Page 11 of The Duke and his Hellion
“Courting her?” he said at last, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “I assure you, Williams, I have no interest in courting anyone, least of all some Scottish upstart with more bravado than sense.”
The men around him exchanged skeptical glances, their eyebrows raised in silent challenge. Charles could feel their judgment, their disbelief, and it grated on his nerves like sandpaper against raw skin.
“Come now, Your Grace,” another man chimed in, his tone jocular and grating. “Surely you can't expect us to believe that you, of all people, would take an interest in a girl like that out of the goodness of your heart.”
Charles's jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around his glass until his knuckles turned white. He fought to keep his expression neutral, to maintain the mask of cool indifference that he had perfected over the years.
“I am merely offering the girl some guidance,” he said, his voice clipped and precise. “A bit of friendly advice on how to navigate the treacherous waters of theton. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The men snickered, their expressions ranging from amused to downright skeptical. Charles could feel their eyes on him, could sense the unspoken accusations that hung heavy in the air.
“A handful, that one,” Lord Williams said, shaking his head. “I've heard stories, you know. They say she's wild, and unpredictable. That she doesn't know her place, or understand the rules of polite society.”
Charles's temper flared, a white-hot fury that seared through his veins like molten lava. He slammed his glass down on the table, the sharp crack of crystal against wood echoing through the suddenly silent room.
“And what, exactly, is her place, Williams?” he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “To sit pretty and silent, a decorative bauble for some man to claim as his own? To stifle her spirit, her fire, in order to conform to some arbitrary set of rules and expectations?”
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the polished floor with a harsh, grating sound. The men around him fell silent, their eyes wide and wary as they watched him, waiting for the explosion they knew was coming.
But Charles didn't give them the satisfaction. Instead, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, his shoulders rigid with barely contained rage and his heart pounding a furious tattoo against his ribs.
As he strode down the street towards his waiting carriage, Charles tried to push away the nagging doubts that whispered in the back of his mind. He had meant what he said to the men at the club — he had no interest in courtship, no desire to tie himself to any woman, no matter how intriguing or beguiling she might be.
But even as he told himself this, a small, traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispered that Abigail was different. That she was unlike any woman he had ever known, with her fierce independence and her unbreakable spirit. That perhaps, just perhaps, she was worth taking a chance on.
Charles shook his head, banishing the thought as quickly as it had come. He'd learnt his lesson.
The ride back to his townhouse was a blur, the streets of London passing by in a haze of gray and brown and black. Charles barely noticed the curious glances of passersby, the hushed whispers that followed in his wake.
By the time he arrived home, Charles was in a foul temper, his mood as black and stormy as a thundercloud. He stalked through the halls of his house like a caged lion, his footsteps echoing off the polished marble floors and his face set in a fierce, forbidding scowl.
He was just about to retire to his study, to lose himself in a bottle of brandy and a stack of paperwork, when a soft knock at the door brought him up short. Charles whirled around, his eyes flashing with impatience as he barked out a sharp, “What is it?”
His footman entered, his face carefully blank as he held out a silver tray with a single, folded note resting atop it. “A message for you, Your Grace,” he said, his voice low and deferential. “From Lady Abigail Wilkinson.”
This was quite a surprise — he had not expected the girl to send him a note with how eager she'd seemed to get rid of him after their last lesson and he had thought that she had doubts about her wanting to fit into the ton. He reached for the note with a lifted brow.
Your Grace, the note began, and he fought a smile that appeared on his face as his eyes traveled over the words.
I hope this message finds you well. I am writing to inquire about the possibility of expediting our lessons, if you are at all amenable to the idea. I am more committed than ever to learning the ways of the ton, to proving myself worthy of a place in this world. I hope you will consider my request, and I eagerly await your response.
Yours sincerely,
Abigail Wilkinson.
Charles read the note once, twice, three times, then laughed before he moved to sit at his desk as he scribbled a note back.
Still, he was rather curious about the note — had the girl doubted the lessons and did she feel guilty now? Or did he entirely misunderstand her indelicate attempt to get him away from their manor so quickly?
He glanced at the clock in the corner of his office. It was far too late to send the note back now — and besides, he thought with a grin, the lady could wait.
CHAPTER8
For Abigail, waiting for an answer from Charles was torture indeed — especially since she had no idea what she'd do if he agreed to continue with the lessons. She was certain that Harriet would tell Hugh if she attempted to continue behind his back.
Furthermore, she was quite certain that she would not be able to maintain her composure if they spent any amount of time with her.
As such, she kept to herself, nursing her wounded pride and trying to find some semblance of peace in the solitude of her own company. It was not until the third day of her self-imposed exile that a knock sounded at her door, startling her from her brooding thoughts.
