Chapter Seventeen

Abigail didn’t see Alexander for the rest of the day. The peace of her quiet little clearing – well, their quiet little clearing, really – seemed to have been ruined.

The story he had told her about the previous Duke of Dunleigh shook Abigail. How could a man be so cruel to his own children? Mrs. Atwater was hardly a model parent, but she had never been physically cruel, at least. Her only crime was neglect, and allowing Abigail to do whatever she wanted without caring what might happen to her, but it seemed like the old Duke took great pleasure in torturing his children.

Dinner passed without incident. Abigail was seated across the table from Alexander, as usual, with her aunt on one side and Lord Donovan on the other. When she had the chance, she leaned over to her aunt and whispered quietly.

“What do you know about the previous Duke of Dunleigh?”

It was the right question to ask. Or rather, the wrong one, because Aunt Florence stiffened, a spoon of soup halfway to her lips, and glanced rapidly around the table as if afraid somebody was watching them.

“Ask me again after the ladies withdraw,” she murmured, and continued eating.

Perhaps Aunt Florence had hoped that Abigail would forget. She didn’t, of course. When the Dowager rose, indicating that the ladies would retire to the drawing room, Abigail cornered her aunt, looping her arm through hers.

“Well?” she prompted.

Aunt Florence sighed. “Why are you asking, Abigail?”

“Well, I heard from Al... – that is, I heard that the Duke was remarkably unkind to his children. I heard a story about cutting a swing while one of his children were on it.”

Aunt Florence threw her niece a sharp look, and Abigail suspected that her aunt knew exactly who had told her that story.

The ladies began to file out of the dining room into the dark hallway, and the gentlemen settled down comfortably to enjoy their after-dinner port. Abigail felt an itch between her shoulder blades, as if she were under scrutiny, and glanced around to see who was watching.

Alexander hastily averted his gaze, and she felt her cheeks begin to burn.

“The old Duke was a difficult sort of man,” Aunt Florence continued, once they were safely out into the hallway, the door closed behind them. Ahead, the flickering yellow rectangle of the drawing room’s open door beckoned. It was a cool night, and a fire would have been lit inside, along with plenty of candles.

“By difficult, do you mean cruel?”

“Yes,” Aunt Florence said at once, which rather took Abigail by surprise. “He… he seemed to love no one, beyond himself and his reputation. His title, I should say. He became preoccupied with his legacy, and despite having four fine children, he found something to dislike in each of them. William, I believe, came under the brunt of his persecution. William and poor Katherine, being the only girl.”

They had fallen behind, the last in the line of women, and Abigail spotted the Dowager up ahead, craning her neck to see where they were. Their conversation would soon end.

“My friend, Mary, endured much,” Aunt Florence continued. “She loved him, and I believe that was her downfall, in the end. She is… weak and diminished now, but she was not always like that. I remember the way she was and hope that she’ll find her way back to her own self one day.”

“Oh. Oh, that is terrible.”

“Indeed. Let it be a lesson to you, Abigail. Women must marry, in this world, but for heaven’s sake, choose wisely.”

Then they had reached the drawing room, the Dowager smiling at them all, and the conversation had to stop. Aunt Florence stopped to talk with her friends, and Abigail smiled weakly and went on inside.

Her aunt’s last sentence had shaken her. What if she found herself in a marriage like the poor Dowager Duchess? There’d be no getting out of it, no escape. She shuddered, lowering herself into a chair by the fire.

She needed time to think. Unfortunately, she was not going to get it.

It felt as though she had only been sitting for a few minutes before the door opened and the menfolk came pouring in, chatting and laughing, some still clutching brandy glasses.

“You’re finished quickly!” the Dowager exclaimed, hurrying over to Alexander, who came in last. She beamed up at him, hands dancing out to touch his face, almost adoringly. Alexander smiled down at his mother, eyes crinkling.

From her vantage point, Abigail could see the faces of the others. More specifically, she could see the Duke of Dunleigh, who the Dowager had pushed past without a second look to get to her youngest son. His expression tightened, but he said nothing.

“We thought we’d join you early,” Alexander explained, looping an arm through his mother’s and escorting her to a seat. “What would you all say to a game of charades?”

The idea was well received by young and old. Abigail, who’d hoped to sit quietly and read her book, was not thrilled at the idea, but nodded and smiled when he glanced questioningly at her. It would look rude to refuse.

I’ll have plenty of time to be a wallflower when I go home.

That thought sent a jolt through her. This was the first time Abigail had properly thought about going home, but of course this visit could not last forever, and Aunt Florence was not going to keep her for weeks and months on end.

And then Abigail’s moment in the sun would be finished. It would be back to spinsterhood and invisibility, back to sitting on the sidelines at local balls while others danced. Scarlett would marry, most likely. She would probably not have the chance to secure a really good match, on account of their finances and the expense of a London Season, and Abigail would be blamed for that, for charming their aunt in giving her this opportunity, rather than her younger sister.

Abigail’s throat tightened. She gave her head a little shake, bringing herself back to the present. Just in time, she saw Lord Donovan approaching her, smiling complacently.

“They are talking about forming into partners for charades. May the best pair win, eh?”

Abigail’s heart sank. Of course, she might have known. She would be stuck with Lord Donovan all night. She could see Diana approaching Alexander, a sultry smile on her face, and knew exactly how things would be.

And then the Dowager spoke up.

“To make things more interesting,” she said, beaming around at the company. “we shall pick names out of hats for our partners! The gentlemen will write their names down, and the ladies shall pick. How does that sound?”

Lord Donovan and Diana’s faces both fell comically, but Abigail bit back a sigh of relief.

***

They decided to go by age, starting with the youngest, which meant that Abigail was presented with the hat much more quickly than she’d anticipated.

Smiling nervously at the company, she reached in and picked up the first piece of paper her fingers touched.

It would be just her luck if she picked Lord Donovan anyway.

She unfolded the paper, and blinked at it for a moment, waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into a different name.

“Lord Alexander Willenshire,” she read out.

Diana flinched as if slapped. Aunt Florence made a little moue of disapproval, and Lord Donovan’s lips tightened. The Dowager, who was holding the hat, saw none of these changing expressions, and only beamed at Abigail.

“Oh, you are lucky! Alex is excellent at charades.”

She moved on before Abigail could respond, and Alexander came shuffling forward.

“It’s you and I, then,” he said, smiling wryly. “May I sit?”

“Of course.”

Abigail’s heart was hammering. Alexander settled himself onto a stool beside her armchair, sitting so close she could almost feel the heat coming off him. No doubt feeling her eyes on him, he glanced over, and she felt herself blushing.

Alexander smiled; a languid, lopsided grin that made her chest tighten again.

“I intend for us to win this, Miss Atwater.”

She smiled back. “So do I.”

It was Alexander and Abigail’s turn again. Each pair was obliged to pick out a prompt from the hat – the same one which had held the names was now holding dozens of charades prompts to act out – and then act the prompt to their partner. If they guessed correctly before the minute-glass ran out, they would earn one point. If they were quick enough, they were permitted to choose another prompt, and earn the chance of another point.

So far, to her amazement, Abigail and Alexander were ahead.

It was Alexander’s turn to act, and he bounced up from his seat, snatching up a prompt. He read it quickly, eyes narrowing.

Abigail waited, the anticipation building inside her.

The Dowager had not been exaggerating when she said that Alexander was good at this game. He was happy to clown around and make the others laugh, but somehow, it was also easy to guess at what he was acting out. He was also good at guessing when it was his turn.

She could see Diana, paired with a man who had a bristling moustache and appeared to be half-asleep, sitting sourly beside Lord Donovan and his giggling debutante partner, a rather sweet young lady who thought everything an absolute joke, but could not guess or act to save her life.

Drawing in a breath, Alexander slipped the piece of paper into his pocket, nodding at Aunt Florence to start the minute-glass timer.

He placed his hands together, palm to palm, and opened them slowly.

“It is a book, then,” Abigail said.

There was a vigorous nod. Then Alexander threw out his arms in a circle around his hips, making a move as if splashing.

“Water? Water? No, no, but I’m close? River? Stream? Pond? No – Lake!”

There was another vigorous nod. The others were all watching in varying shades of amusement. The Dowager was beaming adoringly at her son.

The Duke, who was not playing, as there was an odd number, was sitting off to one side, on the armchair Abigail had vacated.

Next, Alexander pointed directly at Abigail. She frowned, a little confused.

“Me? No, no. Woman? Lake… Woman…”

He was still pointing urgently, then gestured to the rest of the gathering, specifically the…

“Ladies!” she gasped. “Lady… The Lady of the Lake, by Sir Walter Scott!”

“Correct!” Alexander laughed, whipping out the now-crumpled piece of paper to show them all.

There was applause, and Abigail allowed herself a wide grin. This victory would put them a full five points above the next highest scoring pair.

“Although, The Lady of the Lake is a poem, you wretch,” she said, laughing. Perhaps it was a little too familiar, but Alexander only bowed and grinned.

“And yet you guessed it anyway,” he said, glancing up at her with strangely glittering eyes. “We make quite the team, don’t we?”

“Enough chit-chat,” Aunt Florence interrupted. “Look, you have twenty or thirty seconds left on the timer! Get yourselves another prompt, and try and win another prompt.”

“Goodness, Lady Caldecott,” Diana remarked sourly. “Anyone would think you wanted them to win, instead of your partner and yourself.”

“It is charades, Lady Lockwell,” Aunt Florence shot back, without missing a beat, “hardly a game upon which anyone’s life depends.”

Diana flushed at her sharp tone, throwing herself back against the sofa and folding her arms tight across her chest, disapproval evident.

Aunt Florence, of course, did not seem to care.

Snatching up another prompt, Alexander read it quickly, and glanced up at Abigail. There was a small smile on his face, something soft and fond, and she almost felt as though she ought not to be seeing it at all. Something tugged inside her, something that made her want to get up and go to Alexander and put her arms around him.

A shocking notion, of course. Lord Alexander Willenshire might be a rake, but he would never conduct himself poorly in public. No gentleman would, even a…

A crash echoed from outside, making the inhabitants flinch and turn around.

The Duke rose to his feet, a wary look on his face.

“What on earth is going on out there?” Alexander said, even though he was not meant to speak a single word once he had read the prompt.

By way of answer, the drawing room door barreled open and a man collapsed inside, making the ladies nearest to the door leap to their feet and shriek.

The minute-glass ran out, and Alexander dropped the prompt.