Lady Saves the Duke Page 10

  Well.

  Would he be even more resentful of her than her parents were? Was she jumping from the frying pan into the fire? She suddenly questioned her belief in miracles.

  But if she married, she could have a child, perhaps more than one. And even though she knew they would never fill the hole in her heart from before, she thought they could bring her some contentment, some happiness after all.

  “Would it make, well—us—appear to look guilty? Or does being a duke erase that kind of nastiness? Will my apparent indiscretions be forgiven if I am a duchess?”

  The duke pondered her question with his gaze fixed on some inanimate object across the room. “I imagine so, eventually.” Then he looked around the room before arriving at some sort of decision. When he stood up, Abigail took his lead and rose as well. Perhaps he’d come to his senses and changed his mind.

  “I will consult my sister. If necessary, I will obtain the special license.” Turning to leave, he stopped suddenly and turned back to face her. Taking her hand in his, he raised it to his lips. Was he mocking her? “You will hear from me again in no less than a week. Until then, Miss Wright.” Her hand tingled where he had placed his lips for that slight fraction of a second. Abigail dropped to a curtsey, but did not drop her eyes.

  “Goodbye, then,” she said.

  As he left, she wondered if she would ever see him again. Or perhaps she would merely wake up and discover this all to have been a dream.

  ****

  Alex ran a shaking hand through his hair as the carriage turned out of the drive. What the hell had he just done? What was it about that woman that caused him to veer so completely away from his original plans? It cannot have been lust. He was thirty-eight, for God’s sake. He could control his baser needs and had been doing so for years now.

  Was he acting out of pity? It cannot have been. Good Lord, marriage? He could hardly believe he had offered for her. And then, unwittingly, he found himself smiling as he remembered her counting to three and urging him to flee.

  He ought to have taken her up on her countdown and dashed out to the coach before she reached the count of two. But he knew why he had not.

  She’d been refreshingly honest with him. She had not turned coy and pretended to not want to marry him, in fact, she had admitted to him that his offer tempted her. What had she said? Oh, yes. I only have so much self-discipline, you see, and part of me sees you as quite the answer to all of my problems.

  Something about her brought out his protective instincts. Neither her father nor her uncle had provided her any protection whatsoever.

  He, himself, had treated her disrespectfully.

  Despite these salient facts, she had attempted, quite valiantly, to remain cheerful.

  God save him from a cheerful woman.

  Perhaps, scratch that—no perhaps about it. Her tears affected him. They’d not been feigned. In fact, he believed his visit might have actually drawn them from her. It was as though she’d discovered a great relief with him. And it was his opinion that she had not allowed herself any tears until that moment.

  Alex shifted restlessly. He ought to have ridden his own mount for this journey. Rapping loudly on the roof, he demanded the attention of his driver. He would ride up front. Far too agitated to remain inside at that moment, he’d enjoy the fresh air. Allow it to clear his thoughts…And then…well…Margaret and Cecily were both still in residence, and he could discuss this with them. Yes, that would be best. And next time he faced an unwanted complication, he would bloody well send Harris.

  ****

  “You what?” Margaret’s eyes flew open when Alex casually mentioned that he had resolved the situation of Miss Abigail Wright by betrothing himself to her. Along with Aunt Cecily, they were seated in the most oft-used drawing room at Brooke’s Abbey taking tea and enjoying some small pastries.

  Alex shot Margaret the look he reserved for occasions when he was unwilling to discuss a matter. “It is settled. I only wanted your input regarding the details of the wedding itself. You have been more active than I amongst the ton. Which would provide the best outcome, do you think? A hasty marriage by special license, or must I make an occasion of it?” He crossed his legs and took a sip of the hot tea Margaret had poured. “In the past, I haven’t paid much attention to such trivialities, so I thought it would be best to consult you and Aunt.”

  Aunt Cecily had narrowed her eyes. She would not be as manageable as his sister. “Good God, Monfort!” She spoke in a tight voice. “If the chit is with child, you merely have to set her up somewhere. You needn’t marry her. You haven’t told anyone yet, have you? You most certainly will not go through with this unsuitable arrangement.” She set her teacup down and wiped her hands on the linen napkin draped over her lap. “You must extricate yourself from this promise as quickly as possible. Even if we must pay her family off.”

  “I have offered for her, and she has accepted. I will not go back on my word. I am surprised you think that I would.” He set his tea aside as well. “I did not come to the two of you for your approval. For with it, or without it, you will accept the woman I marry as my duchess, and you will not speak another word against her. I came to you for assistance in planning the wedding.”

  Margaret continued to look at him as though he had grown two horns. It took her a few moments to address his wishes. Alex knew she would not contest him. “Oh, Alex,” she wailed, “I am at a complete loss. What happened? However did she manage to draw a proposal from you?” She ventured into uninvited territory in spite of his icy demeanor.

  Alex uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. He clenched his jaws tight to keep from blistering his little sister with a scathing set down. “It is done,” was all he said.

  Margaret sprung to her feet and began pacing. Alex did not rise for his sister as he normally would have with any other gentlewoman—except for when he was in his cups, apparently. Visibly agitated, she was no longer looking at him; rather she stared at the ornamental carpet as she paced back and forth. Finally, after covering the length of the room about a dozen times, she returned to her seat. “I am not sure if a special license is necessary. I need to know more about this…this…Miss Wright before giving you any advice.” She paused a moment and finally met his gaze again. “Is she at all refined?”

  He pondered her question. When he first had set eyes upon her, he would have said, definitely not. And later, she had been clutching her shawl about her in a death grip (although not tight enough) and wearing a dress which had been a few sizes too small. When he had met her that evening for dinner, however, she had looked perfectly respectable in some dress that she had said she’d sewn herself. Although not glamorous, she had interacted with the other guests with a warm and sweet countenance unique to her. Everybody had presented some level of ennui, but not Miss Wright. She had embraced the evening as though it would be her last.

  As it very nearly had become.

  But was she refined?

  “With a bit of polish, she might be considered refined,” Alex finally answered. “She isn’t pretty in a general sense, but she is not the antidote I considered her to be at first glance.”

  “I think”—Margaret’s lips pursed as she formulated a plan—“we ought to take her to London. She will need clothing and various instruction, no doubt. We can do all of this discreetly, at Cross House. Of course, I will have to bring the children, but Aunt and I will act as chaperones.” Concern wrinkled her forehead.

  He supposed their task might be greater than he’d imagined.

  Alex rose to leave his sister to the planning. Best to keep the woman busy. He never understood the workings of woman’s brains, anyhow.

  Most times, he preferred his horses.

  Chapter 6

  Abigail sat stunned, in her father’s drawing room for several moments after the duke’s carriage pulled away. She only roused from her stupor when her mother came bursting in.

  Waving her hands around in an irritating manner, Mrs. Wright flutt
ered with curiosity. “What did he want? What have you done now, Abigail?”

  Mr. Wright meandered in behind his wife. “He wanted to apologize to her, I told you. It’s the way those nabobs are. Full of himself, that duke is,” he added before tipping the carafe on the sideboard and pouring a liberal amount into the glass he’d been carrying.

  “Is that all he came for, then, Abigail?” Her mother sat on the loveseat, straight backed. “Fancy that! A duke coming to Raebourne to apologize to my daughter!” Leaning forward, she demanded details. “Well, speak up, girl, is that why he came?”

  Abigail paused before answering. If she told her parents the truth, most assuredly they would not believe her. She barely believed it herself.

  What if they believed her, and then the duke failed to return? What if he had been out of his head when he’d proposed, and once away from her realized the horrid mistake he’d made?

  The situation would be nightmarish if she were to tell her parents she was betrothed and it turned out to be a cruel joke. It wasn’t every day that a girl from Biddeford Corner betrothed herself to a duke. Her parents would shout the news from the rooftops.

  Was it possible for her to be even more of a scandal than she already was? Perhaps it was.

  “He apologized nicely,” she answered carefully.

  But what if he did take this betrothal seriously and then returned in one week expecting her to have made plans to move away from her family and become a duchess? At this thought, she nearly burst out laughing.

  It must be a joke!

  “He told me he felt sorry such a scandal occurred when he knew I had done nothing to deserve it,” Abigail added, her spirit fighting through the lethargy she’d been feeling for the past few weeks.

  Mrs. Wright slouched into the back of the settee and frowned. “Hmph,” she said. “That doesn’t help the reputation of this family! That is all? That is what he came all the way to Raebourne for?”

  She would not mention the betrothal. Better for her parents to be pleasantly surprised in the unlikely event the duke returned in one week than for them to be disappointed in her again.

  “That is all, Mother,” she murmured. Still, a part of her unnaturally giddy. Once alone, she was going to embrace the delight of the fairytale proposal. She’d carried the burden of scandal for nearly a decade now, and the duke had said, as a duchess, she would be free of it. Even in her wildest imaginings, she had never conjured up the miracle he had offered her today. She must enjoy the feeling while she could.

  She would ignore the complications of her decision later. Specifically the daunting thought that she had no idea how to be a duchess.

  Surely a duchess would have to walk differently. She’d talk differently. Abigail stifled a wince at the thought that duchesses likely did everything differently. And then she stifled a giggle.

  Her parents watched her closely. “What are you smiling about, girl?” her father said. “Do you think it is amusing that you have dragged my good name in the mud once again?”

  “Oh, no, Papa,” she answered quickly, tightening her lips. She should know better than to show any emotion other than remorse while in their company, as of late. “I appreciated somebody finally acknowledging my innocence. That is all…”

  “Well, it does us no good.” Mrs. Wright shrugged, standing and clutching her handkerchief tightly. “No good at all! I don’t understand how you could have acted so foolish…so vulgar…”

  And the remonstrations would begin again…

  “It was your fault for sending her,” Mr. Wright said. “We’ll not make that mistake again, not that such an opportunity will present itself, that is.”

  Abigail stared down into her lap, deflated. As long as she could remember, her parents had browbeaten each other to some degree or another. But more recently, the arguments had worsened.

  And it was likely all her own fault.

  As expected, Mrs. Wright left the room, wailing and whining for Betty to help her to her bedchamber. And, also as expected, Mr. Wright reached for the decanter of spirits sitting open on the sideboard.

  They had managed to emerge from her first scandal with a semblance of dignity, but would they survive this latest scandal? Abigail sat motionless, aware that her father had thrown back one drink and already poured another. Oh, God, but she hoped the duke had not been mocking her. For all of their sakes, she needed to escape.

  ****

  It had been four days since the duke had come through Biddeford Corners and thrown down the gauntlet of his unlikely proposal. Abigail, fully aware that he had told her he would contact her in one week, grew more nervous with each passing day. What if he did not return?

  What if he did?

  Desperate to escape the tension for the afternoon, Abigail slipped outside, ran, and then, once breathless, slowed to a stroll along the rutted drive, in mind to head into Biddeford Corners. She didn’t care if people chose to be rude to her today, she needed away from Raebourne, if only for a few hours. And as she put distance between herself and her parents, the fist around her heart gradually let up.

  So much so that she skipped, and then twirled. She wanted to feel like herself again, not this shell of disappointment she’d become.

  Hearing an approaching rider, Abigail looked up. Ah, something of interest might happen today after all. Still on her father’s land, Abigail hailed the imposing man to stop.

  Dressed in full livery, the rider was obviously a nobleman’s servant. He pulled his horse to a halt several feet from Abigail and stared at her down his nose. “Do you work at Raebourne, girl?” he asked, gesturing toward the cottage in the distance.

  Realizing he mistook her for a housemaid, Abigail smoothed the apron she wore over one of older dresses and laughed. “No, sir, but I am the daughter of the house. How may I help you?”

  Waves of doubt rolled off the messenger. “And your name, madam?”

  Abigail sighed and then forced a smile. “I am Miss Abigail Wright. Again, how may I help you?” The Duke of Monfort must have sent him. Likely he carried the dreaded missive she had been expecting, signifying his regrets. She glanced over her shoulder, hoping neither of her parents had heard his approach. How would she explain a liveried servant upon their property?

  Abigail braced herself for the news. Surely, this was his way of crying off.

  As the realization of his mistake dawned on the servant, he threw back his shoulders and then jumped down from his mount. He pulled something out of his satchel and then bowed formally. “I have a missive from the Duke of Monfort. I am to await your response before returning to Brooke’s Abbey.” Although contrite, the man’s features remained formal and aloof.

  Abigail reached out and took the envelope from the servant’s gloved hands. Ought she to read it quickly so she could then send the man away? Her breaths quickened as her heart began to race. She didn’t want the servant to witness her disappointment. The contents were far too important to her to allow a stranger to look on as she read it.

  “Return to the village and await my answer in the tavern.” She spoke with as much authority as she could muster. The man showed no surprise at her request. He easily remounted his horse, nodded curtly, and headed back from the way he had come.

  He must be crying off. The duke had come to his senses. She reminded herself that she had no business becoming a duchess, preparing herself to read what would surely be a note filled with regrets and apologies.

  A short laugh caught in her throat. From the few conversations she had with the duke, Abigail knew there would be no regrets. No apologies. He’d simply state his change of mind. He’d likely not even acknowledge he’d made a mistake.

  Abigail stuffed the letter into her apron with shaking hands and studied her surroundings. Noticing a fallen log a few feet off the road, she walked over to it and sat down. Her racing heart echoed in her ears. Breathe, she told herself. In, out, in, out.

  The envelope was made of a fine parchment and sealed with red wax. She
rubbed her thumb along the edge of the ducal imprint in the wax before slipping it under the flap and breaking it.

  Slowly removing the missive, she inhaled deeply and then opened it.

  Dear Miss Wright,

  After some discussion with my sister and aunt, who are both more knowledgeable regarding these types of situations, I’ve decided upon a small wedding ceremony in London. Rather than rush things along with a special license, the banns will be read at St. George’s in Hanover Square. The wedding date is set for three weeks from this coming Saturday.

  My sister has brought it to my attention that you will be in need of a new wardrobe and perhaps some instruction in many of the various social duties that will be required of you. A carriage shall be sent to collect you and your mother in six days’ time, to transport you both to Cross House in London. My sister and her family shall be in residence when you arrive.

  Please advise the courier if you have had any change in heart regarding this matter and will not be needing the carriage. At this point, all can be called off easily. No invitations have been sent.

  Monfort

  Abigail had no idea how long she had sat there before realizing a crick had begun to settle into her neck.

  He had not cried off.

  He had every intention of going through with it. He’d even spoken with his family.

  Like a giant wave crashing over her, the reality of what she had agreed to hit her with an overwhelming force.

  His sister, of course, had seen the faults in his plan right away. She’d obviously then pointed out to him that his chosen bride was countrified and would be unable to interact in society without substantial training.

  By accepting his proposal, Abigail might very well be leaving one difficult situation only to put herself into an even more difficult one.

  She rubbed her thumb along the edge of the missive and realized that until this moment, she had not truly taken the proposal seriously. For had she done so, she would have appreciated that life as a duchess came with a number of responsibilities and expectations of which she knew nothing. Was she capable of undertaking such a task? She would be going from being a person of perpetual inconsequence to a lady of high rank.