Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

T he next week passed in a whirlwind of activity, with Abigail feeling as though she'd been swept up in a storm of silk, lace, and endless decisions. The day after her walk with Charles, she found herself at Madame Duvall 's modiste shop, accompanied by a lady's maid, Sarah, and, to her surprise, Jennifer Lourne.

"Oh, my lady," Sarah gasped as they entered the opulent shop, her eyes wide with wonder. "I've never seen so many beautiful gowns in one place!"

Jennifer chuckled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Just wait until you see what they have planned for our Abigail. I daresay His Grace won't know what has hit him."

Abigail felt her cheeks warm at Jennifer's words. "Mrs. Lourne, you really didn't have to come," she said, trying to change the subject.

"Nonsense, dear. I wouldn't miss this for the world. Besides, someone needs to make sure you do not get lost in a sea of ruffles and bows."

What followed was a dizzying parade of gowns, each more elaborate than the last. Abigail found herself being poked, prodded, and pinned into what felt like hundreds of dresses, her head spinning with talk of necklines, bustles, and trains.

"Perhaps something a bit... simpler?" Abigail suggested timidly, eyeing a particularly voluminous creation with trepidation.

Madame Duvall clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "But ma chérie, you are to be a duchess! You must look the part!"

"Now, now, madame," Jennifer interjected, her eyes twinkling. "Our Abigail doesn't need all that finery to look like a duchess. She's got natural grace, this one. Why, I bet she could wear a potato sack and still have half the ton swooning at her feet."

After what felt like hours, they finally settled on a design — an elegant gown of ivory silk with delicate lace accents. It was more elaborate than anything Abigail had ever worn, but still retained a certain understated elegance that she felt suited her.

"It's perfect, my lady," Sarah breathed as Abigail twirled in front of the mirror. "His Grace will be speechless when he sees you!"

"Oh, I do not know about speechless," Jennifer mused, a mischievous glint in her eye. "But I would wager good money we'll see some genuine emotion from that stoic duke of yours, Abigail."

Abigail felt a flutter in her chest at the thought but quickly pushed it aside. "Thank you both," she said, smoothing down the fabric of the gown. "Now, let's gather everything to show Harriet. I am sure she's eager for a distraction from her confinement."

Later that afternoon, Abigail burst into Harriet's bedroom, her arms laden with fabric swatches and sketches. "Harriet! You won't believe the day I've had!"

Harriet, propped up in bed with baby Graham nursing contentedly, looked up with a smile. "Abby! Come, show me everything. I've been dying for some excitement."

Abigail spread her treasures across the bed, chattering excitedly about each piece. "And look at this lace for the veil - is not it exquisite? Oh, and Madame Duvall suggested this shade of blue for my going-away dress. What do you think?"

Harriet laughed, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "I think you've taken to this whole duchess business quite well, Abby. You're positively glowing!"

Jennifer, who had followed Abigail into the room, nodded in agreement. "Our Abigail is a natural, Harriet. You should have seen her at the modiste. Every gown she tried on looked like it was made for her."

Abigail paused, suddenly self-conscious. "Oh dear, am I being ridiculous? It's just... well, I have never had anything like this before. It's all rather overwhelming."

Harriet reached out to squeeze her hand. "Not ridiculous at all, darling. It's perfectly natural to be excited about your wedding. And I must say, you've made some lovely choices. You'll be the most beautiful bride London has ever seen."

"And I am sure a certain duke will agree," Jennifer added with a wink.

Abigail beamed, but her smile faltered slightly as she remembered Charles's rule about not falling in love. "I just hope…" she began, then trailed off.

"Hope what?" Harriet prompted gently.

Abigail sighed. "I hope I can live up to everyone's expectations. Being a duchess... it is a bit daunting, isn't it?"

Harriet's expression softened. "Oh, Abby. You'll be wonderful. Just be yourself — that's all anyone can ask of you."

"And if anyone gives you any trouble," Jennifer added, "just remember that you'll outrank most of them. A well-timed raised eyebrow can work wonders in silencing wagging tongues."

Before Abigail could respond, there was a knock at the door. Hugh poked his head in, his expression filled with exasperation despite the stiff smile. "I hate to interrupt, but Grouton has arrived for tea. Abigail, perhaps ye would like to receive him?"

Abigail jumped up, suddenly flustered. "Oh! Yes, of course. I'll be right down."

As she hurried to the drawing room, she took a moment to smooth her hair and straighten her gown. Taking a deep breath, she entered the room to find Charles waiting and she shook her head at the sudden impulse to wipe the stray dark hair off his forehead.

"Your Grace," she greeted him with a curtsy. "How lovely to see you."

Charles bowed in return, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Lady Abigail. I trust you've had a productive day?"

Abigail laughed, her earlier excitement returning. "Oh, you have no idea! I've been to the modiste, and there's so much to show you. Come, sit down, and I'll tell you all about it."

As they settled onto the sofa, Abigail launched into an animated description of her day, her hands flying as she described gowns and fabrics and all manner of wedding preparations. Charles found himself watching her with amusement, charmed by her enthusiasm.

"...and then Madame Duvall suggested this absolutely ridiculous confection of ruffles and bows, and I thought I might drown in tulle!" Abigail was saying, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

Charles could not help but chuckle. "I take it that particular gown didn't make the final cut?"

Abigail shook her head emphatically. "Certainly not! I may be becoming a duchess, but I refuse to look like an over-decorated cake on my wedding day."

"I am glad to hear it," Charles said, his voice warm with approval. "I much prefer you as you are, without all the frippery."

Abigail felt a flush of pleasure at his words, but quickly reminded herself of their agreement. Friends and partners, nothing more. "Yes, well," she said, clearing her throat. "There's still so much to do. The flowers, the menu for the wedding breakfast, the guest list…"

Charles leaned forward, his expression turning serious. "About the guest list, Abigail. I hope you'll understand, but I've taken the liberty of handling that myself. Given the... unusual circumstances of our engagement, I thought it best to keep the ceremony small and intimate."

Abigail felt a pang of disappointment, but nodded in understanding. "Of course. That makes perfect sense. Will it just be family then?"

Charles shook his head. "Not quite. There will be a few key members of society in attendance — people whose support will be crucial in the coming months. I hope you do not mind."

Abigail forced a smile. "Not at all. You know best, after all."

Charles studied her face for a moment, then sighed. "Abigail, I know this is not the grand wedding of which you might have dreamed. But I promise you, once we're married and the initial gossip has died down, we'll host a ball to formally introduce you to society. You can invite anyone you like then."

Abigail's face lit up at this. "Really? Oh, Charles, that would be wonderful! I could invite some of the other ladies I've met and entertain in my own home… I mean our home…"

As she continued to chatter excitedly about potential guests, Charles found himself marveling at her resilience. Despite everything — the scandal, the rushed wedding, their unconventional arrangement — she still managed to find joy in the smallest things.

"You're quite remarkable, you know," he said suddenly, interrupting her mid-sentence.

Abigail blinked in surprise. "I am ?"

Charles nodded, a soft smile on his face. "Indeed. Most women in your position would be in tears, lamenting the loss of their dream wedding. But here you are, finding happiness in every little detail. It's... refreshing."

Abigail felt her cheeks warm at his praise. When he spoke like this, it was easy to write off Beatrice's careful warnings.

For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, neither quite willing to break the connection. Then, with a small cough, Charles released her hand and stood.

"I should be going," he said, smoothing down his coat. "There's still much to arrange before the wedding."

Abigail rose as well, suddenly reluctant to see him leave. "Of course. Will I see you again before...?"

Charles nodded. "I'll call again in a few days to finalize the last details. Until then, Lady Abigail."

As she watched him leave, Abigail could not help but smile. In just a week's time, she would be married to this complex, enigmatic man. She only hoped she was ready for the challenges that lay ahead.

As Charles's carriage pulled away, Jennifer appeared at Abigail's side. "Well, my dear," she said with a knowing smile, "I would say that was a successful visit. Your duke seemed quite taken with you."

Abigail shook her head. "It's not like that, Mrs. Lourne. We have an arrangement, remember?"

Jennifer patted her cheek affectionately. "Oh, Abigail. You can fool yourself, and you might even fool him for a while. But you can't fool me. I've seen the way you look at him when you think no one's watching."

Before Abigail could protest further, Jennifer swept away, leaving her standing alone with her conflicted thoughts.

Later that evening, as Abigail prepared for bed, there was a soft knock at her door. "Come in," she called, expecting Sarah with her nightly cup of chamomile tea.

To her surprise, it was Hugh who entered, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. "Abby," he said softly. "Do ye have a moment?"

Abigail nodded, patting the spot beside her on the bed. Hugh sat down heavily, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Abby, I... I want to make sure ye're truly alright with all of this," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "This marriage, it is happening so fast. If ye've any doubts at all…"

Abigail felt a rush of affection for her brother. Despite his gruff exterior, he had always looked out for her. "Oh, Hugh," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I appreciate your concern, truly. But I am fine. Charles is... he's a good man. I think we could be happy together."

Hugh was silent for a long moment, then sighed heavily. "I hope ye're right, lass. I truly do. Just remember, no matter what happens, ye will always have a home here with us."

Abigail felt tears prick at her eyes. "Thank you, Hugh. That means more to me than you know."

As Hugh left, closing the door softly behind him, Abigail lay back on her bed, her mind whirling with thoughts of the future. In just a week, she would be the Duchess of Grouton, married to a man who had declared that love had no place in their union.

But as she drifted off to sleep, Abigail could not help but hope that perhaps, just perhaps, Charles might change his mind. After all, she thought with a small smile, stranger things had happened.

And if not... Well, she would make the best of it. It was what she had always done, and she saw no reason to change now.