Chapter Nine
The Medical Office and Private Residence of Dr. Chadwick
London, England
Stephen had imagined this reconciliation a hundred times.
No, a thousand.
He’d pictured the different expressions on Abigail’s face.
The way her eyes might widen or her mouth would drop open.
The sound of her gasp. Or maybe she would cry.
He’d never seen her cry before. He didn’t even know if she was capable of tears.
He doubted it. Snow only turned to water when it melted, and his wife was cold as ice.
But he’d taken grim pleasure in imagining her dissolving into sobs as she flew into his arms and apologized for leading him on a year-long fucking goose chase.
Some nights, while he’d laid alone in a laughably small bed above a noisy tavern in some nameless New England town, he had visualized her slamming the door in his face.
In his worst nightmares, he’d pictured himself knocking .
. . and there being no one there to answer, because he was too late, yet again.
Always two steps behind, never one step ahead.
Except for today.
Today, he’d finally caught up to her.
In bloody London, of all places. Which, he did have to hand it to her, was diabolically clever, as it was the only city he’d never thought to search. But here she was, living and working right under his nose. And she looked . . . she looked the same, he noted with disgust.
Just as beautiful.
Just as breathtaking.
Her eyes the same rich, vivid green of his dreams.
Her brown curls just as adorably disheveled as ever.
Her spectacles, gold now instead of tortoiseshell, slightly askew.
How much easier it would be if she’d grown haggard.
If pox had broken out across her soft ivory skin, or her hair had fallen out clumps, or she’d grown a hunchback.
Then he wouldn’t have his loathing poisoned with lust as he glared down at her, all of the words he’d spent twelve months rehearsing waiting like sharp barbs on the tip of his tongue.
“Happy to see me?” he drawled, strolling past her into the quaint, neatly appointed townhouse he’d walked past half a dozen times without ever realizing that what he sought was just inside.
Behind him, he heard the door close and then the soft pad of footsteps that abruptly stopped short three feet away.
As if such a distance would somehow protect her from his wrath.
“I am not,” she said, and if his entire body weren’t a coil of vibrating anger, he might have smiled at her honest admission. “What are you doing here, Stephen?”
“You would dare ask that question of me?” he growled, nearly choking on his incredulity as he whipped around to face her, his arms tight across his chest as fire hotter than the flames that danced in the hearth blazed in his eyes.
“What the hell are you doing here, Abigail? And who the devil is Dr. Chadwick?”
“A surname I assumed when I left America,” she said quietly.
“And when did you leave America?”
“A year ago.”
His nostrils flared. “A goddamned year ago? Then all those months I’ve spent searching for you, all of those towns I visited, all of those miles I traveled, were for nothing. Because you’ve been here, in London, the entire fucking time. Is that what you’re telling me?”
In the deathly quiet of the entry hall, the sound of her swallowing was audible. “Yes.”
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair and pulling the inky strands taut before letting them fall in a low sweep across his brow.
Not trusting himself to go near her, he sat in the nearest armchair and crossed his legs at the knee, presenting the outward appearance of an impeccable gentleman whilst beneath the surface he was a restless, raging storm of conflicting emotions. “You broke our agreement, Abigail.”
“I did.” For her part, she remained standing. A slender figurehead struggling to keep her face above water as the ship she was mounted to crashed into the waves. “I will not apologize for it.”
Well, there went his fantasy of her begging for his forgiveness.
Somehow, he wasn’t surprised.
While his wife was many things, she was not meek or subservient.
He blamed her upbringing in America. Had she been raised in a proper British household, none of the past eight years would have unfolded as they had.
Why, they’d probably be on their fourth child by now.
He’d still be abed, nursing a pounding head from a late night with the lads.
She’d be in the parlor, sipping tea and reviewing the color scheme for the new wing of the children’s orphanage.
They’d have breakfast together. Or maybe not.
Probably dinner. Maybe. How many times had his parents dined in the same room outside of formal events when their peers were watching?
More than a few, fewer than a dozen. All the while sitting at opposite ends of the long table while he’d sat in the middle, his bony shoulders hunched under the weight that came from two people who despised each other sharing the same space.
Was that really what he wanted with Abigail? A traditional arranged marriage propped up on the pillars of aloofness, casual disregard, and mutual dislike?
No.
If he was honest with himself, it wasn’t.
He wanted her.
More than his father had ever wanted his mother.
But was it the bitter thrill of the chase that kept drawing him back when he should have given up months ago . . . or a genuine sense of affection and commitment—he refused to use the other word—that had him gritting his teeth as he stared her down beneath a furrowed brow?
“You owe me a year, Abigail.” He spoke casually, almost indifferently, as if such an amount of time was no different than a traditional monetary debt.
And in some ways, it wasn’t. After all, what was time, but another type of currency?
How much wealth could he have accumulated if he’d focused on his business holdings instead of traipsing across hill and dale, asking about a doctor who had changed her name months ago?
She owed him.
Of that, at least, he was certain.
And he was ready to collect the debt.
“Pack your things,” he ordered. “We’re going to Summerwind House.”
*
“Ambrose! Ambrose, I fear something is wrong.” Bursting into her husband’s study, Mara waddled to his desk and slapped down the letter she’d just received. “This was delivered a few minutes ago.”
After a glance at his wife’s distressed countenance, Ambrose took the letter and read it quickly, then read it again to ensure he wasn’t missing anything of obvious importance.
Carefully folding the paper back in on itself, he reached across the desk and took his wife’s (adorably pudgy) hand.
“Mara, dear, I fear this last-minute trip, while a good idea in theory, is proving to be too much in execution. Why don’t we simply stay here?
I know it isn’t what you want, but you’ll have Kitty right down the row, and—”
“Did you read the letter?” Withdrawing her hand, she snatched up the post and waved it in the air. “Did you?”
“You . . . know that I did,” Ambrose said cautiously. “You just watched me do it.”
Once upon a time, in his far younger years, he had gotten a fancy in his head to go hunting for brown bears in British North America.
While he’d ultimately decided that his efforts were better spent elsewhere, he had devoted quite a few weeks of research into the subject matter.
Research he was now grateful for, as he found himself living with a bear.
A bear that was adoring one moment, and ready to cleave his head from his shoulders with a mighty swipe of her paw the next.
“Then you must realize that Dr. Chadwick is in distress!” Mara cried. “Perhaps even imminent danger!”
Ambrose frowned. “Is there more written on the back? Let me just see—all right,” he said hastily when his darling, gentle wife bared her teeth at him and growled.
“All right. Never mind. Ah . . . from what I read, the letter is merely a request for you to ask your sister if Jack can watch Dr. Chadwick’s cats while she is away.
Admittedly a somewhat odd request but, well, Dr. Chadwick can be a bit odd, can she not, and .
. . why are you looking at me like that?
“Like what?” Mara asked with syrupy sweetness.
He looked down at the porcelain cup on his desk, then up at his wife. “Like you’ve put poison in my coffee.”
“Why would I do that, dear?”
Out of an abundance of caution, he nudged the cup aside and then patted his thigh. “Come here, Mara. Let me rub your shoulders.”
With a very bear-like grumble, she grudgingly acquiesced to his request, perching on the very edge of his lap before a few expert squeezes of his hands had her all but melting into his chest. “I’m sorry,” she sighed, closing her eyes. “I fear I’m not feeling at all like myself these days.”
You don’t say, Ambrose thought silently, but as he valued his life, wisely kept the words to himself.
“You are approaching the end of a very arduous journey that you’ve undertaken for the both of us, my love.” He kissed her head. “I am sorry that I haven’t been able to carry more of the burden.”
“This doesn’t change my worry that something untoward has happened to Dr. Chadwick.
She may be occasionally odd in her mannerisms, but she is the smartest person I’ve ever met.
She is also wholly devoted to her cats, and she would never leave them behind.
When she left here this morning, it was to package them up for travel! ”
His hands stilled. “How does one package a cat?”
“You just . . . put it in a package.”
“Yes, but how?”
“I don’t know, Ambrose! You just do!”
“Quite right.” He resumed the massage. “Foolish of me to ask.”
“Furthermore, if she had changed her mind and planned to keep them here in London under Jack’s care—which in and of itself is a rather questionable decision—why dash off a letter?”
“Ah—”
“Why not return here and ask me in person?”
“Well—”
“Unless she’s not coming back here, but she assumed we would still travel to Southwick, and thus wanted me to reach out to Jack on her behalf before we departed, as she has a closer relationship with me than with my sister.”
“How—”
“Which leads me to assume that he’s found her, and he is taking her somewhere.
His country estate, perhaps. That is what husbands do with wives they find inconvenient or are cross with, is it not?
” With a tiny grunt of effort, Mara turned halfway around to glare balefully at him.
All things being equal, Ambrose would rather have taken his chances with a real grizzly.
“Mara, my beautiful love and mother of our child,” he began, “I realize you’re not feeling like yourself, but I would implore you not to dwell on the less savory parts of our past and instead focus on what promises to be a wonderful—”
“Ambrose! I am not talking about us.”
“You’re not?”
“No. Haven’t you been paying attention?”
“I’m still trying to figure out how you package cats,” he said honestly.
Mara rolled her eyes, then patted his cheek. “Men,” she muttered, sliding off his lap and adjusting the fall of her skirts over her round belly. “Abigail is clearly in distress and sent this letter as a cry for help.”
“Help from whom?” The Duke of Southwick threw up his arms in bewilderment. “The inhumane cat traveling agency?”
“Ambrose, please take this seriously.”
“I’m doing my best.”
“Lord Stephen Highborn, the Earl of Lancaster.”
Ambrose blinked. “What does he have to do with anything?”
“He is Abigail’s husband,” Mara said grimly. “And I fear that if he’s found her, which I suspect that he has, then our good doctor is in grave danger.”