Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

"A re ye sure that she's ready, lass?" Hugh's voice drifted through the closed door and Abigail leaned forward ever so slightly to hear better. Not that she was eavesdropping of course. She was simply… listening. After all, the conversation was about her.

"She is ready, Hugh," came Harriet's voice, a low murmur through the door. "She is going to be alright."

"Ye can say that, bonnie," retorted Hugh, worry evident in his voice. "You don't have Scottish blood — ye haven't faced that from the ton and she… she's not like I am. Her heart can hurt."

"The danger of getting hurt is always there, my love. I have experienced being rejected by the ton too, you know that. But she's a strong girl."

The murmurs quieted down and Abigail returned to sit on her bed. Never before had she been so excited. She'd been looking forward to her own season since her brother's marriage and now that it had finally arrived, she could hardly believe it. Finally she too would be a lady of the ton .

She made her way out of the room quickly and paused on the grand staircase. Hugh and Harriet looked up at her from the bottom of the staircase, their faces shining with delight.

"You look beautiful, Abby," Harriet spoke first and she grinned before looking at her brother almost nervously, waiting for his reaction.

"Ye look a right bonnie lass," Hugh spoke softly, his eyes suspiciously shining.

"Are you sure you are willing to go alone?" Harriet sounded concerned and Abigail nodded firmly.

"I am more than certain," she said now and she lifted her chin. "Besides, you are too far along to join me — and Hugh is frantic with concern over you, he could never come. I know it is unorthodox, but we have no choice."

She flashed them a quick smile as she passed them on her way to the carriage.

"To the Winston Estate, please," she spoke carefully, her voice ringing clearly despite the nerves building in the pit of her stomach. Abigail released a deep breath when the carriage came to a halt, then walked inside.

She took her time to look at the ballroom and take in the opulence of it all. It seemed alive with the glittering whirl of silk skirts and the elegant strains of a string quartet.

Then, without even thinking, merely in the moment of utter appreciation, an infectious giggle bubbled from her throat and she threw her head back as the laugh escaped her lips.

For a moment, she was lost in the sheer delight of the moment, caught up in the infectious energy that seemed to crackle through the air like a living thing. But then, as her giggle began to subside, she became aware of the furtive glances and disapproving stares being cast in her direction; the way the other debutantes huddled together in whispering clusters, their fans fluttering like agitated butterflies.

A hot flush crept up Abigail's neck, staining her cheeks a vivid pink as she realized the spectacle she must have made, the way her uninhibited display of emotion had set her apart from the cool, poised young ladies who surrounded her.

Perhaps, she thought now, she should have taken Harriet up on her offer and brought her sister-in-law with her. After all, unlike her and Hugh, Harriet had grown up in the ton , and while she was certainly not fond of the rules of society, she at least knew them.

She glanced around uncomfortably taking in the disdainful expressions and barely concealed sneers of the other girls. A sinking sense of unease settled in the pit of her stomach — a growing awareness that perhaps she was out of her depth here after all. Perhaps Hugh was right when he warned her against this world.

Still — her brother certainly did not raise a coward. Squaring her shoulders, Abigail forced a brittle smile to her lips, determined not to let the other debutantes see how their snubbing affected her. She made her way over to a small group of girls, their heads bent together in conspiratorial whispers as they eyed her approach with thinly veiled disdain.

"Good evening, ladies," Abigail said brightly, her voice only slightly strained as she nodded in greeting. "I do not believe we've been introduced. I am Lady Abigail Wilkinson, sister to the Duke of Frighton."

For a moment, the girls simply stared at her, their expressions ranging from bored indifference to outright hostility. Then, with a delicate sniff, one of them stepped forward, her lips curved in a patronizing smile that made Abigail's hackles rise.

"Charmed, I am sure," the girl said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I am Lady Amelia Belmont, daughter of the Earl of Westbury. And these are my dear friends, Miss Constance Turner and Miss Olivia Ashford."

The other girls nodded in turn, their smiles thin and insincere as they eyed Abigail's gown with obvious contempt. It was a simple creation of pale green silk, the neckline demurely high and the skirts unadorned save for a single row of delicate lace trim. Compared to the elaborate confections of tulle and taffeta that surrounded her, Abigail felt suddenly inadequate, as though she were a sparrow trying to hold her own among a flock of peacocks.

"Your gown is… lovely," Miss Turner said, her tone making it clear that she thought nothing of the sort. "So refreshingly... understated."

Abigail felt her cheeks heat even further, a defensive retort rising to her lips before she could stop it. "I find that simplicity often allows one's natural beauty to shine through," she said sweetly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she met Miss Turner's gaze head-on. "Rather than hiding behind a mountain of ruffles and bows. I find that quite unnecessary indeed."

Miss Turner's mouth fell open in a silent gasp of outrage, her face flushing an unbecoming shade of red as she sputtered for a response. But before she could unleash the full force of her indignation, Lady Amelia stepped forward once more, her smile sharp and cutting as a knife's edge.

"Beauty is certainly in the eye of the beholder," she said, her voice honeyed with false sympathy. "But I am afraid society has rather specific expectations for how a young lady should conduct herself, my dear. Perhaps, given your background, you are simply... unaware of such delicate nuances."

Abigail pursed her lips at this subtle jab. It was not the first time that someone in the ton made mention of her Scottish blood and the inferiority that came with it. She closed her eyes and released a slow breath, her temper flaring and her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

Do not lash out, Abigail, she mentally admonished herself. They are certainly not worth it.

Still, a large part of her wanted nothing more than to put these petty, spiteful girls in their place with a few well-chosen words.

She suppressed the temptation however — after all, causing a scene would do nothing other than further isolate her, mark her as even more of an outsider here, in this world where conformity was prized above all else. It took a Herculean effort, but she managed to force her features into a mask of icy composure, her voice steady and cutting.

"Perhaps you are right," she said slowly. "I may be unaware of certain nuances. But I must admit that I would much rather be true to myself than conform to a set of arbitrary rules designed to stifle any hint of individuality or spirit. Perhaps my brother is not English by blood… but I am grateful for the way he raised me. At least I know how to be truly myself rather than a mere mask of what the ton expects me to be."

She lifted her chin defiantly then and turned, stalking away with her skirts swishing around her ankles, her shoulders squared.

Do not let them see you cry, she told herself silently. Do not let them see that they have managed to hurt you. They do not have that power over you.

She could feel their stares boring into her back as she walked, and could hear the whispers that followed her like a swarm of angry bees.

She would not let them break her, she decided firmly. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.

Hugh had warned her about this, she mused again. She remembered it so vividly — the conversation they'd had when they had discussed her entering the season.

" Ye must know, lassie," he had grumbled softly, "that the ton is nae particularly kind to us folk."

She needn't have asked what he'd meant by us folk — she'd heard the whispers, felt the stares, and in truth, she'd believed that she was ready to face it. That it would not hurt as much.

But it did.

Before she knew it, Abigail had reached the edge of the ballroom and she paused to catch her breath. Her skin was flushed and prickling with a sudden, overwhelming heat. With fumbling fingers, she tugged at the delicate gloves that encased her hands, desperate for some relief from the stifling warmth that seemed to press in on her from all sides.

She needed to move, needed to lose herself in the rhythm and flow of the music, to let the sheer physical exertion of the dance drive away the lingering sting of the other girls' rejection. And so, with a determined set to her jaw, she scanned the crowded ballroom, her gaze falling upon a handsome, regal-looking man standing alone at the edge of the dance floor.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a shock of dark hair and a face that seemed rather soft and youthful — as though he was someone safe, someone who would not extend the same cruelty she had faced from the young ladies she'd attempted to speak to.

Before she could think better of it, Abigail found herself moving towards him, her steps purposeful and assured as she wove through the crush of bodies, her hand extended in a bold, ungloved offering.

"Good evening, my lord," she said, her voice ringing out clear and strong above the strains of the music. "I am Lady Abigail Wilkinson, and I was wondering if you might do me the honor of a dance."

The young man's eyes widened in surprise, his gaze flicking from her bare hand to her face and back again, as though he could not quite believe the audacity of her approach. But before he could respond, before he could stammer out a polite refusal or a stunned acceptance, another hand shot out from the crowd, long fingers closing around Abigail's wrist in a grip that was gentle but undeniably firm.

"I am afraid Lord Kensington is far too shocked by your request to be a proper dance partner, my lady," a low, amused voice drawled from behind her, the words brushing against the shell of her ear like a whispered promise. "But I will gladly take his place."

Abigail spun around, her heart leaping into her throat as she found herself staring up into the most strikingly handsome face she had ever seen. He was tall, even taller than the young man she had approached, with broad shoulders and a lean, muscular frame that spoke of a lifetime of vigorous pursuits. His hair was a tousled mop of dark curls, his features chiseled and aristocratic, with a strong jaw and a mouth that seemed made for sinful, wicked things.

But it was his eyes that truly captured her attention, a piercing blue that seemed to see straight through to her very soul, glinting with a mischievous light that made her pulse race and her breath catch in her throat. He was looking down at her with an expression that was equal parts amused and intrigued, his lips curved in a half-smile that hinted at secrets she suddenly, desperately wanted to uncover.

"I... I beg your pardon, sir," Abigail managed to stammer out, her cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of pink as she realized the impropriety of her actions. "But I do not… I do not understand what..."

"It is Your Grace , my lady" he said simply, then held his hand out to her. "And I truly do hope that you'd do me the honor of a dance. Unless your heart was set on young Lord Kensington here. Though as I said — I hardly think he'll be able to turn about the dance floor after your rather indecent proposal."

The young man muttered something before rushing off and Abigail looked up at the man who had so easily intruded upon her plan.

"So, my lady?" he asked with a lopsided smile, his eyes casually drifting over her as though he was mentally judging her every feature. "Shall we?"