Spinster and the Duke (London Ladies Book 2)

by Jillian Eaton

  Reginald had truly returned. He was here. In London. Not only that, but he’d come for her at the first available opportunity. She supposed it could have been coincidence that found him driving down the very street she was walking up, but Abigail was not a woman prone to believe in coincidences. Everything, fair or foul, happened for a reason.

  She heard the carriage following her–the quiet rumble of wheels on cobblestone, the squeak of wet leather and jingle of harness–but pride kept her from turning around even when the rain intensified, soaking her through to the skin. She was shivering by the time she reached her front door, the combination of nerves, adrenaline, and cold proving too much for her body to handle.

  Fingers trembling, she inserted the key into the lock and stumbled into the foyer, trailing water in her wake. Closing the door she leaned weakly against it, her breath coming in bits and starts as her heart threatened to leap right out of her chest.

  Before she could collect her thoughts or even catch her breath there was a sudden pounding at the door, so fierce in nature it rattled the hinges. With a little gasp she spun around and stared wide eyed at the knob as it twisted this way and that in a futile attempt to open.

  “Abby, I wish to speak with you.” Reginald’s deep baritone voice rumbled through the wood.

  Hearing the familiar timbre caused Abigail’s stomach to flutter even as she took a wary step in retreat. She was not prepared for this. Not ready for it. She needed time to collect her thoughts and practice what she wanted to say. A year or two would (most likely) suffice.

  “I am not receiving callers.”

  Something thudded against the door–his shoulder or his forehead, she could not be sure–before he said, “Abby, please. Open the door so we can speak face to face.”

  “I am not receiving callers,” she repeated.

  “Bloody…When will you be receiving callers?”

  “I do not know,” she replied honestly. “Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after.”

  “The day after?” There was a long pause, and then: “Abby?”

  “I am nodding.”

  Another thud, softer this time, followed by a long sigh. “You are aware I cannot see you through the door?”

  Her cheeks burned crimson. “Of course. Come back another time, Reginald. I am, er, very busy.”

  “I will wait outside in my carriage until you change your mind.”

  “You could be waiting for a very long time.”

  Another pause, this one so long she wondered if he had walked away before he said, “Not as long as you have.”

  Her breath caught in her throat and formed a tight ball of emotion that refused to go up or down. Not as long as you have… Yes, she had waited a long time for this moment. Forty years and six days, not that anyone was counting. Except she was and so, apparently, was he.

  Feelings were stirring inside of her chest. Feelings she had managed to suppress long ago. Feelings she didn’t know if she wanted. Feelings she wasn’t sure if she was ready to revisit.

  Seeking to comfort herself with the familiar, Abigail discarded her bonnet and cloak before climbing heavily up the stairs to begin the arduous process of drawing herself a bath.

  Yet even as she sank into the hot, bubbly water, she could not stop her mind from turning. Perhaps too much time had passed, she worried fretfully. And perhaps some mistakes were simply too big to forget, let alone forgive. If she opened herself up it could mean love…but it could also mean hurt, hurt the likes of which she never wanted to feel again.

  She had survived losing Reginald once. Could she survive the terrible heartache and pain that would come with losing him a second time?

  Chapter Four

  “Stubborn woman.” From inside the cramped confines of his carriage, Reginald watched with no small amount of frustration as every candle in Abigail’s house was meticulously doused one by one.

  He’d been sitting across the street, waiting in vain for her to change her mind, for nearly three hours. In that time the rain had slowed to a trickle and the fog had rolled in, blanketing London in a dull gray mist. Navigating the streets would be perilous, but he supposed there was little choice. Abby was not going to receive him and he would be damned before he begged for admittance.

  “Move on,” he ordered the driver sharply.

  The poor man startled–no doubt having drifted off–and jostled the horses in action. They settled into an easy rhythm and Reginald settled back in his seat, rubbing his chin as he contemplated this unexpected turn of events.

  All of his time and energy had been poured into convincing Abby to forgive him. He had speeches prepared. Lavish gifts ready to be sent. No expense was to be spared in his courting of her, for that was exactly what he intended to do, albeit forty years too late. Unfortunately, he never paused to consider one small fact: she might want nothing to do with him.

  His mouth twisted into a scowl. With the exception of not marrying Abby, he was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. He was a wealthy duke, for the love of Christ. An older one, perhaps, with a bit more silver at his temple than he preferred, but he was still willing to bet any woman–married or not–would clamber over themselves to stand by his side. Except he didn’t want any woman. He wanted Abby, only Abby, for the rest of his life.

  And she didn’t want him.

  The blank look in her eyes when she stared at him…he winced to think of it even now. She had bloody well stared through him, as though he meant nothing, and it pained him to acknowledge that perhaps he truly didn’t.

  She could have moved on. He shoved his fingers through his hair and mustered a harsh laugh. Hell, she should have moved on. He was the foolish one for still carrying a torch after all these years. A torch he still wasn’t quite ready to extinguish, no matter how many times she turned him away.

  His face hardening into lines of firm resolve, Reginald began to plot his next move with all the thought and dedication a colonel would give a battle. After all, he may not have been fighting for Queen and country, but he was fighting for the most important thing of all: love.

  For the next three days straight he sent his card to Abigail’s house and for the next three days straight it was returned. But Reginald refused to give up, and on the fourth day his persistence paid off.

  You may call at half past one in the afternoon on Thursday

  The square piece of card stock was devoid of a letterhead and even a signature, but the looping scrawl was unmistakably Abby’s. The paper even smelled of her, and though it made him feel like a foppish schoolboy he tucked it away in his vest pocket so something she had touched, even something as small as a hand written note, could rest over his heart.

  At precisely half past one on Thursday afternoon, she received him in her front parlor. It was a small, tidy room with cozily arranged furniture and a sense of comfort the likes of which he’d never felt at Ashburn. But then, that had always been Abby’s magic. She brought light with her wherever she went, and left happiness in her wake. She was a star that never slept. A sun that never went down. And oh, how he’d missed her brightness.

  After pouring him a cup of tea, Abby sat in the middle of sofa, leaving him a tiny wooden chair that he fit his long, lanky body into with no small degree of difficulty. He raised his cup to his mouth, but he did not take a sip of the chamomile tea sweetened with honey. Instead he took the opportunity to study his hostess over the curved porcelain rim while she did the same to him, neither one bothering to disguise their blatant staring.

  Was she as pleased and impressed with how he had aged as he was with her? Oh, Abby was certainly older. There was no denying that. But time hadn’t detracted from her natural beauty. It had enhanced it.

  Her face was softer, her body a little plumper. The added curves filled out a frame that had once been a touch too gangly, and his hands yearned to discover the nuances of her new shape. Her hair was more gray than blonde, and there were lines carved into her face that hadn’t been there before, but she was still a
s lovely as she’d ever been.

  No, not lovely, he corrected himself silently. As a girl she’d been lovely. Just as sunsets were lovely, or flowers in bloom were lovely. Except lovely eventually faded. Sunsets turned to black. Flowers went to the seed. But his Abby hadn’t faded. She’d bloomed. Into a woman that was so stunningly radiant, she took his breath away.

  “You look well, Abby,” he said hoarsely.

  Her expression guarded, she gave a clipped nod. “As do you, Reginald.”

  Pain sliced through him, as unexpected as it was sharp. “You used to call me Rocky.”

  A silver eyebrow lifted. “I used to do a lot of things.”

  All of his carefully prepared speeches fled in the face of this coldly composed stranger. The Abigail he’d known had been impulsive and loud and filled with life and laughter. She’d never thought of what she would say before she said it, never guarded her words as though they were precious gemstones to be counted and given out sparingly. Had the years changed her so much? Had his leaving changed her so much? Mouth set in a grim line, Reginald set his cup aside with a hard clatter and leaned forward out of the small chair.

  “Abby, I—”

  “I do not know what you think coming here will accomplish,” she said, neatly cutting him off, “or what it will change.”

  “I have moved back to Ashburn House permanently.” He sat back, his spine stiffening under the weight of her scorn. “I am only in London for a short time on business, but I knew I needed to see you. I had to see you.”

  He saw the moment her resolve cracked. Her entire body trembled, one hard jolt that moved her to the edge of her seat. A line appeared between her brows, sinking deep into the ivory skin. Taking a deep breath, she lowered her head as though to compose herself, and when she raised it again there was a defiant gleam in her eyes that had been missing before and he could not help but think: there she is – there’s my girl.

  “You married someone else, Reginald. You left me and you married someone else.” It was not an accusation, but rather a fact. A hard, simple fact summed up in four words that had changed both of their lives forever.

  “I know I did, and you know the reasons.” Or most of them, he added. There was one he’d never told her. One he’d never been able to bring himself to tell her. If it came down to it, he would. To win her back, he’d bare his soul. “But I’ve returned—”

  “Forty years too late. You’ve returned forty years too late. I thought I could do this,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “I thought I could sit here and listen to you, but I cannot. I will not. You broke my heart, Reginald. I will not give it back to you so you can break it again. You need to leave now.”

  He stood up as something akin to panic flooded his chest, making it hard to breathe. He couldn’t leave, not yet. Not before he made it better. Not before he made them better. Bloody hell. He’d had decades to prepare for this moment–decades–and he was mucking it all up.

  “Abby, if you would just listen—”

  “What could you possibly say?” Standing as well, she crossed her arms tight over her chest and glared at him through the sparkle of tears that clung to her lashes like shards of glass. “Nothing,” she said before he could utter a word. “There is nothing left to be said. Let the past be the past, and please go.”

  “I do not want the past to be the bloody past!” He was shouting, but he didn’t give a damn. He would shout until every window in the house cracked if it would make her listen to him. In a rare show of temper he kicked the table between them aside with a furious sweep of his foot. It skidded across the floor and flipped on its side, fracturing a slender leg in the process.

  Abigail’s eyes went wide.

  “Out,” she hissed, jabbing her finger at the door. “Now.”

  He spun away from her to pace the length of the small parlor, the heels of his boots echoing on the wooden floorboards. “I will get you a new table. A better table. I’ll buy you new furniture for the entire bloody house. Hell, I’ll buy you a new house. A bigger one. A grander one.” Anything, he thought frantically. I will give you anything, Abby.

  Defiant to a fault, she jerked up her chin and stared down her nose, making him feel for all the world as though he were two feet tall. “I do not want a new table, or new furniture, or a new house. I like what I have, thank you very much. It may not be fancy, and it may not be expensive, but it’s mine. Now kindly bugger off!”

  “You do not want to give this a chance?”

  “Give what a chance, Reginald?” she cried, throwing her arms wide. “I have not seen you since I was a girl barely out of the schoolroom. That was a lifetime ago. We were different people then.”

  He braced his fingers against his temple and closed his eyes. Maybe she had a point. Maybe some things couldn’t be salvaged. Maybe some things weren’t meant to be saved. And yet…and yet he knew there was still something there. In the heart of him, in the core, he knew. He could feel it, and he was willing to bet his last pound she felt it as well. His eyes opened and he studied her intently, searching for a sliver of the girl who had loved him beyond all reason. He knew she was still in there. Somewhere. He just needed to find a way to draw her out.

  “You never thought of me during all this time?”

  Her lips compressed to form a hard, flat line. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t. Of course I thought of you, Reginald. I loved you. I was going to marry you. What I felt for you…it did not vanish when you left.”

  He took one step towards her, then another. With the table no longer an obstacle between them he could stand as close as he wanted. He saw the quiver of her pulse in her neck and smelled honeysuckle on her skin. She had her hair pulled up in a bun, coiled loosely beneath a lace cap. A few tendrils had escaped and dangled down on either side of her flushed cheeks, tempting him to reach out and see if her hair felt as silky as he remembered. “Is what you felt for me gone now, Abby?”

  She stared at him, her hazel eyes unflinching even as her bottom lip wobbled. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Liar.”

  The space between their lips was blissfully short.

  He dipped his head, closed his mind to what should have been, and indulged in what was.

  She felt frail beneath his hands and he touched her with all the delicacy an artist would use when holding fine spun glass. His fingers slipped through her hair, dislodging the offensive cap and spilling her curls over her shoulders in a wave of silvery gold. He settled his other hand at her waist, cupping her hip when she tried to pull away, not enough to hold her but enough to offer a token resistance if that is what she wanted.

  It was.

  Abby had never been one to shy away from passion. She gave as good as she got, committing as much enthusiasm and energy into matters of the bedroom as she did into her everyday life. They may have never consummated their love, but they had done nearly everything leading up to the final act, fumbling and laughing and moaning their way through.

  “This…is a mistake,” she gasped, wrenching her mouth free and raising her palms to press them flat against his chest. “Reginald, this is a mistake.”

  “No,” he growled fiercely. “This is right.”

  He kissed her again, his lips sliding across hers in a sinuous dance they had performed a hundred times before. The hand on her hip tightened, drawing her closer, and when Abby clutched his arms and gave herself over to him, he didn’t feel like a man aged sixty years. He felt like a young boy again, drowning in lust and love.

  Drowning in Abby.

  Their tongues met hesitantly, entwining and retreating in a waltz of remembrance and regret. This is what he had been missing. The sensation of being a part of someone else. Of drawing one breath and becoming one person.

  His fingertips skimmed along the curve of her spine before tracing up along her ribs. He cupped her breasts and she started to draw away, but an easy flick of his thumb across her budding nipple and she leaned into his palm with a breathy sigh.
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br />   The heat of their youth was still there, burning between them like an open flame. He murmured her name as his lips traced a path down her neck and along the slender line of her exposed collarbone, suckling her flesh as though it were a feast laid out for him and him alone. When he dared moved his mouth lower she finally stopped him with a resistance that was more than token and he forced himself to step back, albeit with great reluctance.

  Her hair a disheveled spill of curls around her shoulders, her lips pink and swollen, her eyes wide and glassy, Abigail stared at him as though she were seeing a ghost.

  “That… That should not have happened.”

  “Why?” he challenged, anger and unquenched passion thickening his voice. “It should have happened a long time ago. It never should have stopped happening. Bloody hell, Abby. We’re meant to be together.”

  But she was already shaking her head. “We were never meant, Reginald. Not then, and not now.” Drawing a deep, shuddering breath she retreated behind a green chaise lounge, the fabric faded and worn by age. The afternoon sun shone at her back, illuminating her body in a soft, ethereal glow that stripped away the years and made her appear as the innocent girl she had once been. She shifted, the beam of light faded, and she was again a woman full grown with cynicism in her eyes and doubt in her heart.

  If he could have taken both away he would have done it gladly, but there was no easy solution for a broken heart, nor a simple way to mend it. “I am so sorry, Abby. I was a fool.” He dragged a hand through his hair and glared down at his feet. “A damn fool,” he muttered. “I should have found a way to stay by you. No matter what, I should have found a way.”