Free The Outcast Earl by Elle Q. Sabine

over her. “That may be an effective parlour trick to ward off some formal, namby-pamby suitor, but you will not play such games with me, Abigail.”
    “I-I—” Abigail began to say, then stopped. She had meant to withdraw a bit, to collect her mind and recover her inner balance. “You got up,” she finally said, defensively.
    Meriden raised an eyebrow, then spoke soberly. “I only left your side to collect this,” he said, lifting her left hand and sliding a ring over her finger. Abigail blinked and stared, but he went on, “I’ll have it sized in Birmingham immediately after the wedding. I can see it’s a bit too large, but it will do for now—it will serve to remind you.”
    “Remind me of what?” Abigail bit out, frustration edging her tone even as she tipped her hand to admire the brilliant emerald surrounded by a circle of diamonds.
    Meriden was smiling now at her distracted question. He watched as she tilted her hand to the left and then the right. The filtered rays of light caught each gem differently. Eventually he replied, obviously struggling to choose the right words.
    “I am—can be—a difficult man. I won’t deny it. Marriage to me won’t always be easy. I foresee myself expecting—no, demanding—significant amounts of your time and attention, in addition to the house and the nursery and whatever social obligations befall you as the countess. So, I suppose, the ring is a statement to you, and to the world, that you are mine. To the world, you are under the protection of my house and title. Wearing it symbolises to them that you represent me in all that you are and all that you do, and I have no doubts you will perform that office better than I ever have. However, to you—to us—it is also a reminder that I am a somewhat selfish man. I want—no, I insist , and will rarely be denied—that I have first call on your time and attention, that you consider my needs and wishes first.”
    He stopped, and the room was quiet while Abigail let all he had said swirl inside her head. She blinked, shocked by such a blunt assessment of his expectations. She let her hand drop to her lap and cleared her throat a bit in the now noticeable stillness.
    How was she expected to respond to that? She felt a strange sense of admiration for his honesty. Still, wasn’t the presentation of a betrothal ring supposed to be lovingly romantic, with vows of eternal faithfulness and devotion?
    Of course not , she scolded herself, astonished at her sudden susceptibility to the modern expectation of romance. This engagement of hers was for an arranged marriage. For the ring to be accompanied by a list of expected duties made some sort of sick, practical sense. And, she decided, if he’d pledged his undying love, she’d not have believed a word of it.
    “Well, then,” she eventually said, her voice forced to a carefully modulated tone as she suppressed a growing sense of outrage. “It seems that my mother and father were wise beyond their ken in deciding to make me the sacrificial lamb. Fiona would never have been able to tolerate such a—a—an arrangement of the sort you describe.”
    Meriden appeared to take stock of her state of mind quite well. He lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers, and whispered with a husky laugh, “I trust that there will be suitable compensations for your time and trouble, dearest. I may act like an arrogant ass but I am not completely a fool.” With that, he feathered kisses over both cheeks before capturing her mouth again.
    This time, he let his hands drift downward from her shoulders in tandem, rubbing his palms over her breasts simultaneously before cupping both of them. They were magically sensitive to his touch. Warmth exploded in Abigail’s middle and she whimpered under his mouth, the idea of Meriden’s hands on her skin suddenly forming behind her closed eyes. As the long seconds passed, Abigail tentatively wished he would continue. Without asking, he did, moving