Lady Saves the Duke

by Annabelle Anders

  “I love those moments.” It was a difficult admission to make. Frightening in that, even as his wife, she could easily be set aside from him any time after they married. A peer could do such a thing with an inconvenient wife. In fact, it was quite unexceptional.

  Penelope didn’t respond right away. “So he did not jump after all, then?”

  Abigail shook her head. “Thank God, no. We had a bit of a row, and then the pilot brought us back down to the ground. And then Monfort cancelled our riding lesson this morning. Sent me a note explaining that he had some other commitments to attend to.”

  She’d been very disappointed. Was he going to cancel them indefinitely? Was he so very angry at her outburst? She’d thought they were growing closer, but…He’d wanted to make that ridiculous jump and she’d made such a fuss about it…

  “Perhaps you can continue with them after the wedding. From what I hear, he’s mad about the sport,” Penelope interjected.

  “I hope so.” Abigail rested her chin upon her hand as she slumped forward.

  And then Penelope rose to her feet. “I’d best head back, or Mother will have an excuse to journey here herself in search of me.” She lifted the Accelerator, brushed off some dirt, and climbed onto it confidently.

  “Do be careful, Penelope,” Abigail urged. “And tell Aunt and Uncle hello for me.”

  At Penelope’s departure, Abigail’s spirits deflated considerably. She would need to clean up and prepare for more dancing lessons. Margaret had said it was important that she have absolute confidence in her dancing abilities. She and the duke would be leading off the first set at their prewedding ball, and all eyes would be watching. Margaret told her she mustn’t have any doubts in her abilities whatsoever. So they had lengthened the allotted time practicing in the ballroom.

  Forcing a determined smile onto her face, Abigail braced herself for the rest of the day. Oh dash it all, who was she kidding—the rest of her life!

  Chapter 12

  “Abigail, child! Stop your fussing and don your fichu!” Her mother was in top form. Her parents had been in London only three days but had managed to thoroughly disrupt the routine she’d finally gotten accustomed to at Cross Hall.

  Their first demand had been for Abigail to remove herself to Aunt and Uncle’s house. As excited as they’d been for her to spend the first weeks at a duke’s residence, they were adamant now that the last few days before her marriage must be spent under the protection of her own family.

  As hectic as the days before their arrival had been, the sheer boredom of time spent with her mother and aunt was nearly enough to drive Abigail batty. They’d insisted she stay indoors with them, coddled. The only time she’d left the townhouse had been for her daily dancing instructions at Cross Hall where she’d seen Margaret only briefly, and her betrothed, not at all.

  The extent of her mother’s hovering and lack of contact with Monfort elevated her nerves to a level she’d not yet experienced.

  Monfort had told her she was more than welcome to go riding with a groom, but that he was too busy to continue instructing her himself. He told her this when she’d made the assumption the lessons would resume a few days after the balloon ride and been so bold as to appear early in the morning to take coffee with him.

  He was icing her out again.

  And tonight was their prewedding ball.

  Margaret had sent a missive for Abigail and her parents to arrive early, as they would be expected to participate in the reception line. But glancing at her mother, Abigail was terrified that all of the lessons she’d taken to shape her own behavior in society would be of no use if her mother could not behave herself.

  Her mother’s tongue ruled her brain all too often.

  She wished she’d considered this earlier, and perhaps even confided in Margaret. She’d been embarrassed though.

  And her father was no better. She’d forgotten how he became more morose than usual when forced to spend time in Uncle Hector’s company. As long as she could remember, her uncle’s titled personage had always had a demoralizing effect on her father. He tended to drink even more than usual and sit in corners, dismissing conversation or activities while looking somewhat dejected. However was he going to behave when faced with an entire ballroom of nobles?

  She hoped he had not already dipped into her uncle’s liquor this evening.

  “I cannot say I approve of today’s fashions, Abigail.”

  Her mother plucked at the gown sent over just this afternoon, the modistes having finally completed their last-minute alterations. It truly was a gorgeous creation. Far too gorgeous for the likes of Abigail.

  Fashioned from fine ivory-colored gossamer material, with a tight bodice and wispy sleeves, the waist was high and the skirt draped elegantly, barely brushing the floor. An intricately woven golden lace fell over the underskirt.

  The maid, whom Margaret had insisted accompany Abigail to the baron’s residence, had styled Abigail’s hair elegantly atop her head in a number of braids, all entwined with a golden ribbon that matched the lace on her dress.

  The effect surprised even Abigail. Her mother, however, announced the bodice to be too tight and too low. She’d insisted the maid locate a matching fichu in order to cover the cleavage pushed up by Abigail’s stays.

  Margaret had assured Abigail that the dress was perfectly appropriate.

  Just as she tucked in the covering garment, a knock sounded on the door. It was one of her uncle’s servants. He carried a package for Abigail, specially delivered from the Duke of Monfort’s home.

  Abigail’s mother snatched the package up and began tearing away at the paper.

  “Mother,” Abigail protested. “It is from my betrothed. Please give it to me.”

  Turning away from Abigail’s outstretched hands, her mother ignored her and stripped away the last remnants of paper. Abigail could barely make out a long black velvet box as her mother opened it hungrily.

  “Mother—” Abigail reached, but her mother turned away further.

  “Anything a man deigns to send to an unmarried woman ought to be approved by her mother first.” And then dropping onto a nearby chair, Edna Wright set the box aside and opened the missive within.

  Her brows furrowed as she read it. “The man is daft, Abigail! Whatever can he mean by this?”

  “Let me see it, Mother.”

  Her mother read through it a few more times before carelessly shoving it in Abigail’s direction.

  Abigail, it read. Never forget you are a woman who can fly over rooftops. This stone matched the color of the sky from on high. I am proud of you. —M.

  Abigail shrugged off the fichu and asked her maid to help her with the necklace. It consisted of a delicate gold chain and an oval sapphire pendant. It did remind her of their sky. She suppressed a shiver when her maid attached the clasp at the back of her neck. He was not made of ice. He was not!

  ****

  The duke’s butler escorted Abigail and her parents into the same drawing room where she’d met with Monfort’s family upon the first day of her arrival. Monfort stood, and Margaret and Aunt Cecily nodded but remained seated as they entered.

  As Monfort’s eyes fell upon her, Abigail dipped into the slow, graceful curtsey Margaret had forced her to practice multiple times. She was oblivious to the bobbing curtsey her mother performed beside her and the shallow bow her father made. For Monfort’s eyes captured her.

  Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips and brushed his mouth across her knuckles. He did not speak, but Aunt Cecily’s voice carried across the room.

  “You look elegant this evening, Abigail.” She spoke in that haughty tone of voice.

  Monfort’s voice was low. “Very pretty, Abigail.” His eyes dipped to her mouth, and then to the stone that rested above her cleavage.

  Abigail reached for the stone, unthinking, and spoke breathlessly. “It is, isn’t it? Thank you, Monfort. The necklace was a thoughtful gift. I’ve never owned anything quite so beautiful.”r />
  “It’ll be the first of many such treasures, I hope, Abigail.” Her mother glanced meaningfully at the duke.

  Alex was more than a little taken aback by Abigail’s appearance.

  Tonight, she looked…breathtaking. The gold of her dress was not quite as vibrant as the golden highlights in her hair, and her bodice exposed creamy, smooth skin. He appreciated how the whimsical curls artfully arranged to fall around her neck emphasized the fragility of her person. She looked soft and delicate.

  And surprisingly, she puzzled him. How was it that she could be so vulnerable, cowering even, at some times, and yet so courageous at others?

  Tonight she was somehow…both.

  Her mother, on the other hand, was a blight. She’d been introduced to him, of course, when she’d come to Cross Hall to collect Abigail, but he’d not taken much mind of the women then. Tonight, however, he noticed a derision in the way the woman glanced at Abigail.

  Her father eagerly accepted the drink one of the footmen offered him and looked on as his wife grasped Abigail’s wrist tightly and pulled her over to the settee. “Be careful, Abigail!” she carped. “You’re going to wrinkle your gown. Sit up straight. What must Lady Margaret and Lady Cecily think of you, slouching like that?”

  Abigail hadn’t been slouching, she’d been shrinking. She summoned a bright smile and addressed his sister.

  “Margaret, Lady Cecily, thank you again for all of the time and effort you have both put forth in assisting me the past few weeks. I hope it has not been in vain. I’ll do my best to ensure it was not.”

  Margaret, after catching Alex’s eye briefly and sending him some sort of silent message, smiled graciously at Abigail. “It has been our pleasure, Abigail. You have been an excellent prodigy.”

  Edna Wright nearly snorted but somehow just managed to stifle it when she caught Alex glaring at her.

  “The guests will begin arriving shortly.” Margaret continued. “I wanted all of you to be here early, of course, as you are to be a part of the receiving line.” And then she turned her haughtiest stare toward Mrs. Wright. “There will be a long line of guests, and I must direct you to speak only briefly with each of them.” She paused and waited for agreement from Mrs. Wright before continuing. “Keep your greeting simple. Many of the guests are titled. You will make your curtsey, say that you are pleased they could attend, and wish them a delightful evening. Do not address any questions they might have about Abigail or her past. If they deign to comment, merely smile, turn away, and address the next guest.”

  “Well, I would never!” Mrs. Wright gasped. Obviously, she wanted to be outraged at Margaret’s instructions but knew herself to be quite outranked—and outclassed.

  Margaret smiled at Abigail again. “Abigail, you do look beautiful tonight. I have every faith in you.”

  Thank you, Margaret. Alex caught his sister’s eye again and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  And then the sound of carriages outside signified the arrival of early guests. Most likely a line would have already formed near the entrance. It had been years since he’d known anxiety over a social occasion, but for Abigail’s sake he experienced a twinge of unease. He strode toward Abigail and offered her his arm. “Shall we face the dragons, then?”

  She nodded demurely and stood, placing her tiny hand on his arm. Alex reached over and covered it with his own. They both wore gloves, but he could feel the tension in her. He patted her hand reassuringly, and she raised her lashes to look at him in surprise. And then she chuckled softly.

  “What is it?” he wondered what amusing thought had run through her mind.

  “Just that…” She gently nudged him. “I don’t think even the fiercest of dragons would dare breathe fire upon the Duke of Ice.”

  Alex shook his head. She’d referred to his nickname as though it was a joke between just the two of them. As though she knew the truth of it: he was only a man.

  ****

  Margaret had not exaggerated in saying that many of the guests were titled. If one did not hold a title themselves, then they were either sister, brother, or heir to one. Not half an hour into the welcoming ritual and Abigail’s brain was already overwhelmed with new names and faces.

  It was pleasantly surprising to see some familiar faces in that several of the guests who’d been at Raven’s Park for the summer house party had been invited. The Ravensdales were present, of course, and Abigail delighted to see that Lady Natalie was well recovered from her harrowing experience earlier in the summer and her fiancé, the Earl of Hawthorne, attended with her.

  There were a few other dukes: the Duke and Duchess of Cortland, a newlywed couple; the Duke of Waters; and the Duke of McDuff. For a brief moment, a sense of panic threatened when she was introduced to the Marquess of Lockley and Viscount Danbury. These were the fellows who’d shown up at Raven’s Park along with Damien Farley. But Mr. Farley was not with them. Thank heavens! Abigail had not given any names to Margaret or Monfort. What if they’d actually invited him?

  Upon making her curtseys to the two well-dressed gentlemen, she glanced at Monfort. He seemed well acquainted with the viscount, even shaking his hand heartily. The exchange had the effect of reassuring her.

  Perhaps it was merely Monfort’s steady presence.

  He stood close and quite often took hold of her hand to impart some of his own strength. He’d glanced at her curiously just then, but the moment passed quickly as they were obliged to welcome an elderly couple who were next in line. What had Monfort said their names were? Good Lord, she was never going to remember them all!

  The reception queue drew out for all of fifty minutes but could have very well been hours. She experienced relief when Monfort finally drew her away. It would not be necessary for them to greet the stragglers.

  Her reprieve, however, dissipated when she realized it was now time for them to enter the ballroom.

  Abigail had danced in the ballroom several times, of course. She’d spent literally hours of time in the grand room practicing. But tonight brightly lit chandeliers, adorned with hundreds of candles, along with profusions of flowers throughout transformed it into a magical setting. An orchestra played softly at the dais toward the far end of the hall, and the terrace doors were thrown open so guests could enjoy the fountains and moonlight outside.

  Clasping the duke’s arm, Abigail knew the time had come to leave his side and face these people on her own. This was the moment she’d been dreading. She must release him so that he could mingle alone. Removing her hand from the safety of his escort, she curtseyed with practiced ease.

  “The dancing is not to commence for an hour still.” His eyes glimmered. “I shall return then.”

  “I look forward to that.”

  And then he was gone, and Abigail’s mother appeared at her side. Oh, where was Margaret? Where was Penelope?

  “Abigail, I wish you had left on the fichu. The neckline on that dress is borderline vulgar. Did you see the headdress on the Duchess of Waters? One would think the quality would show a bit more taste.” Edna Wright had dressed somewhat austerely for the evening. She’d attempted to persuade Abigail to dress similarly. Thank heavens, Margaret had insisted on sending over the new gown. One did not usurp Margaret’s authority on such matters.

  Her mother pulled Abigail toward a wall lined with cushioned chairs and settees. “I need to sit down, Abigail. All of that standing has caused my gout to flare up.”

  Abigail looked around helplessly for Margaret again. She was supposed to mingle now. It would not be good for her to be seen sitting with her mother, with old maids and chaperones. She was one of the guests of honor! But her mother’s grip clamped onto her like a vise, and she could not very well have a tug of war right there, could she?

  And then, as though the universe heard her, Lady Natalie Spencer appeared.

  “Miss Wright! What a delightful turn of events for you! I cannot believe you are actually going to wed the duke. And I must tell you that I am going to take all o
f the credit for this marriage.” Addressing Abigail’s mother, she smiled brightly. “It was I who brought the two of them together, you must know.” The girl’s eyes sparkled, but something brittle lurked behind her charm and beauty.

  Abigail could not help relaxing upon Lady Natalie’s refreshing openness, though. She freed her hand from her mother’s grasp and curtseyed before the esteemed earl’s daughter. “And you are to marry Lord Hawthorne. Whoever would have guessed that two weddings would be the result of your mother’s house party? When is your wedding? Have you and Lord Hawthorne set a date yet?” And then, just before she turned to introduce her mother to Lady Natalie, the older woman spoke up.

  “My lady, how positively delightful to meet you. And yes, what a coincidence it was, was it not, that both of you girls quite nearly ruined yourselves at that same house party. Lucky for both of you the gentlemen turned out to be honorable. Unlike the first time, with Abigail.”

  Lady Natalie’s eyes flew open wide at such a faux pas on Mrs. Wright’s part. Abigail steered her mother toward her original destination. “Please, Mama, go sit down. Your gout, remember?”

  But her mama chose to ignore her gout for now.

  “When are you to be wed, my lady?” her mother queried the lovely young woman, uncaring that she’d not only insulted her own daughter, but the daughter of an earl. “I do not believe we’ve seen an invitation as of yet, have we, Abby dear?”

  But Lady Natalie did not take offense. Abigail had been right in thinking, when she’d first met the girl, that she was not only a lovely person, but a nice person. “Oh, I’m quite certain my aunt and mother sent an invitation around to the baron’s town residence. You and Mr. Wright are most certainly included.” Turning back to Abigail she answered, “Lord Hawthorne and I are to be wed two weeks from tomorrow.” But her brow furrowed. She did not resemble a carefree bride-to-be.

  Somewhat satisfied with Lady Natalie’s response, Abigail’s mother excused herself to make herself comfortable on one of the loveseats which lined the wall. Left alone, Abigail leaned toward Lady Natalie conspiratorially. “I can hardly wait for it to be over. I have never been so terrified in my entire life!”