Page 46 of Seven Nights with the Wicked Duke (Regency Beasts #3)

STRAWBERRY JAM

A bigail managed to slip back into the house with a simple, clever ruse. She pretended she had just woken up. She walked through the back kitchen door, and her eyes strayed to the pantry. Empty.

Blackwell Estate’s champagne-soaked decadence still clung to her skin. The difference was a knife to the ribs.

There was some warmth clinging to the walls, which meant that at least her family had some dinner. But the moment she stepped into the corridor, the cold bit her skin.

In the entirety of the modest manor, there was only one room that had heat, that used the only firewood they could afford. And that was the room she had all her younger siblings sleep in, so they at least could be spared the chill of winter.

As she came to the front of the house, her slippers echoed on the scuffed black-and-white marble tiles, though some were cracked and replaced with plain stone. She heard noise coming from her father’s study.

Abigail knew what she would find—her father at the desk, either scribbling the Sunday’s sermon or drowning in bills. This cold morning, it was the latter.

Dressed in his coat inside to warm his frail body, and with fingerless gloves, he looked like the vicar he had been all his life and not the Baron that he was supposed to be now.

“Good morning, Father.” Abigail walked into the room with a smile on her face.

“My sweet Abby!” Her father got up to greet her.

His hug was warm and soft, just like he was.

She glanced at the desk and saw the bills from their creditors and the charity requests. Her jaw clenched. They were a charity case as well.

When her father became a baron, she—and the whole ton, to be honest—expected him to give up his position in the parish and fully assume his new role. But being a vicar for Solomon Harston was not a profession. It was a calling. So, to everyone’s surprise, he kept his role as a vicar.

Inevitably, he could be good at one role. As a vicar, he was commendable. As a baron…

“Father, you need to stop promising money to causes.” Abigail pushed back from his arms.

Her father smiled, the lines on his face deepening. Those lines that came from smiling too much and not from frowning. He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, and she panicked for a moment that he would smell on her the cigar smoke that filled the Duke’s halls.

But it seems that the ride from the outskirts to the center of London was enough to erase all evidence.

“Abby,” her father scolded her gently. “We need to take care of those less fortunate than us.”

“Of course, Father, but is it not our duty to take care of ourselves too?”

“We do. We have a roof over our heads, we are not starving, and most of all, we have each other. Think of all the children growing up in the streets, barely clothed and alone.”

“Father, the pantry is empty.”

“There is still flour, and the grace of God will provide, my child.”

“Father—” she tried.

“I know, Abigail. But how can we think only selfishly?”

Abigail sighed and smiled. It would be so easy to be mad at her father and curse him for putting them all in such an ordeal, for choosing compassion over stability. But how could she rage at a man whose only sin was being too kind for this world?

He’d given away warm coats they could no longer replace. Skipped meals to feed the hungry. Promised pennies they didn’t have to people who needed them more. And he would do it all over again. Not out of pride, but because he believed it was right.

She reached up and gave him one soft kiss on his cheek before going to check on her siblings. She heard her sisters come down from their room, whispering softly, not having noticed her at the foot of the stairs.

“Christine,” Seraphina’s naturally hoarse voice whined, “I am so hungry.”

“I know, Sera, but it was Father’s turn to eat more. Today, it’s yours.”

“Eat what? You saw the pantry. There is barely enough there to get through the day.”

“Hush, Sera. If Abby hears you, she will be devastated.”

“I know,” her youngest sister said.

Abigail’s heart broke upon hearing them. She rushed to the small breakfast room with a smile, so she could keep them from knowing that she had heard them. When her sisters entered, she could swear that she heard her heart break.

She watched her beautiful sisters in their patched secondhand dresses. No matter how Christine tried to adorn them with her exquisite embroidery, they told their story, stark as day.

Abigail was already considered a spinster at six-and-twenty. But her sisters… Christine was only twenty, and Seraphina was eight-and-ten, just out in Society. But with no dowries, what prospects did they have?

“Abby!” Seraphina ran to embrace her, tripping over a loose plank on the floor.

“You’d think after all this time, you’d remember that loose plank,” Abigail teased, pressing a kiss to her sister’s wild curls.

“I like to keep life exciting,” Seraphina shot back, grinning. “Besides, if I didn’t trip at least once a day, how would you and Christine justify all that fussing?”

Christine rolled her eyes as she grabbed the teapot and the tea set. “If by fussing you mean preventing your untimely demise, then yes, we are relentless tyrants.”

The three sisters laughed, and Abigail felt warmth bloom in her heart, seeing what her father meant when he mentioned the blessing of having each other.

“Christine, finish with the tea, and I will prepare some toast,” Abigail said. “I think there is some strawberry jam left. Isaac will love it.”

At the mention of their ten-year-old brother, the younger sisters fell silent and looked at each other.

Abigail felt the blood drain from her face. “Where… Where is Isaac?”

“Um…” Christine hesitated.

Upon seeing her sister’s hesitation, Abigail let the panic take over. She didn’t wait for a response. She rushed up the stairs to the bedroom, only to hear in the corridor what her sisters had hesitated to tell her—a cough.

She opened the door and was glad that the room was warm enough, at least. Because her little brother seemed to be ill.

Abigail had nursed all her siblings to health after their mother died, so she instantly knew that it was just a cough, nothing life-threatening.

“Isaac!” She rushed to his side.

Her baby brother gave her a wide smile, even as he coughed badly.

Abigail wished not for money, not for the luxuries she saw at the Duke’s house.

Just for everyone to stop trying to be brave, to stop grinding their teeth and holding it together.

Least of all her little brother, who didn’t even have the chance to feel their mother’s warmth.

They all deserve better!

Abigail smiled as she lifted a hand to his forehead, feeling a low fever.

“You lazy elf!” She kissed his forehead.

“My ears work perfectly, though,” he joked. “I heard it. Strawberry jam!”

Abigail chuckled as she tucked him into his blankets. She was fussing over him as she was calculating the money she would need for a physician’s visit and the medicine that would alleviate the pain. Her jaw tightened.

“Just one toast,” Isaac said softly. “I don’t have much appetite this morning.”

She nodded, holding back her tears. Without him asking, she gave him the book he had been reading for days now, and she promised him breakfast in bed.

She closed the door behind her and slid down it until she was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest.

She buried her face in her arms and let the ache rise. Not for herself. But for Isaac. For Seraphina. For Christine. For the chill in their bones and the hollowness in their stomachs, and the hope they never let each other see falter.

She entered the kitchen, where her sisters were making breakfast, genuine smiles on their lips as Seraphina sliced bread and Christine prepared tea with that silent grace of hers.

“I promised our little elf,” Abigail said in a cheerful tone, “breakfast in bed and two slices of toast with jam.”

“The royal treatment.” Christine filled the teapot. “We should join him. He hates eating alone.”

“That’s because he can’t steal from our plates,” Seraphina teased. “By the way, I think I am coming down with something, too,” she added dramatically.

“Oh, really?” Abigail raised an eyebrow while hunting for the jam.

“I had a bad fall. Very dramatic. Tragic, even.”

“You tripped over a boot and fell onto the cat,” Christine said flatly.

“Exactly. Who’s to say the cat wasn’t contagious?”

They all laughed. The kind of laughter that didn’t fix anything but made the next breath easier to take.

They spent the morning sitting cross-legged on the bed together, the tea tray balanced precariously on the mattress.

Abigail looked at her siblings as they made heartwarming comments, teasing and laughing.

Now and then, she would give a slight smile or make a comment.

But in truth, all this time, her mind was stuck on one thing with alarming obsession.

“I can give you triple the money, along with anything else you want.”

Triple the money. The Duke didn’t even know what she was offered in the first place. She could ask for a ridiculous amount of money.

Her hand trembled.He hadn’t just offered her money; he’d offered a solution. A way out. Firewood in the grate. Food on the table. A physician for Isaac. A new coat for Seraphina. Boots for her father.

She stirred her tea, watching the thin liquid swirl in the cup like ink from a brush. All she had to do was draw. What she was supposed to do in the first place, for three times less money and more chances of her being ridiculed.

No!

Folding to the Duke’s demands meant working for him. And he was a dangerous man, one who genuinely scared her.

Scared? Perhaps. But only that?

Abigail’s grip on her teacup tightened. Her skin flushed hot despite the cold room, memories creeping up her spine like flames: his breath against her ear, the smooth timbre of his voice in the dark, the way his lips—those lips, marked with that wicked scar—had pressed against her skin, uninvited, unforgettable.

Her breath hitched, and she looked down sharply, as though her siblings might see the thought on her face.

This was exactly why she couldn’t afford to get closer to the Duke. There was no sating the man’s appetites, and he seemed to stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Accepting his offer meant returning to the lion’s den and pretending not to notice its teeth.

Isaac coughed into his sleeve, the sound wet and painful.

Abigail’s resolve faltered. Could she refuse his offer if it meant helping her family? There was nothing the Duke could do to her if she refused. And she would refuse. She knew that the Duke, arrogant and a rake that he was, would never force her.

“Abby?” Christine’s hand patted hers. “You look like you swallowed a lemon.”

“Do we even have lemons?” Seraphina joked.

Abigail’s jaw clenched. It was lighthearted and innocent, but making jokes about not having lemons…

Her traitorous mind kept returning to the weight of his gaze when he’d studied her sketches, the way he’d understood her art in a way no one ever had.

Perhaps the Duke was only interested in her art. Yes, that was it. He wanted to keep her from spilling his secrets to anyone, but he asked her to draw for him.

For sure, he was just going to let her sketch. He was a busy man, after all. He had flirt battles to orchestrate, intimate dances to lead, and women in corsets reciting vulgar poetry to applaud.

He won’t even care if she were there. A man like him wouldn’t abandon his indulgences just to look at her sketches, right? All he wanted was provocative paintings to go with the drapes of his ballroom, one more obscene feature in his extravagant collection.

Abigail had crumpled two pages already, writing the letter.

She was struggling to find the words that would convey to her client that she could no longer provide what she was commissioned to do.

She had to do so clearly and firmly, but she was not happy with any of the versions she had written so far.

She had her doubts all day, but when they gathered for lunch over a measly soup, the last of her money spent on medicine for Isaac, she had made up her mind. She would do anything for her family.

To my esteemed client, she tried.

“No, too formal. Stiff. Untrue,” she muttered to herself.

Another page crumpled.

I regret to inform you that I will not be able to continue with the assignment. Circumstances have arisen ?—

“No,” she hissed. “That makes it sound like I am dying. Or pregnant. Or worse, ashamed.”

It couldn’t be that bad. All she wanted was to slip away quietly and pretend she had never accepted this miserable, troublesome job in the first place.

Abigail was crumpling another page when Christine entered the room.

“So rare to see you hunched over something that is not your sketchbook,” her sister said as she approached.

Abigail hastened to discreetly get rid of her failed drafts and took the teacup Christine offered.

“Isaac is feeling better already,” Christine reported. “He is a strong boy. Father is with him, reading him stories.”

“He is strong. The physician said that it is not something to worry about,” Abigail sighed.

“Then why are you worried?”

Abigail looked into Christine’s soft eyes.

Of all the people in the world, the middle Harston sister was the person Abigail felt closest to. There was little she could hide from her.

“You know why, Chris.”

“Because this is your cross to bear, am I right?”

Abigail swallowed her weak tea.

Christine sighed. “I love you so much, Abby. Life has been unfair to you. You were only sixteen when Mother died. And you had to take care of all of us, two sisters and a newborn baby. But that was then.”

She set both cups aside and took Abigail’s hands in her own. The two sisters shared a look of love and trust.

“But now I am older. Seraphina is older than you were when you were changing Isaac’s nappies. We are here for you.”

Abigail felt the love envelop her, warm and soothing. Her lips trembled. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to crumble into her sister’s arms and let someone else be the strong one.

But she couldn’t.

Christine had a future ahead of her. Abigail wouldn’t weigh her down with this burden—not when she could still carry it alone.

“Let me help you, Abigail. I can sell embroidery like you sell art. I can?—”

“Actually…” Abigail had a brilliant idea. “There is something you can do for me.”

Christine’s eyes lit up. “Anything.”

“Anything. No questions asked.”

Christine frowned.

Abigail squeezed her sister’s hands. An understanding passed between them, though nothing was said. She asked for blind trust, and Christine gave it.

“What do you need?”

“To cover for me.”

“Cover for you?”

“Yes.” Abigail straightened her back and pressed her lips together. “I have somewhere I have to be tonight.”