Chapter 36

CHAPTER 36

T he next morning at the breakfast table, Charles watched Abigail over the rim of his teacup, concern lines etched on his brow. She sat across from him at the breakfast table, pushing her eggs around her plate with a distracted air. Her gaze was distant, unfocused, and there was a small furrow between her brows that spoke of troubled thoughts.

He knew she had visited her family yesterday — a trip that usually left her in high spirits, her eyes sparkling as she regaled him with tales of little Graham's latest antics or Jennifer's outrageous comments. But today, she was subdued, almost pensive.

As he observed her, Abigail's nose scrunched up slightly, a telltale sign of her inner turmoil. The sight sent an unexpected jolt through Charles's heart. It was, he realized with a start, the most adorable thing he had ever seen.

The thought struck him like a bolt from the blue, leaving him breathless and stunned.

I love her.

The realization washed over him, as powerful and inevitable as the tide. He loved her. He, Charles Rowling, Duke of Grouton, notorious rake and confirmed bachelor, was in love with his wife.

He was still reeling from this epiphany when Abigail looked up, her warm brown eyes meeting his.

"Charles," she said, her voice soft but serious, "I wanted to let you know that I am going to Hyde Park later today. With... with a friend."

Charles raised an eyebrow, noting the hesitation in her voice. "A friend?" he prompted gently.

Abigail nodded, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. "Yes. I… there are things we need to discuss…"

Alarm bells rang in Charles's mind. There was something in her expression that did not sit too well with him.

"You do not seem to be certain about this," he said carefully and she looked down, her nose scrunched.

"It is just a walk in the park," Abigail said at last, though her tone lacked conviction. "I am sure it will be fine… I just… well, as my husband, I supposed you ought to know."

Charles felt his protective instincts surge. In all honesty, he did not like the thought of her walking around with someone else — especially not without him.

"I could join you," he offered with certainty and she looked up quickly.

"No, no," Abigail insisted, shaking her head. "There is no need for that, thank you Charles. I… well, we've had a bit of a disagreement and it is important to… make amends. That is all."

Charles opened his mouth to protest further, but at that moment, Thompson entered the dining room, a silver salver in his hands. "A letter for you, Your Grace," the butler said, offering the tray to Charles.

Frowning slightly, Charles broke the seal and unfolded the missive. His eyebrows shot up in surprise as his eyes scanned over the words.

My dear son,

I hope this letter finds you well. I write to you with a heavy heart, filled with regret for my past behavior. I would very much like the opportunity to apologize in person, both to you and to your wife.

If you are amenable, I would be grateful if you would meet me in Hyde Park this afternoon, near the Serpentine. I know I have no right to ask this of you, but I implore you to give me this chance to make amends.

Your loving mother,

Vivian.

Charles looked up from the letter, his mind whirling. "It seems," he said slowly, "that I too have a meeting in the park today. My mother... she wants to apologize."

Abigail's eyes widened in surprise. "Your mother? I must admit that I never thought…" she trailed off, blushing, and Charles nodded.

"Neither did I," Charles admitted. He studied Abigail's face for a moment, then made a decision. "I shall go — and meet with my mother. That way, I shall be there, in the park. Not to interfere with your meeting, but... nearby. Just in case."

Abigail looked like she wanted to argue, but then her expression softened. "You are quite the protective husband, are you not?" she said, a hint of a smile playing about her lips.

Charles felt his cheeks warm. "I suppose I am ," he admitted. "I trust that it is alright with you."

"It is more than alright, Abigail said softly, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "I think it is wonderful. Thank you, Charles."

The touch of her hand sent sparks racing along Charles's skin. He cleared his throat, suddenly finding it difficult to meet her gaze. "Well," he said, his voice slightly gruff, "there's still some time before we need to leave for the park. Would you... would you like to take a turn about the garden with me?"

Abigail's face lit up, and Charles felt his heart skip a beat. "I would love to," she said, rising from her seat.

As they strolled arm in arm through the manicured grounds, Charles found himself overly aware of Abigail's presence. The warmth of her body next to his, the soft scent of lavender that clung to her hair, the way her hand fitted so perfectly into the crook of his elbow — it was all suddenly, achingly precious to him.

When on earth had he fallen so deeply in love with his wife?

They rounded a bend in the path, and the summerhouse came into view. Abigail gasped softly. "Charles," she breathed, "it... it is beautiful."

Charles felt a surge of pride. He had been working on restoring the old structure in secret, wanting to surprise Abigail. "Do you like it?" he asked, unable to keep the eagerness from his voice.

"I love it," Abigail said, her eyes shining. "But when... how...?"

Charles chuckled. "I arranged for it to be fixed up," he admitted. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

Abigail turned to him, her face alight with joy. "It is wonderful, Charles. Truly."

He led her inside, watching with delight as she explored the newly refurbished interior. As she ran her hand along the polished wooden railing of the small balcony, Charles found himself imagining a future he had never dared to consider before.

In his mind's eye, he saw a little boy with his dark hair and Abigail's warm eyes, chasing a golden-haired girl through the summerhouse. He could almost hear their laughter, could almost feel the warmth of Abigail's hand in his as they watched their children play.

The vision was so vivid, so achingly beautiful, that for a moment Charles could not breathe.

"Charles?" Abigail's voice broke through his thoughts. "Are you alright?"

He blinked, coming back to the present. "Yes," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. "Yes, I am fine. I was just... remembering."

"Remembering what?" Abigail asked, moving closer to him.

Charles swallowed hard, fighting the urge to pull her into his arms and confess everything — his love, his hopes, his dreams for their future. Instead, he said, "I spent a lot of time here as a child. It was... it was a special place for me."

Abigail's expression softened. "Tell me about it," she said gently.

Charles smiled serenely and pointed up to the rafters. "You see that? That is where I used to hide from my tutors as a young boy. I had a habit of sneaking treats from the kitchen while reading my favorite books. They never found me — and if they did, they chose not to let on. It was just… a place where I could find peace. From everything."

He turned to face her with a wry grin and she looked up at him, her eyes earnest. "I am glad you have those memories," she said softly, her eyes meeting his.

"I hope," he responded, his voice low and earnest, "that you will have special times here too, Abigail."

She looked up at him, her eyes shining with an emotion Charles could not quite name. "I am sure I will," she whispered.

The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with an energy that made Charles's skin tingle. Abigail's lips parted slightly, and he found his gaze drawn to them. He leaned in, his heart pounding in his chest.

Just as their lips were about to meet, a loud crash from outside startled them apart. They turned to see a gardener picking up a fallen rake, looking mortified at the interruption he'd caused.

Charles cleared his throat, suddenly finding it difficult to look at Abigail. "We should... we should probably head back to the house," he said, his voice rough. "It is nearly time to leave for the park."

Abigail nodded, a becoming blush staining her cheeks. "Yes, of course," she murmured, her tone almost regretful.

As they made their way back to the manor, Charles could not help but feel a pang of regret. He had been so close to kissing her, to showing her how he felt. And from the way Abigail kept glancing at him, her eyes dark with an emotion he dared not name, he suspected she felt the same way.

At the foot of the grand staircase, they paused, facing each other. "I'll... I'll see you at the park, then?" Abigail said, her voice soft.

Charles nodded, fighting the urge to pull her close. "Yes," he said. "Be careful, Abigail. And if you need me…"

"I know," she said, a small smile playing about her lips. "You'll be there."

Charles lingered for a moment and had a sudden mad thought to stay at home instead, and tell her to do the same.

"I must admit," Abigail said softly, as though she were sharing a secret, "A part of me does regret agreeing to meet my friend in the park. I…"

Relief rushed through him and he smiled down at her. "Me too," he admitted. There was nothing more to say, he thought. They were on the same page, or at least nearing it.

Perhaps it was too soon, too intimidating to put into words quite yet… but something had grown between them.

And perhaps, he thought, as he boarded his carriage and waited for hers to pull away first, perhaps she too was interested in nurturing whatever it was.