Stephen had not come to find Abigail out of any sense of duty to his dying father. The Earl of Lancaster could choke on atoad tomorrow for all he cared. But one thing he did care about—he cared deeply about—was Summerwind House, the country manor that had been in his family for five generations. A manor that should rightfully pass to him without complication, along with the mansion in Grosvenor Square, townhouse in Bath, hunting property in Killin, and a far larger estate in Sussex. But it was Summerwind House that held the most sentimental value, as it was the only place his father had never cared to visit, and as such, it was the only place in all of Great Britain that he had ever felt completely safe.
He’d spent his best summers racing away from his governess through the dusty hallways and romping around the fields and forests pretending to be a pirate. With a branch as his sword, he’d slayed dragons and sea beasts while forging friendships that remained strong to this day. Summerwind was more than a house, it was a haven. Unfortunately, he’d made the dire mistake of revealing to his father just how much it meant to him... and thus it was his duty to a crumbling old manor that had spurred him into hunting down a fiancée he’d never asked for, not his father.
“Find her,”the earl had said in no uncertain terms,“and marry her, or so help me God I’ll see to it that before I take my last breath, that hovel you love will be razed to the ground!”
In conclusion, Stephen hadn’t set out on his journey with any grand expectations. But with every passing minute that he spent in Abigail’s admittedly volatile presence, he was starting to wonder if being forced to marry an intelligent, headstrong, and pretty faux-American would be such a terrible thing. In a ballroom gone stale with the same old giggling debutantes, Abigail was a breath of fresh New England air. She may not have wanted anything to do with him, but he was beginning to feel like he would enjoy having a great deal to do with her.
“Would it be so terrible?” he asked, leaning onto his elbows.
“Would what be so terrible?” she mumbled, staring at her teacup.
“Marrying me. And before you refuse, hear me out. We both have something the other wants.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “I don’t want anything from you but to be left alone.”
“Ouch,” he said, feigning a grimace. “If I were a man of lesser self-confidence that would hurt.”
She sniffed. “It is not my job to stroke your pride.”
“You’re right.” Although he could think of one thing he’d very much like for her to stroke. When heat pooled in his loins at the erotic image of her hand wrapped around his hard cock, Stephen shifted in his chair. “If I return to London with a copy of our marriage license in hand as proof of our nuptials, I don’t see why you’d have to accompany me. Stay in Manhattan and attend Columbia College.”
“I already told you that Dr. Bard—”
“Leave Dr. Bard to me,” he interrupted. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You’ll take care of it,” she repeated, her tone ripe with skepticism.
“That’s what I said.” Once again he extended his hand across the table, this time with his palm facing upward. “Marry me, Abigail. Marry me, and I’ll return home, you’ll stay here, and we’ll live happily ever after. Until such time as I require an heir, that is.”
Her own hand, which had begun to inch toward his, immediately disappeared. A tiny bird darting back into its nest as a hawk circled overhead. “You mean a child. In exchange for my education, I will have to give you a child.”
“As I’m sure you’ve gleaned from the betrothal contract, continuing the bloodline is quite important to us aristocrats. Besides, would it be such a terrible thing?” he asked, searching her countenance. She’d make an awful card player. All of heremotions—dismay, uncertainty, annoyance, and the tiniest bit of curiosity—were right there on full display. “To have a child with your husband?”
“It wouldn’t beterrible.” Her tongue flicked between her lips, passing across the bottom in such a way that he found himself once again adjusting his position in the chair. Thank heavens for the long drape of the tablecloth. “Having offspring is the natural prerogative of any species.”
“Quite right,” he said seriously.
“I would require a minimum of ten years. To graduate from school, complete an apprenticeship, and establish my own practice.” Her eyes took on a gleam of determination that Stephen found both inspiring and a tad bit intimidating.
While most women in her position would beelatedat the idea of marrying him and settling into the role of viscountess, soon-to-be-countess, Abigail viewed the traditional role of lady of the manor as a hindrance. He couldn’t say he blamed her, as he wasn’t entirely looking forward to playing lord of the manor and shouldering all of the responsibilities that came along with it. But he had an inkling... he had an inkling that with Abigail by his side, it would be a far less unpleasant experience.
“Five,” he countered.
“Eight.”
“Seven. My final offer.”
She looked at his hand, still stretched open and waiting. Then slowly, so slowly that had he held his breath he might have toppled right off the chair, she raised her arm... and pressed her palm to his.
Stephen could have sworn that his heart skipped a beat as their fingers interlocked, and by her startled blink he liked to think that hers had as well.
“Should we seal it with a kiss?” he asked.
“A . . . a kiss?”
“Wearegoing to be married tomorrow.”
“So soon? But—”
