Page 30 of Scoundrel for Sale
She squeezed her eyes shut. “I just don’t know.”
Gabe sat up, taking her hands in his. She tried to avoid his eye, but he was having none of it. “Abbie, look at me.” He needed her full attention. This was important.
When she reluctantly cut her eyes to his, he said, “How can you even consider marrying Nigel when you have a viable alternative?”
“But is it viable?” Abbie asked, her voice rising in pitch. “I have known these women for all of four days. Do not mistake me—they have been wonderful. It’s not merely that they have allowed me to stay at Matron Manor. They have helped me and supported me in so many ways. They contrived to get me an invitation to Lady Styring’s ball on the off chance that I could catch the eye of some rich man.”
Gabe stiffened. He knew damn well he had no right to complain. But the thought of Abbie being swept off her feet at a ball by some sod lucky enough to have inherited a fortune along with his title made the feral beast inside of him snarl.
He struggled to keep his voice even. “And did you?”
Abbie laughed as if this was an absurd question. Gabe frowned. Did she truly not understand how beautiful she was? That she was desirable and wonderful in every possible way?
Abbie was speaking, so he made an effort to attend. “Of course, I didn’t. But while I was there, I overheard Cordelia Fitzherbert—you might remember her, she’s the daughter of one of Uncle Edmond’s friends. She was always dangling after Hart.”
Gabe groaned. If it was the girl he was thinking of, she had always looked at him like something unpleasant she had just stepped in. “I think so. Blonde hair, impressive sneer?”
“The very one. Well, she was at the punch table with her friends and didn’t realize I was standing behind her. She mocked my gown for being last season’s fashion, referred to me as Lady Dull-son, and said, ‘Can you believe that she was once considered to be vivacious?’”
Gabe scowled, disliking Cordelia Fitzherbert ten times more for making Abbie feel sad than for anything she’d ever done to him. “I hope you spilled punch on her.”
“The Wicked Widows did her one better. You see, when Cordelia made the remark, I was standing between Lady Sylvan and Lady Covington, who are both on the Wicked Widows’ Council—”
Gabe ran a hand over his face. “Dear God, they have a council.”
“—and just before Cordelia was to dance with the Earl of Marbury, Lady Sylvan sneaked up behind her and slipped a piece of ice down the back of her dress.”
That startled a grin out of him. “Did she truly?”
“She most certainly did! She broke it off one of the ice sculptures. She said it was quite a big piece, the size of her palm. Well, Cordelia shrieked and began flailing her arms, trying to get it out. Absolutely everyone was staring at her. But, of course, no one knew what had happened, or why she was behaving so strangely. She had to beat a hasty retreat to the ladies’ retiring room and missed her dance with Lord Marbury in the process. His lordship did not seem overly disappointed. She looked a bit… unhinged.”
Gabe chuckled. “I’ve changed my mind. I like these Wicked Widows.”
“And,” Abbie said, poking him in the chest, “it was the Wicked Widows who let me know about the bachelor auction and encouraged me to enter.” Gabe enjoyed the becoming blush that spread across her cheeks. “I argued against it at first, but when I saw your name on the list of prospective bachelors, I surrendered with remarkable alacrity.”
Gabe started. “But wait—Abbie, you can’t afford to give me a thousand pounds! You’re already in financial straits thanks to Nigel, and—”
She waved this off. “I’m not worried about that. I know you’ll pay me back once you’ve found some rich heiress.” She kept her voice light as she discussed his future bride, but she cut her gaze to the mattress and based on the tightness that came into her eyes, Gabe fancied the topic was no easier for her than it was for him.
She continued with forced brightness, “Then there’s the fact that if I’m forced to marry Nigel, whatever money is left in my estate will go to him. I would quite prefer for you to have it.”
Gabe groaned. “Abbie, you can’t marry Nigel. You absolutely can’t. As his wife, he would have complete control over you. He could lock you away. He could beat you. He could—”
“I know, Gabe. Believe me, I know. But my only other option is to rely upon the charity of the Wicked Widows. And, as wonderful as they are, I haven’t even known them a full week! Will they still be so eager to support me a year from now? Ten years from now?” Her voice had grown shrill, and Gabe could tell she had been turning these thoughts over in her head for days.
“How will I feel,” Abbie continued, “imposing upon them to that degree? Marriage to Nigel would be intolerable. But the only alternative has so many unknowns. It’s easy to imagine that the widows could change their minds, and I could find myself in even worse circumstances.” She rubbed her temple. “I go back and forth between the Widows and Nigel, changing my mind, a dozen times a day. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t seem to have any good choices before me.” She gave a bitter laugh. “I keep hoping for a miracle, that Carlotta’s heir will magically appear. And maybe they will. But as of right now, I have no idea who they might be.”
“Speaking of Carlotta’s heir”—Gabe held a hand up at Abbie’s startled look—“I don’t want to get your hopes up. It will probably come to nothing. But I know someone with the last name of de Noronha from my time in Portugal.”
Abbie, who had been avoiding his gaze before, sat up, seizing his hand. “Who?”
“An officer I served with. He was with one of the Portuguese Infantry Divisions, and we were on campaign together for a time. Good chap. Captain Santiago de Noronha.”
Abbie bit her lip, despair and hope warring in her eyes. “Do you think he might be a relation of Carlotta’s?”
Gabe grimaced, wishing he could give her a reason to hope. “I have no idea. I’m not sure how common of a last name de Noronha is. But I do know that his family owns a vineyard. When we would dine together, he could tell you everything about the wine, just from tasting it. It was remarkable.” He held up a hand. “But I don’t want you to read too much into that. Owning a vineyard is not so uncommon in Portugal. In any case, I wrote to him upon receiving your letter. Then three days later, I received the news that my great-uncle had died and found myself on a ship back to England. If he responds, the letter will probably go to Malta, and we’ll have to wait an extra month for it to be forwarded if it’s forwarded at all.”
“I see.” Abbie fidgeted with the fringe on the counterpane. “I will try to temper my expectations.” Suddenly she looked up at him, her eyes sincere. “Thank you for writing to him, regardless of whether anything comes of it. For helping me.”
