“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? Not that she had a lover. Or perhaps she did, in which case he could hardly blame her.
Expect the woman he had jilted three decades ago to remain chaste?
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 fifty two 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 rationally.
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 notorious 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 country manor home 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 peacefully with her sister and brother-in-law, pretentious bore that he was.
“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 stinks.”
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 thirty 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 wa
nt. 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 plucked. “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 air 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 the rain on the carriage’s thick leather roof. “Do I know you?”
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 topper 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 began to do just that.
“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 no doubt ruined beyond repair. 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.
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 palm 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. Thirty years, 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 warm 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.
Spinster and the Duke Page 3
