Page 27 of The Duke and his Hellion
Vivian hesitated for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. “I will not hate the girl on sight, but I cannot pretend that I think this is a good idea. I won't be unnecessarily cruel.”
Charles nodded, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you, Mother. That's all I ask.”
As Vivian gathered her things to leave, Charles walked her to the door. Before she stepped into her carriage, she turned to him one last time, her eyes searching his face.
“Are you sure about this, Charles? Truly sure?”
Charles didn't hesitate. “I am, Mother. It's the right thing to do.”
Vivian nodded, a small, sad smile playing about her lips. “Then I pray that this time, your decision brings you peace, my son. And I still do not think it is the best idea, but… I suppose I have little say in the matter.”
He made his way to his study, closing the door firmly behind him. The conversation with his mother had drained him, bringing up memories and emotions he'd rather keep buried. He poured himself a generous measure of brandy and sank into his chair, staring into the amber liquid as if it held the answers to all his problems.
Of course he understood why his mother was concerned — Grace truly had harmed the family name, and while his mother's concern may have been for him, his anger had been for his name.
Still, he told himself firmly, this was different. His decision to marry Abigail was not born out of some romantic notion or a desperate grab at happiness. It was a calculated move, a way to right a wrong and protect a young woman's reputation — a woman who didn't deserve the scandal that now surrounded her.
“The conversation is over,” he muttered to himself, echoing the words he'd said to his mother earlier. He downed the brandy in one swift gulp, welcoming the burn as it slid down his throat.
As the afternoon wore on, Charles remained in his study, buried in work and steadfastly avoiding any further thought of his impending marriage or his mother's disapproval. He had made his decision, and he would stand by it, come what may.
The future might be uncertain, but Charles was determined to face it on his own terms. And if that meant going against his mother's wishes and society's expectations, then so be it. He was the Duke of Grouton, after all, and it was high time he started acting like it.
CHAPTER15
After the eventful day they'd had, the Wilkinsons were now almost uncomfortable with the peaceful silence that settled within the household. Abigail particularly found herself unable to sleep and as such she was up far before the sun had risen completely. Where she sat now, in the parlor she still found it nearly impossible to believe that she was getting married soon.
A knock at the door startled her from her reverie and she looked up, confused, when the butler entered — his usually stoic face betraying a hint of surprise.
“Lady Beatrice to see you, Lady Abigail.”
Abigail blinked, setting down her cup with a soft clink. “Lady Beatrice? At this hour? Oh, please show her in, Thompson.”
As Beatrice entered, resplendent in a morning gown of pale blue silk, Abigail rose to greet her, smoothing down her own simple muslin dress self-consciously. “Lady Beatrice, what a pleasant surprise. I am afraid you've caught us at an odd time. The household is still reeling from yesterday's excitement.”
Beatrice's eyes widened, a look of concern crossing her delicate features. “Oh my! I hope nothing is amiss? I know I am dreadfully early, but I simply had to speak with you after the events of the ball.”
“Quite the contrary,” Abigail assured her, gesturing for Beatrice to take a seat. “My sister-in-law gave birth to a healthy baby boy. It was a long day, but everyone is well. Just... exhausted.”
“How wonderful!” Beatrice exclaimed and a smile settled around her lips. “Congratulations on your new nephew. Perhaps I should come back another day when the household has had a chance to recover?”
Abigail shook her head, already pouring a fresh cup of tea for her guest. “Nonsense. Please, join me. I could use the company, and everyone else is still abed.”
Once they were settled with steaming cups before them, Beatrice leaned forward, her eyes alight with barely contained curiosity. “Now, dearest Abigail, we simply must discuss the events of the ball. The ton has been abuzz with talk of little else. I've been positively dying to hear your side of the story.”
Abigail felt her cheeks warm, her fingers tightening around her teacup. “I am sure it has been greatly exaggerated. You know how people love to gossip.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, reaching out to pat Abigail's hand. “To be caught up in such a scandal. I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you. Your first season, and already the center of such controversy!”
Abigail frowned and she set down her cup with perhaps more force than necessary. “Is it truly such a dire situation? I mean, I am engaged to the Duke of Grouton now. Surely that resolves the matter?”
Beatrice's teacup clattered against its saucer as she stared at Abigail in shock, her eyes wide and her mouth forming a perfect 'O' of surprise. “Engaged? To the Duke of Grouton? My dear, are you certain that's wise?”
“What do you mean?” Abigail asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Charles — I mean, the duke — has been nothing but kind and honorable.”
Beatrice hesitated, glancing around the room as if to ensure they were truly alone. Then she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, it is just... he is a known rake, Abigail. There are rumors... whispers of other ladies he's ruined and never looked back.”
Abigail felt as though she'd been doused in ice water, a chill running down her spine. “What? But... that can't be true. Charles would never…”
