Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

T hough he was quite hesitant to admit it, Charles could not deny — at least to himself — that he was far more eager to attend a ball than he had been in quite some time.

Still, he kept himself from going early — as much as he wanted to see the young lady he had been spending so much time with, something still kept him from showing it too blatantly. She was beautiful — and kind and sweet and unmarred by the ton, but still… the thought of Grace sent him towards the club instead.

Perhaps, he thought, a quick visit to his club would ease him before he made his way to the ball.

As he stepped into his gentlemen's club, the rich scent of cigars and brandy enveloped him like a familiar embrace. He nodded to the attendant, who took his hat and coat with a deferential bow, and made his way towards the plush armchairs scattered throughout the room.

As he settled into his usual spot, a glass of amber liquid already in hand, Charles could not help but overhear the snippets of conversation swirling around him. Talk of the upcoming ball seemed to dominate, with gentlemen speculating on which ladies would be in attendance and which eligible bachelors might finally be snared by the parson's mousetrap.

"I say, Grouton," a voice called out, drawing Charles's attention to a group of men huddled nearby. "Word has it that you've been spending quite a bit of time with that Scottish lass, the Duke of Frighton's sister. Care to enlighten us on your intentions?"

Charles felt a flicker of annoyance at the man's tone and he pursed his lips. "Lady Abigail is a charming and accomplished young woman," he said coolly, his gaze steady and unwavering. "And my intentions are none of your business. We are… friends."

The men exchanged knowing glances, smirks playing about their lips. "Friends, eh?" one of them chuckled. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Charles's jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around his glass. "I'll thank you to mind your tongue, sir," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I do not appreciate your baseless gossip."

The men held up their hands in mock surrender, their expressions ranging from amused to chagrined. "Easy there, Grouton," one of them said, his tone placating. "We meant no offense. Just a bit of harmless ribbing, that's all."

Charles took a sip of his brandy, the smooth burn of the liquid doing little to quell the anger simmering in his veins. He was about to deliver a scathing retort when he caught a snippet of conversation from a nearby table, the words making his blood run cold.

"...heard she's a wild one, that Scottish girl. Probably doesn't know the first thing about proper etiquette or decorum."

"Can you imagine a lass like that among the cream of London society? At the last ball she stuck out like a sore thumb."

"And what of Grouton? Do you think he's really interested, or just looking for a bit of… entertainment?"

Charles slammed his glass down on the table, the sudden noise causing heads to turn in his direction. He rose to his feet, his posture rigid and his eyes blazing with barely controlled fury.

"Enough," he said, his voice ringing out clear and commanding in the sudden silence. "I will not sit idly by and listen to such vile slander and disrespect. You are a disgrace to the title of gentlemen."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the room, taking in the shocked and chastened expressions of the men around him. "I am going to the ball," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "And I intend to show Lady Abigail every courtesy and honor she is due. I suggest you all do the same, lest you find yourselves on the wrong side of my favor."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, his head held high.

* * *

For her part, Abigail was alive with an energy she could hardly recognize. She took a deep, steadying breath and flashed her reflection a bright grin.

Excitement coursed through her as she made her way to the staircase, where Hugh stood waiting quite proudly.

"I am glad you are back, Hugh," she said softly and Hugh nodded at her with a grin.

"Ye look bonnie, little lass," she said softly — his Scottish brogue thicker than usual, a dead giveaway that he was emotional. "Mother and Father would be so proud of ye."

Abigail swallowed hard at this, blinking away stubborn tears that were starting to form in her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, but then a frown appeared between her brows.

"Are you quite certain that Harriet really cannot come with us?"

"I really cannot," Harriet spoke from the distance and Abigail turned to her sister-in-law with a pout. Harriet laughed and shook her head, gesturing to her body.

"This belly is not fit for a ball," she said with a soft laugh. "But you do look beautiful, Abigail — and I truly am glad that Hugh is here to go with you."

Abigail looked from one to the other with a frown. "But Hugh, are you certain that you'd rather attend with me and not stay with Harriet? What if the baby arrives, or…"

Hugh chuckled and patted her hand reassuringly. "Don't fret, lass," he said and glanced at his wife, who was leaning against the wall with a serene smile. "Harriet is fine and I am sure she will eagerly await yer report come the morning."

Abigail glanced at Harriet, who nodded eagerly. "I am quite eager to know whether the lessons paid off," she said with a small smile. "Now you'd better be off — before those horses turn to glue from standing still so long."

Abigail laughed, the sound bright and joyous as it echoed through the room. With a final, fortifying breath, she took her brother's arm and allowed him to lead her down to the waiting carriage.

The ride to the ball was a blur of anticipation and nerves, Abigail's stomach fluttering with a thousand butterflies as they drew ever closer to their destination. And then, suddenly, they were there, the grand edifice of the ballroom rising up before them like a glittering palace straight out of a fairy tale.

As they entered the ballroom, Abigail felt a rush of awe and wonder sweep over her. The room was a dazzling spectacle of light and color, the air thick with the heady scent of a hundred exotic blooms. The orchestra played a lively tune, the strains of the music mingling with the hum of conversation and the swish of silk skirts against the polished floor.

For a moment, Abigail simply stood there, drinking it all in. But then, with a small shake of her head, she squared her shoulders and stepped forward, determined to make the most of this magical night. She glanced at Hugh, who stood protectively next to her.

"I will not embarrass you, Hugh," she whispered, careful to keep her tone measured. "I promise."

Hugh looked down at his sister with a smile. "I have no doubt, Abigail."

Abigail turned back to face the dance floor, her heart fluttering when a handsome young man with an open face appeared in front of the pair.

"Your Grace," the man nodded at Hugh before turning to Abigail. "I am Lord Fairchild. Would… could I have this dance?"

Abigail nodded simply before placing her gloved hand in Lord Fairchild's and following him onto the dance floor, her steps light and graceful as she glided across the floor. All the while, her eyes darted about the room, searching for a glimpse of a familiar figure, a shock of dark hair and piercing blue eyes.

But Charles was nowhere to be seen, and Abigail felt a pang of disappointment lance through her. She had so hoped to see him tonight, to show him how much she had learned under his tutelage — how far she had come from the naive, impulsive girl she had been when first they met.

As the music began, Lord Fairchild led her through the steps of the quadrille, his movements precise and proper. Abigail matched him step for step, her posture perfect and her smile polite, just as Charles had taught her.

"You dance very well, Lady Abigail," the baron remarked, his voice as bland as his expression.

"Thank you, my lord," Abigail replied, her tone gracious but lacking warmth. "You are too kind."

They continued in silence and Abigail had to suppress a sigh as they moved along the dance floor. While the young baron was perfectly polite, she'd never dreamed that a dance could be so utterly unexciting.

The next gentleman, Lord Ashbury, stood ready the second Lord Fairchild let go of her hand. He bowed low, his manner overly formal. "May I have the honor of this dance, Lady Abigail?"

"Certainly, Lord Ashbury," Abigail replied, taking his proffered hand.

The young lord smiled as they moved across the dance floor, though his shoulders remained tense.

"You are an adept dancer, my lady," he complimented and she smiled at him.

"Thank you, my lord. As are you."

He was, she mused silently to herself — though he was a bit stiff. The dance continued, their conversation as stilted and uninspired as their movements were correct and proper. Abigail found her mind wandering, wondering where Charles was — and if she would see him.

As the music ended, Abigail curtsied once more, thanking Lord Ashbury for the dance. She made her way to one of the waiters, fanning herself lightly to cool the flush that had risen to her cheeks, but it was more from the exertion of the dance than any true excitement.

"You are quite the dancer," a woman spoke suddenly and Abigail turned to face her. She looked quite familiar, though Abigail could not place her, and she flashed her an uncertain smile.

"Thank you, Lady…"

"Lady Beatrice," the woman spoke, then used a hand to delicately place a red curl behind one of her ears. "I see that the gentlemen hardly leave you alone — and who could blame them? From my view, you are very adept and graceful."

Abigail looked at her hesitantly, but to her surprise, there was no malice in the voice. "Thank you, Lady Beatrice," she said at last. "I am not certain how good I am, but I do enjoy dancing. Though I must admit, I am rather tired now."

"I can imagine," Beatrice said with a laugh. "Come, let us have a drink."

She handed Abigail a glass of wine without waiting for an answer, then turned to face the crowd, their shoulders touching.

"I must say, you are wearing a beautiful gown," Beatrice said approvingly. "So many women choose an array of ruffles and feathers, that I find quite unnecessary — but your dress is beautiful in its simple elegance."

"Thank you," Abigail grinned. She tugged at the forest green material and lifted her chin. "I do not like ruffles either. But I must say, I do not think I could ever pull off a dress like yours."

She gestured to Beatrice's dress, the color of champagne — looking beautiful against her crimson curls. Beatrice merely laughed in appreciation.

"Oh, this old thing," she said almost teasingly. "I do have to admit, I will be quite glad when the season is over. It always makes me feel like a horse at a show, ready to smile and bow and dance at the men. I would much better prefer it if we were the ones who could make the choices."

Abigail laughed softly at this, taking care not to allow her laughter to ring through the ballroom too loudly.

"It would have been lovely," she admitted — just as a young man she'd never seen before appeared in front of them.

"Lady Abigail, I believe?" The man said, his eyes fastened on Abigail's form. "May I have this next dance?"

With a soft sigh, Abigail relented — shooting Beatrice a tired look before following the young man, an earl according to his tall tales, onto the dance floor.

"I must say, Lady Abigail," the man drawled boldly as the dance came to a close. "I am rather impressed with you. You've certainly come up in the world since the previous ball. Why, one might almost forget your unfortunate… antecedents."

A frown settled between Abigail's brows at this and she slowly drew her hand from his grip, confusion painting her face.

"I am sorry, my lord," she spoke softly, "But I do not think I quite understand what it is you mean."

The young lord smirked as he allowed his eyes to slowly travel over her. "Well, it is just that you have made such drastic improvements in your deportment, my lady. Quite remarkable, really, given your… unfortunate… beginnings."

Abigail's face flushed, her temper rising at this. "My unfortunate beginnings?"

The man gestured to her and shrugged. "I mean your Scottish roots," he explained. "And added to that, the fact that you never had your mother's guidance — and have had to make do with the sister-in-law you have, who's never really fitted in here in our society…"

Abigail felt her cheeks flame with rage, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. How dare this pompous windbag speak to her in such a manner, as if she were some sort of charity case to be pitied and patronized?

"I will have you know, sir," she said through gritted teeth, "that I am quite proud of my Scottish heritage. Furthermore, you are dearly mistaken about my sister. Her Grace is an incredible woman and I count myself fortunate to have her love and guidance in my life."

The young lord's eyes widened in surprise, clearly taken aback by the vehemence of her response. But before he could muster a reply, Abigail turned on her heel and stalked away, her skirts swishing angrily about her ankles.

She strode out of the ballroom and into the cool night air, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she fought to control the tempest of emotions that swirled within her. How could they be so cruel, so utterly lacking in basic human decency? And to use her mother's death against her, as if it were some sort of failing on her part… to insult Harriet... It was too much to bear.

Blinded by tears, Abigail stumbled down the steps and into the garden, seeking solace among the fragrant blooms and the soothing burble of the fountains. She sank down onto a bench, burying her face in her hands as great, heaving sobs wracked her slender frame.

* * *

To say that Charles was surprised to find Abigail there would be a bit of an understatement. His treacherous heart skipped a beat when he noticed her sobbing and he gently touched her shoulder, startling her from her reverie. She looked up at him, blinking away the tears that blurred her vision, and he stood before her, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Abigail?" he said softly, his voice low and soothing. "What on earth is wrong? What has happened?"

At the sound of his voice, something inside her seemed to break, and the words came pouring out of her in a torrent of anguish and rage. "These men… it is awful," she cried, leaping to her feet and pacing before him like a caged tiger. "I cannot bear it a moment longer, the way they look at me, the way they speak to me, as if I am something less than human, some sort of curiosity to be gawked at and gossiped about."

She whirled to face him, her eyes blazing with a fierce, defiant light. "I am proud of my Scottish roots, and proud of the blood that runs through my veins. And I will not let them make me feel ashamed of who I am, and of where I come from. As for my mother…"

Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. "How dare they speak of her so callously, as if her death were some sort of inconvenience, some sort of failing on my part? They know nothing of the pain I carry, the hole in my heart that will never be filled. They are the ones who should be ashamed, not I."

He listened in silence, his eyes soft with understanding and sympathy. And when at last her words ran out — when the anger and the pain had drained away, leaving her hollow and exhausted — he stepped forward and gathered her into his arms, holding her close as she wept against his chest.

"Shh," he murmured, stroking her hair with a gentle hand. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. Any fool who looks at you and sees less than a lady… is undeserving of your company or your tears."

She clung to him, her fingers clutching at the lapels of his coat as if he were the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. And as he gazed down at her, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, he felt a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion, a longing so intense it stole the breath from his lungs.

Almost without realizing what he was doing, he dipped his head down to meet hers, his lips parting slightly as he leaned in towards her. And for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, the very air crackling with anticipation as her face tilted up to his.

But before their lips could touch, before they could surrender to the sweet, inevitable pull of desire, a sharp gasp sounded from the entrance to the garden, followed by a chorus of scandalized whispers.

Charles and Abigail sprang apart, their faces flushed and their breathing ragged as they turned to face the intruders. There, framed in the doorway like a tableau of outrage and disgust, stood the very man Abigail had danced with — and behind him, nearly all the ton stood, their eyes wide in shock and scandal.