Today, he’d finally caught up to her.
In bloodyLondon, of all places. Which, he did have to hand it to her, was diabolically clever, as it was the only city he’d neverthought 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 areyoudoing 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 goddamnedyearago? 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 wasnotmeek 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 longtable 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?
Sheowedhim.
Of that, at least, he was certain.
