And the exact same intensity in his gaze.
Matthew Weber-Grey.
Hensh said nothing beside her, but the tension radiating from him was palpable and his hold on her hand extremely tight, grounding her in an instant.
Abigail stared, swallowed, then blurted out, “What in the world are you doing here?”
Chapter Two
Say something, man. Say anything.
Matthew Weber-Grey only stared stupidly at Abigail, wondering where his carefully laid plan had gone and frantically grappling for sense. He’d been thrown off course when he had seen her after so long, and now he couldn’t remember a thing. She was exactly as he had recalled her ever being, yet somehow she was infinitely more. His heart swelled in a way he could not ever recall experiencing before, and he knew his course was right. Difficult, some might say impossible, but right. Belated, undoubtedly, but right.
What had she asked? What was he doing here? That, at least, he knew.
“I’ve returned to London,” he heard himself say in a surprisingly polite voice, given the turmoil raging throughout him. “And we are old friends, are we not?”
Oh, that was a perfect thing to say, wasn’t it? Abigail would love that after what he put her through.
As he suspected, her brow snapped down, and any of her hesitation and shock vanished in an instant. “Old friends,” she repeated in a tone that made him wary. “Is that what you would call it?”
“Abigail,” Henshaw murmured, completely devoid of emotion. He showed none of the warmth and joviality he was known for, and he eyed Matthew with all the severity he might his mortal enemy on the battlefield. Faintly, it occurred to Matthew to be grateful that no manner of weaponry was appropriate for social occasions.
At his word, Abigail fixed a smile on her face that raised his concern more than her tone had. “But of course we were, Mr. Weber-Grey. Those lovely summers as children at Hazelwood and Chisolm still live in memory. Very pleasant indeed, and I am glad to be reminded of them. Thank you for renewing such a fond acquaintance. I trust we shall see you about London often at the events of the Season.” She inclined her head as regally as any monarch ever had, then let Henshaw sweep her away from him.
Formal, cold, and dismissive.
Well, it was better than hostile, murderous, and insulting, at any rate, so he must consider himself fortunate, he supposed.
Reputation was intact for them both. Glancing around, he could detect no hint of gossip from the surrounding guests, so there should be no complaints on that score—should Abigail actually speak to him again and do so long enough to complain about anything.
He blanched as he considered that now he had given her time to retire to house and catalog every single complaint from the last three years, likely starting and ending with that awful spring day.
He’d likely be pummeled repeatedly by Abigail herself during that particular conversation and ought to have a physician standing by at his home.
No matter what happened, he would deserve every single blow.
He hoped he would have a chance to tell Abigail that he knew that before she rendered him unconscious.
He knew what he had done to her, in every extreme and in every facet. He knew the difficulty of managing each day for months on end after that day and the dull ache that never really went away.
You simply learned to ignore it and live with it.
He knew all of this.
Everything he had put her through, he himself had endured. He would never compare the extent of their suffering and would never presume to know if Abigail had found her way through. Where she undoubtedly would feel betrayed, he had felt guilt. Where she had likely felt humiliation, he had felt shame. Where she had potentially cried herself to sleep, he had paced for hours on end.
The experience and emotions were different. The pain was the same.
And he had been the cause of it.
Three years of torment was enough, and now he wanted to change things. Mend things. Renew things, if he was so fortunate.
Apologize if he was not.
But such things would take time and a significant amount of patience.
He had time, and he would learn patience.
Abigail was worth it. What they had had was worth it.
Redemption was worth it.
Belatedly, he recalled that he was at a ball, and if he were going to remain in Society for the length of time it would take for Abigail Sterling to forgive him, or at least accept him as something less than the greatest evil that walked the earth, he would need to actively participate in it.
Clearing his throat, he turned around and smiled pleasantly at the room around him. It had been years since he had been in London, spending his time in the countryside of Essex instead, though not at the family estate at Chisolm.
The barest hint of a chance that he could be near Abigail at all was enough to take him elsewhere, though his father refused to let him out of the county.
But now he was back in London, trying to recall the more rigid edicts of behavior in Society before he fouled up in a faux pas from which he could not recover. That would certainly put a marked hindrance into his plans, and he could not afford hindrance or delay. Not when he had so very far to go.
He smiled to himself as the rest of his plan unfolded in his mind, carefully constructed over months of plotting and strategizing. He obviously hadn’t been able to perfectly predict how Abigail would respond to his appearance, let alone what he actually needed to tell her, but it wasn’t much of a leap, either. The plan would work under a variety of reactions and scenarios, and he could adjust his course as needed to accommodate them.
Adjust his course. He sounded like a bloody navigator, and he’d been on a boat maybe twice in his entire life.
Still, the analogy was apt.
The smile on his face vanished in an instant as he caught sight of Thomas Sterling glaring with the power of seven thunderstorms in his direction. There were more threats in that look than he could count, and he swallowed the sudden rise of nerves with difficulty as Thomas led his sister out of the ballroom.
Right. He’d forgotten how close the Sterling siblings were, and that he would have to contend with the rest of the family as well as Abigail. It was entirely possible that the real challenge in all of this would not be Abigail, but the family behind and around her.
Her life had been changed by his actions.
Her family would be the ones to cry for vengeance.
That he should have thought about.
***
Hyde Park in the mornings seemed as close as Matthew would ever get to his daily walks in the countryside of his estate. There were still a great many more people than he had ever seen on his excursions in Essex, but he supposed he could not expect anything less in a place as bustling and popular as London, especially at this time of year.
Still, it was a respite from the frantic energy that seemed to emit from every corner of the rest of the city. Here, at least one could breathe freely and imagine themselves in a far more peaceful place. In the morning it was less crowded than in the afternoons or even the evenings, but it still had various members of Society flitting about its paths.
He rather liked this time of day wherever he was, and today was no exception. He had not seen nor heard from Abigail since the ball three nights ago, and part of him had clung to the sudden fear that she would leave London altogether. Still, he could not see her parents whisking her away just as the Season was beginning, particularly when Maren would only be in her first or second Season herself.
He would hinge everything upon her remaining, and once her saw her again and spoke more than three words of politeness, the plan could proceed.
“Matthew Weber-Grey.”
He paused a step, his mind whirling about quickly to identify the familiar voice. Warily, he shifted to his left, afraid of what he might see.
Oh, damn. Lord Sterling, Abigail’s powerful cousin.
Well, her fath
er’s cousin, at any rate.
A very close, more-like-a-brother, incredibly protective sort of cousin.
If he ran for it, would Lord Sterling catch him?
Lord Sterling tilted his head very slightly in a direct answer to the many questions Matthew was silently asking.
There would be no escape, then. Lovely.
Matthew strode forward, only three steps or so, and offered him a slight bow. “My Lord Sterling, a pleasure to see you again.”
“Is it?” Lord Sterling asked without much of a question in the tone.
Not really, no, but he was not idiotic enough to admit that. He settled on a bland smile and a nod. “Yes, sir.”
Lord Sterling clearly did not believe him, but Matthew hadn’t exactly been convincing. “We haven’t seen you in London for, what, three years at least?”
“Roughly, yes, my lord.” There was no point in avoiding the awkwardness of the basic arithmetic of his being in London and the elapsed time since he had left Hazelwood for the final time.
“Why are you here now, then?” Lord Sterling was clearly following Matthew’s thinking without any trouble whatsoever, his expression as mild as before.
Matthew clasped his hands behind his back, forcing himself to at least appear calm, if not actually manage the feeling itself. “I thought it high time that I come to London and participate in the Season, as I have yet to do so.”
Lord Sterling raised a brow. “What, now that your wife is dead?”
Any and all air within Matthew’s lungs evaporated in a painful heave. He stared at the barely gray-haired man in disbelief, wondering with horror if everyone in the family knew his current situation.
His hesitation made Lord Sterling roll his eyes a little. “She doesn’t know, if that is your concern. None of them do, but I am not so disconnected from the world that it escaped my observation. So now that you are a free man, you’ve come to London to . . . what, find a new bride?”
The words were harsh, but the tone was anything but. Somehow Lord Sterling kept the whole thing purely conversational, as though they were discussing the morning air. Still, the effect was the same, and Matthew swallowed hard, driving back the burn of indignation before it could ignite his temper.
Remember the plan . . . Remember the plan . . .
“Not exactly, sir,” Matthew informed the older man, lifting his chin just enough to remove any hint of appearing demure.
He may have imagined it, but he would swear Lord Sterling’s mouth twitched into the slightest shadow of a smile for a moment. “Then what, pray tell, is your purpose, Matthew?”
There was a warmth underlying his words now, and it did not escape Matthew’s notice that Lord Sterling had turned to informality in his address, though he refuse to dwell on it for the present.
He met Lord Sterling’s gaze as squarely as he could. “I came for Abigail.”
Lord Sterling raised a brow. “To claim her?”
Matthew nodded. “If she’ll have me.”
Now he knew he did not imagine the smile that flashed across Lord Sterling’s face, and it stunned him into speechlessness.
“Good,” Lord Sterling replied, either ignoring Matthew’s shock or somehow unaware of it.
Good? How could anyone in the Sterling family, extended or immediate, find this to be a good thing?
Lord Sterling surprised him once more before he could react, nudging his head behind Matthew. “She’ll come from that direction and should arrive at any time. Good luck.” He turned and began to walk away, then turned back. “Feel free to call on me, Matthew, at any time. I’m willing to risk my neck for you on the chance you could make Abigail as happy as she deserves to be.” He nodded, then continued on his way.
There was no explaining what had just happened, and no time to even attempt any sort of processing or hypothesizing. If Abigail was coming, and Lord Sterling thought he could speak with her . . .
To claim her, the man had asked. Yes, Matthew did want to claim her.
And he dearly wanted to be claimed himself.
By her.
Suddenly, there she was, completely unaware of his presence, walking down the head of the path at a pace too swift for leisure and too slow for haste.
How soon would she see him? Would she turn and go the other way? Would she march to him in all anger and let herself lash out at him?
He sucked in a breath and began to walk toward her slowly, averting his eyes until he drew closer.
She saw him before he returned his gaze to her, and he could see her stiffen. Yet she continued forward, nary a halting step in her tread, eyes spearing Matthew with all the efficacy of any skewer in the world.
Abigail stopped, folding her hands. “Did you know I was going to be here this morning? Is this part of some plan you’ve concocted?”
Matthew shook his head, praying he looked as earnest as he truly was. “No. I did not know you would be here this morning. I simply came out for a stroll. It reminds me of Chisolm, in a way, and the peace of the country.”
She inhaled a breath, then released it in a rush, nodding. “True enough, I suppose. This is the closest I come to Hazelwood, and it almost makes the longing go away.”
He smiled with some hesitation. “You always did prefer Hazelwood to anywhere else.”
“And that hasn’t changed,” she quipped, smiling herself. Then she seemed to recall that she did not want to smile in his presence, and her expression returned to the frigidity of before. “What are you doing here, Matthew? And I don’t mean this park. I mean in London. You’ve never been here for the Season or any other social occasions, and I don’t see any reason for you to start now.”
Matthew nodded once, then cleared his throat. “I came to London to see you.”
Abigail blinked unsteadily, the look on her face only mildly shifting in her surprise. “Why?” she asked in a flat voice.
He took a moment, taking great care with his words. “I wanted to explain. To apologize. To see if anything could be salvaged between us for the sake of the friendship we once shared.”
Her lips mouthed the word friendship, twisting in derision, and she seemed to scoff without making a single sound. “What is there to explain, exactly? You chose Eliza over me. It was that simple.”
“I know,” he replied, ignoring the bitterness in her voice. “I betrayed you.”
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “There was no formal understanding. Nothing was broken beyond repair, and no betrayal was committed, officially. My personal feelings have no relevance.”
That he could not ignore. “They have all the relevance in the world! You have to know I never meant to hurt you.”
“And yet you still chose a woman you barely knew over one you shared an understanding with,” she spat, the first signs of true pain appearing.
“And it was the greatest mistake of my life, I can assure you!” he admitted freely.
Abigail raised a silent brow, fuming where she stood.
Matthew took one step forward. “I have felt incomplete for the entire time I spent as her husband, and have thought of little else but you.”
She laughed once. “And now you wish to be physically unfaithful as you have apparently been mentally and emotionally unfaithful? What a fine example of a husband you are.”
“Eliza died, Abigail.”
The lines of mockery on her beautiful face faded at once. “She what?”
“Died,” he repeated. “Two years ago. In childbirth.”
She had not been expecting that, he could tell, and she fumbled for words. “And the baby?”
He shook his head, a swell of pained emotion rising. “Lost with her. I have nothing, Abigail. Nothing to show for my life since betraying you. And while I rightly mourn the loss of my wife and my child, when I realized that I could make it all right, I felt hope as I have never hoped before.”
Abigail frowned at that and cocked her head. “Hope for what?”
Matthew looked at her with all the love
in the world, that which had never fully left him. “Understanding, Abigail. Understanding.” He smiled, somehow finding encouragement here. “When you’re ready, I’ll tell you everything. Not to persuade you, not to plead my case, and not to make you pity me. Just because you deserve to know.”
He bowed, touching the brim of his hat, and walked away, exhaling and smiling to himself, praying it would be enough.
Chapter Three
Abigail rushed into the London house her family owned, removing her bonnet and shaking her hair to rid it of stray drops of water. It hadn’t been raining when she left the house, and nor had it rained overly much on her walk in Hyde Park.
But after she had seen Matthew today, yet again, the sky seemed determined to express what she could not and poured down upon her shamelessly.
How perfectly apt.
Not that she was especially wishing to cry excessively or rage at the heavens or anything that she might have been capable of three years ago, but every instance she saw Matthew dredged up all the despairingly gray memories of that time. Months upon months of dreary, rainy days, no matter what the weather was actually doing out of doors.
What was worse was that she found herself conflicted. Ever since that day she had seen him in Hyde Park over a week ago, she had seen him nearly every day. They had not spoken since, though he had clearly seen her walking as well. He would only smile with all politeness in her direction and tip his hat to her. No further attempts to gain her good opinion or to explain himself, or even to speak with her at all.
Simple, polite acquaintances. That was what they were at present, which was something they had never been to each other.
Despite her pain, despite everything he had put her through, this distance was awkward and strained. Every time she saw him, she was torn between heading in his direction, though not with any particular haste, and running headlong in the opposite direction with a great deal of haste.
And every time, she managed to keep her course exactly as it had been, and it never felt any less miraculous.
What was he playing at? He said he had wanted understanding, but understanding of what? What had happened? His situation? The way things stood now?
The Queen's Ball Page 9
