A Hero for Lady Abigail

by Dallen, Maggie

  Did she intend to meddle in his courtship with Charlotte again?

  It didn’t matter. Because she’d done it again.

  She’d managed to toss herself directly in his path.

  6

  If Abigail held her chin any higher her neck would surely ache in the morning. But if that was the price to pay for her pride, then so be it.

  Yet another couple walked past her, casting her a quick sidelong look before diverting their gaze. As with every other couple who’d passed, this was followed by a hushed whisper, which trailed off into a smug laugh.

  Abigail made sure the small, enigmatic smile she’d fixed on her face never faltered. Her cheek muscles were beginning to ache from holding the expression for…she glanced at a grandfather clock on the far side of the drawing room. Only an hour? Surely that couldn’t be right. It seemed as though an eternity had passed already, not a mere hour.

  The first night’s welcoming soiree had already been well underway when Abigail joined. Her mother had thankfully opted to stay in their rooms. Although at this particular moment, Abigail actually found herself missing her mother’s presence. Her mother’s conversation likely would have been limited to criticisms and insults, but at least she would have had someone to talk to.

  And besides, while the lords and ladies present seemed to have no problem snubbing Abigail, to snub a duchess was another matter entirely. They wouldn’t dare treat her mother this way. With each sweep of the crowded hallways and sitting rooms, the response to her presence had been the same. Stares, whispers, and then a quick look away before eye contact could be made.

  Cowards.

  Abigail leaned back slightly, hoping to rest for a moment against the doorframe behind her as she summoned the energy to head back into the nest of vipers.

  At least Lily had had the good grace to glare at her outright when she’d spotted her earlier. Abigail would take outright hostility any day over the whispers and laughter that currently surrounded her. And besides, Lily at least had cause to be angry. The rest of these simpering fools could hardly say the same.

  But Lily had always been stronger than the rest, there was a reason they’d been such close friends once upon a time.

  Of course, Lily’s husband tore her away before she could say anything cutting. He’d squelched a scandal before it could begin. Dear old Merrick. Like Major Mayfield, Merrick was one of the good ones.

  It was too bad she’d been forced to let him go.

  And then there was Marigold, bless her heart. The poor mousy creature hadn’t had the nerve to snub her when she’d arrived. The most she’d been able to muster was a look of disapproval when Abigail greeted Major Mayfield with a bit more effusive charm than was absolutely necessary. The girl couldn’t even manage a proper smirk, even though she’d triumphed over Abigail by winning Lord Arundel.

  But then, Marigold always had been far too kind for her own good. The major too. He’d accepted her warm greetings with that tolerant exasperation that she was starting to rather enjoy.

  But truly, if Lily and Marigold could behave with good manners—or in Lily’s case, straightforwardness, at least—then was it too much to ask that the rest of the sniveling ton do the same?

  Apparently so.

  She lifted her chin higher and turned her gaze to the couples who were already heading toward the ballroom for dancing, as well as the gaggle of young eligible ladies who were clustered together in the center of the room, looking like a pretty bouquet in their pale silk and lace gowns.

  They all glanced over in Abigail’s direction and Charlotte leaned forward to whisper. Whatever Charlotte had said, it made the other young ladies giggle loudly.

  Abigail looked away with a sigh. Forget the bouquet. Those girls were more like a cluster of toxic weeds.

  She’d been standing still too long, that was the problem. Abigail was starting to garner more unwanted attention than she could tolerate. She ought to keep walking, but roaming the party with her gaze focused ahead as though she were seeking out some mythical friends had grown tiresome. Not to mention, her feet were beginning to ache from making the endless loop.

  Surely there was someone here who was more pathetic than she was. There had to be someone who wouldn’t walk away the moment she drew near.

  As gracefully as she was able, she angled her head left and then right, looking for someone. Anyone.

  Sir Geoffrey.

  She inwardly winced. He was standing near the punch bowl doing much the same as Abigail. Eyeing the crowd, looking as though he were perfectly content to stand there in silence as the rest of the room carried on with their entertainment.

  A flicker of something unpleasant had her straightening. It wasn’t guilt, exactly. Though Major Mayfield’s words from the previous day did come back to her and give her pause.

  Yes, all right, fine. Perhaps it was a bit of shame that had her taking tentative steps in his direction.

  Was she really going to do this? After all, the only thing more laughable than Abigail was Sir Geoffrey. But that thought had her taking another step, and then another. Was this...empathy she was feeling?

  Hmm. How unpleasant. All she could think was, Is this how Sir Geoffrey spends every outing?

  And if so, why on earth did he still insist on attending events where he was so clearly not wanted?

  Abigail very nearly tripped over her own two feet at that thought. Her fixed smile turned somewhat genuine and entirely rueful. Excellent question, Abigail. Why do you insist on attending these events?

  It was Lily’s voice she’d heard, clear as day. Almost as if they were still the dearest of friends and knew without a doubt what the other girl would say. Once upon a time they had been able to finish one another’s sentences. They’d shared the same brain, Lily’s mother had once teased.

  Her smile faded. But that time was long gone, of course.

  With that maudlin thought, she found herself standing beside the old bore— No. She thought of what Major Mayfield had said and corrected herself. The old war hero. “Hello, Sir Geoffrey. Are you having a pleasant evening?”

  His head snapped up with a start and he blinked at her. “Pardon me?”

  She just barely held back a sigh. If she was going to have to stand here and shout to be heard all night, then she was already regretting her decision to do this. She raised her voice slightly. “I asked if you were having a pleasant evening.”

  His brows arched. “There’s no need to shout, Lady Abigail. I’m standing right here.”

  She clamped her lips shut but then… Wait a moment. Was he teasing? She was certain she caught a glimmer of mischief in his eyes and she narrowed hers in turn.

  He turned back to the crowd with a sigh. “To answer your question, no. I am not enjoying my evening. These house parties are tedious and dull. Heaven knows why I still feel the need to attend.”

  She blinked in surprise. “That’s shockingly honest.”

  “Mmm.” He agreed with a nod. “I’ve often found life, in general, would be much more pleasant if people were more honest.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Events like these, for instance. They’d be different indeed if people actually spoke their minds.”

  Her lips curved up in the first real smile of the evening as she tried to imagine it. “This drawing room would be filled with blood and fisticuffs before you could blink.”

  He let out a harsh bark of laughter that had the people standing around them turning to stare. She ought to be mortified, she supposed. Now everyone would know that she’d been reduced to talking to boring old Sir Geoffrey.

  But then again, boring old Sir Geoffrey was proving to be far less boring than she’d imagined.

  “So then, Lady Abigail…” He turned to her with a sharp gaze. “What have you done that you’re stuck over here with me?”

  “Oh, I—that is, I don’t mind—er—” She stopped her flustered babbling at the sight of that wicked laughter in his eyes once more. She exhaled
loudly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He chuckled and turned back to the crowd. “Don’t try to play the fool with me, dear. I’ve been watching from the wings longer than you have. You’re no one’s fool.”

  Her lips quirked up as she regarded the older man.

  He wagged a finger in her direction. “It’s that big brain of yours that got you into trouble, I’d bet.”

  “It did not.” She paused. “It was my lack of morals.”

  He arched his brows, his eyes lit with amusement rather than judgment.

  “My bad manners,” she added for good measure.

  “Well, at least you’re not a fool.”

  She choked on an unexpected laugh. Truly, where had this man been hiding all this time? He was delightfully improper. Turning to face him more fully, she said, “Now you know what I am doing over here in the land of outcasts? What is your excuse?”

  “I’m old,” he said bluntly.

  She arched her brows just like he had. “That’s not an excuse, that’s just a fact.”

  He gave that bark of laughter again but this time she didn’t so much as glance over to see who’d heard. “What does your age have anything to do with anything?” she asked.

  He sighed. “I don’t claim to be smart, but age and experience have made me wise. And do you know what that wisdom has given me?”

  She shook her head.

  “Little patience for fools.”

  She let out an inelegant little snort of a laugh that her mother would have chided her for.

  His eyes glinted with mischief. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  “Pardon me,” she said with all the righteous indignation she could muster while so amused. “I thought we agreed I was not a fool.”

  He looked at her. That was it. That was all he did. He looked at her. And suddenly, for the first time in years...she was blushing.

  She looked away quickly as she imagined all the things this man—this seemingly innocuous, boring, nobody of a man might have witnessed over the years. For a moment she could see herself through his eyes. And what she saw…

  Well, that knot was back in the pit of her stomach because the vision had been all too easy to conjure.

  She must have looked exactly like her mother. False laughter, cutting compliments, whispered rumors, and strategic snubs. The knot in her belly threatened to make her stomach heave.

  “But…” Sir Geoffrey interrupted her horrid thoughts with a prosaic tone. “I suppose all young people are allowed to be stupid.”

  She narrowed her eyes, but by his laughter he knew she was teasing. "Stupid, am I? I thought you said I had a big brain."

  He shrugged. "We are all imbeciles at some point in our lives. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

  "I'm not ashamed." But she was. That was the alarming part. She'd behaved badly in the past. She'd behaved badly often. And now she was alone and she had no one to blame but herself. Give her a few years in a loveless marriage and she’d be the spitting image of her mother. “Perhaps I am a fool,” she muttered.

  He shook his head with a surprisingly kind gaze. “The only reason to feel foolish is if you realize you've acted a dunderhead and don't change.”

  She arched a brow. “Are you speaking from experience?”

  His laughter sounded less like a bark, as though his throat had warmed up sufficiently after years of neglect. He gestured to the crowd before them, most of whom were eligible bachelors or young ladies awaiting the next dance in the ballroom. “Everyone here is following in their parents’ footsteps. Tradition, it's called.” He shook his head. “More like, an endless cycle of foolery.”

  She cocked her head to the side, suddenly very curious about the life this man had led, and all the experiences that had led him here. For the first time ever, she wished she’d paid attention to his stories.

  “How do you deal with such halfwits?” she asked.

  “I drive them to tears with boring tales,” he said with a wicked little grin.

  Her jaw dropped.

  “What do you do?” he asked.

  I drive them away.

  He was watching her expectantly, and she gave him a rueful smile. “I’m trying to break the cycle, I suppose.”

  He reached out and bopped her on the nose as though she were a small child and not a grown lady—and the daughter of a duke. “Now that’s a smart girl.”

  He turned back. “Ah, here comes a man I can tolerate.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “That’s high praise from me.”

  “I believe it.” She was still smiling as she turned to see…him.

  Her mind went blank and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. Good heavens. Major Mayfield cut quite a fine figure striding through the crowd like a man with a purpose. With his gaze locked on hers, the crowd seemed to part before him. He had that kind of air about him. She could feel it from where she stood.

  He wasn’t just a good man. He was a strong man. Strong, and proud, and...noble. That was the word she was searching for. Like a knight out of some children’s tale.

  She gave her head a little shake and nearly laughed aloud at the ridiculous notion.

  “Lady Abigail.” He bowed handsomely before turning his attention to Sir Geoffrey, who waved away his questions about his health and his travels with an impatient gesture. “What are you two doing over here with the likes of me? Go on.” He shooed them away as he reached for a cane.

  “I’ve only just arrived,” the major said. “There’s plenty of time for a conversation or—”

  “No, no.” Sir Geoffrey scowled. “It’s already too late for me. I’m off to my rooms for some rest.”

  “Are you certain?” It was Major Mayfield who asked the question but Sir Geoffrey’s gaze landed on Lady Abigail when he answered.

  “I’m quite certain. But you two…” He eyed the crowd behind them. “You belong out there.”

  “With the other fools?” she murmured as he passed.

  She could hear him laughing as he walked away. With the elderly man gone, she was suddenly alone with the major. Well, alone in a crowded room, but all the same... The silliest sensation took hold of her. Rather than that blasted knot, her belly seemed to be aflutter with butterflies. She clasped her hands together, suddenly nervous, and excited and—oh, what on earth was this?

  She’d never been nervous about speaking privately with a gentleman, not even during her very first season.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure, Major Mayfield?” she asked. She couldn’t have stopped her grin if she’d tried. She hadn’t seen him at all in the past hour of wandering the manor and had started to believe he wouldn’t join in on the fun at all. But here he was.

  But then, of course, he had likely come to join the revelry for Charlotte.

  Her smile started to fade, just as he held out a hand. “I was hoping you would honor me with a dance.”

  She blinked up at him, certain he was teasing. His smile was small and sweet, his eyes dark and so sincere it hurt her chest to look at it. Say yes. Say yes, you ninny. “Shouldn’t you be asking Miss Charlotte Ainsworth for this dance?”

  His smile warmed as a slight crinkle of confusion formed between his brows. “There’s plenty of time for that. I’m asking you.”

  Right. He would seek Charlotte out soon enough, but he’d come for her because… “Major Mayfield, did you feel sorry for me?”

  The moment the sharp accusation escaped, she wished she could call it back.

  His brows lifted as he dropped his hand. “What? No. That is...I wouldn’t phrase it that way, precisely.”

  She sighed. That had told her everything. The major was too honest to deny the truth outright.

  He shifted closer and lowered his voice. It was then she realized that several groups of partygoers were watching with unconcealed interest. Instinct had her plastering her smile back in place and straightening her spine.

  For a moment there with that unusual chat with Sir Ge
offrey and then the sudden appearance of Major Mayfield—she’d almost forgotten where she was.

  Why she was here.

  She brightened her smile and held her hand out. “I’d be delighted, Major.”

  His smile held a hint of relief that she hadn’t pushed the issue of whether this was a pity dance or not. They both knew it was, but she appreciated that he’d done it. That he’d been kind enough to put aside his own courtship goals and the whispers of the ton to give her this…

  Her throat was oddly tight as she let him lead her toward the ballroom. “The good news is, if Charlotte sees you dancing with me, she’ll be beside herself to have you claim her very next dance.”

  Major Mayfield made a hmph noise that was either agreement or amusement, it was difficult to say.

  When he had her in his arms, he didn’t say anything at all. Not at first, at least. They fell into the rhythm of the waltz as though they’d danced together countless times and not just the one.

  For a long moment he held her gaze as they moved together, the music swelling as they circled the room along with the others. “Where did you learn to dance so well?” she asked.

  His eyes widened. “I wasn’t aware that I danced particularly well.”

  “You do.”

  His lips hitched up on one side. “Perhaps I have a good partner.”

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” she replied.

  He laughed and the sound made her grin.

  “I did not come over to you just now out of pity, you know.”

  She nearly laughed. Of course he felt guilty that she thought so. He had, but she wouldn’t argue the point. She wasn’t about to help paint herself as some hapless damsel in distress. She’d gone to great lengths these last few years to ensure that no one saw her as weak or pitiful. She was Lady Abigail Purewater, after all. And she was here to find herself a husband.

  The fact that she had to remind herself of either truth made alarm bells ring in the back of her mind again, but she studiously ignored them.

  “Then why did you?” she asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Why did you seek me out?”

  He smiled. “I seemed to remember a certain lady saying that she had a distaste for boring old military men.”