London Ladies (The Complete Series)

by Eaton, Jillian

  Could she have been happy here in this stale, stagnant place? There are so many bloody curtains, he observed as he moved slowly from room to room. Abby hated curtains. They blocked out the light, she had been fond of telling him, her pert little nose wrinkling whenever he managed to sneak her into Ashburn House.

  Without fail she had always managed to drag him out to the woods and the fields beyond where they would spend hours hidden away beneath the clouds, their faces tipped towards the sun as they drank in the cool summer air and each other.

  He climbed the winding staircase, each footfall heavier than the last. For a long, lingering moment he paused outside the room he had slept in as a child. It was where his mother had sang him made-up lullabies. Where she’d pressed a cold compress to his head whenever he fell ill. Where she’d read books until his eyes were too heavy to lift.

  Had his father his father ever visited him here? If he did, Reginald hadn’t retained the memory. Which was probably for the best. As cold as his wife was warm, as strict as she was soft, the late Duke of Ashburn had not been the lullaby sort.

  Reginald moved onto the master bedchamber. He would have preferred to sleep somewhere else, but it was the only room that had been made readied for him. Since the death of his father eight years prior, the estate had been run by a skeleton staff. What furniture had not been put into storage was hidden beneath great white cloths filmy with dust. In the master suite the cloths had been stripped away and fresh linens placed on the enormous four poster bed. A basin of hot water rested on a side table and Reginald removed his gloves before sinking his hands into the clear liquid, soaking away the chill that seemed to linger in his very bones.

  “Enter,” he said brusquely, drying his hands on a towel when someone knocked. He turned as the door opened to reveal an old man, slightly stooped in the shoulders and weathered in the face, but with a twinkle in his brown eyes and a smile twitching at the corners of his thin mouth.

  “Welcome home, Your Grace,” the man rasped in a low, gravelly voice.

  “Wilson?” Reginald’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Is it really you?”

  Peter Wilson had faithfully served the Browning family for three generations, moving up the ranks from footman to valet before ultimately becoming steward of Ashburn House, the highest position a servant could achieve.

  Reginald had thought the old man retired years before. He usually took no joy in being proven wrong, but in this case he could easily make an exception.

  “Aye,” Wilson said, inclining his head before he drew back his shoulders and stood as tall as his old, creaky body would allow.

  “I thought you left,” Reginald said.

  “And leave Ashburn House without a steward?” One thick eyebrow, bleached white by time, shot up. “I couldn’t go and do that, Your Grace. Someone had to care for her,” he said meaningfully.

  Reginald was a man more than fully grown, but he still shifted uncomfortably at the implication behind Wilson’s carefully chosen words. Yes, someone should have been caring for his ancestral home…. and that someone should have been him. “I intend to make Ashburn House my main residence from this point forward.”

  Wilson nodded again. “I would expect no less from you, Your Grace. With such short notice we could not prepare the estate in its entirety, however—”

  “Take your time,” Reginald interrupted, holding up his hand. “I know my return was not anticipated.” Indeed, it still felt surreal to be back, doubly so now that he was faced with the man who had been so much more to him than a steward in his youth.

  Strict but caring, Wilson had been a type of surrogate father, teaching Reginald more about the care and upkeep of Ashburn House than any tutor or book or fancy education ever could. On some level Reginald supposed he had always curried the older man’s approval, and it still pained him to remember the disappointment in Wilson’s eyes when he learned that Reginald would be leaving everything behind to begin a new life in another country.

  After all, it had been Wilson who used to sneak him pastries when he was sent to bed without supper. Wilson who taught him how to ride a horse when his instructor declared him impossible. And it had been Wilson who turned a blind eye whenever he went to meet with Abby.

  “I was sorry to hear of the death of your wife,” the steward said now, as though he instinctively knew the sudden turn Reginald’s thoughts had taken. “She was a grand lady.”

  “Yes,” Reginald murmured, “she certainly was.”

  ‘Grand’ was as fitting a word to describe Theresa as any, for she had been grand in every sense. Grandly beautiful. Grandly mannered. Grandly pedigreed. A woman born and raised to be a duchess if ever there was one, whereas Abby...

  His jaw tightened. The last thing he wanted was to compare the woman he had married to the woman he should have married. It was fair to neither of them, and reminded him of mistakes best left forgotten. There was no use in trying to wish the past away. He could not go back and change what had happened, nor in truth would he want to. To change one thing was to change all things. If he lost Theresa, he lost his daughters, and they their children as well. No, he could not alter the past… but he would be damned before he lived in a future without Abby in it.

  “I will be journeying to London tomorrow morning. You can use that time to open the rest of the rooms. In the meantime, hire as many staff as you need to. I want Ashburn up and running as soon as possible.”

  “Are you going for business?” the steward queried.

  “Yes.” Of a sort.

  Wilson rubbed his chin. “The townhouse is undergoing renovations.”

  Something Reginald well knew as he had been the one to schedule said renovations for his city residence, but he was pleased that despite his advancing years, Wilson was still able to keep such close tabs on everything.

  As though he could read his mind–which as a boy Reginald feared he very well could–Wilson said, “I am old, not senile.”

  Another rare grin flirted with the corners of Reginald’s mouth. “I never said you were.”

  “You should stay at the Keating Hotel,” Wilson advised. “Lovely views from what I hear and it is only a few blocks from her townhouse.”

  Something inside of Reginald’s chest coiled tight, rather like a spring ready to deploy. He had told no one of his intentions, least of all the man standing before him. Surely after all these years the past would have been forgotten, lost to the winds of time. “To whom are you referring?” he asked guardedly.

  The steward’s brown eyes twinkled. “Why, Miss Abigail of course. That is who you are going to London to see, is it not?”

  Chapter Three

  Two Days Later

  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.

  His Grace, 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 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.

  Forty years had come and gone since the day she slipped his ring from her finger and walked out of his life. Forty 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 had 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? Jealousy flared within him, as ridiculous as it was unwarranted. Had he really expected the woman he’d jilted to remain chaste these past forty years?

  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 sixty 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.

  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 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 home in the country 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 under the same roof with her sister and brother-in-law if she wanted to maintain her sanity.

  “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 smells.”

  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 yo
ur 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 forty 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 drawn taut. “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?”