Page 10 of The Duke and his Hellion
With that, she turned and fled, her skirts swishing around her ankles as she raced up the stairs and into the house. She could hear Hugh calling after her, could feel Harriet's worried gaze boring into her back. But she didn't stop, didn't slow her pace until she had reached the sanctuary of her bedchamber.
Once inside, Abigail flung herself onto the bed, burying her face in the soft down of her pillows as great, heaving sobs wracked her slender frame. She cried until her throat was raw and her eyes were swollen, until she was left feeling hollow and wrung out, a husk of her former self.
As she lay there, staring blankly at the canopy above her bed, Abigail felt a wave of helplessness wash over her, a sense of utter despair at the impossible situation she found herself in. How was she to navigate this world, to find her place and her purpose, when every turn seemed to bring fresh obstacles and new disappointments?
“No,” she whispered. “I will not cry like a babe.”
The decision was an impulsive one — one she made without a second thought. The pen scribbled quickly on a piece of paper and she read over the words once or twice before folding the letter and rushing downstairs to where a footman stood.
“Take this to the Duke of Grouton's manor for me, please,” she requested of the young man, who looked at her doubtfully. Abigail's brow furrowed as she looked up at him.
“I am asking you a favor. Please,” she asked again and he nodded at once, clicking his heels together once before rushing off.
With her chin lifted, Abigail made her way back to her chamber As she approached Hugh's study, she could hear the low murmur of voices from within, the tense, urgent cadence of a serious discussion. She paused outside the door, her hand hovering over the knob as she strained to make out the words.
“I am worried about her, Harriet,” Hugh was saying, his voice thick with concern. “She's so young, so innocent. She has no idea of the dangers that lurk in this world, or the men who would seek to take advantage of her trusting nature.”
Harriet sighed, her tone gentle but firm. “I know you want to protect her, Hugh. But Abigail is not a child anymore. She's a grown woman, with her own hopes and dreams and desires. You can't keep her locked away forever, sheltered from the realities of life.”
When her brother spoke again, his voice was soft — almost broken. “I know, Harriet, I know that. But it is my job to try. And if that means keeping her away from rakes and scoundrels like Grouton, then so be it. I am all she has in this world.”
Abigail felt her heart constrict, a wave of anger and hurt washing over her at her brother's words. He still saw her as a helpless child, a fragile flower in need of his constant protection. He didn't trust her judgment, didn't believe in her ability to make her own choices and learn from her own mistakes.
Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes, and Abigail turned away from the study door, unable to bear another moment of their condescending concern.
With tears threatening to fall once more, she rushed up the stairs to her bedchamber, slamming the door shut behind her before curling up in a bundle on the bed. It was hours later that there was a soft knock at her door and Abigail sat up, expecting her brother or Harriet's voice.
“Lady Abigail?” Her maid, Prudence's voice called through the door, a note of concern evident in her tone. “Dinner is ready. Will you be coming down?”
Abigail hesitated, her hand resting on the doorknob as she fought back a fresh wave of tears. The thought of facing Hugh and Harriet, of enduring their pitying glances and gentle admonishments, was more than she could bear in that moment.
“No thank you, Prudence,” she called back, her voice steady despite the ache in her throat. “I am not feeling well. I think I'll retire early tonight.”
There was a pause, a beat of heavy silence, and then Prudence's voice came again, softer this time. “Very well, my lady. I'll bring you up a tray, in case you change your mind.”
Abigail murmured her thanks, waiting until she heard the maid's footsteps recede down the hallway before she let herself into the room. She undressed quickly, slipping into her nightgown and crawling beneath the covers, her body heavy with exhaustion and her heart weighted with sorrow.
CHAPTER7
If he were being truthful, Charles would quite easily admit that he had long ago given up on theton. Even now, where he sat in his club, cheroot in hand, the conversation mulling about around him was far more frustrating than it was stimulating.
“And then Lord Whittaker said that he had absolutely no interest in the lady and she bawled her poor eyes out,” a man's voice drifted towards him and Charles scoffed.
“Speaking of the season,” another man said now and all eyes immediately turned to Charles, who looked back at them with little interest.
“What?” he let out at last, the stares starting to bother him, and a smirk appeared around one young man's face.
“At the last ball, the Scottish hellion of a lady was bold enough to ask Lord Kensington to dance,” he said, “and wouldn't you know it — His Grace here was kind enough to take her off the bewildered young lord's hands.”
This seemed to attract the attention of everyone and Charles grimaced. He'd known then that there was a chance it would be misconstrued and turned into gossip fodder, but the poor woman had looked so lost.
“What about it?” he asked now, turning his gaze onto the men dangerously. “The girl wanted to dance, and I offered. I do not see why it requires a conversation.”
He glared at the other man darkly. Lord Williams, he recognized him now. The young baron was not affected at all by his dark stare.
“But is it true that you are courting her now?” he asked quickly and Charles leaned back, opting to take another puff of his cheroot rather than answer.
Charles took a long drag on his cheroot, the acrid smoke filling his lungs as he fixed Lord Williams with a cool, unblinking stare.
