Page 67 of The Duke and his Hellion
Charles remained silent as he led Abigail out to the carriage, her arm carefully looped through his own. The evening air was cool against his skin, a welcome respite from the stifling heat of the ballroom. As he helped Abigail into the carriage, he could not help but notice the paleness of her face, the slight tremble in her hand as it grasped his.
Once settled inside, Charles found himself studying his wife's profile in the dim light. She seemed lost in thought, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside the window. He wondered what was going through her mind. There was little doubt that she had noticed the tension he’d had with the Hawthornes and a muscle jumped in his jaw.
The carriage ride was quiet, the only sounds were the clip-clop of horses' hooves and the occasional rattle of wheels over uneven cobblestones. Charles glanced at Abigail, who simply stared out of the window, her face pale and a frown between her brows.
Once or twice she glanced at him and opened her mouth, but quickly closed it again as though she had reconsidered asking him what he knew she wanted to.
“Is there something on your mind, Abigail?” he asked at last, careful to keep his voice gentle.
Abigail looked at him then, her voice barely above a whisper. “Charles,” she began hesitantly, “that woman... Lady Hawthorne. Was she... was she the lady you were engaged to?”
Charles felt his body stiffen involuntarily at the question. He had known it was coming, had dreaded it even, but now that it was here, he found himself unexpectedly relieved. He met Abigail's gaze, seeing the concern and curiosity warring in her eyes.
“Yes,” he admitted, his voice low and strained. “She was.”
He watched as Abigail absorbed this information, her eyes widening slightly. “I see,” she murmured.
Charles found himself speaking before he had fully formed the thought, the words tumbling out as if of their own accord. “I was young,” he began, his gaze drifting to some point beyond Abigail's shoulder. “Barely more than a boy, really. I figured I had my whole life in front of me, time to… err, to be foolish and suddenly I was thrust into the role of duke after my father's passing.“
He paused, a bitter smile twisting his lips as he remembered the weight of responsibility that had settled on his shoulders. “I thought I knew what was expected of me. What my duty entailed. I was determined to be the perfect duke, you see. To do everything right, to live up to my father's legacy.”
Charles glanced at Abigail, seeing the attentiveness in her expression. It encouraged him to continue. “And part of that, I believed, was making the most advantageous match possible. Lady Hawthorne — her name is Grace… she seemed the perfect choice. Beautiful, well-connected, impeccably bred. On paper, we were an ideal match.”
He fell silent for a moment, the memories of that time washing over him. When he spoke again, his voice was hollow. “The day before our wedding, I found her in the gardens. With another man. They were... embracing. Kissing.”
Charles felt Abigail's hand cover his own, the warmth of her touch startling in its comfort. He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through hers almost instinctively.
“I broke off the engagement,” he continued. “It caused quite the scandal, as I am sure you've heard. But I could not go through with it. Not after that betrayal. And of course the ton was quick to blame me…”
Abigail frowned. “Why didn’t you…” she trailed off and shrugged, and he flashed her a wry grin.
“Why didn’t I tell the truth? On one hand, I suppose it was my word against Grace’s. On the other…”
He sighed. “On the other hand, I suppose I felt sorry for her. She did not ask to love another. And had the truth come out, she’d be ruined — and it is far worse for a woman to be ruined than a man.”
He paused, his thumb absently tracing patterns on the back of Abigail's hand. “The hardest part was not the scandal, or even the betrayal itself. It was the realization that I would have been willing to enter into a lifelong commitment with someone I barely knew, someone I didn't love, all for the sake of duty and expectation.”
Charles looked up then, meeting Abigail's gaze. The understanding he saw there gave him courage to continue. “I vowed then that I would never make that mistake again. That I would never marry without truly knowing someone, that I would never let myself be vulnerable again.”
He watched as Abigail's eyes widened slightly at his words, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. Charles felt a sudden urge to explain further, to make her understand.
“For years after,” he said, “every time I saw her at social events, it stung. Not because I mourned what might have been, but because her presence was a constant reminder of my own folly, my own naivety.”
He paused, his gaze drifting to their joined hands. “But tonight,” he said slowly, “tonight was different.”
“Different how?” Abigail asked, her voice soft.
Charles looked up, his eyes locking with hers. The intensity of her gaze made his heart race. “Tonight,” he said softly, “she was just another face in the crowd. Another member of the ton. Someone I was eager to show off my beautiful wife to.”
He watched as Abigail's cheeks flushed deeper at his words. “Thank you, Abigail,” he said, his voice low and sincere.
“For what?” she asked, genuine puzzlement in her tone.
“For asking,” he replied. “For listening. For... for being you.”
There was a pregnant pause then, as they looked at each other. Charles felt something shift between them, an energy he could not quite name but that made his skin tingle and his heart race.
The moment was broken by the sudden slowing of the carriage. They had arrived home.
