Page 54 of The Duke and his Hellion
Charles smiled at her gently. “It's ale,” he explained. “Not quite the fine wines you are used to.”
Abigail took another sip — this time, expecting the strange bitterness. “It's… alright,” she said at last, and Charles laughed softly.
“It gets better the more you try it,” he teased and she laughed before taking another sip.
Without wanting to, she grimaced at the taste again, much to her husband's amusement. “So,” she asked once the bitter aftertaste had faded a bit, “how on earth did you discover this place?”
Charles laughed softly and shook his head. “Let's just say I was a rebellious adolescent,” he teased. “And then… It has happened once or twice that I found myself needing an escape — which is exactly what this place provides.”
“An escape,” she echoed and Charles nodded before tilting his head to look at her with a bit more attention.
“Forgive me for asking,” he started hesitantly, “but I fear we've never really discussed this. What… what was it like for you? Being… a child, an adolescent?”
Abigail let out a sigh. “I imagine something quite different than it was for you,” she said after a long silence. “After my father passed and Hugh became duke… it didn't ever really matter to him. Father tried to fit in — to win the ton's approval — but it never really worked. Hugh was different. He never tried to fit in; he never cared about their approval. He was angry with them.”
“So, what… ” Charles teased. “He let you get away with anything and everything?”
“I wish,” Abigail laughed with a shake of her head. “No, he tried his best, I know… but he shielded me from everything. From the ton, from my peers… from life. Until of course, he met Harriet and she at least helped him loosen the reins a bit and let me attend the season…”
She drifted off at this and sighed, and Charles reached over to take her hand in his own. “And a lot of good that did you,” he said sympathetically. “Look at the utter oaf you married.”
Abigail laughed at this and she shook her head. “You're not an oaf,” she said softly. “You were only trying to help.”
“Yes,” his discomfort was clear and he looked at her with an unreadable expression. “I… Abigail, I do apologize for my mother,” he said at last. “What she did… the manner in which she did it… it was entirely unacceptable.”
“Stop,” Abigail said, shaking her head and squeezing the hand holding hers. “Let's not talk about it. Your mother… dislikes me. But I… perhaps if I had known more, been better…”
He shook his head at this. “You do not need to know more or be better,” he insisted firmly, but before he could continue, a buxom barmaid approached their table, her eyes hungrily fastened on Charles.
“Anything else for you, love?” she asked, hardly noticing Abigail — every ounce of her attention reserved for the handsome man at the table.
“Another ale, perhaps? Or something to eat, or something… not to eat?”
Abigail's eyes widened at this and Charles spluttered into his drink, coughing as he shook his head. “No… no, thank you, Emily,” he said, and Abigail leaned back in her seat, her lips pursed as her eyes flitted between the two people.
The barmaid — Emily, apparently — flashed Charles a grin. “Oh, if you change your mind…”
“Emily,” he interrupted quickly, his eyes flitting towards Abigail. “I do not believe you've met my wife. Abigail.”
“Your… wife?” To the girl's credit, she managed to hide her shock quite quickly — though certainly not quick enough for Abigail's keen eye.
“I didn't realize,” she said — her smile quite a bit less enthusiastic and open than it had been at first. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Charles said, his tone inviting no further conversation. Emily nodded stiffly before turning away and when Charles looked back at Abigail, it was as though the meeting had never happened.
For her, though, it was not as easy, and the night had almost instantly lost its luster. The bitterness of the ale no longer had the soft hint of pleasantness, the sounds grated her nerves and the color of the evening was lost. Though Charles continued a cheerful conversation, Abigail found herself unable to listen to it — until he reached forward and took her hand in his.
“Abigail? What on earth is wrong?”
She blinked a few times, then shook her head — a false smile settling around her lips, though it felt stiff and unnatural.
“Nothing,” she lied easily. Of course, in truth, she knew exactly what it was that bothered her. It was the barmaid and the ease with which she had spoken to Charles — like they knew each other far too well.
“It's just… warm in here,” Abigail muttered, desperate for any kind of excuse for her sudden shift in mood. Charles was not dissuaded. Instead, he flashed her a charming grin.
“Well then,” he said, his voice teasing, “let's get some air, shall we?”
Abigail nodded and allowed him to lead her outside. The night had grown cooler and she shivered. Without as much as a blink, Charles took his own jacket off and hung it over her shoulders.
