A Hero for Lady Abigail
Maggie Dallen
Katherine Ann Madison
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
A Wish Upon a Duke
About the Author
1
The Earl of Havercrest’s ballroom teemed with a sea of crinoline and lace, the sound of laughter and music echoing off the walls. The first event of the season was well underway and Lady Abigail watched it all with a keen eye and a tight knot in her belly.
“This is your last chance, dear.”
The cool voice beside her made the knot tighten painfully but Abigail's smile broadened and her response came through gritted teeth. “Thank you for the reminder, Mother.”
Her fan opened with a snick as she turned to face an older, but no less beautiful version of herself. She and her mother shared the same chestnut-colored hair, the same high cheekbones, and the same full lips. The face of an angel, her father had always said.
Abigail was certain her father was the first and last member of the ton to liken her to an angel. Unless, of course, the angel in question was Lucifer.
“I can’t imagine why you’re hiding over here like a wallflower,” her mother continued. “You are not getting any younger, you know.”
Still younger than you. Abigail bit back the words before they could escape. She would not take her mother’s bait. Now was hardly the time or the place to enter into another verbal sparring match.
“I overheard Lady Nicholas talking to her husband about you just now.” Her mother tsked in a poor imitation of concern. “It seems all your friends are worried that you’ve missed your chance at marriage and will end up on the shelf.”
Abigail stilled at the mention of her friend—though “friend” was rather a misleading term. Abigail didn’t have friends. She had allies and she had connections. She’d ceased having true friends her first season when it became apparent that “friends” was just another word for competition.
Her mother leaned forward slightly, no doubt trying to catch a glimpse of Abigail’s face behind the fan to see if her barb had hit its mark. But Abigail had learned long ago that a fan was never merely a fan. It was a weapon. One that could be used to play coy, to flirt, to playfully tap a young lord on the shoulder, to hide from lecherous eyes when one of her father’s cronies tried to seek her out for a dance...
Oh yes, a fan was a most useful weapon indeed.
At this particular moment, Abigail wielded it as a shield. She held it in front of her as though she could deflect her mother’s barbs with the thin slip of ivory.
“I hardly think it will come to that.” She kept her voice even, refusing to let her mother see how her taunts rattled her. She’d never give her mother that satisfaction.
“Besides, Lady Nicholas is merely jealous.” She sought out the newly married lady, who was standing with her husband and several of Abigail’s acquaintances on the far side of the room.
“Jealous?” her mother said with a humorless laugh. “Of you?”
“Indeed. The gentleman I choose to marry will be a far cry less rotund than Lord Nicholas, I can assure you,” she said with a sniff. “And he’ll still have his hair.”
“He’s an earl’s son,” her mother reminded her.
“A second son,” she shot back. “I shall do better.”
“Oh my. We’re very sure of ourselves, aren’t we?” Her mother’s laughter sailed right over the fan’s edge and grated against her nerves.
“Of course I’m confident,” she said with a cool smile. “We both know that I’m still considered a diamond of the first water. I can have my pick.”
“Yes, but the pickings are slim, wouldn’t you say?” Her mother looked toward an elderly earl whom her father approved of but whose breath made Abigail’s stomach turn when he stood too close.
“Oh, I don’t know, Mother,” she said in a lighthearted tone meant to annoy. “It is not as though I need many options, just one.”
Just one. One gentleman whom she’d somehow managed to overlook during the past three seasons but who was intelligent, kind, and respectful enough to consider. One man who wasn’t repulsive to look at or whose breath reeked of rotten meat. One who was younger than her father, hopefully. Preferably titled. Oh yes...and wealthy.
She only needed one option. But that one option was starting to seem like a fantastical myth. She might as well be searching this ballroom for a unicorn. That knot in her chest began to swell and grow. She drew in a quick inhale as a panicky sensation threatened to swallow her whole.
“Tick tock, my dear,” her mother sang.
Not surprisingly, her mother was enjoying Abigail’s plight far too much. The Duchess of Gorem was many things—but maternal was not one of them. Her relationship to her one and only daughter had been based more on rivalry and jealousy rather than nurture and guidance.
It was hardly Abigail’s fault that she was still in the prime of her youth, but try explaining that to her mother. She seemed to take it personally.
“Well?” Her mother glanced meaningfully toward a group of eligible gentlemen who were laughing loudly amongst themselves as they pretended not to notice the attention they’d snared from every marriage-minded mama in a ten-mile radius.
Abigail huffed. Preening peacocks, the lot of them.
Perhaps she’d inherited a bit of her mother’s resentful temperament in addition to her cheekbones, because at this particular moment she wanted nothing more than to thumb her nose at the wealthy, titled lords who held all the power in the world.
Well, the power to choose their own spouse, at the very least. But with Abigail’s current predicament, that seemed like everything one could ever hope for.
Abigail turned back to find her mother openly gloating. “So, Abigail, whom will you choose, hmm?” Her eyes widened with feigned concern. “Or are you perhaps ready to concede?”
Concede. She might as well have said surrender. The topic of Abigail and her marriage prospects had become nothing less than a war at home and there was nothing her mother wished more than to win this final battle.
Once upon a time when Abigail was in her first season, it had been understood that Abigail would have a say in the matter of whom she would marry. As that season passed without a wedding, and then another, and then still another—that understanding had disappeared right in front of her eyes. Both her parents were growing impatient, and her mother had declared it was time she took matters into her own hands.
As if her mother hadn’t been attempting to manage Abigail and her prospects for years now.
But now her mother meant to choose her husband for her, taking no account of Abigail’s preference or opinion. Abigail narrowed her eyes in the face of her mother’s expectant, smug smile. Would she concede?
Never.
In an effort to placate his determined wife and his admittedly stubborn daughter, her father had given Abigail one last chance at choosing for herself. If she could not find an eligible suitor to ask for her hand by the end of this season, she would be forced to marry the gentleman her mother chose for her.
Experience told her that her mother’s choice would be whomever would make Abigail most miserable.
“There is no shame in admitting defeat, dear,” her mother said, her words so sugarcoated that a passerby would never know they were actually salt bei
ng rubbed into a wound.
The wound was metaphorical, of course. It was only her pride that suffered after watching each and every one of the young ladies she’d made her debut with marry, leaving her with increasingly bad prospects as she hovered near the brink of spinsterhood.
Abigail straightened her shoulders and held her fan up higher as she shoved that tight knot right back down again before it could rise up and choke her. It was not as though she hadn’t had prospects over the years. Her situation was of her own making. It was by choice.
And now she had one last choice to make, and there was no way on earth she’d hand that over to her mother. “I feel quite optimistic about my options.”
Her mother’s huff of disbelief couldn’t hide her irritation. Abigail was spoiling her fun by not playing the part of the desperate young lady. But what else did she expect? After all, it was Abigail’s mother who’d taught her that showing one’s weakness was what made a woman pathetic. Pitiable, even.
Abigail had learned her lessons well.
“I can’t imagine why you’re so optimistic,” her mother murmured beside her. “You’ve lost the advantage that comes with youth. Especially with so many newcomers to the scene.”
Her mother glanced pointedly in the direction where everyone had been staring all night. The Darling ladies. Abigail wasn’t sure of their names, and she didn’t care. The three blonde ladies looked entirely out of place as they hovered awkwardly beside the Earl of Darling and his new bride. No one had expected this man to inherit, and his sisters were so out of place, she almost pitied them.
Almost.
She turned back to her mother with a sniff. “Please, Mother. Those upstarts are hardly competition.”
Her mother shrugged. “They’re young, pretty, and new.” Her mother smirked. “Never underestimate the power of novelty.”
Abigail tilted her chin up higher and turned her gaze back to the crush of lords and ladies before them. She wouldn’t dignify that with an answer. The earl’s sisters might have been new, but they were still outsiders. No amount of beauty would make up for their poor manners and unfortunate upbringing.
But Abigail’s mother was right on one point. She couldn’t afford to waste the first prime husband-hunting event of the season by standing here alone on the outskirts.
Her gaze flickered left and right, dismissing every gentleman she saw as either married, unsuitable, or irredeemably unlikeable. She couldn’t afford to be too choosy, of course, but she had her standards.
“See there?” Her mother leaned in close, following her gaze like a hawk. “Lord Tennent is looking this way. Everyone knows he needs a hefty dowry to keep his estate in order.” Her mother’s fan did nothing to hide her smirk. “I’m sure he’d take pity on you.”
Abigail’s cheeks ached with the effort to keep her smile in place, her voice light and sweet. “But Mother, Lord Tennent is nearly as old you are, which means he’s…” She gave a delicate shudder. “Positively ancient.”
Her mother’s smirk fell flat but Abigail’s triumph was short-lived. She’d eyed the entire room and not one decent prospect to be found.
Well, there was one, but the Duke of Walton was notoriously elusive. It was a wonder he was here at all, although she had heard he was friends with the host. But even if the eligible duke had deigned to attend a societal event, he’d made it clear he was in no rush to marry.
And Abigail was. It would not do to set her sights so very high when the odds were not in her favor.
She tried to swallow down the growing panic, but her mouth was dry and her last conversation with her father rang in her ears. He wasn’t nearly as harsh as her mother, but perhaps that was why his stern lecture had hurt so much more than anything her mother had said over the years. You’ve become an embarrassment, Abbie.... You’re too much like your mother…. It will take a miracle to find a man who can tolerate you.... What on earth are you waiting for?
What was she waiting for? The question had been hounding her for days. Not love, nor romance, obviously. She wasn’t so foolish to believe in all that. So what then?
“Well, dear? Which one of these wonderful prospects will you pursue?” her mother asked.
Abigail pressed her lips together. Right. It was time to pick someone. Anyone would do just so long as it silenced her mother and gave her a chance to breathe.
The crowd to her right parted and her eye was caught by a flash of a tall gentleman she couldn’t immediately place. Could it be...someone new? More importantly, there was no wife at his side. Was it possible that there was a new eligible gentleman in town for the season?
Abigail’s heart gave a little kick in her chest at the sight of a full head of dark brown hair and broad shoulders. He certainly was not one of the usual crowd of bachelors she’d come to know so well. He turned and his profile became visible. Not ancient, so there was that. His nose was straight, his jaw nice and square. His full lips curved up in a smile and her heart did that thing again. A fierce thud. Excitement, that’s what it was. Excitement and...hope.
Perhaps he could be a viable option. He at least was someone different, someone attractive and young and not of her mother’s choosing. He was someone...he was someone she recognised. She blinked in surprise as he turned slightly giving her a clear view of his face. Yes, she definitely recognized him—Major something or other. He was a close friend of the Marquess of Arundel and she recalled meeting him briefly at the marquess’s house party this past spring and then again when the marquess married that shy little mouse.
She narrowed her eyes as she tried to remember what she knew of him. No title. She wasn’t sure about wealth. Definitely not married.
Her mother’s eyes were on her; she could feel the weight of her stare. She kept her own gaze on the major as he drew closer, his attention fixed on someone past her. He had kind eyes and a handsome smile. For now, that was enough. That was more than enough.
“Him.” She used her fan to point him out to her mother. “For tonight I choose him.”
Her mother’s nose wrinkled. “Major Mayfield?”
Mayfield. That was it. Major Alexander Mayfield. “Yes. Him.”
“But he’s not even titled,” her mother complained. “His uncle is an earl, but as far as I know—”
“Father made no stipulations regarding title,” she reminded her mother, not without a smirk of her own. The fact that her mother didn’t approve just made the major that much more appealing. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”
She didn’t wait for her mother’s permission before stepping away from her position by the wall and directly into Major Mayfield’s path. He stopped just shy of running her over, his eyes widening in surprise.
She supposed it wasn’t often that young ladies threw themselves in his way.
“Oh, er, pardon me,” he said. His smile and bow spoke of chivalry and kindness.
For the first time all evening that knot of anxiety was starting to fade. “Major Mayfield, isn’t it?”
He opened his mouth, but she didn’t give him a chance to respond. The key with men like this—good men, nice men—was to take the reins straightaway. “Why, I would be delighted, Major.” Her voice was louder than was absolutely necessary but she was gratified to feel the partygoers around them turn to stare.
The major’s brows arched in question. “Pardon me?”
Abigail smiled. “I would be delighted to have this next dance.”
He blinked in shock. Poor fellow. He likely never had a lady take such an interest. But her mother was watching, and so was that crowd of egotistical peacocks who thought they were her only option.
The music started to swell and Abigail extended her hand with a coy smile. “Shall we?”
He took her hand in his and for a moment her composure slipped. Even through her glove she felt his warmth, and this close his height made her feel small. Almost delicate. For one brief moment she had the most ludicrous urge to lean against him, to let him take some of the weight from he
r shoulders and rest her head against his shoulder. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and tilted her head back to meet his gaze head-on, her brows arching with a silent prompt.
He leaned down slightly and lowered his voice. “What are you doing?”
A laugh bubbled up inside her at his confusion. He was adorable, he truly was. “Why I’m saving you, of course.”
“Saving me?”
She fluttered her fan and smiled up at him through her lashes in a way that never failed to make a man melt. “I’m saving you from a dull and tedious evening.”
2
Alex stared at the woman before him trying to decide if she was daft or just misguided. Or both. Did she think he was someone else?
He shook his head. She’d used his name, so clearly she hadn’t muffed his identity. Yet she was going on about them dancing as though they were having a conversation that clearly wasn’t actually happening.
Odd didn’t begin to explain it. How on earth was he supposed to respond?
He recognized her, of course. Lady Abigail. They’d been introduced in the past but hadn’t so much as exchanged pleasantries about the weather, so far as he could recall. And he would have recalled. Lady Abigail was not the sort of woman one could forget. Standing this close to her, he was stunned by the force of her beauty. If he were being honest, she was almost painful to look at, she was so stunning. The sort of stunning that made even the strongest man cast his eyes to the ground.
Except for right now. Because right now, he could not seem to stop staring.
She had the thick, luxurious hair that seemed barely restrained by pins, its brown color highlighted by shades of blonde and red. Chestnut, he’d heard it described once. How would it look in the sun? In the shade? By candlelight it sparkled with color?
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