Page 28 of The Duke and his Hellion
Her face paled when she thought of the rumors she'd heard — but then, was it not said that he refrained from sullying the names of innocent ladies?
“Charles, is it?” Beatrice raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “My dear, I know you're new to London, but surely you've heard the stories. There have been... incidents. Nothing that could be proven, of course, but where there's smoke…”
“I do not believe it,” Abigail said firmly, trying her best to suppress the seeds of doubt sprouting in the back of her mind. She thought of Charles's gentle hands guiding her through a dance, his patient explanations of the ton's convoluted societal rules. Could that same man be capable of such callousness? “Surely there must be some misunderstanding.”
Beatrice sighed, shaking her head in a gesture of exaggerated sympathy. “I wish that were the case, for your sake. But oh, I should not even say this… Darling Abigail, there are a trail of broken hearts left in his wake.”
“Broken hearts ?” Abigail echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. How was it possible that Charles she had never heard this. Certainly he would not have married her had it been true?
“Oh yes,” Beatrice nodded solemnly, leaning back in her chair with the air of one about to impart a great secret. “I have unfortunately been the one to dry the tears of many a young woman… who believed he would marry them…”
Abigail paled at this. “They… they did?”
Beatrice nodded carefully. “Indeed. In fact there was one… no. No, I have already said too much.”
Abigail's mind was reeling, her thoughts a jumbled mess of confusion and disbelief. Could it be true? Was Charles truly so callous? She thought of his kindness, his patience as he taught her the ways of the ton. It seemed impossible to reconcile that man with the cad Beatrice was describing.
“Maybe… maybe you are mistaken,” ” Abigail insisted, trying to keep her voice steady even as doubt gnawed at her insides. “Perhaps the ladies you talk of misunderstood or…maybe there were circumstances we do not know about. It seems unlike Ch — the duke to act so callously.”
Beatrice shrugged, her expression a perfect blend of sympathy and worldly wisdom. “Perhaps. But the fact remains, that he has quite the reputation. . I just think you should be... vigilant, my dear. Guard your heart carefully. Men like the Duke of Grouton... well, they are not always what they seem. And you… forgive me, but you are quite naive when it comes to the ways of the men of the ton.”
Abigail felt a surge of frustration, not just at Beatrice's words, but at the entire situation. Here she was, barely out in society, and already embroiled in scandal and intrigue. It was maddening. “It seems I have little choice in the matter now, vigilant or not,” she said, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from her voice. “It is the only way to manage the other scandal. I already said yes — and to refuse him now would only cause more scandal.”
Beatrice reached out, squeezing Abigail's hand sympathetically. “Oh, you poor dear. I am so sorry to have upset you. I only wanted you to be prepared. Knowledge is power, after all, especially in our world.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Abigail's mind whirling with this new information. Finally, she shook herself, forcing a smile onto her face. “Thank you for your concern, Lady Beatrice. I... I appreciate your candor.”
Beatrice nodded, rising gracefully to her feet. “Of course, my dear. That's what friends are for, aren't they? To look out for one another. I should take my leave now, let you process all of this. But do remember, if you ever need someone to talk to…”
Abigail nodded with a watery smile then stood to walk Beatrice to the door. As she watched the other woman's carriage pull away, she could not help but feel a slight spark of unease. Was Beatrice truly looking out for her? Or was there more to her visit than simple friendly concern?
After Beatrice took her leave, Abigail found herself unable to sit still. Her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. She paced the length of the parlor, her skirts swishing around her ankles, her hands clasped tightly behind her back.
Could it be true? Was Charles truly the rake Beatrice painted him to be? But if so, why had he offered marriage? Why go to such lengths to protect her reputation if he truly cared nothing for the women he supposedly ruined?
Without really thinking about it, she found herself at her writing desk, pulling out a sheet of paper and dipping her pen in ink. Her hand hovered over the paper for a moment before she began to write:
Your Grace,
I hope this finds you well. Might I impose upon you to call tomorrow? Perhaps we could take a turn about the park and talk. There are matters I wish to discuss.
Yours,
Abigail
She read over the note, biting her lip in indecision. Was she being too forward? Too vague? But no, she decided. If they were to be married, surely she had the right to speak with him openly.
She folded the note and sealed it with a drop of wax, then rang for a footman. “Please see that this is delivered to the Duke of Grouton at once,” she instructed, handing over the missive.
As the footman departed, Abigail resumed her pacing, her thoughts in turmoil. Was Beatrice telling the truth? Or was this just more of the ton's endless gossip and speculation? And if it was true, what did that mean for her future?
A soft cry from upstairs pulled Abigail from her troubled musings. With a start, she realized it must be the baby. Eager for a distraction, she made her way up to Harriet's room, knocking softly before entering.
The room was bathed in soft morning light, the curtains drawn back to let in the sun. Harriet was propped up in bed, looking tired but radiant, a small bundle cradled in her arms. Hugh sat beside her, his usually stern face softened with wonder as he gazed at his son.
“Abigail,” Harriet said softly, her face lighting up as she caught sight of her sister-in-law. “Come and meet your nephew.”
Abigail approached the bed, her earlier worries momentarily forgotten as she peered down at the tiny, red face peeking out from the blankets. “Oh, Harriet,” she breathed, her heart melting at the sight. “He's beautiful.”
