Chapter Twenty-Three

Alex looked for Abigail Atwater, but there was no sign of her. Not in the library, or in the drawing room, or even wandering in the morning room. He even collared a passing servant and asked if Miss Atwater was in her room, and he was informed that she was not.

He wasn’t about to embarrass himself by asking just anyone where she was, but there was somebody who was likely to know.

“Mama?” Alexander asked, tapping on the door and poking his head into the morning-room.

“Ah, Alex,” Mary said, smiling and rising to her feet. “See how the rain comes down! I’m glad we had our picnic and our boat-rides first. It was a shame that poor Florence and Miss Atwater had to go home early.”

Alexander glanced at the rain drizzling down outside, as if seeing it for the first time.

“Yes, quite. Mother, do you know where Abigail is? Eh, Miss Atwater, I mean?”

Mary tilted her head to one side. “Why?”

He flushed. “I… I wanted to talk to her.”

“Are you going to tell her how you feel?”

There was a brief silence.

“What?” Alexander managed at last, his voice a little scratchy. “What did you say, Mama?”

Mary gave a tinkling laugh. “Oh, bless you, Alexander. I may not be the finest mother in the world, but I know my children a little , at least. It’s clear as day that you’re in love with Abigail Atwater.”

Alexander felt as though the breath was knocked out of his body. He sank down onto a sofa, and Mary sat down beside him.

“I… I don’t know how I feel about her,” he admitted. “I never expected to feel… that is, with Diana, everything was different. It was fast and intense, and I thought that all love must be like that.”

“Some forms of love are,” his mother agreed. “But what you felt for Lady Lockwell wore off quickly, did it not? A slower-growing, more natural kind of love can be more enduring, I think. Like a plant that grows under any circumstances, which isn’t put off by any hardships. Even a loss of reciprocal love.”

There was a sort of wistfulness in that last sentence, and Alexander glanced sharply at his mother. She didn’t meet his eye.

They knew, of course, that the late Duke hadn’t loved his wife. Although perhaps he did love her, in a way, but not in the way a man should love his wife and the mother of his children.

The old Duke hadn’t loved anyone in the right way, it seemed. Perhaps Mary was more aware of it than they had realised.

There was a silence after that.

“If you want to find Miss Atwater,” his mother said, after a pause, “I believe she went out in the garden.”

“In the rain ?”

Mary gave a small smile. “In the rain, yes.”

Unless the woman was standing on the lawn in the pouring rain, Alexander guessed that she was in the shrubbery.

The thick trees overhead would block out the worst of the rain, and one could walk there quite comfortably, if one didn’t object to the soggy pathways. He chose the nearest path through the shrubbery, mostly because it ended in a small stone folly at the end, which would provide proper shelter from the rain.

He walked quickly, head down, and concentrated on thinking of what he would say to Abigail when he found her.

Abigail, I love you. Will you marry me? Just so you know, I’m technically penniless now, but once I get married, I’ll be very wealthy. It’s all to do with my father’s will. Long story.

Perhaps that was a little too blunt.

He reached the end of the shrubbery. The path carried on, winding across a small field to the folly, which was designed to look like a rustic cottage, with stone benches and such inside to allow for a comfortable reading location. He couldn’t glimpse any movement inside, but that didn’t mean that Abigail wasn’t there. He took a moment, steeling himself for the long, wet dash across the field.

“Alexander?”

For one mad moment, he imagined that it was Abigail’s voice he heard, muffled by the rush of rain and the non-stop patter of water on leaves. Then he swung around and it wasn’t Abigail at all, but Diana, dressed in a long, glittering black cloak and boots entirely unsuited to the wet weather.

She smiled coyly. “I followed you, I’m afraid. What are you doing out in this weather?”

“I… Diana, what are you doing here?”

“I believe I just asked that question.”

Eyes fixed on his face, she slid a little closer. Alexander moved to back away but found himself with a thick old oak at his back.

“Diana… I mean, Lady Lockwell, I don’t believe we should be out here together. Don’t you have a maid?”

“I am entirely alone, but I know that I am safe with you , Alexander. I have always known that. It’s one of the things I loved most about you.”

In a flash, she was standing close to him, far too close, hand fluttering out to rest on his chest.

Up until the last minute, Alexander didn’t really believe that she would touch him. Perhaps she took his stillness and shock as encouragement.

“Diana, really…”

He had no time to say more, because she threw herself at him, would have knocked him over altogether if he hadn’t been leaning against the tree. Her arms wound tightly around his neck, threatening to pull them both over, and Alexander’s arms shot out at his sides, automatically trying to steady them both. Her face was very near to his, and all he could think of was that her breath smelled of coffee.

“Kiss me, Alex,” she breathed, eyelashes fluttering madly.

An instant before Alexander yanked her arms away and fled, she turned, eyes widening theatrically.

“Oh, oh dear! We are not alone, Alex!”

She disentangled herself immediately, smoothing out her cloak. He turned to see what – who – she was looking at, and his blood went cold.

Abigail Atwater was standing at the entrance to the folly, a book in her hand.

The silence seemed to drag on. Then Abigail visibly steeled herself and began to walk the distance between the folly to the shrubbery.

After all, that was the only way back to the house, unless one wanted to circle around for miles.

She didn’t run or even hurry, regardless of the mud squelching around her shoes and the rain wetting her hair and dampening her clothes. She tucked her book close to herself, trying to shelter it. As she got closer, he saw it was the same book she’d used to sketch the crocus.

Before he could say a word, to apologise or explain, Diana spoke up.

“We did not know anyone was here,” she said breathily, eyes fluttering. “Please, don’t say a word, will you?”

Alexander rounded on her, at a loss for words. In just two sentences, she’d implied that this was a clandestine meeting, that it had happened before, that it was planned , and that he was part of it. What was worse, she’d said it with such confidence.

Abigail ducked her head. “I won’t,” she said quietly, and dashed past them.

“Wait! Abigail, no! It isn’t what you think!” Alexander shouted desperately, but she picked up her skirts and put her head down, and ran.

Diana made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Well, well, it was to be expected, I think. She’s not for you, dear.”

He rounded on her. “How dare you? How dare you? What’s wrong with you, Diana?”

Diana frowned, pouting a little. “I only wanted to make you see, Alexander. It’s you and me. It’s always been you and me.”

“No! No, it hasn’t! I don’t love you like before, and I’m fairly sure you never loved me.”

She seemed genuinely taken aback at this. “Alexander, don’t you understand? I want to marry you. That’s what you’ve always wanted.”

“You have no idea what I want, Diana. What I want right now is for you to leave. Today.”

This seemed to baffle her even more. She shook her head.

“This is not how it’s meant to be. Besides, I’m invited.”

“Do you think your invitation will still stand when I tell my brother, the duke , what you’ve done?”

At the mention of William, she paled a little. “Alex, please…”

He turned his back on her. “Leave me alone, Diana. I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”

He hurried off down the path, and she didn’t follow him.

***

Abigail nudged open the door to her aunt’s room without knocking.

Aunt Florence sat her writing desk, pen poised. She lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re speaking to me now, are you?”

She drew in a deep breath. Her insides felt as though they were twisted into knots. She kept seeing the image of Alexander and Diana together, her arms around his neck, his hands poised to go around her waist, their faces tilted together.

It made her feel ill.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Abigail said, and her voice sounded raspy and scratchy. Unsurprising, as she’d spent a good deal of time crying in her room before coming here. Lucy had tried to ask her what was wrong, but Abigail had told her that it was nothing, and not to ask again. It was clear her maid didn’t believe her, but she said nothing and only quietly withdrew, leaving Abigail alone.

All she’d wanted was to be alone, but the instant Lucy left, Abigail realised that she did not want to be by herself, not one bit.

“You’ve changed your mind?” Aunt Florence repeated, setting down her pen. “About what?”

Another deep breath. “About Lord Donovan. I’ll marry him, if he makes me an offer. Could you let him know that, please?”