He released her with such abruptness that she lost her balance and stumbled, bumping into a pillar at the base of the steps. Snatching up her satchel and holding it against her heaving bosom as if it were an iron shield instead of a rather sad lump of worn leather, she prepared herself for another attack, but to her bemusement the stranger flung out his arms in a gesture of surrender before sinking into a formal bow that had her brows snapping together.
“It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” He raised his head to grace her with a particularly roguish grin that likely worked to charm a majority of women, but it wasn’t going to work on her. Not at all. Not even the tiniest bit. Was that a dimple in his left cheek? “My most fervent apologies, Lady Abigail. Please forgive me.”
The sound of her name on his lips gave her a start. “You... you know who I am?”
His grin faded as he straightened to his full height. “But of course. A man ought to know his own fiancée, shouldn’t he?”
An icy chill swept down the middle of Abigail’s spine. “You’re mistaken, sir. You have me confused for someone else.” If shewerea rabbit, it was at this point that she would have rather gnawed off her own paw than remain clasped in the fox’s sharp teeth staring down the barrel of its gullet. “If you would excuse me—”
“No, I don’t think so.” The grin was entirely gone. Without it, his countenance was cold and foreboding. His gaze harsh and commanding. The charming, devil-may-care scoundrel had vanished. In his place stood a merciless knight with a sword pressed to her neck. And with his next words, he drew the firstpinprick of blood. “I’ve come a long way to find you, Abigail. Now that I have, I’ve no intention of letting you go.”
Chapter Three
As Stephen watchedall of the color slowly drain from Abigail’s face, he felt a distinct measure of satisfaction. After the hell she’d put him through these past six months, a bit of alarm was the smallest price she deserved to pay. Even if she’d never received the multitude of letters that he’d sent to the address he’d pried from her nanny, the only person the Duchess of Hanover had trusted with her whereabouts after she’d fled England and taken her daughter with her, Abigailhadto know what her eighteenth birthday signified. It was too important a date for the duchess not to have told her before she’d passed from consumption, a sobering fact he’d learned just three days ago when he had finally managed to track his fiancée to the small town of Lisbon. Only to learn she’d departed the morning prior on a stagecoach bound for Manhattan.
Undeterred, he’d jumped on the next coach out of the station, and had arrived an hour ago. Just enough time to find the hotel she’d stayed at and then track her here, to Columbia College. He’d been ready to search every damned classroom... until, by a rare stroke of sheer luck (his first since starting this wild-goose chase), there she was. A petite, somewhat mousy-looking woman with light-brown hair sloppily pinned beneath a blue bonnet and a boxy dress walking down the steps. Walking straightintohim before he caught her by the shoulders, hishands tightening reflexively around the object of his search that had eluded him for so long.
When she’d tilted her head back, he was relieved to see that her eyes were green. Not pale blue, or light hazel, but a true spring-meadow green framed with thick, sooty lashes. The same color her mother’s had been, and the rumored reason why she’d caught the attention of the Duke of Hanover in the first place. It was easy to see why. Eyes like those could start a war, or end one. Even glaring at him, they were prettier than any viridescent jewel he’d ever held in his hand.
Stunning, really.
And as annoyed as he was by all he’d gone through to get here, Stephen had felt a glimmer of hope that the arduous journey had led him to more than he had ever dared to let himself anticipate. Not that he was necessarily a pessimistic fellow, but he was a realistic one, and having gotten a front row seat to an arranged marriage in his own home, he knew what they could be. What they often were.
Fucking terrible.
Suffice to say, he hadn’t exactly been looking forward to his own. But then he’d gazed into those green eyes, and her adorable, upturned nose, and the dash of freckles upon her cheeks, and he’d thought... he’d thought maybe there was something to be found here. Something that could actually grow when it was planted instead of succumbing to rot and disease as soon as it emerged from the soil.
Until she punched his arm, stomped on his foot, and threatened to do serious harm to his manhood.
“Would you care to discuss the planning of our nuptials in a more private setting?” he asked, his stare hardening as it swept across her countenance. She wasn’t going to run away from him this time to go hide in some tiny New England town. She’d already had the luxury of living eighteen years without theconstant pressure he had been made to endure, and he would be damned before she got another day. If he had to suffer, then so did she. Fair was fair. Promises were promises. Contracts were contracts. Even when they were signed on your behalf.
Then she trembled... and Stephen cursed under his breath as guilt sliced through his satisfaction.
He didn’t want to terrify the girl. Nor did he truly wish to upset her, no matter the upheaval and unrest her disappearance had caused his family over the years. This was to be his future wife, after all. The mother of his children. Although at the moment, she looked as if she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to bolt or heave up her breakfast. Not exactly the flattering first impression he had wanted to make when he set out across the Atlantic to collect her.
“Come on,” he said gruffly, shrugging out of his greatcoat. “It’s cold and you don’t even have a cloak on. Let’s find somewhere warm while we sort through this mess that we’re in.”
“Thank you,” she said, her small fingers curling around the lapels of his coat as he draped it over her shoulders. Comically large, it dragged on the pavement behind her as they made their way down the street to a busy coffeehouse with a single empty table toward the rear.
Over the hum of voices and the cheerful tune of a violin, he ordered tea and scones, stirred a hefty spoonful of sugar into his cup while Abigail squeezed a dash of lemon into hers, and he took a musing sip before settling back in his chair for what was surely to be an...interesting...conversation.
How did he begin a discussion with the woman who had been bound to him since she was born? A woman he’d never seen before today. A woman who clearly wanted nothing to do with him.
He’d made a mess of it thus far. Which was unusual for him, as he typically had a gift for talking people into doing whateverhe wanted with a grin and a wink. Except when he’d tried his grin on Abigail—his very best grin at that—she’d looked at him as if he had two heads, and wasn’t that a damned piece of irony? His short list of gorgeous and coveted mistresses was proof that his renowned charm worked on all members of the opposite sex from actresses to opera singers. He’d even coaxed a smile from the Dowager Countess of Grantham, a formidable termagant that had made grown men cry. All females adored him, from the very young to the very old.
Except, it appeared, for one.
The woman he was to marry.
“What were you doing at the college?” By way of opening lines, it seemed harmless enough. “Applying for a secretarial position?”
Abigail’s mouth pinched, giving her a striking resemblance to the dowager countess. “No, I was not applying for asecretarialposition. I was applying to be a medical student.”
“I take it you weren’t accepted?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?” he asked, lifting his cup.
