Page 72 of The Duke and his Hellion
“As did I,” Charles replied, his voice equally soft. “Perhaps we could make it a regular occurrence?”
Abigail's face lit up. “I would like that very much.”
For a moment, they stood there, neither quite willing to say goodnight. Charles found himself captivated by the way the candlelight played across Abigail's features, highlighting the warm brown of her eyes and the soft curve of her lips.
“Well,” Abigail said at last, a hint of reluctance in her voice. “Goodnight, Charles.”
“Goodnight, Abigail,” he replied softly. “Sleep well.”
As he watched her disappear into her room, Charles felt a warmth spreading through his chest, a sensation he could not quite name but that filled him with a sense of contentment and possibility.
He made his way to his own chambers, his mind replaying the events of the evening. Abigail's laughter, the sparkle in her eyes as she bested him at cards, the way she'd blushed at his compliments. Each memory brought a smile to his face.
As he prepared for bed, Charles found himself looking forward to the morning, to seeing Abigail at breakfast, to sharing more moments like the ones they'd shared tonight. It was a novel feeling, this anticipation, this... happiness.
As he drifted off to sleep, Charles's last thoughts were of Abigail's smile, of the warmth in her eyes when she looked at him. Whatever the future held, he knew one thing for certain. His life was infinitely better with Abigail in it.
CHAPTER35
Abigail sank onto her bed, her mind whirling with the events of the day. The warmth of her evening with Charles lingered, a soft glow that made her smile despite herself. She could still hear his laugh and see the twinkle in his eye as he read the society columns praising her.
He had carried such pride in his voice when he read what they had written about her and it sent a pleasant warmth all through her chest. She wanted to make him proud. She quite liked the feeling.
Now, as she changed into her nightgown, Abigail caught sight of herself in the mirror. Was she truly as beautiful as Charles claimed? As the society papers raved?
But then, Beatrice's words echoed in her mind, harsh and cutting. “Men like Charles do not change, Abigail. They just get better at hiding their true nature.”
Abigail shook her head, trying to dispel the negative thoughts. Charles had been nothing but kind, patient, and understanding. The way he looked at her sometimes... it made her heart race and her cheeks flush.
And yet, as she slipped between the cool sheets, doubt continued to gnaw at her. She had never truly trusted Beatrice, she realized. Not that she had a reason not to, but she didn’t quite know her. She was nice enough — and her only friend in the ton, but they weren’t exceptionally close.
Sleep eluded her for hours, her mind a battleground between the warmth of her feelings for Charles and the chill of Beatrice's warnings. When she finally drifted off, her dreams were a confusing jumble of images.
She found herself in a grand ballroom, watching as Charles danced with a succession of beautiful women. They hung on his every word, their hands lingering on his arm, their laughter too loud and too intimate. Abigail tried to reach him, but her feet seemed rooted to the floor.
Suddenly, Beatrice appeared at her side. “I told you,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “I told you he could not be trusted. Look at him, surrounded by his conquests.”
Abigail woke with a start, her heart pounding. The room was still dark, the first light of dawn barely peeking through the curtains. She took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering unease from her dream.
As she dressed for the day, Abigail made a decision. She needed to talk to someone, someone she could trust implicitly. She needed to see Harriet.
The carriage ride to her brother's home seemed interminable, but finally, Abigail found herself being ushered into the drawing room where Harriet sat with little Graham. To her elation, Jennifer was there as well, cooing over her grandson.
“Abigail!” Harriet exclaimed, rising to embrace her. “What a lovely surprise. Are you well?”
“Oh, yes,” Abigail said, forcing a smile. “I just... I wanted to see you. And Graham, of course.”
Jennifer looked up from the baby, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took in Abigail's strained expression. “Nonsense,” she declared. “Something is bothering you, my girl. Out with it.”
Abigail sank into a nearby chair, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to confide in these women who had become more like family than she had ever dared hope.
“It is quite complicated,” she said at last. “But I suppose it has a little to do with Lady Beatrice…”
Harriet lifted a brow at this. “I was not aware that you were friends,” she said simply and Abigail sighed.
“I would not call us close friends,” she admitted. “But we met at a ball and she was kind to me and I suppose she became something of a confidant. Only now… she has said some things... about Charles. And I cannot seem to stop thinking about them.”
Harriet frowned, concern etching lines on her forehead. “What sort of things?”
