Page 2 of The Duke and his Hellion
Still, a large part of her wanted nothing more than to put these petty, spiteful girls in their place with a few well-chosen words.
She suppressed the temptation however — after all, causing a scene would do nothing other than further isolate her, mark her as even more of an outsider here, in this world where conformity was prized above all else. It took a Herculean effort, but she managed to force her features into a mask of icy composure, her voice steady and cutting.
“Perhaps you are right,” she said slowly. “I may be unaware of certain nuances. But I must admit that I would much rather be true to myself than conform to a set of arbitrary rules designed to stifle any hint of individuality or spirit. Perhaps my brother is not English by blood… but I am grateful for the way he raised me. At least I know how to be truly myself rather than a mere mask of what the ton expects me to be.”
She lifted her chin defiantly then and turned, stalking away with her skirts swishing around her ankles, her shoulders squared.
Do not let them see you cry,she told herself silently.Do not let them see that they have managed to hurt you. They do not have that power over you.
She could feel their stares boring into her back as she walked, and could hear the whispers that followed her like a swarm of angry bees.
She would not let them break her, she decided firmly. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.
Hugh had warned her about this, she mused again. She remembered it so vividly — the conversation they'd had when they had discussed her entering the season.
“Ye must know, lassie,” he had grumbled softly, “that thetonis nae particularly kind to us folk.”
She needn't have asked what he'd meant byus folk— she'd heard the whispers, felt the stares, and in truth, she'd believed that she was ready to face it. That it would not hurt as much.
But it did.
Before she knew it, Abigail had reached the edge of the ballroom and she paused to catch her breath. Her skin was flushed and prickling with a sudden, overwhelming heat. With fumbling fingers, she tugged at the delicate gloves that encased her hands, desperate for some relief from the stifling warmth that seemed to press in on her from all sides.
She needed to move, needed to lose herself in the rhythm and flow of the music, to let the sheer physical exertion of the dance drive away the lingering sting of the other girls' rejection. And so, with a determined set to her jaw, she scanned the crowded ballroom, her gaze falling upon a handsome, regal-looking man standing alone at the edge of the dance floor.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a shock of dark hair and a face that seemed rather soft and youthful — as though he was someone safe, someone who would not extend the same cruelty she had faced from the young ladies she'd attempted to speak to.
Before she could think better of it, Abigail found herself moving towards him, her steps purposeful and assured as she wove through the crush of bodies, her hand extended in a bold, ungloved offering.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said, her voice ringing out clear and strong above the strains of the music. “I am Lady Abigail Wilkinson, and I was wondering if you might do me the honor of a dance.”
The young man's eyes widened in surprise, his gaze flicking from her bare hand to her face and back again, as though he could not quite believe the audacity of her approach. But before he could respond, before he could stammer out a polite refusal or a stunned acceptance, another hand shot out from the crowd, long fingers closing around Abigail's wrist in a grip that was gentle but undeniably firm.
“I am afraid Lord Kensington is far too shocked by your request to be a proper dance partner, my lady,” a low, amused voice drawled from behind her, the words brushing against the shell of her ear like a whispered promise. “But I will gladly take his place.”
Abigail spun around, her heart leaping into her throat as she found herself staring up into the most strikingly handsome face she had ever seen. He was tall, even taller than the young man she had approached, with broad shoulders and a lean, muscular frame that spoke of a lifetime of vigorous pursuits. His hair was a tousled mop of dark curls, his features chiseled and aristocratic, with a strong jaw and a mouth that seemed made for sinful, wicked things.
But it was his eyes that truly captured her attention, a piercing blue that seemed to see straight through to her very soul, glinting with a mischievous light that made her pulse race and her breath catch in her throat. He was looking down at her with an expression that was equal parts amused and intrigued, his lips curved in a half-smile that hinted at secrets she suddenly, desperately wanted to uncover.
“I... I beg your pardon, sir,” Abigail managed to stammer out, her cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of pink as she realized the impropriety of her actions. “But I do not… I do not understand what...”
“It isYour Grace, my lady” he said simply, then held his hand out to her. “And I truly do hope that you'd do me the honor of a dance. Unless your heart was set on young Lord Kensington here. Though as I said — I hardly think he'll be able to turn about the dance floor after your rather indecent proposal.”
The young man muttered something before rushing off and Abigail looked up at the man who had so easily intruded upon her plan.
“So, my lady?” he asked with a lopsided smile, his eyes casually drifting over her as though he was mentally judging her every feature. “Shall we?”
CHAPTER2
Abigail could only stare at the man, shell-shocked. She was quite certain she'd never seen him before — he was definitely someone she'd have remembered. He kept looking at her, his brows lifted.
Before Abigail could respond, he grasped her hand firmly and led her onto the dance floor. She stumbled slightly, caught off guard by his sudden action.
As they began to move in time with the music, Abigail looked up at him, confusion and apprehension in her eyes. “Why did you do that, Your Grace?” she asked.
He smiled wryly. “I was saving you from yourself, my lady. Your behavior was becoming quite... indiscreet.”
Abigail's eyes flashed with indignation. “I assure you, I need no saving,” she retorted, though humiliation sent a flush up her cheeks, her skin heating up.
