Page 78 of Never Dare a Duke
“I haven’t given it enough thought.”
She moved toward him, knew he tensed. “Think all you want, Your Grace. I am going to watch the fencing.” She paused at his side. “Are you participating?”
He hesitated, and she prepared herself to be disappointed.
“Yes.”
She eyed him with interest. “Perhaps I’ll have to place a wager.”
Chapter 20
Abigail tried not to gape as she watched Christopher, in his shirtsleeves, fence against Lord Paul on the terrace. They wore no fencing masks or chest protection, but their sword points were covered with safety tips. The Lords Greenwich and Swarthbeck acted as judges to interpret what constituted a hit. Both competitors, speckled with perspiration, ignored the cheers by the various spectators seated on benches and chairs out of harm’s way. They were intent on winning, using their muscles to thrust forward and jerk back to dodge a well-placed counter.
Abigail felt so overheated at the masculine display that she could have fanned herself. She felt as if everyone could see the way her eyes were glued to Christopher. She had to keep reminding herself that she’d volunteered to help him keep the ladies at bay, that she wasallowedto gaze worshipfully at him. But enough was enough. To master her control, she turned to Gwen, expecting her friend to say something witty to distract her.
But Gwen was biting her thumbnail, looking off into the park rather than at the contestants.
“Gwen?” Abigail murmured.
The woman gave a start, then a quick smile when she met Abigail’s eyes. “Yes? Who won?”
“It isn’t over yet.”
Gwen glanced at the competitors and blushed. “Oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
She looked around to see who could overhear them, then leaned forward. “Oh, Abby, the party is almost over.”
“Yes,” Abigail said slowly, even though her own stomach knotted at the thought. “You knew we would return to London eventually.” Abigail would have to leave Christopher and return home to her parents’ renewed pressure to marry. And if the newspaper failed, could she really deny them her security? Watching Christopher’s absolute devotion to his family, regardless of the sacrifices to himself, was making her wonder if she wasn’t being selfish, wanting to prove she could survive on her own. She was too confused.
“But Mr. Wesley doesn’t come to London often!” Gwen was saying.
“Ah.”
“And he would never try to court me, thinking my father would be against the match.”
“He doesn’t know your father well.”
“And he’ll never even meet him, given the hesitant way he’s treating me now. Oh, Abby, how can I persuade him to propose to me? And what if he doesn’t even want to? He might be content in his small parish, and you know my father would expect us to see some relatives and friends during the Season.”
“Wait, wait!” Abigail said, trying to slow down Gwen’s frantic pace. “If Mr. Wesley has not spoken of this to you, then you don’t know his thoughts.”
Gwen pouted. “No.”
“Then you must speak to him about it.”
“Bring up marriage?” she cried, aghast. “He will think me so forward!”
“Better that than you never coming to an understanding that you both might have wanted.”
“Abby, sometimes you are too modern,” she sighed, “even when you’re right. But…”
“But what?”
Gwen’s shoulders slumped. “What if I have misread my father all these years? What if…although he may talk of a utopian England someday, maybe he doesn’t mean it for his own daughter? It would be quite unthinkable in most families for an earl’s daughter to marry a poor vicar.”
Abigail thought it would be the same outrage—and scandal—for a duke to marry a commoner. It was a good thing she was not foolish enough to wish for marriage, she told herself. She glanced at Christopher again, at the way his body moved so precisely, and thought about going to bed with him every night. To distract herself, she turned back to her glum friend.
