Page 16 of His Scandalous Duchess (Icy Dukes #4)

“You don’t have to like me right away, Abigail,” Cecilia added quietly.

“Or even soon. But I’d very much like to be someone you can talk to, if you ever need to.

I am also here to be someone you can turn to.

Not to replace anyone, or to take what was already yours.

But perhaps to be a person you can come to when the world feels too loud, or too quiet. ”

Abigail didn’t move, but her fingers twitched at her side, as though unsure whether to hold onto her frown or let it slip. Her eyes stayed on the water, but Cecilia saw the shift. It was the barest tilt of her head in acknowledgment.

“Can you paint?” Abigail’s voice came quietly. “I like to paint.”

Cecilia blinked, then smiled as if the question had brightened something inside her. “Well, of course I can,” she replied gently. “Perhaps we could do it together sometime, if you’d like.”

She paused, letting the moment settle. “Also, maybe you can teach me how to swim one of these days. Provided you don’t laugh too much at how terrible I am.”

Abigail giggled despite herself, her cheeks flushing with the effort of holding back a smile. Cecilia chuckled, too, pleased by the small breakthrough.

“Well,” she said, rising to her feet and brushing off her skirts, “we should get back. Everyone is out looking for you.”

Abigail gave a small sigh and straightened, hesitating just a moment before falling in step beside her.

The walk back was mostly quiet. Cecilia could hear Abigail’s footsteps padding softly on the grass beside her, occasionally brushing against the hem of her gown.

The girl said nothing, but every so often, Cecilia caught her glancing up, as though reassessing this curious woman who had appeared so suddenly in her life.

When the manor came into view, Abigail’s pace slowed. Cecilia glanced down and offered a gentle smile. “Come along.”

This time, Abigail followed without a fuss. At the entrance, Miss Flaxman rushed toward them, her face lined with worry that softened instantly at the sight of the girl.

“Thank the heavens,” she breathed, kneeling beside Abigail to check her over. “Where did you go, young lady? We searched everywhere!”

“She’s quite well, Miss Flaxman,” Cecilia assured her, offering a small smile. “We just took a long walk.”

The governess looked up and quickly stood to her feet to give Cecilia a polite curtsy. “I’m grateful, Your Grace. Truly.”

“You don’t have to be.” She shook her head gently. “Abigail is my responsibility, too.”

Miss Flaxman gave her a grateful smile before guiding Abigail up the steps and through the front doors. Abigail didn’t look back. Her small hand clutched the governess’s as she followed obediently.

Cecilia watched them disappear inside, and she exhaled, shoulders loosening for the first time all day.

She turned back toward the house, brushing a leaf from her sleeve.

There was still a list of things to attend to.

The barley shortage in the kitchen, a household account ledger to review, and the matter of the seamstress, who had yet to arrive.

Reluctantly, she put a smile on her face, willing herself to carry on, even though everything still felt like a performance she hadn’t quite learned the steps to.

“Abigail, are you asleep?”

Valentine paused at the door, waiting to see if Abigail would respond before stepping in. His fingers rested lightly on the handle. He wasn’t certain why he’d come, only that the house had grown too still, and his thoughts had become too loud to remain in the study.

He opened the door quietly.

A single candle flickered near the hearth, casting soft shadows across the floorboards. Valentine paused at the doorway, his gaze landing on Abigail curled beneath the coverlet. Her back was to him, perfectly still.

“Are you asleep, Abigail?” he asked.

There was a pause before she shifted slightly and turned her head, revealing eyes wide open and alert.

“You didn’t come to supper, Papa,” Abigail said quietly.

“I was busy,” he replied simply, stepping into the room.

The quiet click of the door behind him echoed faintly in the stillness. He moved toward her and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. Abigail shifted, turning to face him.

“Supper was nice,” she offered after a moment, staring at the shadows cast by the bedpost. “I had it with Cecilia. She talks quite a lot, Papa.”

A soft, quiet laugh escaped Valentine’s lips on hearing her say that. His fingers brushed the edge of the coverlet, smoothing a fold that didn’t need smoothing. “What did she talk about?”

“Stories,” she answered. “They were funny. She told a story about her brother. How he once put frogs in her pinafore and blamed it on Dorothy, her other sister.”

Valentine arched a brow. “Frogs?”

Abigail gave the faintest of smiles. “She screamed so loudly, it woke up the entire house. Then she chased her brother round the garden with a broom.”

A soft chuckle escaped Valentine before he could stop it.

Valentine said nothing at first, struck by the unexpected tenderness in Abigail’s voice.

He hadn’t expected her to remember the story, much less retell it, given that Abigail was fond of forgetting things.

It also surprised him further that Cecilia had spoken so openly to the child, so casually, as if the walls between them weren’t still so new.

“She didn’t make me talk,” Abigail murmured, quieter now. “Unlike Miss Flaxman, who always wants me to say something. She just…talked, and let me listen.”

“Did that help?” he asked. “Listening to her talk. Did it make you feel fond of her?”

Abigail hesitated. “It didn’t feel so lonely.”

Valentine shifted slightly, adjusting his position on the edge of the bed so he could face her properly. Abigail sat cross-legged under the coverlet, her nightgown wrinkled and her hair falling loose over her shoulders.

“You don’t always have to talk,” he said after a pause, watching her expression carefully. “But you mustn’t be unkind to those who’ve done you no harm.”

Abigail’s shoulders stiffened slightly. She didn’t look at him.

“I’m speaking of what happened in the garden the other day,” he continued. “You shoved her, Abigail. That is unlike you.”

Still, she said nothing.

“There is no reason to push someone like that, especially not when that someone is trying to befriend you.”

“But she didn’t complain, Papa,” she argued.

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt her.”

He waited, giving her space to speak. When she didn’t, he sighed and continued. “Do you not see that what you did was rude?”

Abigail frowned, drawing her knees up beneath the coverlet as if trying to retreat into herself. “I suppose,” she mumbled. “I do. I didn’t mean to…I’m sorry.”

Valentine nodded. “That pleases me to hear. Truly.”

Abigail turned her face toward him. “I’ll say sorry. Properly. Tomorrow.”

He brushed her hair back. “That’s good, Abigail.”

“Papa?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Mama would be angry with me?”

Valentine paused mid-motion, his hand still near her temple. “Angry?” he echoed.

Abigail turned to look at him for a brief moment, then looked down at her fingers. “Because I like Cecilia. I mean, not completely. But a little. Is that wrong?”

The question hit him harder than he expected. For a moment, he had no words.

He sat back slowly and crossed his arms. “No,” he said at last. “No, Abigail. It isn’t wrong.”

“But Mama was my mother,” she said, as though reminding him. “She should come first. Shouldn’t she?”

Valentine swallowed as the memory of the past pressing in like fog. “Your mama,” he began quietly. “She loved you very much, Abigail.”

He gave her hand a small squeeze. “If she could see you now, I think she’d want to make sure you were still being looked after. That someone was tucking you in at night, and making sure you had someone to play with.”

Abigail sighed. “But it feels like Cecilia is taking her place.”

“No one can take your mama’s place, dear,” he said. “She will always be yours, in your heart. But,” he paused. “She’s not here anymore, and I think if she could, she’d whisper to you that it’s all right to let someone else be kind to you too.”

There was silence before Abigail’s brow creased. “Would she have really wanted that?”

He hesitated — just for a moment — then spoke. “She would have wanted that, yes.”

It was not the same as saying she had been loving.

It wasn’t a lie either. The truth was that Abigail’s mother had died moments after childbirth, never once having held the daughter she had resented the thought of.

But it was not a truth for Abigail to carry.

Not now. Not yet, and certainly not like this.

Abigail didn’t need to know that her mother’s memory was one Valentine had learned to bury. Not tonight.

So he gave her the only truth he could offer.

“I should let you sleep,” Valentine said, feeling the urge to escape the conversation.

“No, Papa. Stay,” Abigail insisted.

“No, you need your sleep, Abigail,” he insisted. “Go to bed.”

Abigail’s small pout was barely visible in the dim light, but she obeyed, turning onto her side and pulling the coverlet higher with a sigh. Valentine lingered a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of her shoulders before he started to retreat.

He closed the door with care and lingered outside for a breath or two, listening to the hush that settled in its wake.

But peace did not come. Not truly. He knew the brief conversation about Bianca, Abigail’s mother, had unearthed too much.

Guilt. Regret. The uncomfortable stirrings of memories he had long buried.

Frustrated, he turned on his heel and headed to his study, ready to bury himself in work so he didn’t have to think.