Page 46 of The Scottish Duke Tames the Bluestocking
To her surprise, Abigail’s expression turned somber. “It is not just you,” she confided, her eyes sad. “Hugh and I... we're used to it by now.”
Harriet’s heart clenched. “Used to what?”
Abigail sighed, twisting her hands in the folds of her skirt. “The stares. The whispers. The feeling that we don't quite belong, no matter our titles or wealth.”
She met Harriet’s gaze squarely, a flicker of old pain in her eyes. “I told you this, but... Now you see it too. It’s because of our Scottish blood. No matter how much we try to fit in, to play by society’s rules... there will always be those who see us as outsiders. As somehow lesser than.”
Harriet felt a rush of fierce protectiveness surge through her. “That's ridiculous,” she bit out, her voice trembling with indignation. “Anyone who judges you for something so arbitrary is a fool.”
Abigail gave her a wan smile. “Perhaps. But it’s the way of the world, I'm afraid.” She hesitated, then added softly, “It's why I'm so terribly afraid of my own debut, Harriet. I fear I'll never find a proper husband, not with the taint of Scottish blood hanging over me.”
Impulsively, Harriet pulled the younger girl into a fierce hug. “Listen to me, Abigail Wilkinson. You are a bright, beautiful, kind-hearted young woman, and any man would be lucky to have you as his wife. And if the pea-brained dandies of thetoncan't see that, then they don't deserve you.”
She pulled back, her hands gripping Abigail’s shoulders as she met her gaze intently. “I will be right by your side throughout your debut, do you hear me? I’ll champion you to anyone who dares to look down their nose at you. We'll find you a husband worthy of your gifts, I swear it.”
Abigail’s eyes misted with unshed tears, a tremulous smile spreading across her face. “Do you really mean it, Harriet?”
“With all my heart,” Harriet vowed. “We’re family now, you and I. And family looks out for one another.”
The younger girl hugged her fiercely, sniffling a little into Harriet’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for understanding. For being there for me.”
Harriet stroked her hair, feeling a swell of tenderness for this brave, vulnerable girl who had come to mean so much to her. “Always, Abigail. I’ll always be here for you.”
The moment was broken by Madame Delacroix's reappearance, the completed gown draped over her arm. “Your dresses, Your Grace,” she announced, her face wreathed in a proud smile.
Harriet and Abigail gasped in unison, their eyes widening at the stunning creation before them. Harriet’s dress was a deep, vibrant crimson, the bodice encrusted with glittering rubies that caught the light like flames. The skirt flared out in a froth of shimmering satin, each ruffle edged in delicate gold thread.
“Madame, it is simply exquisite,” Harriet breathed, running reverent fingers over the sumptuous fabrics. “You’ve truly outdone yourself.”
The dressmaker preened under the praise, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “But of course, Your Grace. Nothing but the best for such a distinguished client.”
As they left the shop, their precious gowns carefully packaged and loaded into the waiting carriage, Harriet felt a renewed sense of purpose settle over her. She might still be struggling to navigate the treacherous waters of her marriage, might still be fighting to keep her traitorous heart in check...but she would not let that stop her from being the duchess Abigail needed, the champion and protector she deserved.
And if that meant facing down the sneers and whispers of theton, of putting on a brave face and a dazzling gown and showing the world that the Wilkinsons were a force to be reckoned with... then so be it. Harriet would do whatever it took to ensure Abigail’s happiness and success, even if it meant confronting her own deepest fears and desires in the process.
But she would not solve problems that did not exist yet. For now, Harriet would revel in the joy of beautiful gowns and sisterly bonds, and the promise of a glittering night of magic and mischief at the masquerade ball.
CHAPTER25
Hugh stood at the foot of the grand staircase, his heart hammering in his chest as he waited for Harriet to descend. He had always known that his wife was a beautiful woman, had always been struck by the fire and passion that seemed to blaze behind her emerald eyes. But nothing could have prepared him for the vision of loveliness that greeted him as she stepped into view, her gown a shimmering confection of silk and lace that fell from her body in soft drapes.
For a moment, he forgot to breathe, forgot everything but the sheer, overwhelming need to take her into his arms and never let her go. But then reality came crashing back, the weight of their situation and the promise he had made settling over him like a leaden cloak.
Harriet was his wife in name only, a woman who had married him out of necessity rather than love. And though he had hoped, had dared to dream that perhaps, with time and patience, she might come to care for him as he did for her...the way she had been avoiding him since their wedding day, the careful distance she had maintained even as they went about their daily routines...it spoke volumes about her true feelings.
She regretted their marriage, regretted tying herself to a man she barely knew and could never love. And though the knowledge cut Hugh to the quick, though it made his heart ache with a pain he had never known before...he knew that he had to respect her wishes, had to give her the space and the freedom she so clearly craved.
And so, as he handed her into the carriage, as he settled onto the plush velvet seat beside her and felt the heat of her body seeping into his own...Hugh forced himself to smile, to keep his voice light and steady even as his heart threatened to shatter into a million pieces.
“Ye look beautiful tonight, Harriet,” he said softly, his gaze flickering over her face, taking in the delicate flush of her cheeks and the way the candlelight played across her brown hair. “Absolutely stunnin'.”
Harriet glanced up at him, her eyes wide and startled, as though she hadn't expected him to speak. “Thank you, Hugh,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the clatter of the carriage wheels against the cobblestones. “You look rather handsome as well.” Her cheeks flushed as she said this.
Hugh felt a flicker of something that might have been hope at her words, at the way her gaze lingered on his face for just a moment longer than necessary. But he quickly tamped it down, reminding himself that he had no right to expect anything more than polite civility from his wife.
They rode in silence for a while, the tension between them thick and heavy, like a physical presence in the cramped confines of the carriage. Hugh could feel Harriet's gaze on him, could sense the unspoken questions and uncertainties that hung in the air between them.
And suddenly, he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn't bear the weight of the charade they had been playing since the moment they had exchanged their vows.
