Lady Saves the Duke

by Annabelle Anders

  “Monfort, Monfort, I’m stuck,” she cried softly, trying to not sound as flustered as she felt.

  Alex identified the problem immediately. Crouching down, he knew it was important to keep Abigail from feeling panicked. The horse would sense her tension, and that would not be good for either of them. Soothingly, he placed one of his hands upon her thigh and the other along the horse’s neck, grasping the bridle. “Not to worry, Abigail. I’ll not let you come to any harm.” Through the fabric of her skirt, his palm met with firm, warm thigh. He patted her and rubbed it, the same as he did to the horse. He needed to lift her leg to pull the material out from beneath her.

  He admired her attempt to remain calm even as she wound her arm around his shoulders and grasped him tightly. This close, above the regular familiar scent of the stables, the fragrance of her soap, the allure of her perfume teased his sense. As she let out a few tiny gasps, her breath carried hints of coffee and mint.

  Alex swallowed some unknown emotion and, forcing himself to address the task at hand, slid his hand downward to tug at the fabric.

  It refused to budge.

  In one swift movement, he released the bridle, slid his hand under her skirt, up her leg, and then pulled hard at the fabric with his other hand.

  Voila! She was free.

  Except that his right hand remained under her skirt, on the bare skin of her leg.

  His palm lay upon the silk of her stocking, but his fingers were able to stroke the fragile and delicate skin of her thigh. The tiny gasps of her breaths quickened at his touch.

  Unconsciously, he grasped the bridle again with his other hand as his gaze traveled up to meet her eyes. She returned his stare almost questioningly. It was as though she was intrigued, somewhat aroused, but also…confused? The hand on his shoulder slid down to his elbow, but she did not push him away. Her other hand grasped the pommel tightly.

  “You aren’t going to faint on me again, are you?” he asked softly, remembering the last time he attempted to touch her intimately. He allowed his hand to slide higher, massaging her skin lightly. His thumb drifted over her inner thigh, finding skin that was even more delicate, like the wings of a butterfly.

  “I ought to.” She surprised him then. Her voice a little huskier than normal, not quite a whisper. “I’m doubtful Lady Page approves.” And then as though sheer exhaustion had set into her, she tilted her head forward and leaned into him. The warmth of her forehead pressed into his shoulder. She was so trusting of him. “I won’t faint, Monfort, but—that—what you are doing—is not calming at all.”

  Her words had a strange effect upon him. Was this fondness? Protectiveness? She was not fighting him off. She wasn’t pushing him away.

  “If another man ever attempts to touch you, to take liberties with you, you will scream and bite and scratch. Do you understand, Abigail?” He pushed her away to meet her eyes clearly. “Do you understand?”

  She paused and then nodded. “But not you?”

  “If you do not want my touch, then all you must do is say so. And if I do not remove my touch quickly enough, then I want for you to scream and bite and scratch.”

  Abigail’s eyes narrowed slightly, and then she nodded again. “I don’t.”

  “You do not want my touch?” Alex went to pull away, but she stopped him with her next words.

  “I don’t not want your touch…” Her delicate complexion suddenly flushed.

  A surge of satisfaction rolled though him at her confession. She was looking down at the horse’s mane, one hand plucking at the long hairs. Oh hell, she was almost perfect. Perhaps he ought to have made her his mistress after all.

  Alex allowed himself just a few more strokes of skin, skin he had the sudden desire to press his lips against, and then withdrew his hand slowly. An unusual urge to take her in his arms swept through him—an unusual urge to hold her. Simply hold her so that she would feel safe. Leaning back, he handed her the reins and deftly secured her left leg in the lower pommel and her foot in the stirrup.

  This was to be a riding lesson, for God’s sake.

  Returning to the ground, he stepped away from the horse and then turned back toward the horse and rider. “Sit up straight and tall, remember, stay centered—yes, just as if you were riding astride. The horse needs to feel your balance as well as you do.”

  Abigail drew upon every ounce of willpower she possessed to pay attention to and follow Monfort’s instructions. The skin where his hand had stroked her still tingled—no, it burned.

  He’d not asked if he could touch her, but he had been adamant that she could stop him if she wished.

  She hadn’t.

  And then she’d admitted as much to him. What must he think of her?

  She’d wanted his hand to slide higher. Good God, she’d wanted him to touch her there!

  And now she could hardly breathe.

  She took a deep breath and patted Lady Page on the neck. She needed to focus on her lessons, on her balance, the horse’s gait…Monfort’s voice. “Stop a minute, Abigail. Whoa, Lady Page.”

  As the horse halted, Monfort walked toward her and Lady Page purposefully. When he reached them, he grasped the saddle and made a few adjustments before making certain all was secure and then barked out more instructions. She was not afraid of the animal, nor was she afraid of him. In fact, she found herself quite at ease. Monfort ordered her to walk around the paddock, stop, start, turn left, turn right, and go around several more times before calling an end to the lesson. She could become an accomplished equestrienne if she chose to do so. A thrill of excitement shot through her. This was fun!

  ****

  In no time, their riding lessons became the highlight of Abigail’s days, for her future sister-in-law was relentless in her plans to shape Abigail into the perfect future duchess for her brother.

  Abigail was trying her best.

  It was just that her best was proving to be not quite good enough.

  With so many different dances to learn, at times her feet tied themselves into knots. Often the French dancing instructor who’d been hired would stop in frustration and roll his eyes heavenward. “Mon dieu,” he cried out often when Abigail stepped to her left instead of right. He was even louder when she tread upon his toes.

  Margaret had also arranged for Abigail to undergo pianoforte lessons alternated with vocal training. Abigail had known for years that she was not musical, but her voice coach insisted such training was necessary for any lady of the ton—even if the resulting performances were less than inspiring.

  In addition, there were lessons using watercolors on paper and paint on satin. These were at least enjoyable in that Abigail often found humor in her handiwork. The art master did not.

  But above and beyond all of these, Abigail suffered her daily lessons in deportment, Debrett’s, and etiquette. Margaret and Aunt Cecily, of course, led these teachings themselves. Instructions involved memorization, physical endurance, and something Abigail had never even considered for herself: detached ennui.

  Margaret insisted that Abigail’s comportment, the look in her eyes, and tone of her voice should demand the respect she’d require to succeed as a duchess. The vocal training, the dancing, the arts—these vocations were embarked upon to instill in Abigail a pride in herself. She must master them to achieve the confidence required to stand in a room under close scrutiny and know that she was better than all those around her.

  This last statement extracted a stifled giggle from Abigail, causing Margaret to glare at her disapprovingly.

  For in truth, the more lessons Abigail endured, the less worthy she considered herself. Even when she did manage to produce acceptable results, she felt like a fraud. The incessant criticism from her teachers was in fact, eroding what little confidence she’d brought with her into this betrothal. As each lesson progressed, her sense of failure grew.

  Except in the mornings when Monfort took her riding.

  Ironic, really, as she endured more barking and correction fro
m him than anyone else.

  But when he praised her…Ah. The sincerity of his praise straightened her spine and lifted her chin. It sent a glow of warmth travelling from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.

  Because she was improving keenly under his tutelage. And as she progressed, she found opportunities each day to know her future husband better.

  Chapter 10

  Alex kept his mount in check as he followed Abigail and Lady Page along the path that led to Rotten Row. It was early yet, and the park was empty of any society—the way he liked it. He had told Abigail she could gallop this morning. She had a natural affinity with her horse and was fast on the way to becoming a skilled horsewoman.

  Her right hand held the whip loosely along the horse’s right side, and she appeared to have complete control as she effortlessly guided the horse onto the path. Her spine was straight and centered, and she held the reins just high enough to exert control over the well-behaved mare.

  Alex was quite pleased with himself.

  Alex had also managed to avoid lusting after his betrothed this past week.

  Almost completely.

  This sprite of a woman, whom he’d once considered a frumpy spinster, was spending a great deal of time with his sister and the benefits were beginning to become apparent. The clothing, the bearing, her language and manners. Yes, perhaps this hadn’t been such a ghastly mistake as he’d first feared.

  He urged his mount forward and came abreast of Abigail as they stepped onto the Row.

  They both halted, and Abigail looked over at him expectantly.

  “She’s nice and warmed up,” Alex said. “We’re going to trot first, then urge into a canter, and we’ll gallop after that. When you can see the Serpentine, we’re going to slow again to a trot and turn around.”

  Abigail narrowed her eyes in concentration, serious and determined. She nodded and did exactly as he’d instructed. After they’d made the same pass twice, they slowed back to a walk, and Alex turned to lead them back toward Cross House.

  “Can we not take a different path?” Abigail had the effrontery to bring her horse to a halt and call out to him. “I’m having fun and…I’d like to enjoy the park for a while before returning to the house.”

  This brought him up short. She did not wish to return to Cross House yet? She’d visibly winced at the mention of it. He studied her and for the first time noticed the dark circles under her eyes.

  “Can we not simply walk…and talk?” Upon speaking these words, she looked lonely, and then…defeated. A posture she’d not had while on horseback the entire time he’d been training her.

  “Sit up straight, Abigail.” He spoke automatically. But then her eyes filled with tears. She’d not been reduced to them since the day he’d proposed. What in the devil had he said now?

  Turning her head away, she wiped her arm across her eyes. Lady Page stood patiently, seeming to understand that her rider needed a moment.

  An unbidden memory intruded. Alex didn’t know why, but suddenly his mind’s eye conjured up the moments when he had rowed her on the lake at Raven’s Park—before she’d exposed herself—when she’d found such pleasure in the fish swimming near her hand. In those few minutes, she’d been chatting and smiling without reserve. Since she’d come to London, he had not seen her thus even once. Was she unhappy? Was he making her unhappy?

  Not that he considered it his duty to provide her constant pleasure, but he truly did not wish to cause another woman such misery as he’d caused Hyacinth.

  Without considering his intentions, he dismounted, handed off his horse to the groom who’d followed them, and approached her with careful steps, as though afraid she might spook.

  When he reached her, taking the horse by the bridle, he placed one hand upon her foot. “Abigail? You are unwell?” She shook her head, still looking away from him. “Come now, you are unhappy?”

  She turned watery eyes to look down at him. Her throat worked, but no sound emerged.

  Reaching for her waist, Alex decided it was best she dismount for now. “Come here, Abigail. Let’s walk by the water.”

  She trustingly put her hands upon his shoulders, leaned down, lifted her legs out of the pommel, and allowed him to take her weight as she slid off the horse. Once she landed, she stepped away from him and looked as though she were attempting to shake off her melancholy. “I’m just tired, I suppose…and…” But then she clamped her lips shut and refused to meet his gaze.

  “And?” Alex persisted.

  A brittle smile. “I am trying so very hard, Monfort, but I am afraid…afraid I will do something wrong—at the prewedding ball, or when I’m out and about. I am afraid somebody who remembers me is going to say something to me about before…and although Margaret has been working with me so I can glare and frown at such a person, I am afraid I will become afraid and then I will…faint. I do that when I am very frightened of something. And if I faint, I will dishonor you and your family and all that you have done for me…” Her voice trailed off, and Abigail looked away from him.

  Alex had to pinch his lips together to keep from grinning at her statement. She would not appreciate him finding humor in her fears. They really were not funny, but…“You are afraid of being afraid?”

  “I know it sounds silly, but you have seen what happened when I was frightened once before.” She was serious. Very serious and very concerned. She swiped her arm at her eyes once again.

  Alex took a few steps closer to her, allowing the groom to take control of the mare. Grasping her elbow, he led her away from the servant. As they walked, he formulated a plan. Several moments passed until they reached the edge of the water.

  “Abigail, you are a courageous woman. How can you not realize that?”

  She sniffed and then gave him a watery smile. “You have to say that. You are my betrothed.”

  But he was shaking his head. “I don’t have to say anything. I am a duke.” But he spoke gently to her.

  “I am only here because you have decided to take pity upon me.”

  Again, he was compelled to deny her words. “Do you know why I proposed to you, Abigail? Not because I pitied you, but because I took advantage of you. I was an ass. I listened to the gossip and assumed the worst about you. And that night at Raven’s Park, when you came downstairs, I’d had too much to drink. I dishonored you.” And then he turned to stare across the water. Why was he telling her this? “The only honorable thing I could do was to offer you the protection of my name.”

  Abigail watched him closely. Those large eyes of hers seemed to peer beyond what he was saying… Did she see his guilt? Did she see the contempt he held for himself?

  “It takes a courageous woman to take on the Duke of Ice.” He spoke the words derisively. “You have nothing to fear from the ton.”

  “I wish I believed that.” She sighed.

  So lacking in confidence. Alex abhorred this in most people.

  Up in the sky, a colorful object floated lazily over the park.

  Until the past few weeks, his betrothed’s entire world had been a backward village; he couldn’t recall the name. And those people had judged her and found her wanting. Her own parents had done the same. Nobody had done anything to bolster the poor girl. As he considered her predicament, the color in the sky again caught his eye and an idea struck him.

  She had been brave after her dress had torn on the lake. She’d turned and faced him, in fact. She’d even made conversation with him afterwards. She was not a timid spinster. She simply needed to discover this fact for herself. Lowering his gaze, he took in her countenance once again.

  “We shall have to address that then, now won’t we?” As he considered his notion further, it began to take root in his mind firmly. And by God, his own heart even jumped at the prospect.

  ****

  Monfort instructed Abigail to leave off her riding habit the next morning. They would be doing something other than riding, he said, but he would not reveal what. He’d changed their
plans after she’d told him of the doubts she had in herself. She was to trust him. He was her betrothed and surely would not plan anything that would be too daunting, would he? Abigail did not like surprises, but she had liked the light shining in Monfort’s eyes when he bid her good day. She welcomed the temporary crack in his demeanor. He hadn’t quite smiled, but she had seen a gleam in him that hadn’t been there before.

  Recognizing warmth in him that she’d suspected before gave her a renewed hope. And this hope energized her to tackle the daunting lessons Margaret ran her through again that afternoon. Even Aunt Cecily noted that she was showing improvement. Her dancing was less stilted, her memorization more accurate, and her deportment more refined. Numerous new dresses arrived that afternoon, and even the fittings and alterations couldn’t suppress her optimism.

  Less encouraging, Penelope’s parents had arrived in London and her cousin was departing the duke’s residence for her parents’ townhouse, not quite a mile away. Abigail would remain alone with, not exactly strangers, but not quite friends. Penelope was family, and although Margaret had begun to exhibit signs of friendship, her company wasn’t the same as having one’s best friend there to support her.

  And so with a sense of impending doom, Abigail awaited the arrival of the Rivertons’ carriage in Abigail’s richly appointed suite with Penelope. Her cousin, never one to sit quietly, opened the wardrobes and sighed wistfully over a few of the new gowns that had just been delivered.

  “Could you ever have imagined such a fine wardrobe as this, Abby? Even I envy you some of these.”

  Abigail ignored the gowns. “I wish you didn’t have to leave. Who is going to encourage me as you have?” It had already been a trying day, and she was not looking forward to residing at Cross House alone.

  “Oh, posh, Abby. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You are doing wonderfully. You certainly don’t need me here to hold your hand. You are going to make a wonderful duchess. I have no doubt of this whatsoever. And besides I cannot abide another day of these lessons, and since I am not going to marry a duke, I have something else I wish to look into. I intend to purchase myself one of those Lady Accelerators.”