The attendant closed the door as he left, but Abigail could not relax—it was an unfamiliar environment and she felt insecure.
She simply reclined against the couch to rest, just so that she did not have to keep standing.
Time flew, and she was about to fall asleep when the door suddenly opened.
She opened her eyes, instantly wide awake and saw that it was Diarmuid entering. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Abigail shook her head. “It’s fine.”
“Let’s go.”
As Abigail got up, Diarmuid put a hand around her and asked her softly, “That boring, huh?”
“More or less,” she admitted.
Diarmuid chuckled. “I’ll try to turn it down unless it’s absolutely necessary next time.”
“Don’t,” she told him—she did not want his business affected because of her.
She relaxed and pulled a blanket over herself when they returned to their car. “I want to take a nap.”
She only had that glass of fruit juice throughout the event that lasted from noon to evening, and was at once tired, sleepy, and hungry.
“Sure,” Diarmuid told her.
Abigail blinked at him then, looking miserable as she asked, “Can I take off my shoes?”
“What?”
Diarmuid glanced at her feet then, and she lifted them into the air. “I’m not used to high heels. I think I have a blister on my heel.”
Diarmuid frowned. “Yeah, let’s get them off.”
He reached out and took them out for her, and massaged her feet. “Why didn’t you say that it’s making you uncomfortable?”
Abigail shook her head. “It’s not the shoe—it’s me.”
She simply was not accustomed to it, but she probably would get used to it once she wore it a few more times.
As she watched him massage her feet, a warm feeling gushed in her heart and she leaned forward to hug him. “You’re so nice.”
Diarmuid patted her back and asked in return, “You meant I wasn’t before?”
Abigail nodded. “You tried to strangle me twice.”
Her mentioning the past left Diarmuid clearing his throat to glaze over the awkwardness.
There was a misunderstanding and he had yet to fall for her, so he naturally was a little harsh.
“Don’t mention that ever again,” he demanded.
“No way,” Abigail said cheekily. “I’ll remember it for life and even tell our children what you did to me. You won’t ever hold any sway with them, while I’ll use them as an example of what not to do.”
Diarmuid stared at her then. “Cheeky. I guess your feet don’t hurt that much, huh?”
Abigail was beaming, her bright, starry eyes creasing into crescents.
She was unusually beautiful today, her usual innocent beauty now added with an alluringness.
Diarmuid put a finger on her calf and slid it upward, tickling it as punishment.
Abigail’s smile faded right then and he looked up, since Stan Hill was driving.
She shot Diarmuid a glare, as if to warn him not to get out of line while they were still in the car.
Diarmuid merely flashed an enigmatic smile.
Before Abigail realized what was happening, the bulkhead suddenly lifted, separating the front seat from the back.
Diarmuid eagerly reached under her skirt right then, doing so easily through the slit in her gown.
Soon, her halterneck was loosened, the shoulder straps unfastened.
She could not wear a bra underneath the gown, and was therefore at once embarrassed and angry.
Even so, she could not make a sound as she was worried Stan would hear them from the front.
Understanding her misgiving, Diarmuid pinched her on the waist and leaned in to whisper into her ear, “You’ll pay the price for slandering me now.”
Abigail bit her lip, but she stubbornly retorted, “I wasn’t lying—you did bully me, and you’re now not letting me speak? You’re a thug, and an unreasonable one at that!”
Diarmuid shook his head. “No, that’s you.”
Abigail naturally denied it. “I’m a thug? Am I even capable of beating you up?”
“Hit me, then. I won’t hit back.” Diarmuid put her hand on his face then, but Abigail was not about to actually hit him even if he was spoiling her so much now.
A man’s face was his dignity, just as some jokes were permissible, while others were not.
And Abigail certainly was a person with propriety.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she spoke tenderly into his ears. “You’re my husband, my world. I’d never lay a finger on you.”
Diarmuid kissed her so much that her lipstick smeared his lips. “You really know how to please me.”
Abigail wiped his mouth as she said, “I’m being serious.”
That was when he suddenly bit her finger and she smacked him on the chest. “Ow!”
As they fooled around, Abigail’s clothes were more or less off, unable to hide her stunning figure.
Soon, the car stopped outside the castle and Diarmuid wrapped the blanket around her before carrying her out of the car.
Pierre was at the front door, waiting to receive them.
“Is dinner ready?” Diarmuid asked as he headed inside.
“Yes, Mr. Althoff. You may dine at any moment.”
“Good. Have someone bring a bucket of hot water to the bedroom.”
“Very well, sir,” Pierre replied and promptly gestured for someone to get to work.
By the time Diarmuid carried Abigail to their room, the bucket of hot water was ready.
He sent the servant out while putting Abigail on the bed and her feet in the bucket.
“I’ll have someone bring some ointment.”
“It’s fine,” Abigail said from beneath her blanket. “The blister popped, so I’ll be fine once the pus is squeezed out.”
Diarmuid was still worried regardless. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“No.” She shook her head—soaking her feet in hot water relieved her a little.
“Oh, right,” she exclaimed, remembering the business card she received and passing it to him. “A woman gave that to me. There are no details so I don’t know what her line of work is, and there’s only that phone number and address.”
Diarmuid, however, could tell immediately, and he threw it into the bin nearby once he took it.
Abigail was puzzled. “Why would you do that? It seems a little impolite.”
“It’s not a business card—just a club card.”
“Club? What club?” Abigail pressed out of curiosity.
Diarmuid’s lips curled up slightly. “A club for housewives—rich wives, to be specific.”
Abigail understood right then. She had seen their lavish, easygoing lifestyle of afternoon tea sessions and extravagant shopping sprees.
“They’re too rich but have nothing to do, so they’d just gather and gossip as a pastime,” Diarmuid added, before warning her, “But don’t you dare join them.”
Abigail was confused. “Why not?”
“You’re young,” Diarmuid said pointedly. “That’s a club for old hags.”
Abigail was actually confused by that line of reasoning. Why was the age gap a problem here?
“Are you hungry now? Let’s eat.” Diarmuid changed the subject then and dried her feet. “I’ll carry you downstairs.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Abigail said. “I can walk fine, and it won’t hurt if I put on slippers.”
She did so just to show him.
“Fine,” Diarmuid said, not wanting her to show off.
Abigail simply stopped, changed into fresh clothes and followed her downstairs.
Pierre told them in the dining room, “We’ve prepared a Zidonian menu. You need just ask if you have any requests for your dinner, and I’ll have the kitchen cook it.”
Abigail naturally preferred Zidonian food, and Diarmuid waved Pierre off. “We’re fine here.”
Pierre did so, and Abigail started to stuff her mouth with food since she was really hungry.
Moreover, every dish was perfectly made—the cook was certainly skilled.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.
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