Page 78 of The Duke and his Hellion
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For his part, Charles drummed his fingers nervously on his knee as the carriage rolled towards Hyde Park. Though he tried to focus on the impending meeting with his mother, his thoughts kept drifting back to Abigail. A sense of unease had settled in the pit of his stomach, growing stronger with each passing moment.
“We've arrived, Your Grace,” his driver announced, and Charles nodded stiffly, pushing his thoughts aside.
“Thank you, Jenkins,” he replied, stepping down from the carriage. His eyes scanned the park, searching for any sign of Abigail or her mysterious friend. The crowds of fashionable Londoners strolling along the paths obscured his view, and he felt frustration coursing within him.
With a shake of his head, Charles reminded himself that Abigail was perfectly capable of handling herself. He needed to trust her, to give her the independence she deserved. Still, he could not quite shake the feeling that something was amiss.
As he made his way towards the Serpentine, Charles’s thoughts drifted towards his mother. There was no denying that he was surprised by her sudden desire to apologize, but he welcomed the opportunity to mend their relationship. Still, there was a lot they had to agree on before he’d allow her back in his home. He would not have his wife disrespected.
He finally spotted Vivian standing near the water's edge, her posture rigid and her face set in its usual haughty expression. Charles frowned, a flicker of doubt crossing his mind. This did not look like a woman prepared to offer an apology.
“Mother,” he greeted her, bowing slightly. “It is good to see you.”
Vivian's eyes narrowed as she regarded her son. “Charles,” she replied, her tone cool. “I must say, I was surprised to receive your message. Though I suppose it is about time you came to your senses.”
Charles blinked, confusion washing over him. “My message? I am afraid I do not understand. I came because of your letter, asking to meet and apologize.”
A look of genuine bewilderment crossed Vivian’s face. “I sent no such letter, Charles. I received a note from you, stating that you wished to meet and make amends for your behavior.”
Charles felt his stomach drop. Something was very wrong here. “Mother, I certainly did not send you any message. I have a letter from you right here, asking to meet and apologize.”
He reached into his coat pocket, producing the missive he had received from her. Vivian lifted a brow as she read it.
“One would think that my own son would know his mother’s handwriting,” she said coldly. “This letter is not from me.”
Charles shook his head, suppressing an outraged laugh. He opened his mouth, but before he could respond that she too had fallen for the note he supposed she received, Vivian’s expression hardened even more. “Is this some sort of trick, Charles? Some ploy to embarrass me in public?”
Charles felt his own temper rising to match his mother’s. “Of course not! Why would I do such a thing? I came here in good faith, hoping to reconcile with you.”
“Reconcile?” Vivian scoffed. “After the way you have behaved? Defending that Scottish girl, chasing me from your home…”
“Abigail is my wife,” Charles growled, his patience wearing thin. “And you hurt her. It is my job to protect my wife. She is my family now and if you can't accept that, then perhaps we have nothing more to discuss.”
Their voices had risen, drawing the attention of nearby park goers. A small crowd had begun to gather, watching the spectacle with undisguised interest. Charles was about to suggest they move somewhere more private when a familiar voice cut through the tension.
“Your Grace! Oh, thank goodness I have found you!”
Charles turned to see Beatrice hurrying towards him, her face flushed and her breath coming in short gasps. She grabbed his arm, tugging insistently.
“You must come quickly,” she panted. “It is Lady Abigail. Please… hurry.”
Charles felt his heart leap into his throat. “What’s happened? Where is she?”
Beatrice pointed towards a thick copse of trees. “This way, hurry!”
Without a second thought, Charles allowed Beatrice to lead him towards the trees. He was vaguely aware of his mother and several concerned onlookers following behind, but his focus was solely on reaching Abigail.
As they neared the tree line, a small voice in the back of Charles's mind warned him that something about this situation felt off. He slowed his pace, turning to address the group trailing them.
“Wait here,” he instructed, his voice low and urgent. “I’ll assess the situation first. If I need assistance, I'll call for you.”
There were murmurs of agreement, and Charles saw his mother's face tighten with worry. Despite their argument, it was clear she understood the gravity of the moment.
Beatrice tugged at his arm again, her eyes wide with what appeared to be fear. “Please, Your Grace. We must hurry!”
Charles nodded, allowing her to guide him into the trees. They pushed through the underbrush, branches catching at their clothes as they moved deeper into the woods. The sounds of the park faded away, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird.
