The Spinster and the Duke (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Abigail received the calling card at half past eleven in the morning. It was delivered by a solemn faced footman, along with a bouquet of freshly picked (and still slightly damp) roses arranged in a delicate green vase.

Her hand trembling, she picked up the card from the silver tray it had been set upon and read the name elegantly engraved on the thick white paper.

The Duke of Ashburn

She flung the card away from her with a little gasp. It fluttered harmlessly to the floor and slid out of sight beneath a writing desk. Making no effort to pick it up, Abigail began to pace the length of her small parlor, sending her dove gray skirts swishing between her ankles.

The gossip was true, then. Reginald truly had returned… and was wasting no time in making his presence known.

But how had he found her?

She stopped short in the middle of the room and pressed a palm over her racing heart. A foolish question. He was a duke, for heavens sakes, with immeasurable resources at his disposal. It was not the how she needed answered.

It was the why.

Thirty years had come and gone since the day she slipped his ring from her finger and walked out of his life. Thirty years was a lifetime for some. An eternity for others. To always be waiting… wondering… wanting…

“No,” she said firmly, putting enough emphasis on the single syllable to make it echo through the room.

Mayhap she had waited and wondered and wanted for a time, but she had lived her life, and so had Reginald, except he lived it with another woman while she remained alone.

But that had been her choice, her decision, and she stood by it without allowing herself an ounce of self-pity. She was an intelligent woman. A strong woman. She did not need a man by her side to make her complete and she
certainly
did not need to receive the bloody Duke of Ashburn. Not after all this time.

No matter how much she wanted to.

Bustling into the foyer she secured a cream colored shawl around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the crisp autumn air, plopped a poke bonnet atop her head, and took one of her own calling cards from a small mahogany box tucked away in a side drawer. Slipping it inside her reticule she pulled on a pair of satin gloves – the fingertips nearly worn through with age – and darted breathlessly out the door.

“Circle around again,” Reginald instructed his coachman. Leaning forward to afford himself a better view of the long line of stucco sided townhouses that stretched the length of a quiet cobblestone lane, he studied the middle one intently, searching for any signs of movement through the windows.

He would have known it was Abigail’s even without the exact address. It was, after all, the only townhouse in all of London without any curtains or drapes.

Seeing nothing that would indicate Abby was at home he motioned for the coachman to continue on and settled back into the richly upholstered seat of his barouche carriage, his expression pensive.

What if Abigail was away visiting friends or relatives? Or – his stomach knotted just thinking about it – she had yet to return from the house of a lover? Not that she had a lover. Or perhaps she did, in which case he could hardly blame her.

Expect the woman he had jilted three decades ago to remain chaste?

It was lunacy.

Then again, Reginald was feeling a bit like a lunatic.

Maybe he
was
going mad. It would certainly explain the irrational feelings he still possessed for someone he had not seen since he was little more than a boy. Feelings like hope and anxiety… and love.

Yes, he loved Abby.

Had always loved her, truth be told. But he had also done his duty, honored his father, respected his mother, and been loyal to his wife in every way he was capable. And in doing those things, in pleasing others and ensuring their well being above his own, he had lost the one person most precious to him in the entire world.

Now he finally had the chance to get her back… and he was terrified.

His mouth curved ruefully at the thought. He was a wealthy duke, one of the most influential nobles in all of England, a man full grown at fifty two years, and yet he still paled at the thought of confronting a tiny slip of a woman who barely reached his chin in height.

“Again,” he called to his bewildered driver. “Circle around again.”

Abigail’s sister received her with a sigh and a weakly managed smile.

“I am pleased you decided to pay a visit, but what are you doing here so early?” Martha asked after they had settled in the library – the parlor was being dusted – over fresh cups of tea and a platter of daintily arranged cheese pastries.

“It is almost noon,” Abigail pointed out rationally.

Martha waved her hand in the air and managed to give the impression of rolling her eyes without actually rolling them. “Yes, well, I suppose it is allowed since you
are
family.”

“When it suits you,” Abigail muttered before she indulged in some eye rolling of her own.

“What was that?” Martha said sharply. 

“Nothing.” Biting into a pastry, Abigail spoke around the delightful swell of sugar and flour melting on her tongue. “Nothing at all.”

Once she used to wish she could have the same relationship with her sister as she did with her niece, but now she knew it was simply not mean to be. Despite their similar appearance, she and Martha were as different as night and day.

Those differences had led to many a fight in their youth, both verbal and physical, much to their mother’s everlasting dismay. Time had turned their arguments into polite detachment, although Abigail would not have minded a rousing quarrel now and again. Anything would have suited her better than being treated like a stranger by her own sister, but she had learned long ago there were some things you could not change, no matter how hard you tried.

Martha added a spoonful of honey to her cup of tea and stirred it slowly. “Dianna is not here, you know. I am assuming that is who you came to see.”

It most certainly was, not that Abigail was about to admit it. “I cannot call upon my own sister?” Forgoing the honey for three lumps of sugar, she watched the white granules dissolve into the amber colored tea before taking a sip. “I wanted to see what your plans were for the Season.”

Coinciding with the seating of Parliament, London’s notorious Season began in November and ran through July. When Abigail was a young woman it meant an endless parade of balls, tea parties, and tiresome social functions. Now that she was a spinster it meant dealing with a considerable influx of people as the city’s population swelled to twice its normal size.

Had she owned a country manor home she would have fled to it before the Season began and returned as soon as it was over. Martha – or rather, Martha’s husband – did have a small estate in Hampshire, but it had only taken one time for Abigail to realize she would never be able to live peacefully with her sister and brother-in-law, pretentious bore that he was.

“The Season does not begin for another two months,” Martha said in a grating tone that implied she found Abigail’s question a bit dim witted. “We are only in London now because Rodger has some business to attend to, but we will be returning to Hampshire as soon as he is finished. Honestly, I have no idea how you live here all year long. It
stinks
.”

There was, admittedly, a distinct odor in the streets during the height of summer but it had all but disappeared now that the days were cooler and the nights downright chilly.

Abigail took another sip of her tea, swallowed back the words she wanted to spit out, and said instead, “Hampshire will be lovely this time of year. Have the leaves started to change?”

“How should I know? Honestly, Abigail, you ask the most peculiar questions sometimes. Unlike
you
I do not have time to wander about studying the trees. I have social obligation after social obligation. It is all quite exhausting, really. You are quite fortunate you have nothing to occupy your time.”

Abigail blinked. “Just because I am not married does not mean I sit idly by day after day,” she said carefully, not wanting to incite an argument, but unable to let her sister’s insult pass without defense.

“Oh, I know you do
things
.” Martha’s hand waved flippantly in the air. “But really, dear, unless you have been married as long as I you cannot understand the duties I am forced to undertake on a day to day basis. Sometimes it really is all a bit overwhelming, but I do my best to persevere.”

Yes, it must have been quite difficult to
persevere
when one was granted a considerable allowance every month, not to mention a beautiful townhouse in London and an estate in the country. Peace be damned. Abigail opened her mouth to say exactly what she thought of Martha’s lifestyle – a lifestyle that did not include raising her own daughter – but her sister’s next words quite literally stole the breath from her lungs.

“I read in
The John Bull
the Duke of Ashburn’s wife has passed and he is returning to England. That was the man you were engaged to all those years ago, is it not?”

Not only insulting, Abigail realized dazedly, but cruel as well. “You know it was,” she managed in a high, tinny voice that did not sound like her own at all.

A smile lingered on Martha’s lips, but her eyes were flat and frosty. “I recall you being upset at the time, but it all worked out for the best, didn’t it dear? It was quite admirable how you tried to reach beyond your means and I know Mother was ecstatic, but everyone knew it would never last. Two weeks, was it not, before he called it off?”

Why did it hurt as though it had all happened yesterday instead of thirty years ago? Abigail knew she should have been over it all. She should have been over
him
. But she wasn’t. Not then, and not now, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise.

Standing so abruptly her hip bumped against the edge of the table, sending pastries rolling onto the floor, Abigail clenched her skirts in her fists and glared at Martha. “For your information, it was three. I will see myself out.”

“Leaving so soon?” Martha may have been four years older, but she was quick and nimble and managed to slide in front of the door seconds before Abigail reached it. “We barely had a chance to catch up.”

Abigail shook her head, confusion fighting with the hurt that sat like a hot, heavy stone inside of her chest. “You have everything anyone could ever want. What pleasure could you possibly achieve by belittling me?”

Martha’s face contorted, revealing – for a moment – the petty jealousy that seethed beneath her carefully constructed layers of cool composure. “Because it should have been me,” she snapped. “I was the eldest. He should have wanted to marry
me
.”

“Who should have?”

“The duke, you twit!” Martha cried.

“Reginald?” Abigail said incredulously. “You – you wanted to marry
Reginald
?” The idea of it was so absurd she laughed. “Martha, do not be ridiculous. You married Rodger.” 

“I
settled
for Rodger,” she corrected. “But I could have done better – I would have done better – if not for you.”

Abigail leaned heavily against the door. Shock radiated through her, leaving her body humming as though she were a bow string that had just been plucked. “I never knew… That is to say, I never guessed…” A sudden thought occurred to her and she snapped upright. “Martha, is this why we have never been able to come to terms for all these years? Because you secretly harbored feelings for Reginald?”

But it seemed Martha was done divulging secrets. Composing herself, she gestured towards the door. “I think it is best you leave now, Abigail. Thank you for taking the time to visit. I am afraid I will not be able to see you again before I leave for Hampshire, but perhaps we can arrange for tea when the Season begins.”

“I really believe we should talk—”

“Thank you,” she said, speaking through clenched teeth, “for visiting. Now I truly must bid you farewell.”

Before Abigail quite knew what was happening she found herself all but thrown out onto the street.

“Why I never,” she exclaimed as she turned in a quick circle. Martha had not even given her time to collect her gloves and she was forced to shove her hands beneath the voluminous folds of her shawl as the wind picked up, sending leaves and debris spinning through the air.

The air had grown markedly colder while she was inside and the sky was heavy with rain. It began to fall before she made it halfway home, slapping at her face and chest in an icy spray that soaked through her shawl in a matter of moments.

“Brilliant,” she muttered under her breath as a cold trickle of water slid beneath the high collar of her dress and raced down her back. “Absolutely bloody brilliant.”