear her telling him goodnight.

  “You’re in trouble, Abigail,” she muttered to herself. “You’re in deep, deep trouble.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “What do you think of her?”

  On hearing Price’s question, Alex stared across the crowded ballroom where Princess Sasha was in a receiving line at the door. If forced to describe her, he’d have declared her to be quite common: dark hair, dark eyes, a plump body, plain features.

  But a woman always looked better when she was dripping in diamonds. Her tiara alone could probably be pawned to pay off all the debts on the Pendergast estates. That sort of obvious wealth made a female prettier than she actually was.

  “She’s all right,” Alex said.

  Price snorted. “High praise indeed.”

  “She’s not horrid. Considering your father’s penchant for ruining your life, I expected someone hideous. At least she speaks English.”

  “Well, a few words of greeting anyway. I doubt she can carry on a conversation.”

  There was a large group of her countrymen assembled behind her. They appeared foreign and stern and stuffy. They caustically watched the proceedings, evidently finding them to be beneath the princess’s high standards.

  Price pointed to them. “If a fellow were to wed her, would all those hangers-on remain in England and move in? Or once the marriage was finalized, would they head back to Russia?”

  “They’d likely remain. They’re not the type to abandon her to a bunch of filthy British dogs.”

  Price chortled with amusement. “Yes, they seem braced for an insult. What is your bet? Will a fight break out before the night is through?”

  “I don’t care enough to wager on it.”

  They were loafing in a corner, sipping champagne and trying to be inconspicuous which was impossible. Price was a valuable commodity on the Marriage Market so every female in attendance was excited to see him.

  As to Alex, those who recognized him studied him with either disdain or curiosity. He occasionally traveled to town with Price, but they visited gambling dens and opera dancers. He rarely blustered into the hallowed halls of the ton where its members could huff with offense and snub him.

  He understood their low opinions. It wasn’t so much that he’d dueled a decade earlier. Nor was it his attempt to kill an earl’s son. No, it was the fact that he was divorced and living openly with his mistress while raising another man’s daughters.

  Decent people could forgive many sins, but a divorced person was too scandalous to abide.

  Confirming his suspicions, a footman approached Price and asked if the hostess could confer with him. Before they’d arrived, they’d discussed the prospect of Alex not being allowed inside, but Price assumed his position granted him special treatment.

  Alex could have taken pity on the hostess and cowered in the shadows, but he’d been punished for his crime and had suffered greatly. He was a wealthy, landed gentleman, and if rude idiots wanted to insult him they could do it to his face. He wouldn’t make it easy for them.

  Price was gone for a few minutes, and when he returned he rolled his eyes.

  “Let me guess,” Alex said. “Our dear hostess is so, so sorry, but you shouldn’t have brought a guest.”

  “Correct.”

  “What was your answer?”

  “I told her she was a snobbish, stupid witch, and if you couldn’t stay I wouldn’t stay.”

  “Doesn’t she have a daughter who’s eighteen? She must be dying to introduce you.”

  “Yes.”

  “So we’re not leaving.”

  “No.”

  “You must have bribed her. Are you taking her daughter for a ride in the park or what?”

  “Yes, we’re riding. I’m picking her up tomorrow morning at ten.”

  Alex scoffed with aggravation. “You don’t have to entertain a flighty debutante merely so I can stand here with you and drink bad champagne. I’m not having any fun, and if my presence is so distasteful I can go. It’s hardly a burden.”

  He downed the contents of his glass and handed it to a passing waiter. He would have started out, but Price stopped him.

  “We can’t depart.”

  “Why not?”

  “My father would have a fit. He’s arranged for us to have a private chat with the princess after she’s finished in the receiving line.”

  “I have no desire to meet privately with her. Do you?”

  “Not particularly,” Price said.

  “Nor will it bother me if your father has a fit.”

  “I especially don’t care about that.” Price downed his champagne too. “I often forget how disreputable you are. It’s shocking that I’ve been your friend all these years. No one else would dare.”

  “When I’m tucked away in the country, my infamy doesn’t seem real.”

  “There must be a party somewhere that will welcome you. Let’s find it.”

  Price gestured to a footman. “Mr. Wallace and I must be off. Tell Mrs. Ringwald that I won’t be able to take her daughter riding in the morning after all. Make certain she knows I’m not coming.”

  They scooted around the crowd, and at the last second Alex glanced over at the princess. She was staring at Price as if she already owned him. Her possessive look had Alex wondering how far along the negotiations had advanced. Why would a Russian princess have to journey such a distance just to locate a husband? Why couldn’t she latch onto someone suitable closer to home?

  Then again, Russian government affairs were unstable, the climate grueling, and the British aristocracy deemed the premier example of noble living in the world. Perhaps she was simply keen to get out of Russia and reside somewhere more pleasant.

  And Price was incredi
bly handsome. If she were searching for a handsome man to become her handsome prince, she’d definitely found him.

  He nudged Price. “Your princess is watching you leave.”

  Price peered back, and the cad winked at her and gave her a jaunty salute.

  “What was that for?” Alex asked.

  “I’m hedging my bets. If she’s as rich as my father claims, I can’t have her thinking I don’t like her.”

  “You don’t know her well enough to like her or not like her. Don’t flirt with her.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because you’ll send the wrong impression.”

  “What would be the right impression?”

  Alex pondered, then shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “Then be silent. The day I listen to advice from you about women is the day I drop dead.”

  They strolled out into the dark night and called for their carriage.

  * * * *

  “He went to London.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Mary looked over at her sister. “I heard Miss Barrington talking to Faith.”

  “How long will he be there?”

  “They didn’t say, and I couldn’t let them catch me snooping.”

  “We could just ask Miss Barrington.”

  They considered, then shook their heads.

  “Best not,” Millie said.

  “No, best not,” Mary agreed.

  They were behind the house, waiting for Miss Barrington to emerge so they could walk to the beach together. Their lessons were completed, and they were having another picnic. Mr. Wallace had promised he’d join them, but he wasn’t coming, and they’d been nervous as to why not.

  They were constantly anxious that they might enrage him without even realizing they had. When their mother visited, she whispered that Mr. Wallace had a very bad temper, that he’d once grown so angry he’d almost killed a man so he might kick them out for the least little mistake.

  She also told them that she was too poor to support them, that Mr. Wallace refused to give her money to support herself so if they caused trouble and were evicted they wouldn’t be able to stay with her.

  They lived in unrelenting fear that they would be tossed out on the road and then…what?

  They couldn’t guess but incessantly debated their fate if the worst occurred. Would he permit them to have their clothes? How about a bit of food? How about a blanket or a coat?

  He was a mysterious person, one whom they rarely saw or spoke to, and they couldn’t figure out how to persuade him to like them. They wished he was their father. He’d been their mother’s husband, and it should have guaranteed he was their parent, and they didn’t quite understand what had happened.

  If he was their father, he couldn’t throw them out, and it was scary to imagine that they could be so easily discarded.

  Their mother warned them to be very afraid. He had set her aside, and she’d been his wife. Since they weren’t his children, they had no connection to him so any kindness he’d extended could be revoked at a moment’s notice.

  “Do you think Mr. Wallace might marry Miss Barrington?” Millie asked.

  “No. He’ll marry Miss Robertson.”

  “He won’t,” Millie insisted. “Remember what Cook said? Mr. Wallace doesn’t really like Miss Robertson. She’s too bossy.”

  They’d furtively listened to the cook when he hadn’t noted they were. They were adept at lurking in halls and by doors, spying and eavesdropping on conversations to discover what they were desperate to know.

  They always had questions about various issues, but early on they’d learned not to pose them. They tried to never be a nuisance, but adults didn’t answer anyway. Or they lied. Or they claimed they weren’t certain when they actually were.

  Miss Robertson was snippy and cruel, and they avoided her at all costs. They’d been terrified Mr. Wallace might wed her so the cook’s words had provided enormous relief.

  But if Mr. Wallace wasn’t marrying Miss Robertson, why didn’t he send her away? Then he could wed Miss Barrington, and it would be the perfect ending.

  The prior night, Millie had seen Mr. Wallace leaving Miss Barrington’s bedchamber. In the intervening hours, they’d frantically deliberated over what it meant.

  Millie often couldn’t sleep. She heard noises and had bad dreams, and she would get up and wander the house. She’d poke around in desk drawers and read notes and letters that revealed many secrets. Much of it was information about themselves that no one felt compelled to share.

  She had been in the hall, staring out at the rain when Miss Barrington’s door had opened and Mr. Wallace had tiptoed out. She’d grasped that she shouldn’t let him see her, that it was the sort of violation their mother had cautioned them about.

  She’d frozen in the shadows and had held her breath as he’d sneaked away without observing her. Then she’d raced to their room and awakened Mary to tell her the shocking news.

  Why had he been there? What could it indicate? Even though they were only nine, they recognized that a gentleman never visited a lady in her bedchamber. If so, the lady might engage in grown-up behaviors that were forbidden.

  They liked Miss Barrington so much, and they couldn’t comprehend why she’d permitted it, but then they’d watched the two chatting at the picnic. When Mr. Wallace had arrived, they’d stealthily spied on the pair from down the beach while pretending they weren’t paying attention.

  Mr. Wallace seemed besotted with Miss Barrington. There was no other way to describe his conduct. So…if he was besotted, and she was pretty and smart and wonderful, why shouldn’t he wed her?

  They prayed for it every evening before they crawled into bed. And at church too. They usually skipped Sunday services if they could, but with so much on the line, they were eager to go, believing a prayer for the marriage—offered up in a church—might have more of an effect.

  Miss Barrington finally came out, but she wasn’t carrying the blanket or picnic basket.

  “I have a surprise,” she told them.

  They didn’t like surprises. There had been too many unpleasant ones in their short lives, and they braced.

  “What is it?” Millie tepidly asked.

  “We’re not having our picnic,” Miss Barrington said.

  They sagged with disappointment.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the seamstress is here from the village to measure you so we can order you some clothes.”

  They scowled and cocked their heads in bewilderment.

  “We’re getting clothes?”

  “Yes.” Miss Barrington smiled. “A box was delivered too, from London. I purchased a few items ready-made so we have to try them on to be sure they fit. Then our local seamstress will sew you even more.”

  “Is it to be new clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve grown so much,” Miss Barrington explained, “and what you’re wearing now is too small.”

  “But…but…who said we should have them?”

  “Mr. Wallace. I asked him, and he said yes.”

  “Mr. Wallace said that?”

  They exchanged apprehensive glances.

  They received things occasionally, but Miss Robertson brought a lady from the parish who pulled donations from the pile for the annual fundraiser. Once she departed, Miss Robertson would advise them of how lucky they were to obtain any assistance at all and that they shouldn’t complain—which they would never do.

  They graciously accepted what was provided, but they felt ashamed too. They realized they were charity cases, and when they were such a burden to Mr. Wallace, how would they ever persuade him to be glad they were his wards?

  He’d decided they should have clothes? New clothes? It was a stunning development, and they attributed it to his affection for Miss Barrington. He had to be more than besotted. He had to be madly in love wi
th her. There could be no other reason.

  “Come inside,” Miss Barrington urged. “It’s always a great day to get a pretty dress.” They didn’t move, and she frowned. “What is it? Don’t you want them? Don’t tell me that. If you claim you don’t, then I shall claim you’re both silly hens.”

  They peeked at each other, then nodded and firmly stated, “We want them.”

  They rushed over and hugged her around the waist, bumping into her so hard that she actually staggered back a step.

  “What is wrong with you two?” she asked.

  “You’ve made us so happy,” Mary told her. “Thank you.”

  Millie added, “It’s the nicest thing that ever happened to us. Ever!”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” Miss Barrington said. “Now let’s try on some clothes.”

  They ran in to rip open the box, and they hoped the dresses would be blue. It was their favorite color. If Mr. Wallace had allowed them to have blue dresses, then they were positive Miss Barrington was about to be his bride.

  * * * *

  Faith strolled down the lane with Miss Barrington. They’d walked to the village to buy ribbons for the girls’ hair, and they were on their way home.

  “You’re a miracle worker,” Faith said.

  “Why would you think so?” Miss Barrington inquired.

  “Because you just arrived, and matters have already improved dramatically. I’ve never seen the twins so excited. How did you convince Alex to purchase clothes for them?”

  “I simply…asked him.” Miss Barrington scowled. “Why is everyone so astonished by that fact?”

  “Ever since they came to live at the cottage, Camilla has had charge of them. She brings them used apparel from the church basket.”

  “Used!” Miss Barrington huffed with indignation. “Why would she? They are the wards of a rich, landed gentleman. They shouldn’t have to carry on like paupers.”

  Faith shrugged. “Alex gives Camilla money for what they need, but she spends it on herself.”

  “What has Mr. Wallace’s opinion been about their decrepit condition?”

  “I’m certain he never noticed. The only females who catch his eye are those old enough to tickle his fancy. Camilla would tell him they were fine, and he’d believe her.” Miss Barrington appeared irked, as if she was biting down a comment that would upset Faith, and Faith said, “What is it? You look as if you have a horrid remark to share.”