Free Julia London by Wicked Angel The Devil's Love Page B

realized, too late, that she could not fasten them all herself. She shrugged as she searched for the slippers dyed to match her gown. It did not matter. She was not getting married in this or any other dress. That horrid man would not marry her. He
despised
her.
    She had not had time to do anything with her hair when the rapid staccato fell on her door again, and it swung open. Not only was he an ogre, but he was exceedingly rude, she thought, snapping to attention. She was hardly prepared for the sight of him. Dressed in formal attire of midnight black with a snowy white satin waistcoat, he looked even more impossibly handsome than before. A swath of regret cut across her as she stared at his magnificent features. The only thing she and her cousins had been right about was his looks. He was, quite certainly, the most handsome man she had ever clapped eyes on.
    At the same moment, Michael thought she would have made a stunning bride even as he eyed her wrinkled gown. But not his, and not tonight. He leaned negligently against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest, and let his gaze wander her svelte figure. She was a gorgeous woman, that much he could not deny. It was a pity; in any other time or place, he would have greatly appreciated her beauty. But the only thing he would appreciate now was her refusal of the agreement. “Well? The vicar is waiting.”
    “All right,” she said smoothly, and marched out of the room, passing him in a cloud of pale blue and lilac scent. A laugh caught in his throat as she passed him and he realized her gown was buttoned only halfway up her back.
    He placed a hand on her shoulder. She whirled around, a look of wild panic in her eyes. Michael quickly held up his hands.
    “Your gown,” he said quickly.
    Abbey’s brows snapped to a frown. “I am sorry, but I did not come with a lady’s maid. Surely if I had, you would have sent her back at once. Not responsible for a bevy of relatives or favorites, isn’t that right?”
    Michael chuckled and motioned for her to turn around. Abbey was having none of that and violently shook her head. He ignored her, put his hands on her shoulders, and forced her to turn. “Do not worry about your good name, Miss Carrington. I intend to button up this gown of yours as opposed to unbutton it. I rather doubt your bevy of relatives in America will hear of this little episode,” he said as he quickly fastened her gown.
    The light touch of his fingers on her back sent a queer, tingling shiver down her spine, but Abbey bit her lower lip and endured it. He was right; she could hardly appear in front of a vicar or anyone else with her gown undone, and as she had no cousins to help her, she was going to have to allow him this one indiscretion. She was amazed at how deftly he fastened the tiny row of buttons, and wondered madly how many times he had sent his fingers flying in the opposite direction on a woman’s back. As soon as he finished, she jumped away from him, practically to the other side of the corridor. When Michael motioned toward the grand staircase, Abbey walked quickly to avoid any further contact, even though Michael was right on her heels.
    “It’s your own fault,” he casually observed. “If you could but give up this absurdity, there would be no call for you to come running out of your room half dressed.”
    Abbey bristled. “I did
not
come running out of my room half dressed! If you will recall,
you
are the one who decreed fifteen minutes. I am not the one acting irrationally here,
you
are.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. I have explained to you my hands are tied. You are the only one who can stop this madness, yet you refuse to do it. You are, apparently, as stubborn a wench as you ever were,” he shot back.
    Abbey lifted her chin and deigned not to answer that as they raced to the bottom of the stairs. In the foyer, she turnedto proceed down the corridor she had been in earlier, but his hand on her waist stopped her.
    “Miss