Chapter 31

CHAPTER 31

T he days following the disastrous conversation, as Abigail had come to think of it, passed in a blur of frenzied activity. There was no way of denying that Charles's blatant refusal to discuss his broken engagement nagged at the back of her mind, filling her with doubt. Desperate to avoid all thoughts of the kind, she forced herself instead to focus on the few duchess duties with which she had started busying herself.

She'd managed to avoid speaking to her husband at all costs until Charles looked up from what seemed to be an invitation one morning, his gaze fixed on her.

"We have been invited to the Fairfax ball," he said, stating it as though it were a simple thing. Abigail felt her stomach twist with nerves and her eyes widened slightly.

"The Fairfax ball?" she echoed, her voice small. "That sounds…" she broke off. There was no way of admitting that it sounded quite intimidating without sounding like a child, she figured silently.

"The gossip columns will be full of it and nothing else for weeks to come," Charles continued, his lip curled in distaste, and Abigail bit down on her lower lip.

"Oh," she mumbled and Charles looked up, evidently noticing her apprehension. His expression softened somewhat and he reached across the table to gently pat her hand.

"It is quite an affair, yes," he said, his voice comforting. "But you needn't worry, Abigail. You will do splendidly."

Abigail could not help but shake her head, though she attempted unsuccessfully to smile as well. "I am not so sure," she confessed, her voice soft. "What if I make a fool of myself? What if… what if I say the wrong thing or I use the wrong fork or…"

"Abigail, stop," Charles interrupted gently. His gaze settled on her. "You will not make a fool of yourself. And even if you did use the wrong fork — which I know you will not — I will be beside you. And if it makes you feel more comfortable, I will simply use the wrong fork too."

He said it with a wry grin and Abigail laughed softly, a rush of warmth spreading through her chest.

"You would?"

"Indeed," Charles said with a nod, his eyes twinkling. "After all, you are my wife, and we are in this together. Besides, it would provide me with such pleasure to scandalize a bored matron with something so small."

It was his characterization of erring as small that set her heart at ease and Abigail laughed softly.

"Well, when you put it that way it does not sound all that bad," she admitted softly and Charles nodded.

"That is the spirit," he encouraged. "Just be yourself and attempt to enjoy it. That is more than enough."

Abigail nodded, her face flushing. She was not so certain that it would be enough, certainly not for the ton or his mother, but when he looked at her as though it did not matter to him whether or not she fitted the mold, she could not deny that everything felt a little easier.

"You ought to have a new dress made," he continued now. "I'll have a driver take you into the city later today."

Abigail could only nod. She could not help but think back to the last time she'd had a dress made and Jennifer Lourne had been there with her to calm her. This time, however, she had no choice but to go alone, and choose her own gown with no help or input.

Abigail's nerves only grew more and more frayed as the time for the ball drew nearer, and as the evening approached, she made her way down the stairs in a brand new gown, a creation of shimmering silk in a deep emerald green that made her feel every inch the duchess she was supposed to be.

"You look absolutely breathtaking," Charles said as she reached the bottom of the stairs and Abigail looked up at him, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you," she murmured, her eyes traveling over his own impeccable evening attire. "You look quite handsome yourself."

Charles grinned, offering her his arm. "Shall we, my lady? The ton awaits."

The Fairfax mansion was ablaze with light as their carriage pulled up, the sounds of music and laughter spilling out into the night. Abigail took a deep breath, steeling herself as Charles helped her down.

"Remember," he murmured, his lips close to her ear, "you have nothing to prove to these people. Just be yourself."

Abigail nodded, grateful for his steady presence at her side as they made their entrance. The ballroom was a sea of silk and jewels, the cream of society twirling and mingling beneath glittering chandeliers.

As they moved through the crowd, Abigail could not help but notice the stares and whispers that followed in their wake. She felt her cheeks grow warm, remembering her earlier fears about the women who seemed to know Charles so well.

But as she glanced around, she realized with a start that the looks were not knowing at all. They were... envious. The women weren't eyeing Charles with familiarity, but with barely concealed longing. And their glances at Abigail weren't dismissive, but assessing, even jealous.

She glanced up at Charles with a frown. Had she been wrong all along? For his part, Charles seemed entirely oblivious to the stares following them.

She tugged at his sleeve gently, her eyes searching his when he gazed down at her. "They are staring at us," she murmured.

"Indeed," Charles admitted, his eyes twinkling. "Now, shall we give them something to really gossip about? May I have this dance, duchess?"

Abigail nodded, allowing Charles to lead her onto the dance floor. As they took their positions, she felt some of her earlier nervousness return. "What if… what if I do something silly?" she asked. "What if I forget the steps?"

"Then we shall simply make up new ones," he replied without missing a beat. "Who knows? We might start a new trend."

As they moved across the floor, Abigail found herself relaxing into the familiar rhythm. Charles was an excellent partner, guiding her with sure, confident steps. When she looked at him, it almost felt as though they were in her brother's house once more with Harriet on the piano. She was so caught up in the dance that she almost didn't notice when he leaned in close, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Did you hear about Lord Pembrook's new wig?" he murmured softly, his tone strangely mischievous.

Abigail blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question — it seemed quite out of the blue. "His... wig?"

Charles nodded solemnly. "Oh yes. Apparently, it is made from the finest yak hair. He's been telling everyone it is the latest fashion in Paris."

Despite herself, Abigail felt a giggle bubble up in her throat. "You cannot be serious," she whispered back.

"Deadly serious," Charles insisted, his face a mask of gravity even as his eyes danced with laughter. "In fact, I heard he's commissioned a whole set. One for every day of the week. Perhaps he will dye them in different vibrant colors to match the different days."

The image was too much for Abigail. A peal of laughter escaped her lips, ringing out clear and joyous across the ballroom. Almost immediately, she clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with mortification as she realized how many heads had turned in their direction.

But before she could spiral into embarrassment, Charles gently took her hand, moving it away from her face. "Please do not do that," he said softly, his eyes locked on hers. "I love to see you laugh."

Abigail felt her breath catch in her throat at the intensity of his gaze. "You do?"

Charles nodded, a warm smile spreading across his face. "I do. Your laugh is... it is like music, Abigail. do not ever hide it."

Abigail felt her cheeks flush, but this time it was not from embarrassment. "I... I won't," she promised, her voice barely above a whisper.

They continued to dance, but something had shifted between them. The playful banter faded away, replaced by a charged silence. Abigail was acutely aware of every point of contact between them — Charles's hand on her waist, her palm against his shoulder, their fingers intertwined.

The world around them seemed to fade away, the chatter and music of the ballroom receding into a distant hum. All Abigail could focus on was Charles — the warmth of his touch, the subtle scent of his cologne, the way his eyes never left her face.

As they twirled across the floor, Abigail felt as though she were floating. The nerves and anxiety that had plagued her earlier in the evening had vanished, replaced by a heady mix of excitement and... something else. Something warm and fluttery that made her heart race and her skin tingle.

She found herself studying Charles's face, noticing details she'd somehow missed before. The small crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the strong line of his jaw, the way a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. He was handsome, she'd always known that, but tonight he seemed... different. More real, somehow. More human.

As the music began to wind down, Charles drew her closer, his arm tightening around her waist. Abigail felt her breath hitch, her eyes locked on his. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, right there in the middle of the ballroom.

But then the final notes of the waltz faded away, and the spell was broken. Charles stepped back, though he kept hold of her hand as he led her off the dance floor.

"Thank you, my wife," he said, his voice hoarse. "For a lovely dance."

Abigail nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. Her heart was still pounding, her skin tingling where Charles had touched her.

As they made their way through the crowd, Abigail caught sight of their reflection in one of the large gilt mirrors that adorned the ballroom walls. She barely recognized herself — her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, a small, secret smile played about her lips. She looked... happy. Radiant, even.

And Charles... the way he was looking at her made her breath catch all over again. His eyes were soft, warm, filled with an emotion she could not quite name but that made her heart flutter in her chest.

Abigail felt a warmth spreading through her chest as they moved through the crowd. They came to a sudden halt, as another couple appeared right in front of them.

The woman was beautiful — albeit seemingly forlorn — with golden ringlets framing her flushed face. She stepped closer to the man as she looked at Abigail and Charles.

"Your Grace," the gentleman spoke at last, bowing in Charles's direction before turning to Abigail. "And Your Grace. Allow me to offer my belated congratulations on your marriage."

The woman's hand moved slightly to grip the man's arm, her knuckles whitening. "Yes," she echoed, her voice soft, though there was a strange sadness in her demeanor. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," Charles said simply, his tone clipped. "Lord Hawthorne. Lady Hawthorne."

"I trust," Lord Hawthorne spoke, his eyes flicking from Charles to Abigail and back. "I trust that married life is treating you quite well."

Though his tone was genial, there was something strange in his voice — something Abigail could not quite place.

"Indeed," Charles said, his hand finding the small of Abigail's back. "We are quite content."

Abigail glanced up at Charles quickly. His lips were pursed and his face was far paler than usual. Instinctively her gaze turned towards the woman. Her gaze lingered on Charles, a strange sadness masking her face. When, however, she noticed Abigail's gaze on her she quickly forced herself to smile.

"We shall not keep you any longer," she said softly, her face flushing once more. "Please… do enjoy the rest of your evening."

She gazed up at Lord Hawthorne almost pleadingly and he led her away without further ado. Abigail looked up at Charles as the couple moved away, her heart clenching painfully when she noticed the stony look on his face.

"Charles?" she asked, her voice soft. "Is everything alright?"

For a moment, he remained silent — his eyes following the retreating couple. Then, as if shaking off whatever thoughts had gripped him, he turned to Abigail with a small smile — albeit one that did not quite reach his eyes.

"Everything is fine," he said, though his voice remained devoid of its usual warmth. "Just old acquaintances. Shall we get some refreshments?"

Abigail could only nod, allowing her husband to lead her towards the refreshment table. Still, however, she found herself woefully unable to shake off the feeling that there was far more to the encounter than he had let on.