she was scarcely ever on her own, and had little time in which to compile the list Lord Denver had requested, she would have revelled in her changed circumstances.
Since her appearance at the duchess’s ball the Penrith town house in Belgravia had been inundated with callers. Gentlemen seeking to consolidate their acquaintance with her, ladies looking to include her in their activities, and people calling to issue invitations combined to reduce the well-run household to a state of near chaos. And when they weren’t receiving callers, or dealing with the latest catastrophe regarding Bea’s trousseau, they were themselves taken up with returning calls. They took tea with other ladies, accepted invitations to luncheons, listening to the latest gossip and learned in the strictest confidence who was about to offer for whom. Too new to it all to find it fatiguing, Abbey was fascinated by the depth of interest the ladies took in one another’s affairs. Not quite so fascinating was their readiness to indulge in unsubstantiated gossip, branding others, on the flimsiest of evidence, as being not quite up to the mark.
Abbey took refuge in her chamber late at night, when she could at last be assured of privacy. She worked upon her list, shaking her head as she wrote out the familiar names. She knew these people far too well to consider they wished her anything other than the best of good fortune. Besides, none of them had ever shown the slightest signs of envy at her unusual circumstances. On the contrary, they all appeared to take pleasure from her company and had nothing to gain from her demise. As far as Abbey was concerned they were, every last one of them, quite simply beyond reproach.
Sighing, she threw her quill aside and stretched her aching limbs, reluctantly conceding Lord Denver had most likely been right when he suggested whoever intended her harm was motivated by the desire to benefit financially. Accepting the fact, though, did nothing to assist her in identifying the shadowy figure lurking on the edge of her consciousness. It was too fantastic to contemplate anyone close to her being culpable. Besides, if anyone bore her ill-will, she was certain she would have sensed their underlying hostility, however well they sought to disguise it.
In an effort to divert her thoughts from a dilemma that appeared more complex by the minute, Abbey turned her mind to the question of Lord Denver’s kiss. She felt a warm glow spread through her body as she relived the moment. No, not a glow, but a fizz. Yes, that described the way she felt exactly. Her cheeks turned scarlet when the fizz pooled in the pit of her stomach in a manner so agreeable she hugged herself in an attempt to prolong the sensation.
She smiled and ran her tongue across her lips, wishing her mind didn’t keep returning to that wretched kiss. Kissing equated to fizzing and fizzing was, she felt sure, something she wasn’t supposed to feel—especially when Lord Denver was responsible for creating it. Lord Evans didn’t make her fizz, which she considered that to be a good thing. Fizzing complicated everything. It made it especially difficult for Abbey to think coherently, and she had always prided herself upon her sharp mind and powers of deduction.
No, fizzing definitely wasn’t on her agenda.
Abbey wondered about her quite shocking want of propriety in allowing his lordship such licence. The fizzing was to blame, of course. It addled her senses to such a degree that only now had she started to wonder why he’d requested a kiss in return for assisting her. What could he have meant by it? If even half of what Bea had related about his past was true then he could hardly claim lack of female companionship as an excuse.
Abbey dismissed the idea as ludicrous and told herself it didn’t matter why he’d asked for a fizz…no, a kiss. All that mattered was he’d agreed to help her. Anyway, this kissing business was probably nothing more than a fleeting
Since her appearance at the duchess’s ball the Penrith town house in Belgravia had been inundated with callers. Gentlemen seeking to consolidate their acquaintance with her, ladies looking to include her in their activities, and people calling to issue invitations combined to reduce the well-run household to a state of near chaos. And when they weren’t receiving callers, or dealing with the latest catastrophe regarding Bea’s trousseau, they were themselves taken up with returning calls. They took tea with other ladies, accepted invitations to luncheons, listening to the latest gossip and learned in the strictest confidence who was about to offer for whom. Too new to it all to find it fatiguing, Abbey was fascinated by the depth of interest the ladies took in one another’s affairs. Not quite so fascinating was their readiness to indulge in unsubstantiated gossip, branding others, on the flimsiest of evidence, as being not quite up to the mark.
Abbey took refuge in her chamber late at night, when she could at last be assured of privacy. She worked upon her list, shaking her head as she wrote out the familiar names. She knew these people far too well to consider they wished her anything other than the best of good fortune. Besides, none of them had ever shown the slightest signs of envy at her unusual circumstances. On the contrary, they all appeared to take pleasure from her company and had nothing to gain from her demise. As far as Abbey was concerned they were, every last one of them, quite simply beyond reproach.
Sighing, she threw her quill aside and stretched her aching limbs, reluctantly conceding Lord Denver had most likely been right when he suggested whoever intended her harm was motivated by the desire to benefit financially. Accepting the fact, though, did nothing to assist her in identifying the shadowy figure lurking on the edge of her consciousness. It was too fantastic to contemplate anyone close to her being culpable. Besides, if anyone bore her ill-will, she was certain she would have sensed their underlying hostility, however well they sought to disguise it.
In an effort to divert her thoughts from a dilemma that appeared more complex by the minute, Abbey turned her mind to the question of Lord Denver’s kiss. She felt a warm glow spread through her body as she relived the moment. No, not a glow, but a fizz. Yes, that described the way she felt exactly. Her cheeks turned scarlet when the fizz pooled in the pit of her stomach in a manner so agreeable she hugged herself in an attempt to prolong the sensation.
She smiled and ran her tongue across her lips, wishing her mind didn’t keep returning to that wretched kiss. Kissing equated to fizzing and fizzing was, she felt sure, something she wasn’t supposed to feel—especially when Lord Denver was responsible for creating it. Lord Evans didn’t make her fizz, which she considered that to be a good thing. Fizzing complicated everything. It made it especially difficult for Abbey to think coherently, and she had always prided herself upon her sharp mind and powers of deduction.
No, fizzing definitely wasn’t on her agenda.
Abbey wondered about her quite shocking want of propriety in allowing his lordship such licence. The fizzing was to blame, of course. It addled her senses to such a degree that only now had she started to wonder why he’d requested a kiss in return for assisting her. What could he have meant by it? If even half of what Bea had related about his past was true then he could hardly claim lack of female companionship as an excuse.
Abbey dismissed the idea as ludicrous and told herself it didn’t matter why he’d asked for a fizz…no, a kiss. All that mattered was he’d agreed to help her. Anyway, this kissing business was probably nothing more than a fleeting
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