Page 6 of The Duke and his Hellion (Wedded for Convenience #3)
CHAPTER 6
“W ell, Your Grace,” Abigail spoke quickly, her eyes darting towards the approaching man. “It was lovely to have you and I shall see you soon.”
Charles laughed, though confusion was etched upon his face. “My lady,” he stopped her with lifted brows. “Is it just me, or are you in quite a hurry to rid yourself of my company?”
Abigail's face flushed, but there was no time for hurt feelings. “No, no,” she reassured him. “I merely understand that you are a busy man, Your Grace. No need to keep you longer.”
She watched anxiously as Hugh stopped to speak to one of the footmen, practically yanking at Charles's hand in an attempt to lead him past her brother without any interaction.
“My lady,” his surprised voice stopped her as they came to a halt in front of his carriage while Hugh was preoccupied with the roses. “At least allow me to bid you farewell.”
Abigail felt her skin heat up as he brushed his lips against her hand once more. “Take it as another lesson, my lady,” Charles said softly, his gaze meeting hers. “Never let a gentleman leave without a proper goodbye.”
Abigail's heart rushed wildly in her chest — for a second she was certain he'd insist on staying even longer, but then he boarded the carriage without another word.
As Charles's carriage pulled away, Abigail's heart sank. She watched with growing trepidation as Hugh strode towards her, his face a thunderous mask of anger and disapproval. Beside her, Harriet tensed, her grip on Abigail's arm tightening fractionally as if to steady them both against the impending storm.
“Abigail,” Hugh growled, his voice low and dangerous as he came to a halt before them. “What in the world was the Duke of Grouton doing here?”
Abigail lifted her chin, meeting her brother's gaze with a defiant spark in her eye. “He was offering me guidance, Hugh. Helping me to… fit in with the ton. Be accepted.”
Hugh's brows drew together in a fierce scowl, his eyes flashing with barely contained fury. “Guidance?” he scoffed, his tone dripping with scorn. “Accepted? Are ye truly willin' to go to any lengths at all to fit into this ton ? This society that doesn't want us? Are ye so desperate for acceptance to be made a fool of by a rake, lass?”
Abigail felt her cheeks flush with indignation, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “How dare you?” she hissed, her voice trembling with anger. “How dare you imply that I am some helpless damsel, incapable of making my own decisions or discerning a man's true intentions?”
Hugh shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Ye do not know him, Abby. The Duke of Grouton is a notorious rake. He'll say whatever it takes to get what he wants, and then he'll discard ye like yesterday's news. And the ton … the ton will watch ye attempt to change yourself to fit them, only to hurt ye in the end.”
Abigail opened her mouth to protest, to defend Charles and his intentions, but Hugh cut her off with a sharp gesture. “I won't have it, Abigail. I won't stand by and watch ye ruin yerself over some fleeting infatuation with a man who is entirely beneath ye.”
At this, Abigail's temper flared, white-hot and searing in its intensity. “Beneath me?” she echoed, her voice rising to a near-shout. “Who are you to decide who is and is not worthy of my attentions? Who gave you the right to dictate my choices, to control every aspect of my life?”
Hugh's face darkened, his jaw clenching with barely contained rage. “I am yer brother,” he ground out, each word a clipped, precise incision. “Yer guardian and protector. It is my duty to ensure that ye make the right choices, that ye do not throw away your future on some reckless whim.”
Abigail let out a harsh, humorless laugh, tears of frustration and hurt pricking at the corners of her eyes. “My choices?” she repeated, her voice cracking with emotion. “What choices, Hugh? The ones you make for me? The ones that keep me trapped in this gilded cage, forever beholden to your whims and your expectations? Why is it that you pretend not to care about the ton, though you are so quick to conform to the expectations when it comes to your say over my life?”
“Abigail,” Hugh let out with a sigh, reaching to take her hand. “I am merely trying to protect ye — I have lived, I have seen…”
Abigail jerked away from his touch, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “You're not protecting me, Hugh,” she whispered, her voice raw and aching. “You're smothering me. And I can't... I can't bear it any longer.”
With that, she turned and fled, her skirts swishing around her ankles as she raced up the stairs and into the house. She could hear Hugh calling after her, could feel Harriet's worried gaze boring into her back. But she didn't stop, didn't slow her pace until she had reached the sanctuary of her bedchamber.
Once inside, Abigail flung herself onto the bed, burying her face in the soft down of her pillows as great, heaving sobs wracked her slender frame. She cried until her throat was raw and her eyes were swollen, until she was left feeling hollow and wrung out, a husk of her former self.
As she lay there, staring blankly at the canopy above her bed, Abigail felt a wave of helplessness wash over her, a sense of utter despair at the impossible situation she found herself in. How was she to navigate this world, to find her place and her purpose, when every turn seemed to bring fresh obstacles and new disappointments?
“No,” she whispered. “I will not cry like a babe.”
The decision was an impulsive one — one she made without a second thought. The pen scribbled quickly on a piece of paper and she read over the words once or twice before folding the letter and rushing downstairs to where a footman stood.
“Take this to the Duke of Grouton's manor for me, please,” she requested of the young man, who looked at her doubtfully. Abigail's brow furrowed as she looked up at him.
“I am asking you a favor. Please,” she asked again and he nodded at once, clicking his heels together once before rushing off.
With her chin lifted, Abigail made her way back to her chamber As she approached Hugh's study, she could hear the low murmur of voices from within, the tense, urgent cadence of a serious discussion. She paused outside the door, her hand hovering over the knob as she strained to make out the words.
“I am worried about her, Harriet,” Hugh was saying, his voice thick with concern. “She's so young, so innocent. She has no idea of the dangers that lurk in this world, or the men who would seek to take advantage of her trusting nature.”
Harriet sighed, her tone gentle but firm. “I know you want to protect her, Hugh. But Abigail is not a child anymore. She's a grown woman, with her own hopes and dreams and desires. You can't keep her locked away forever, sheltered from the realities of life.”
When her brother spoke again, his voice was soft — almost broken. “I know, Harriet, I know that. But it is my job to try. And if that means keeping her away from rakes and scoundrels like Grouton, then so be it. I am all she has in this world.”
Abigail felt her heart constrict, a wave of anger and hurt washing over her at her brother's words. He still saw her as a helpless child, a fragile flower in need of his constant protection. He didn't trust her judgment, didn't believe in her ability to make her own choices and learn from her own mistakes.
Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes, and Abigail turned away from the study door, unable to bear another moment of their condescending concern.
With tears threatening to fall once more, she rushed up the stairs to her bedchamber, slamming the door shut behind her before curling up in a bundle on the bed. It was hours later that there was a soft knock at her door and Abigail sat up, expecting her brother or Harriet's voice.
“Lady Abigail?” Her maid, Prudence's voice called through the door, a note of concern evident in her tone. “Dinner is ready. Will you be coming down?”
Abigail hesitated, her hand resting on the doorknob as she fought back a fresh wave of tears. The thought of facing Hugh and Harriet, of enduring their pitying glances and gentle admonishments, was more than she could bear in that moment.
“No thank you, Prudence,” she called back, her voice steady despite the ache in her throat. “I am not feeling well. I think I'll retire early tonight.”
There was a pause, a beat of heavy silence, and then Prudence's voice came again, softer this time. “Very well, my lady. I'll bring you up a tray, in case you change your mind.”
Abigail murmured her thanks, waiting until she heard the maid's footsteps recede down the hallway before she let herself into the room. She undressed quickly, slipping into her nightgown and crawling beneath the covers, her body heavy with exhaustion and her heart weighted with sorrow.