Page 40 of The Duke and his Hellion
The majority of the guests followed them to the manor, and Charles looked at his bride proudly. Despite it being her first day as a duchess, she greeted the guests with remarkable poise and grace.
* * *
For her part, Abigail was not entirely certain that she was doing anything right and she let out a sigh of relief when the guests dispersed to the dining hall.
As they moved to their seats at the head table, Charles leaned in close to Abigail, his breath warm against her ear. “Are you alright?” he murmured, flashing her a tender smile.
Abigail nodded, touched by his thoughtfulness. “Yes, thank you. It's just... a bit overwhelming.”
Charles's hand found hers under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know. We'll get through this together.”
The meal progressed, a parade of exquisite dishes that neither Charles nor Abigail truly tasted.
“So, Your Grace,” an elderly baroness addressed Abigail, whose face flushed at the title, “have you given any thought to redecorating Grouton Manor? I imagine it could use a woman's touch after all these years.”
Abigail blinked, caught off guard. “I... well, I haven't really had the chance to think about it yet.”
Charles intervened smoothly. “We'll make those decisions together, when the time comes. For now, we're just looking forward to settling into our new life.”
The woman merely smiled in response, though the dour look she shot at the woman next to her said exactly what she thought about Abigail's lack of household plans.
As the luncheon progressed, Abigail found herself increasingly overwhelmed by the constant stream of well-wishers and the weight of her new title. She glanced around the room, her eyes seeking familiar faces amidst the sea of strangers.
At the other end of the table, Hugh, Harriet, and Jennifer were engaged in animated conversation. Abigail caught snippets of their discussion, her heart warming at the sight of her family.
“I must say,” Jennifer was saying, her eyes twinkling mischievously, “our Abigail looks absolutely radiant. Wouldn't you agree, Your Grace?” She directed this last part to Vivian, who was seated with them, looking somewhat out of place.
Vivian's lips thinned slightly, but she managed a polite nod. “Indeed. The dress is... quite becoming.”
Hugh's jaw clenched at Vivian's lukewarm response, but Harriet placed a calming hand on his arm. “It was a beautiful ceremony,” she said, smoothly changing the subject. “The flowers were particularly lovely.”
“Oh yes,” Jennifer agreed enthusiastically. “Though I must say, I was half expecting our dear Abigail to trip over that magnificent train. Remember when she was little, Hugh? Always getting tangled up in her skirts?”
Hugh's expression softened at the memory. “Aye, she was a right clumsy thing. But look at her now — every inch a duchess.”
As if sensing their gaze, Abigail looked over at that moment, offering a small, nervous smile. Charles, noticing her distraction, leaned in close.
“Are you alright?” he murmured, his brow furrowing in concern.
Abigail nodded, though her smile was strained. “Yes, I am fine. It's just... there are so many people. So many expectations.”
Charles's hand found hers under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You're doing wonderfully,” he assured her. “Just breathe. We'll get through this together.”
Grateful for his support, Abigail took a deep breath, feeling some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
Vivian watched this exchange with narrowed eyes. “They seem... close,” she observed, her tone neutral but her gaze sharp.
Jennifer, catching this, could not resist a small jab. “Well, they are married now. Closeness is rather the point, isn't it?”
Soon, however, guests started trickling out, and before long, Abigail and her husband were alone in their house.
Finally, Charles cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room, “welcome home, Abigail. Shall we have some tea?”
Abigail managed a small smile. “Thank you, Charles. And yes… tea sounds lovely.”
Charles nodded stiffly and offered her his arm, leading her to the drawing room. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Morgan, has been running the household since I was a boy,” he explained as they took their seats in the drawing room. “And after my father passed and my mother chose to move to one of the country estates, she's been my right hand here.”
Abigail could only nod — and then the silence descended once more. They stood there, newly married yet feeling like strangers, each wrestling with the same unspoken question:
