Page 19 of The Duke and his Hellion
Though he was quite hesitant to admit it, Charles could not deny — at least to himself — that he was far more eager to attend a ball than he had been in quite some time.
Still, he kept himself from going early — as much as he wanted to see the young lady he had been spending so much time with, something still kept him from showing it too blatantly. She was beautiful — and kind and sweet and unmarred by the ton, but still… the thought of Grace sent him towards the club instead.
Perhaps, he thought, a quick visit to his club would ease him before he made his way to the ball.
As he stepped into his gentlemen's club, the rich scent of cigars and brandy enveloped him like a familiar embrace. He nodded to the attendant, who took his hat and coat with a deferential bow, and made his way towards the plush armchairs scattered throughout the room.
As he settled into his usual spot, a glass of amber liquid already in hand, Charles could not help but overhear the snippets of conversation swirling around him. Talk of the upcoming ball seemed to dominate, with gentlemen speculating on which ladies would be in attendance and which eligible bachelors might finally be snared by the parson's mousetrap.
“I say, Grouton,” a voice called out, drawing Charles's attention to a group of men huddled nearby. “Word has it that you've been spending quite a bit of time with that Scottish lass, the Duke of Frighton's sister. Care to enlighten us on your intentions?”
Charles felt a flicker of annoyance at the man's tone and he pursed his lips. “Lady Abigail is a charming and accomplished young woman,” he said coolly, his gaze steady and unwavering. “And my intentions are none of your business. We are… friends.”
The men exchanged knowing glances, smirks playing about their lips. “Friends, eh?” one of them chuckled. “Is that what they're calling it these days?”
Charles's jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around his glass. “I'll thank you to mind your tongue, sir,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “I do not appreciate your baseless gossip.”
The men held up their hands in mock surrender, their expressions ranging from amused to chagrined. “Easy there, Grouton,” one of them said, his tone placating. “We meant no offense. Just a bit of harmless ribbing, that's all.”
Charles took a sip of his brandy, the smooth burn of the liquid doing little to quell the anger simmering in his veins. He was about to deliver a scathing retort when he caught a snippet of conversation from a nearby table, the words making his blood run cold.
“...heard she's a wild one, that Scottish girl. Probably doesn't know the first thing about proper etiquette or decorum.”
“Can you imagine a lass like that among the cream of London society? At the last ball she stuck out like a sore thumb.”
“And what of Grouton? Do you think he's really interested, or just looking for a bit of… entertainment?”
Charles slammed his glass down on the table, the sudden noise causing heads to turn in his direction. He rose to his feet, his posture rigid and his eyes blazing with barely controlled fury.
“Enough,” he said, his voice ringing out clear and commanding in the sudden silence. “I will not sit idly by and listen to such vile slander and disrespect. You are a disgrace to the title of gentlemen.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the room, taking in the shocked and chastened expressions of the men around him. “I am going to the ball,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “And I intend to show Lady Abigail every courtesy and honor she is due. I suggest you all do the same, lest you find yourselves on the wrong side of my favor.”
With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, his head held high.
* * *
For her part, Abigail was alive with an energy she could hardly recognize. She took a deep, steadying breath and flashed her reflection a bright grin.
Excitement coursed through her as she made her way to the staircase, where Hugh stood waiting quite proudly.
“I am glad you are back, Hugh,” she said softly and Hugh nodded at her with a grin.
“Ye look bonnie, little lass,” she said softly — his Scottish brogue thicker than usual, a dead giveaway that he was emotional. “Mother and Father would be so proud of ye.”
Abigail swallowed hard at this, blinking away stubborn tears that were starting to form in her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, but then a frown appeared between her brows.
“Are you quite certain that Harriet really cannot come with us?”
“I really cannot,” Harriet spoke from the distance and Abigail turned to her sister-in-law with a pout. Harriet laughed and shook her head, gesturing to her body.
“This belly is not fit for a ball,” she said with a soft laugh. “But you do look beautiful, Abigail — and I truly am glad that Hugh is here to go with you.”
Abigail looked from one to the other with a frown. “But Hugh, are you certain that you'd rather attend with me and not stay with Harriet? What if the baby arrives, or…”
Hugh chuckled and patted her hand reassuringly. “Don't fret, lass,” he said and glanced at his wife, who was leaning against the wall with a serene smile. “Harriet is fine and I am sure she will eagerly await yer report come the morning.”
Abigail glanced at Harriet, who nodded eagerly. “I am quite eager to know whether the lessons paid off,” she said with a small smile. “Now you’d better be off — before those horses turn to glue from standing still so long.”
