His jaw tightened. The last thing he wanted was to compare the woman he had married to the woman he should have married. It was fair to neither of them, and reminded him of mistakes best left forgotten. There was no use in trying to wish the past away. He could not go back and change what had happened, nor in truth would he want to. To change one thing was to change all things. If he lost Theresa, he lost his daughters, and they their children as well. No, he could not alter the past… but he would be damned before he lived in a future without Abby in it.
“I will be journeying to London tomorrow morning. You can use that time to open the rest of the rooms. In the meantime, hire as many staff as you need to. I want Ashburn up and running as soon as possible.”
“Are you going for business?” the steward queried.
“Yes.” Of a sort.
Wilson rubbed his chin. “The townhouse is undergoing renovations.”
Something Reginald well knew as he had been the one to schedule said renovations for his city residence, but he was pleased that despite his advancing years, Wilson was still able to keep such close tabs on everything.
As though he could read his mind–which as a boy Reginald feared he very well could–Wilson said, “I am old, not senile.”
Another rare grin flirted with the corners of Reginald’s mouth. “I never said you were.”
“You should stay at the Keating Hotel,” Wilson advised. “Lovely views from what I hear and it is only a few blocks from her townhouse.”
Something inside of Reginald’s chest coiled tight, rather like a spring ready to deploy. He had told no one of his intentions, least of all the man standing before him. Surely after all these years the past would have been forgotten, lost to the winds of time. “To whom are you referring?” he asked guardedly.
The steward’s brown eyes twinkled. “Why, Miss Abigail of course. That is who you are going to London to see, is it not?”
Chapter Three
Two Days Later
Abigail received the calling card at half past eleven in the morning. It was delivered by a solemn faced footman, along with a bouquet of freshly picked (and still slightly damp) roses arranged in a delicate green vase.
Her hand trembling, she picked up the card from the silver tray it had been set upon and read the name elegantly engraved on the thick white paper.
His Grace, the Duke of Ashburn
She flung the card away from her with a little gasp. It fluttered harmlessly to the floor and slid out of sight beneath a writing desk. Making no effort to pick it up, Abigail began to pace the length of her small parlor, sending her gray skirts swishing between her ankles.
The gossip was true, then. Reginald truly had returned… and was wasting no time in making his presence known.
But how had he found her?
She stopped short in the middle of the room and pressed a palm over her racing heart. A foolish question. He was a duke, for heavens sakes, with immeasurable resources at his disposal. It was not the how she needed answered.
It was the why.
Forty years had come and gone since the day she slipped his ring from her finger and walked out of his life. Forty years was a lifetime for some. An eternity for others. To always be waiting…wondering…wanting…
“No,” she said firmly, putting enough emphasis on the single syllable to make it echo through the room.
Mayhap she had waited and wondered and wanted for a time, but she had lived her life, and so had Reginald, except he had lived it with another woman while she remained alone.
But that had been her choice, her decision, and she stood by it without allowing herself an ounce of self-pity. She was an intelligent woman. A strong woman. She did not need a man by her side to make her complete and she certainly did not need to receive the bloody Duke of Ashburn. Not after all this time.
No matter how much she wanted to.
Bustling into the foyer she secured a cream colored shawl around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the crisp autumn air, plopped a poke bonnet atop her head, and took one of her own calling cards from a small mahogany box tucked away in a side drawer. Slipping it inside her reticule, she pulled on a pair of satin gloves–the fingertips nearly worn through with age–and darted breathlessly out the door.
“Circle around again,” Reginald instructed his coachman. Leaning forward to afford himself a better view of the long line of stucco sided townhouses that stretched the length of a quiet cobblestone lane, he studied the middle one intently, searching for any signs of movement through the windows.
He would have known it was Abigail’s even without the exact address. It was, after all, the only townhouse in all of London without any curtains or drapes.
Seeing nothing that would indicate Abby was at home, he motioned for the coachman to continue on and settled back into the richly upholstered seat of his barouche carriage, his expression pensive.
What if Abigail was away visiting friends or relatives? Or–his stomach knotted just thinking about it–she had yet to return from the house of a lover? Jealousy flared within him, as ridiculous as it was unwarranted. Had he really expected the woman he’d jilted to remain chaste these past forty years?
It was lunacy.
Then again, Reginald was feeling a bit like a lunatic.
Maybe he was going mad. It would certainly explain the irrational feelings he still possessed for someone he had not seen since he was little more than a boy. Feelings like hope and anxiety… and love.
Yes, he loved Abby.
Had always loved her, truth be told. But he had also done his duty, honored his father, respected his mother, and been loyal to his wife in every way he was capable. And in doing those things, in pleasing others and ensuring their well-being above his own, he had lost the one person most precious to him in the entire world.
Now he finally had the chance to get her back…and he was terrified.
His mouth curved ruefully at the thought. He was a wealthy duke, one of the most influential nobles in all of England, a man full grown at sixty years, and yet he still paled at the thought of confronting a tiny slip of a woman who barely reached his chin in height.
“Again,” he called to his bewildered driver. “Circle around again.”
Abigail’s sister received her with a sigh and a weakly managed smile.
“I am pleased you decided to pay a visit, but what are you doing here so early?” Martha asked after they had settled in the library–the parlor was being dusted–over fresh cups of tea and a platter of daintily arranged cheese pastries.
“It is almost noon,” Abigail pointed out.
Martha waved her hand in the air and managed to give the impression of rolling her eyes without actually rolling them. “Yes, well, I suppose it is allowed since you are family.”
“When it suits you,” Abigail muttered before she indulged in some eye rolling of her own.
“What was that?” Martha said sharply.
“Nothing.” Biting into a pastry, Abigail spoke around the delightful swell of sugar and flour melting on her tongue. “Nothing at all.”
Once she used to wish she could have the same relationship with her sister as she did with her niece, but now she knew it was simply not mean to be. Despite their similar appearance, she and Martha were as different as night and day.
Those differences had led to many a fight in their youth, both verbal and physical, much to their mother’s everlasting dismay. Time had turned their arguments into polite detachment, although Abigail would not have minded a rousing quarrel now and again. Anything would have suited her better than being treated like a stranger by her own sister, but she had learned long ago there were some things you could not change, no matter how hard you tried.
Martha added a spoonful of honey to her cup of tea and stirred it slowly. “Dianna is not here, you know. I am assuming that is who you came to see.”
It most certainly was, not that Abigail was about to admit it. “I cannot call upon my own sister?”
Forgoing the honey for three lumps of sugar, she watched the white granules dissolve into the amber colored tea before taking a sip. “I wanted to see what your plans were for the Season.”
Coinciding with the seating of Parliament, London’s Season began in November and ran through July. When Abigail was a young woman it meant an endless parade of balls, tea parties, and tiresome social functions. Now that she was a spinster it meant dealing with a considerable influx of people as the city’s population swelled to twice its normal size.
Had she owned a home in the country she would have fled to it before the Season began and returned as soon as it was over. Martha–or rather, Martha’s husband–did have a small estate in Hampshire, but it had only taken one time for Abigail to realize she would never be able to live under the same roof with her sister and brother-in-law if she wanted to maintain her sanity.
“The Season does not begin for another two months,” Martha said in a grating tone that implied she found Abigail’s question a bit dim witted. “We are only in London now because Rodger has some business to attend to, but we will be returning to Hampshire as soon as he is finished. Honestly, I have no idea how you live here all year long. It smells.”
There was, admittedly, a distinct odor in the streets during the height of summer but it had all but disappeared now that the days were cooler and the nights downright chilly.
Abigail took another sip of her tea, swallowed back the words she wanted to spit out, and said instead, “Hampshire will be lovely this time of year. Have the leaves started to change?”
“How should I know? Honestly, Abigail, you ask the most peculiar questions sometimes. Unlike you I do not have time to wander about studying the trees. I have social obligation after social obligation. It is all quite exhausting, really. You are quite fortunate you have nothing to occupy your time.”
Abigail blinked. “Just because I am not married does not mean I sit idly by day after day,” she said carefully, not wanting to incite an argument, but unable to let her sister’s insult pass without defense.
“Oh, I know you do things.” Martha’s hand waved flippantly in the air. “But really, dear, unless you have been married as long as I, you cannot understand the duties I am forced to undertake on a day to day basis. Sometimes it really is all a bit overwhelming, but I do my best to persevere.”
Yes, it must have been quite difficult to persevere when one was granted a considerable allowance every month, not to mention a beautiful townhouse in London and an estate in the country. Peace be damned. Abigail opened her mouth to say exactly what she thought of Martha’s lifestyle–a lifestyle that did not include raising her own daughter–but her sister’s next words quite literally stole the breath from her lungs.
“I read in The John Bull the Duke of Ashburn’s wife has passed and he is returning to England. That was the man you were engaged to all those years ago, is it not?”
Not only insulting, Abigail realized dazedly, but cruel as well.
“You know it was,” she managed in a high, tinny voice that did not sound like her own at all.
A smile lingered on Martha’s lips, but her eyes were flat and frosty. “I recall you being upset at the time, but it all worked out for the best, didn’t it dear? It was quite admirable how you tried to reach beyond your means and I know Mother was ecstatic, but everyone knew it would never last. Two weeks, was it not, before he called it off?”
Why did it hurt as though it had all happened yesterday instead of forty years ago? Abigail knew she should have been over it all. She should have been over him. But she wasn’t. Not then, and not now, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise.
Standing so abruptly her hip bumped against the edge of the table, sending pastries rolling onto the floor, Abigail clenched her skirts in her fists and glared at Martha. “For your information, it was three. I will see myself out.”
“Leaving so soon?” Martha may have been four years older, but she was quick and nimble and managed to slide in front of the door seconds before Abigail reached it. “We barely had a chance to catch up.”
Abigail shook her head, confusion fighting with the hurt that sat like a hot, heavy stone inside of her chest. “You have everything anyone could ever want. What pleasure could you possibly achieve by belittling me?”
Martha’s face contorted, revealing–for a moment–the petty jealousy that seethed beneath her carefully constructed layers of cool composure. “Because it should have been me,” she snapped. “I was the eldest. He should have wanted to marry me.”
“Who should have?”
“The duke, you twit!” Martha cried.
“Reginald?” Abigail said incredulously. “You–you wanted to marry Reginald?” The idea of it was so absurd she laughed. “Martha, do not be ridiculous. You married Rodger.”
“I settled for Rodger,” she corrected. “But I could have done better–I would have done better–if not for you.”
Abigail leaned heavily against the door. Shock radiated through her, leaving her body humming as though she were a bow string that had just been drawn taut. “I never knew… That is to say, I never guessed…” A sudden thought occurred to her and she snapped upright. “Martha, is this why we have never been able to come to terms for all these years? Because you secretly harbored feelings for Reginald?”
But it seemed Martha was done divulging secrets. Composing herself, she gestured towards the door. “I think it is best you leave now, Abigail. Thank you for taking the time to visit. I am afraid I will not be able to see you again before I leave for Hampshire, but perhaps we can arrange for tea when the Season begins.”
“I really believe we should talk—”
“Thank you,” she said, speaking through clenched teeth, “for visiting. Now I truly must bid you farewell.”
Before Abigail quite knew what was happening, she found herself all but thrown out onto the street.
“Why I never,” she exclaimed as she turned in a quick circle. Martha had not even given her time to collect her gloves, and she was forced to shove her hands beneath the voluminous folds of her shawl as the wind picked up, sending leaves and debris spinning through the air.
The temperature had grown markedly colder while she was inside and the sky was heavy with rain. It began to fall before she made it halfway home, slapping at her face and chest in an icy spray that soaked through her shawl in a matter of moments.
“Brilliant,” she muttered under her breath as a cold trickle of water slid beneath the high collar of her dress and raced down her back. “Absolutely bloody brilliant.”
Two fancy phaetons raced past, their large wheels splashing through puddles and soaking Abigail’s skirts. She shook her fist at the reckless drivers, not that they paid her any mind, and shouted a curse a lady was not supposed to know, let alone say out loud.
When she heard another carriage approaching she stepped to the side and waited for it to pass. When it did not–when the clip clop of hooves on cobblestone actually slowed–she peeked out from behind the lace trimmed edge of her bonnet and, squinting against the rain, gazed up at the impressively sized vehicle as it came to a halt directly beside her.
It was a barouche carriage in gleaming black with the top drawn up, hiding the passenger from view. The driver, a tall, thin man who held the reins of the carriage’s two matching bay’s in a well-practiced grip, nodded his head in greeting. Noting he was just as wet as she–if not more so–Abigail offered him a sympathetic smile before her gaze flicked curiously to the silent passenger.
He was sitting back, revealing long legs clad in dark gray trousers. When he said nothing Abigail took a hesitant step closer, her brow furrowing in bewilderment. Besides her sister and Dianna she knew next to no one on this stretch of street, let alone someone who would approach her in the middle of a storm in such a fancy vehicle.
“Hello?” she called up tentatively, raising her voice to be heard over the slap of rain on the carriage’s thick leather roof. “Do I know y
ou?”
The man leaned forward. “Hello, Abby.”
Even if she had not recognized his face, she surely would have remembered his voice. How could it sound the same even after all these years? She stutter stepped back as her heart gave one hard thump inside her chest. “Rocky,” she whispered.
She wanted to say something else. She needed to say something else. Anything, anything at all, but the words she had memorized long ago fell flat and faded into oblivion before they could push past her lips.
Reginald extended his arm, a silent offer for her to join him in the carriage. She stared at his gloved fingers in wide-eyed amazement, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say. She had dreamed of this very moment for so many years and now that it was here she wished it fervently away to a different time and a different place where she wasn’t mute with shock and wet as a drowned rat.
“Abby, take my hand and get in the carriage. It’s raining.”
She blinked up at him, spilling water down her cheeks. “No thank you,” she managed. “I believe I would like to walk.”
“Walk?” Beneath the brim of his hat Reginald’s achingly familiar eyes, their piercing blue color as familiar as his voice, narrowed. “Do not be ridiculous. Get in the carriage before you catch a chill. You should not be out in this weather.”
Abigail’s mouth thinned. She had been ordered about one too many times already today, and she was quite tired of being told what to do as though she were a mindless puppy who could not think for itself. If she wanted to walk in the rain she would damn well walk in the rain and no one–not even Reginald Browning–could stop her. Pushing back her shoulders and turning on her heel, she marched away from him.
“Abby, what are you doing? Abby? ABIGAIL!”
“I am walking home,” she shouted. Her wet skirts slapped at her legs and her boots squished with water, the thin leather already saturated. Still she continued on, her chin tilted at a stubborn angle and her gaze pinned straight ahead. Perhaps it was not the most mature thing a woman of her age could do–heaven forbid if anyone of consequence saw her stomping away from a carriage in the pouring rain like some half brained fool–but her mind was too rattled to think of anything else.
Spinster and the Duke (London Ladies Book 2) Page 3
