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 temperature 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.”
Two fancy phaetons raced past, their large wheels splashing through puddles and soaking Abigail’s skirts. She shook her fist at the reckless drivers, not that they paid her any mind, and shouted a curse a lady was not supposed to know, let alone say out loud.
When she heard another carriage approaching she stepped to the side and waited for it to pass. When it did not–when the clip clop of hooves on cobblestone actually slowed–she peeked out from behind the lace trimmed edge of her bonnet and, squinting against the rain, gazed up at the impressively sized vehicle as it came to a halt directly beside her.
It was a barouche carriage in gleaming black with the top drawn up, hiding the passenger from view. The driver, a tall, thin man who held the reins of the carriage’s two matching bay’s in a well-practiced grip, nodded his head in greeting. Noting he was just as wet as she–if not more so–Abigail offered him a sympathetic smile before her gaze flicked curiously to the silent passenger.
He was sitting back, revealing long legs clad in dark gray trousers. When he said nothing Abigail took a hesitant step closer, her brow furrowing in bewilderment. Besides her sister and Dianna she knew next to no one on this stretch of street, let alone someone who would approach her in the middle of a storm in such a fancy vehicle.
“Hello?” she called up tentatively, raising her voice to be heard over the slap of rain on the carriage’s thick leather roof. “Do I know you?”
The man leaned forward. “Hello, Abby.”
Even if she had not recognized his face, she surely would have remembered his voice. How could it sound the same even after all these years? She stutter stepped back as her heart gave one hard thump inside her chest. “Rocky,” she whispered.
She wanted to say something else. She needed to say something else. Anything, anything at all, but the words she had memorized long ago fell flat and faded into oblivion before they could push past her lips.
Reginald extended his arm, a silent offer for her to join him in the carriage. She stared at his gloved fingers in wide-eyed amazement, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say. She had dreamed of this very moment for so many years and now that it was here she wished it fervently away to a different time and a different place where she wasn’t mute with shock and wet as a drowned rat.
“Abby, take my hand and get in the carriage. It’s raining.”
She blinked up at him, spilling water down her cheeks. “No thank you,” she managed. “I believe I would like to walk.”
“Walk?” Beneath the brim of his hat Reginald’s achingly familiar eyes, their piercing blue color as familiar as his voice, narrowed. “Do not be ridiculous. Get in the carriage before you catch a chill. You should not be out in this weather.”
Abigail’s mouth thinned. She had been ordered about one too many times already today, and she was quite tired of being told what to do as though she were a mindless puppy who could not think for itself. If she wanted to walk in the rain she would damn well walk in the rain and no one–not even Reginald Browning–could stop her. Pushing back her shoulders and turning on her heel, she marched away from him.
“Abby, what are you doing? Abby? ABIGAIL!”
“I am walking home,” she shouted. Her wet skirts slapped at her legs and her boots squished with water, the thin leather already saturated. Still she continued on, her chin tilted at a stubborn angle and her gaze pinned straight ahead. Perhaps it was not the most mature thing a woman of her age could do–heaven forbid if anyone of consequence saw her stomping away from a carriage in the pouring rain like some half brained fool–but her mind was too rattled to think of anything else.
Reginald had truly returned. He was here. In London. Not only that, but he’d come for her at the first available opportunity. She supposed it could have been coincidence that found him driving down the very street she was walking up, but Abigail was not a woman prone to believe in coincidences. Everything, fair or foul, happened for a reason.
She heard the carriage following her–the quiet rumble of wheels on cobblestone, the squeak of wet leather and jingle of harness–but pride kept her from turning around even when the rain intensified, soaking her through to the skin. She was shivering by the time she reached her front door, the combination of nerves, adrenaline, and cold proving too much for her body to handle.
Fingers trembling, she inserted the key into the lock and stumbled into the foyer, trailing water in her wake. Closing the door she leaned weakly against it, her breath coming in bits and starts as her heart threatened to leap right out of her chest.
Before she could collect her thoughts or even catch her breath there was a sudden pounding at the door, so fierce in nature it rattled the hinges. With a little gasp she spun around and stared wide eyed at the knob as it twisted this way and that in a futile attempt to open.
“Abby, I wish to speak with you.” Reginald’s deep baritone voice rumbled through the wood.
Hearing the familiar timbre caused Abigail’s stomach to flutter even as she took a wary step in retreat. She was not prepared for this. Not ready for it. She needed time to collect her thoughts and practice what she wanted to say. A year or two would (most likely) suffice.
“I am not receiving callers.”
Something thudded against the door–his shoulder or his forehead, she could not be sure–before he said, “Abby, please. Open the door so we can speak face to face.”
“I am not receiving callers,” she repeated.
“Bloody…When will you be receiving callers?”
“I do not know,” she replied honestly. “Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after.”
“The day after?” There was a long pause, and then: “Abby?”
“I am nodding.”
Another thud, softer this time, followed by a long sigh. “You are aware I cannot see you through the door?”
Her cheeks burned crimson. “Of course. Come back another time, Reginald. I am, er, very busy.”
“I will wait outside in my carriage until you change your mind.”
“You could be waiting for a very long time.”
Another pause, this one so long she wondered if he had walked away before he said, “Not as long as you have.”
Her breath caught in her throat and formed a tight ball of emotion that refused to go up or down. Not as long as you have… Yes, she had waited a long time for this moment. Forty years and six days, not that anyone was counting. Except she was and so, apparently, was he.
Feelings were stirring inside of her chest. Feelings she had managed to suppress long ago. Feelings she didn’t know if she wanted. Feelings she wasn’t sure if she was ready to revisit.
Seeking to comfort herself with the familiar, Abigail discarded her bonnet and cloak before climb
ing heavily up the stairs to begin the arduous process of drawing herself a bath.
Yet even as she sank into the hot, bubbly water, she could not stop her mind from turning. Perhaps too much time had passed, she worried fretfully. And perhaps some mistakes were simply too big to forget, let alone forgive. If she opened herself up it could mean love…but it could also mean hurt, hurt the likes of which she never wanted to feel again.
She had survived losing Reginald once. Could she survive the terrible heartache and pain that would come with losing him a second time?
Chapter Four
“Stubborn woman.” From inside the cramped confines of his carriage, Reginald watched with no small amount of frustration as every candle in Abigail’s house was meticulously doused one by one.
He’d been sitting across the street, waiting in vain for her to change her mind, for nearly three hours. In that time the rain had slowed to a trickle and the fog had rolled in, blanketing London in a dull gray mist. Navigating the streets would be perilous, but he supposed there was little choice. Abby was not going to receive him and he would be damned before he begged for admittance.
“Move on,” he ordered the driver sharply.
The poor man startled–no doubt having drifted off–and jostled the horses in action. They settled into an easy rhythm and Reginald settled back in his seat, rubbing his chin as he contemplated this unexpected turn of events.
All of his time and energy had been poured into convincing Abby to forgive him. He had speeches prepared. Lavish gifts ready to be sent. No expense was to be spared in his courting of her, for that was exactly what he intended to do, albeit forty years too late. Unfortunately, he never paused to consider one small fact: she might want nothing to do with him.
His mouth twisted into a scowl. With the exception of not marrying Abby, he was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. He was a wealthy duke, for the love of Christ. An older one, perhaps, with a bit more silver at his temple than he preferred, but he was still willing to bet any woman–married or not–would clamber over themselves to stand by his side. Except he didn’t want any woman. He wanted Abby, only Abby, for the rest of his life.
And she didn’t want him.
The blank look in her eyes when she stared at him…he winced to think of it even now. She had bloody well stared through him, as though he meant nothing, and it pained him to acknowledge that perhaps he truly didn’t.
She could have moved on. He shoved his fingers through his hair and mustered a harsh laugh. Hell, she should have moved on. He was the foolish one for still carrying a torch after all these years. A torch he still wasn’t quite ready to extinguish, no matter how many times she turned him away.
His face hardening into lines of firm resolve, Reginald began to plot his next move with all the thought and dedication a colonel would give a battle. After all, he may not have been fighting for Queen and country, but he was fighting for the most important thing of all: love.
For the next three days straight he sent his card to Abigail’s house and for the next three days straight it was returned. But Reginald refused to give up, and on the fourth day his persistence paid off.
You may call at half past one in the afternoon on Thursday
The square piece of card stock was devoid of a letterhead and even a signature, but the looping scrawl was unmistakably Abby’s. The paper even smelled of her, and though it made him feel like a foppish schoolboy he tucked it away in his vest pocket so something she had touched, even something as small as a hand written note, could rest over his heart.
At precisely half past one on Thursday afternoon, she received him in her front parlor. It was a small, tidy room with cozily arranged furniture and a sense of comfort the likes of which he’d never felt at Ashburn. But then, that had always been Abby’s magic. She brought light with her wherever she went, and left happiness in her wake. She was a star that never slept. A sun that never went down. And oh, how he’d missed her brightness.
After pouring him a cup of tea, Abby sat in the middle of sofa, leaving him a tiny wooden chair that he fit his long, lanky body into with no small degree of difficulty. He raised his cup to his mouth, but he did not take a sip of the chamomile tea sweetened with honey. Instead he took the opportunity to study his hostess over the curved porcelain rim while she did the same to him, neither one bothering to disguise their blatant staring.
Was she as pleased and impressed with how he had aged as he was with her? Oh, Abby was certainly older. There was no denying that. But time hadn’t detracted from her natural beauty. It had enhanced it.
Her face was softer, her body a little plumper. The added curves filled out a frame that had once been a touch too gangly, and his hands yearned to discover the nuances of her new shape. Her hair was more gray than blonde, and there were lines carved into her face that hadn’t been there before, but she was still as lovely as she’d ever been.
No, not lovely, he corrected himself silently. As a girl she’d been lovely. Just as sunsets were lovely, or flowers in bloom were lovely. Except lovely eventually faded. Sunsets turned to black. Flowers went to the seed. But his Abby hadn’t faded. She’d bloomed. Into a woman that was so stunningly radiant, she took his breath away.
“You look well, Abby,” he said hoarsely.
Her expression guarded, she gave a clipped nod. “As do you, Reginald.”
Pain sliced through him, as unexpected as it was sharp. “You used to call me Rocky.”
A silver eyebrow lifted. “I used to do a lot of things.”
All of his carefully prepared speeches fled in the face of this coldly composed stranger. The Abigail he’d known had been impulsive and loud and filled with life and laughter. She’d never thought of what she would say before she said it, never guarded her words as though they were precious gemstones to be counted and given out sparingly. Had the years changed her so much? Had his leaving changed her so much? Mouth set in a grim line, Reginald set his cup aside with a hard clatter and leaned forward out of the small chair.
“Abby, I—”
“I do not know what you think coming here will accomplish,” she said, neatly cutting him off, “or what it will change.”
“I have moved back to Ashburn House permanently.” He sat back, his spine stiffening under the weight of her scorn. “I am only in London for a short time on business, but I knew I needed to see you. I had to see you.”
He saw the moment her resolve cracked. Her entire body trembled, one hard jolt that moved her to the edge of her seat. A line appeared between her brows, sinking deep into the ivory skin. Taking a deep breath, she lowered her head as though to compose herself, and when she raised it again there was a defiant gleam in her eyes that had been missing before and he could not help but think: there she is – there’s my girl.
“You married someone else, Reginald. You left me and you married someone else.” It was not an accusation, but rather a fact. A hard, simple fact summed up in four words that had changed both of their lives forever.
“I know I did, and you know the reasons.” Or most of them, he added. There was one he’d never told her. One he’d never been able to bring himself to tell her. If it came down to it, he would. To win her back, he’d bare his soul. “But I’ve returned—”
“Forty years too late. You’ve returned forty years too late. I thought I could do this,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “I thought I could sit here and listen to you, but I cannot. I will not. You broke my heart, Reginald. I will not give it back to you so you can break it again. You need to leave now.”
He stood up as something akin to panic flooded his chest, making it hard to breathe. He couldn’t leave, not yet. Not before he made it better. Not before he made them better. Bloody hell. He’d had decades to prepare for this moment–decades–and he was mucking it all up.
“Abby, if you would just listen—”
“What could you possibly say?” Standing as well, she crossed her arms tight over her chest and glar
ed at him through the sparkle of tears that clung to her lashes like shards of glass. “Nothing,” she said before he could utter a word. “There is nothing left to be said. Let the past be the past, and please go.”
“I do not want the past to be the bloody past!” He was shouting, but he didn’t give a damn. He would shout until every window in the house cracked if it would make her listen to him. In a rare show of temper he kicked the table between them aside with a furious sweep of his foot. It skidded across the floor and flipped on its side, fracturing a slender leg in the process.
Abigail’s eyes went wide.
“Out,” she hissed, jabbing her finger at the door. “Now.”
He spun away from her to pace the length of the small parlor, the heels of his boots echoing on the wooden floorboards. “I will get you a new table. A better table. I’ll buy you new furniture for the entire bloody house. Hell, I’ll buy you a new house. A bigger one. A grander one.” Anything, he thought frantically. I will give you anything, Abby.
Defiant to a fault, she jerked up her chin and stared down her nose, making him feel for all the world as though he were two feet tall. “I do not want a new table, or new furniture, or a new house. I like what I have, thank you very much. It may not be fancy, and it may not be expensive, but it’s mine. Now kindly bugger off!”
“You do not want to give this a chance?”
“Give what a chance, Reginald?” she cried, throwing her arms wide. “I have not seen you since I was a girl barely out of the schoolroom. That was a lifetime ago. We were different people then.”
He braced his fingers against his temple and closed his eyes. Maybe she had a point. Maybe some things couldn’t be salvaged. Maybe some things weren’t meant to be saved. And yet…and yet he knew there was still something there. In the heart of him, in the core, he knew. He could feel it, and he was willing to bet his last pound she felt it as well. His eyes opened and he studied her intently, searching for a sliver of the girl who had loved him beyond all reason. He knew she was still in there. Somewhere. He just needed to find a way to draw her out.
London Ladies (The Complete Series) Page 28