Page 65 of The Duke and his Hellion
“You ought to have a new dress made,” he continued now. “I'll have a driver take you into the city later today.”
Abigail could only nod. She could not help but think back to the last time she'd had a dress made and Jennifer Lourne had been there with her to calm her. This time, however, she had no choice but to go alone, and choose her own gown with no help or input.
Abigail’s nerves only grew more and more frayed as the time for the ball drew nearer, and as the evening approached, she made her way down the stairs in a brand new gown, a creation of shimmering silk in a deep emerald green that made her feel every inch the duchess she was supposed to be.
“You look absolutely breathtaking,” Charles said as she reached the bottom of the stairs and Abigail looked up at him, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes traveling over his own impeccable evening attire. “You look quite handsome yourself.”
Charles grinned, offering her his arm. “Shall we, my lady? The ton awaits.”
The Fairfax mansion was ablaze with light as their carriage pulled up, the sounds of music and laughter spilling out into the night. Abigail took a deep breath, steeling herself as Charles helped her down.
“Remember,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear, “you have nothing to prove to these people. Just be yourself.”
Abigail nodded, grateful for his steady presence at her side as they made their entrance. The ballroom was a sea of silk and jewels, the cream of society twirling and mingling beneath glittering chandeliers.
As they moved through the crowd, Abigail could not help but notice the stares and whispers that followed in their wake. She felt her cheeks grow warm, remembering her earlier fears about the women who seemed to know Charles so well.
But as she glanced around, she realized with a start that the looks were not knowing at all. They were... envious. The women weren’t eyeing Charles with familiarity, but with barely concealed longing. And their glances at Abigail weren't dismissive, but assessing, even jealous.
She glanced up at Charles with a frown. Had she been wrong all along? For his part, Charles seemed entirely oblivious to the stares following them.
She tugged at his sleeve gently, her eyes searching his when he gazed down at her. “They are staring at us,” she murmured.
“Indeed,” Charles admitted, his eyes twinkling. “Now, shall we give them something to really gossip about? May I have this dance, duchess?”
Abigail nodded, allowing Charles to lead her onto the dance floor. As they took their positions, she felt some of her earlier nervousness return. “What if… what if I do something silly?” she asked. “What if I forget the steps?”
“Then we shall simply make up new ones,” he replied without missing a beat. “Who knows? We might start a new trend.”
As they moved across the floor, Abigail found herself relaxing into the familiar rhythm. Charles was an excellent partner, guiding her with sure, confident steps. When she looked at him, it almost felt as though they were in her brother’s house once more with Harriet on the piano. She was so caught up in the dance that she almost didn’t notice when he leaned in close, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Did you hear about Lord Pembrook's new wig?” he murmured softly, his tone strangely mischievous.
Abigail blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question — it seemed quite out of the blue. “His... wig?”
Charles nodded solemnly. “Oh yes. Apparently, it is made from the finest yak hair. He's been telling everyone it is the latest fashion in Paris.”
Despite herself, Abigail felt a giggle bubble up in her throat. “You cannot be serious,” she whispered back.
“Deadly serious,” Charles insisted, his face a mask of gravity even as his eyes danced with laughter. “In fact, I heard he's commissioned a whole set. One for every day of the week. Perhaps he will dye them in different vibrant colors to match the different days.”
The image was too much for Abigail. A peal of laughter escaped her lips, ringing out clear and joyous across the ballroom. Almost immediately, she clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with mortification as she realized how many heads had turned in their direction.
But before she could spiral into embarrassment, Charles gently took her hand, moving it away from her face. “Please do not do that,” he said softly, his eyes locked on hers. “I love to see you laugh.”
Abigail felt her breath catch in her throat at the intensity of his gaze. “You do?”
Charles nodded, a warm smile spreading across his face. “I do. Your laugh is... it is like music, Abigail. do not ever hide it.”
Abigail felt her cheeks flush, but this time it was not from embarrassment. “I... I won't,” she promised, her voice barely above a whisper.
They continued to dance, but something had shifted between them. The playful banter faded away, replaced by a charged silence. Abigail was acutely aware of every point of contact between them — Charles’s hand on her waist, her palm against his shoulder, their fingers intertwined.
The world around them seemed to fade away, the chatter and music of the ballroom receding into a distant hum. All Abigail could focus on was Charles — the warmth of his touch, the subtle scent of his cologne, the way his eyes never left her face.
As they twirled across the floor, Abigail felt as though she were floating. The nerves and anxiety that had plagued her earlier in the evening had vanished, replaced by a heady mix of excitement and... something else. Something warm and fluttery that made her heart race and her skin tingle.
She found herself studying Charles's face, noticing details she'd somehow missed before. The small crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the strong line of his jaw, the way a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. He was handsome, she'd always known that, but tonight he seemed... different. More real, somehow. More human.
