“Of course she cannot ride. She probably shouldn’t have played shuttlecock, if indeed she did,” said his mother pointedly.
Morgan looked back at her. “I recall the day you played with me, not long before Jasper was born.”
She frowned for a moment before her brow cleared. A hint of a smile softened her features. “I suppose I did, didn’t I? How I despised the restrictions that came with confinement, especially the fact that your father could do whatever he wished when I could not.”
If only Morgan could do whatever he wished. “I must see to estate business now. I’ll leave Abby in your capable hands.” It wasn’t what Morgan wanted to do, but it’s what he should want. Something needed to change. He’d nearly tossed caution to the wind and kissed her earlier. What had he been thinking?
It was past time to refocus his mind on something other than his sister-in-law.
ABBY HAD NEVER felt more stifled. After the shuttlecock fiasco, Lady Brigston became her shadow. Not only did she plan every second of every hour of every day, but she was in the breakfast parlor when Abby first came down, and she didn’t leave the drawing room in the evenings until Abby or Brigston retired.
She was a taskmaster, of sorts, keeping Abby busy with various ladylike activities. They embroidered cushions, sketched, painted, gardened, and walked about the grounds. At first, Abby was pleased to see Lady Brigston in better spirits, but as the days passed and Abby’s interactions with Brigston dwindled to almost nothing, she decided she didn’t care much for the change.
She missed Brigston. Their brief exchanges in the breakfast parlor or dining room did not suffice. With his mother’s constant supervision, conversation was stilted at best. Abby ached for the easy camaraderie they’d once shared. She wanted to walk with him, play shuttlecock with him, read with him, and laugh with him. Lady Brigston was enjoyable enough to be around, but she wasn’t her son. Abby didn’t smile as much, and her heart never danced.
One particular morning, Abby sat near the drawing room window, her attention caught by Brigston, who was returning to the stables on the back of his horse. He rode with grace and looked dashing dressed in all black. If only she could have joined him on the ride that morning.
Lady Brigston bustled into the room, her black taffeta skirts swishing in a grating manor. Abby did her best to hide her frustration, but could she not enjoy the solace for at least a few minutes? She was tempted to complain of a headache and spend the day in her room, just to be free of the woman’s constant hovering. But Abby would never really do such a thing. Her mother-in-law was simply craving the distraction company brought. Abby had once felt the same.
“Only see what just arrived, Abby,” said Lady Brigston, clearly excited about something. She cradled a pile of lace, fabrics, and ribbons in her arms and held them up for Abby’s inspection. “I ordered these from London months ago, and they’ve finally come.”
Curiosity piqued, Abby perused the various folds of fabric, oohing and ahhing at the white embroidered muslin and pastel-colored cottons—there was a blue and white polka-dot, cream with little peach flowers, and a green fabric covered with small, black diamonds.
“What do you plan to do with these, my lady?” Abby asked.
Lady Brigston pointed to the pastels. “I thought we could make some small quilts from these. And this”—she lifted the white muslin and smiled—“is for the christening gown. Isn’t it lovely?”
Abby’s fingers stilled on the muslin. For the christening gown.
The words echoed in her mind while her stomach twisted into knots. Abby stared at the closest relation she had to a mother, praying she’d purchased the fabric for someone else.
“A christening gown for whom?” she asked quietly.
Lady Brigston chuckled. “Silly girl. My grandchild, of course.”
But it’s not really your grandchild, Abby thought as the cold reality washed over her. She shouldn’t have asked for clarification. She should have just imagined it was for a tenant’s child or member of the local parish so she could continue pushing the truth to the far recesses of her mind.
No, it was time. It was past time. Her mother-in-law needed to know the truth before she took a pair of shears to that beautiful fabric.
“Is something the matter, child?” Lady Brigston asked. “You seem rather pale.”
Nausea overtook Abby, and she clutched her stomach. “Forgive me, my lady, but I am feeling suddenly unwell. Pray excuse me.”
Abby dashed from the room and raced up the stairs. Once there, she hurried past the door of her bedchamber, trotted down the servants’ staircase, and escaped out the back door. A blast of chilly air met her, but she paid it no mind as she strode towards the stables.
MORGAN HAD JUST finished speaking with a groom about his horse when Abby burst into the stall, looking flushed and beautiful and… black. How tired he was growing of that color.
He forced his attention back to his animal. “If you have come to ask Duncan to saddle a horse for you, remember that I forbid it.”
When she didn’t laugh or return his playful banter, Brigston realized something was wrong. He looked at her more closely, noticing her troubled expression and worry-filled eyes.
“You must tell your mother the truth this instant,” she blurted, wringing her hands.
It took a moment for Morgan to realize what she meant. The groom lingered not far away, his ear turned in their direction. Gads, this was not the time or the place for a conversation of this nature, but Abby was obviously too distraught to realize that.
What the deuce had happened?
He tossed the brush aside and took her by the arm, saying loud enough for the groom to hear, “Would you care to accompany me on a walk about the grounds, Abby?”
She followed his gaze to the groom and winced, then pressed her lips together and nodded, allowing him to lead her from the stables. He took her through the woods until they reached a clearing that was out of sight from the house and stables.
“Please, Brigston, you must tell her.”
He couldn’t understand her sudden need for haste. It had been weeks since they discussed this, and the birth was still months away. In truth, Morgan’s thoughts had been more occupied with Abby than her child. That had been the last thing on his mind.
“Has something occurred?” he asked.
“Yes,” she cried. “Your mother ordered fabric for the christening gown. From London! It arrived this morning, and she wants to start on it directly. You promised you would tell her before she began making that gown, and now she’s probably working on it as we speak!”
“Abby, calm yourself.” Morgan rested his hands on her shoulders, but she shook them off and began pacing.
“I feel wretched keeping this from her, and that fabric! I can only imagine the price she must have paid. She is so excited to welcome her first grandchild, and she has no idea it isn’t really hers.”
Her voice broke, and Morgan could see that tears would soon follow. He caught her arm and turned her around to face him. When she didn’t pull away again, he gently pulled her against him. His hand trailed up and down her back in an effort to comfort her, but as she melted against him and wrapped her arms around his waist, all he could think was how good it felt to finally hold her. He tucked her in closer, not caring about the consequences.
“She’s in better spirits now,” Abby continued, her voice muffled against his shirt. “It will only be worse the longer we wait.”
“I know, Abby,” he said softly. “I know.”
She peered up at him, looking anxious and lovely and altogether too trusting. “You’ll tell her then?”
Unable to deny her anything, he nodded and was rewarded with a look of relief, followed by a tenuous smile. Without thinking, his fingers brushed across her cheek in a caress. How soft she felt.
“I’ve missed you,” she said in that honest way he loved.
“I’ve missed you too.”
Abby closed her eyes and leaned her
face into his hand. “I like it when you touch me. After what happened to me, I didn’t think I’d ever want anyone to touch me again, but it’s different with you.”
The beat of Morgan’s heart pulsed in his ears. She smelled like apples and felt like heaven. What was keeping them apart? She was his sister-in-law, not his sister. They were not blood relatives by any stretch of the imagination. He didn’t even know of her existence before last season.
What idiot decided that marriage between sisters-in-law and brothers-in-law should be prohibited? No one with any amount of sense.
Morgan suddenly didn’t care any longer. His fingers moved beneath her chin, and he gently lifted it. When she didn’t pull away, he slowly lowered his mouth to hers. He kissed her tentatively at first, but when she sighed and moved her soft lips across his, what control he still possessed fled. He tightened his arms around her as his mouth explored hers. Every touch evoked a new sensation. He was flying and falling at the same time.
This was right. It felt right. It had to be right.
You’re wrong, said a nagging voice in his head.
He kissed Abby harder, trying to silence the voice, telling himself it was the law that was in error, not him. How could this possibly be wrong? She fit so perfectly in his arms, as though she had been made especially for him.
If you care about her, you will stop now.
This time, Morgan couldn’t ignore the voice or the consequences he’d bring upon those closest to him should he continued down this path.
With a muttered curse, he broke free, despising himself for doing something that would undoubtedly bring Abby additional pain. He was a selfish, unforgivable cad.
“I’m sorry, Abby. I should not have done that.”
“Why?” Some of her hair had fallen to her shoulders, and she appeared befuddled and shaken.
“It was wrong.”
“It didn’t feel wrong.”
He nearly smiled, having thought the same thing himself, but… “How can it be right when the law prohibits us from marrying?”
“It doesn’t truly prohibit us, does it?” she asked. “I know of a man and woman in a similar situation who were married in a church in London.”
“Yes, but did they tell the parson they were brother and sister-in-law? If they had, he would have never permitted the union.”
He released her and massaged the back of his neck. This wasn’t just about him. It was about her, his mother, his future family, even Jasper. It felt like a betrayal of everything he knew to be right, and no matter which way he looked at it, Morgan couldn’t see how it could possibly end well for either of them. Only problems and complications arose. Regrets.
“Your reputation would be in tatters,” he tried.
“I don’t care a fig about my reputation.”
He nearly said, Then why did you elope with my brother? but bit his tongue before the words came out. Even if she didn’t want to admit it, she did care. They both did.
“Was this man you speak of a marquess of means?” he asked. “Was the woman a well-bred lady?”
Her eyes sparked with stubborn indignation. “Why should that matter?”
“It’s not just our reputations that would be affected, Abby,” he said. “You’re correct in thinking we could post the banns in a parish where we are not known and legally marry in spite of the law. We may even be able to keep it to ourselves for a time. But eventually, the ton will learn of it, along with my greedy cousin, and suppose he decides to contest the marriage. What then? All it would take is for one person to make it an issue, and our union would be voided. Our children would become illegitimate in an instant, and Markus would become heir. Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”
The fight and determination seemed to seep out of her in an instant, leaving behind a pained, sorrowful expression. “No,” she said quietly.
Morgan groaned inwardly, not wanting to leave things like this. There was some hope to be had, after all, even if it was only a granule. Still, he hesitated bringing it up.
“Abby, if the child you’re carrying is male, he will legally take the place of my cousin as next in line. If that is the case, perhaps no one will go to the trouble of contesting our marriage. But it would be a gamble, and if your child is female…” his voice drifted off.
“I would never put you in that position, Brigston, nor did I realize the full extent of the consequences. Pray forgive me. I merely got caught up in the moment.”
“Abby…” Morgan couldn’t stand the thought of letting her walk away. He wanted to take her in his arms once more and never let go. But he couldn’t. As much as it wounded both of them, this was the only choice they could make. “If there was any other way…”
“I understand.” She folded her arms against her chest and shivered. “It’s gotten chilly all of a sudden, hasn’t it?”
Morgan began to remove his jacket for her to wear, but she stopped him with a shake of her head. “That will only cause more talk.”
“Let me walk you back to the house.”
She shook her head again. “It would be better if I returned alone.” She dropped into a quick curtsy, and without looking at him again, said, “Good day, my lord.”
Every instinct in Morgan told him to run after her and not give up, to find a solution that left no room for future regrets. But there was none to be had, and as much as he didn’t want to care about the law or his duty or anything else, he did care. He had to care. It was his responsibility to care.
He muttered another oath under his breath, kicked a fallen log, then strode in the opposite direction of the house. He needed a good, long walk to cool his temper and clear his head.
ABBY DIDN’T RETURN to the house directly. She circled around back and walked aimlessly through the woods until tears stopped streaming down her cheeks.
Why had Brigston kissed her? Before that moment, she’d had no real expectations, only dreams of endless days at his side or fantasies of being wrapped in his arms. But that’s all they’d been—wishful thinking. As soon as he’d pulled her close, however, wonderful possibilities ignited in her mind. That kiss. It had been like nothing she’d ever experienced. She’d wanted it to go on and on, without end. She’d felt wounds heal and anxieties fade. And the sense of belonging—it was how she’d always imagined coming home should feel.
When had Brigston become home to her?
Abby should have known better than to hope. Every time she allowed herself to do so, disappointment inevitably followed. Life seemed to contain more bad than good, more sorrow than joy. It was how it had always been for her, how it probably always would be. Would this cycle never cease?
A tiny foot nudged the inside of her belly, reminding her that she still had something good in her life. Abby needed that reminder. She placed her hand protectively over the top and whispered, “As long as I live, you will never feel alone. I promise you that.”
Only then did it occur to her that she wasn’t alone anymore either.
The thought lifted her chin and stiffened her shoulders. She’d suffered through far worse than this and life hadn’t beaten her yet. For the sake of her child, she would keep up the fight. It was the only thing to do.
ABBY CRIED OFF from dinner, not because she wanted to avoid Brigston, although she’d rather not face him anytime soon, but because she had the most abominable headache. A slight turn of her neck sent waves of pain through her head. Moving hurt, speaking hurt, even sunlight hurt. She’d begged Evie to draw the curtains. Lying perfectly still with her eyes closed was the only way she tolerated the pain.
What had she done to deserve this?
Her maid brought cool cloths for her forehead and a tea that Monsuier Roch promised would cure even the worst headache. Abby forced herself to take a few sips, but oh the pain! Lady Brigston came in at some point—probably after dinner—with some soup, but Abby couldn’t eat it. The thought of food churned her stomach.
“I can’t,” Abby squeaked, grimacing when fresh w
aves of pain thudded through her head.
“I understand,” said her mother-in-law in a quiet voice. Abby heard some rummaging and then Lady Brigston’s voice came again, still quiet. She sounded like she was reading something. A book. A story. Abby couldn’t focus on the words, but amazingly enough, her mother-in-law’s calm voice eventually soothed her into a fitful sleep that lasted only until she heard the door close. After that, she managed to sip some more tea and continued to suffer until late into the night when either the tea or sheer exhaustion crept in, and she finally slept. By morning, her headache had dwindled into a mere annoyance.
Thank heavens, she thought, hoping to never suffer in that way again.
On her bedside table, the soup had been replaced with a fresh cup of tea and some dry toast. Both were cold but still tasted good. Abby glanced at the clock, startled to see that it was nearly noon already. What had Monsieur Roch put in that tea? She looked at the cup at her side and decided not to drink anymore, choosing to take another bite of toast instead. Then she rang for her maid.
It was never difficult to decide what to wear since she only had a handful of black dresses to her name—most of which had come from Lady Brigston’s trunks in the attic. She had planned to order a few more that would accommodate her growing figure, but she hadn’t gotten around to doing it yet. Too many other things had occupied her mind.
She glanced in the looking glass with a frown, quickly pinching her cheeks to add some color to her complexion. How pale and sickly she always appeared in this color.
She sighed and turned away from her reflection. Brigston had surely told his mother the truth about the child by now, and Abby would be a coward if she did not go down and speak to her also. Lady Brigston deserved an explanation from her as well.
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