No, sparkle was the wrong word for her hair, that word suited her blue eyes. The same color as a lake on a sunny day. Not unlike one he’d spent time staring at in France just days before he’d been sent home.
The sun had glinted off its surface, catching the water as it moved, lapping the shore. He’d lain there, staring at the crystal blue water, thanking his stars he wasn’t at the front anymore. Thanked God and the heavens above that he’d lived and that he had the chance to return home and start a real life.
In that moment he’d made several promises to himself: he’d marry some lovely girl who brought kindness and serenity to his life after years of pain and chaos, and he’d have children—a whole bunch of them.
He’d take his earnings as a soldier and his pension and he’d use them to buy a quaint little cottage with gardens, and hedges, and a picket fence.
Funny that he should think of all that now. That her eyes should remind him of that lake. That the blue of them should be the same color as the Lake of Saint Croix, that they should sparkle just as that water had. Because if he weren’t mistaken, this woman was the exact opposite of everything he was searching for.
But opposite or not, this woman was still standing here. And she was staring right back at him. She was waiting for a response. Apparently silence alone would not deter her. Her last words came back to him and nearly made him laugh. Did she truly believe she was saving him?
“I can assure you that I don’t need saving.” To be fair, he might actually need a bit of rescuing. He was tired. Worn down. But what he searched for was a nice quiet life, and nothing about the woman in front of him seemed sedate or subdued. “I find this evening neither tedious nor dull so I excuse you from any duty you might feel to help me.”
For a moment a look of panic flitted across her features. Her eyes widened before they slid to the side and he heard a light chuckle come from his right. A group of men stood nearby, some of them he recognized, though they looked far older, and frankly, far more portly than they had ten years ago when he’d left for military service.
Titled lords all of them, secure in their positions of wealth and not in need of a profession or the money it would bring. But a life of leisure had not been kind to most of their waistlines. And as they snickered louder, he assumed it hadn’t done much for their personalities either.
She looked over at the men again, her wide eyes slanting in slits as she squared her shoulders.
Alex had to confess that he admired her grit in the face of their mockery.
When she looked back at Alex, she gave him a large smile. “Well, in that case. You can save me.”
He couldn’t deny that she needed aid in this moment. Why were they laughing? Was one of those men bothering her? Was that why she’d pretended an acquaintance with Alex? He hated to leave a woman in distress. As a soldier, or former soldier, he took his duty to protect seriously. But then again, his eyes slid to the woman he’d been attempting to meet. Miss Charlotte Ainsworth. Quiet and pretty in an approachable way, she was the exact sort of woman he’d been planning to court. The kind he could settle with into a nice, predictable life. He’d watched her over several parties and tonight he was determined to gain an introduction.
But as another gentleman approached Charlotte’s mother, he watched his opportunity wane. He’d attempt to find another chance, of course, but he’d hoped to spend as little time at this party as possible. Participating in society was not something he considered entertaining.
As the nephew of an earl and a reported war hero, he received plenty of invitations, but he’d have rejected them all if he weren’t trying to make a match. With a sigh, he held out his hand to the beauty before him. “Shall we?”
Her return smile was glowing, pulling at her full, shell-pink lips. Her brows arched perfectly and if it were possible, her eyes sparkled even more. “Let’s.”
He led her onto the dance floor, taking her small waist in his hand as the dance began. “To what do I owe this honor, Lady Abigail?”
Her smile grew warm and her eyes glittered with mischief that made his muscles tense. Sedate and serene? Definitely not. “Ah,” she said with a satisfied grin. “So you do remember me.”
She was in jest, surely. Who could forget making the acquaintance of the Duke of Gorem’s only daughter? The young lady had been the center of every social circle at Max’s house party last spring and had even threatened to steal the attention at his friend’s wedding this past Christmas. They might not have spoken much, but it would have been impossible not to notice her. What was more curious was that she had remembered him.
“We were first introduced at the Marquess of Arundel’s house party last spring,” he said. “But I do not recall having had the honor of a dance before.” Her answering smile was still blindingly beautiful, but alarm bells rang in the back of his mind at the laughter he saw there in her eyes. This laughter was at his expense, he’d bet his quaint little cottage on it.
Also, she refused to take the bait, such as it was. “Did we not?” she asked lightly.
He stifled a huff of exasperation. This woman didn’t need saving. No man would dare to touch the daughter of such a powerful man. He’d been hoodwinked. Tricked into a dance he’d never requested. But why?
His mouth pressed into a firm line. Clearly subtlety would not work with this minx. “Perhaps you can explain why we are dancing?”
She furrowed her brows as though the question perplexed her. “Why not dance?”
He held in an irritated breath. “Most ladies give a gentleman the opportunity to ask.”
She sniffed, her nose lifting in the air. “I’m not most ladies.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said, his own mouth turning down. He might not know her well, but he definitely knew her type. Beautiful, rich, entitled, shallow, and full of herself. Despite her beauty, she was everything he was not looking for.
“Are you?” she gave him a sly, satisfied smile. “Then I’m glad you asked me to dance.”
He quirked a brow but didn’t bother to point out, again, that he hadn’t asked her to dance. But he could confess, at least to himself, that she was an excellent dancer. They moved across the floor in an effortless grace that somehow made him feel lighter. Like he hadn’t been weighted down by years of struggle.
He shook his head, banishing these thoughts. Dancing was a short activity that would soon be over. What he wished to build was a life.
His gaze lifted to the woman he’d meant to ask for this dance. The one for whom he’d attended this ball. The one he’d earmarked as a potential choice with whom to build his future.
Miss Charlotte was dancing with another man, her smile sweetly shy rather than boldly confident. He watched her spin around, her chin angled down toward the floor. His own jaw clenched.
“Who are we looking at?” Abigail tapped his shoulder. “I’m always curious to know the gossip of the day.”
“Gossip?” he asked, frowning. “I’m afraid I don’t have any. I’m not much for spreading rumors.”
Something in her smile softened then. “How...sweet.” She shook her head. “I only assumed because your gaze was so fixed.”
His mouth opened and then closed again, for the first time, he considered that he might be behaving impolitely to the woman he danced with. He’d conceded to the dance, after all, and so he owed her his attention. “My apologies, my lady. I was on my way to ask another—”
Abigail’s face turned to granite before his eyes. Her features were the same, high cheekbones, small straight nose, but somehow her eyes had lost their sparkle as everything about her hardened. “I see.”
Alex could have kicked himself. No one wanted to feel like a second choice, and though he’d felt nearly accosted by this woman, he was a gentleman and she a lady and she deserved his most respectful treatment. He gave her his best smile. “But I am most fortunate to be in your company.”
She relaxed in his arms again. “And I yours.” She tilted her chin down and
looked up, the effect coquettish and disarmingly flirtatious. “It was a pity we never had the chance at the Arundel party.”
The memory of that fateful event made Alex smile. It wasn’t every day one watched one’s strong, fierce, war-hero friend fall head over heels in love. It had been highly entertaining to see. Max had married exactly the sort of woman Alex hoped to find. Marigold was a sweet and lovely girl, perfect for Max. They were both good people of high quality. Max had recently helped Alex invest his savings with amazing results.
She tipped her head to the side. “If I recall, you were rather interested in Marigold.”
He quirked a brow. He did like Max’s wife a great deal, but part of his interest had been in showing Max that Marigold had been perfect for his friend. “Are you friends with the new Marchioness?”
Color tinged her cheeks a pretty shade of pink. “Not exactly.”
They passed by Charlotte and her partner, her brown eyes catching his for the briefest second before they continued on and her partner spun her away.
But Alex watched her go and Abigail followed his gaze. “Miss Charlotte?” she asked, craning her neck.
He was being rude again and that wouldn’t do. “To be fair, we’ve not actually been introduced.”
Abigail pressed her lips together as she looked at him again. “That makes sense. Anyone who is acquainted with her would not be so interested.”
He nearly stopped on the floor. His movements halted for the briefest second before he continued on, spinning Abigail in a wide arc. Her words had been rude to say the least and they affirmed his impression, not of Miss Charlotte, but of Abigail. “She seems a lady of the first water to me.”
Abigail laughed and the sound rankled along his nerves. “Now it’s truly clear you’ve not met her.”
He swallowed down the barbs that rose to his lips. No, he’d not met her, but he’d been watching her, and Charlotte appeared nothing if not quiet and sweet. But he’d not contradict Abigail when he had no facts to prove her wrong. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
Abigail shook her head. “Do you remember when you said you didn’t need to be saved?”
The music was fading, the song drawing to a close. He nearly sighed in relief. “I remember.”
She moved closer and her scent wrapped about him. Not only did her eyes look like the color of a French lake but she smelled like the fields of summer flowers that had bordered the Alps, sweet and fresh with the barest hint of dew still clinging to the stems. Her eyes sparkled again as her chin tilted up to look at him, he had the feeling that he might drown in those eyes.
Which was absurd. He didn’t like her. She’d just been rude to a perfectly lovely girl.
“Well, I was right. You do need a rescue. Desperately.”
He grimaced, slowing as the final strains of music died. “I can assure you, Lady Abigail, that as a veteran of the war, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
Her lips spread into a wide grin, the sort that made her look fresh and innocent. The kind that might make him forget her true nature. “I’ve no doubt about that, but even the bravest men can fall victim to the wrong woman.”
That was not what was happening here. He was certain of that.
“Thank you for an interesting dance, Lady Abigail.” He stepped away, giving a short bow. “I’d escort you back to your family but I’m not certain I know who they are.”
“That’s all right,” she waved toward a woman who stood just a few feet away. The other woman looked nearly identical to Abigail and it briefly occurred to him that the siren before him would keep her fine looks for years to come. “My mother is just there.”
“Well, in that case, I bid you adieu.” He bowed again and turned to go. Dancing with Abigail, he had to confess, had been interesting...arresting even. But it was not an experience he planned to repeat. She was the sort of woman who stirred trouble and he was looking for anything but.
“I’ll see you again soon, Major.” She dipped into a curtsey.
He didn’t reply as he started toward Charlotte once again. But Alex doubted he would see Abigail Purewater ever again.
3
The poor man. Abigail watched him go. Off to pursue the wrong lady. Not that Abigail was the right lady, but even so—a man like him deserved better than that simpering simpleton Charlotte.
“Dearest, you two made quite the pair,” her mother’s voice cooed behind her. “Once the poor man resigned himself to a dance with you.”
Abigail stiffened but she did not take her eyes off the major. Poor fellow had missed another chance with Charlotte as the young lady in question had disappeared in the direction of the retiring rooms just as the major approached.
“I do not know where I failed you, Abigail. How could I have raised such a brazen young lady?”
Her mother continued, but for once Abigail was well able to ignore the sharp barbs. She even managed to avoid sniping back that her mother hadn’t raised her at all. A long string of nannies and governesses had done that. So if she were brazen—and she was—she had no problem admitting that—her mother deserved neither the blame nor the credit.
She drew out her fan and used it as a decoy to hide her keen interest in Major Mayfield. Not that there was much to see. In short order, she watched Charlotte disappear, her mother speaking to Major Mayfield with an apologetic smile, and then the major taking his leave of the ball.
She pursed her lips. There was no doubt in her mind that the good major had come to this ball for one reason and one reason only.
And that reason was currently hiding herself away in the retiring room like a ninny.
“You cannot just force yourself upon a suitor, you know,” her mother was saying. “You must be coy, dear. Truly, have I taught you nothing?”
Oh, her mother had taught her plenty. And she had every intention of using those lessons just now. Namely, know thy enemy. All right, fine, that lesson came from a Chinese general, but even so, it was relevant.
“Will you excuse me, Mother?” she murmured, not waiting for a response before she glided through the crowd, exchanging smiles and greetings with her acquaintances like some sort of viper mating dance.
When at last she reached the retiring room, she saw exactly what she’d expected. A smug Charlotte Ainsworth laughing and gossiping with two of her debutante friends. “Did you see Darling’s eldest sister?” one of the girls asked, cruel laughter in her voice.
Charlotte shook her head in poorly feigned pity. “Poor dear. Her first fete of the season and she made such a fool of herself.”
“Your mother certainly put her in her place,” the third girl said with a giggle.
More laughter, followed by more whispers. They hadn’t spotted Abigail yet as she paused in the doorway, and for one moment she was back to that time. Her first season.
She and her former friends ferreting away someplace private to do just this exact thing. Laughing at the pathetic stammering gentlemen they’d managed to give the slip or the sad, desperate wallflowers who were never asked to dance.
One particular wallflower came to mind.
A wave of guilt hit her so hard she nearly lost her breath. Lily had been her best friend, once upon a time. But that season had changed everything between them.
She gave her head a shake just as the room fell into silence. The three foolish girls who thought they held world by its strings turned as one to face her.
Her chin came up on instinct, a smirk curving her lips as a natural reflex.
One did not spend four seasons as the most fearsome belle of the ball without acquiring a certain aptitude for the role.
“Why, Lady Abigail,” Charlotte said. “How lovely to see you again.”
Abigail smiled as the others fell into line, following Charlotte’s lead by bestowing compliments over Abigail’s gown and her hairstyle.
The words and the tone of voice, all part of the performance. It took everything Abigail had not to let her shoulders sag w
ith exhaustion. For a moment she was too weary to respond as she ought. For a moment she was tired. So very tired, of the feigned smiles, and the artificial cheerfulness, and the pretty words that held an intricate layer of hidden meanings and veiled insults.
None of these girls knew how to do it as well as she. While she typically reveled in being the best, this was one crown she was tired of wearing. “It’s a shame you left the ballroom when you did, Charlotte,” she said to the younger girl when the requisite small talk had faded to uncomfortable silence as these young fools waited to see what Abigail had really come here for.
“Is it?” Charlotte’s brow crinkled in confusion.
“Major Mayfield seemed to be intent upon seeking you out for a dance,” she said.
Charlotte turned to her friends with a knowing smile. As Abigail had suspected, Charlotte was well aware of the major’s interest. When she turned back, Abigail spotted a glimmer of intelligence that belied the silly, witless, simpering facade she donned in mixed company. “I noticed that you and he shared a dance just now,” she said.
Abigail smirked. “He’s an excellent dancer.”
“Hmm.” The girl pursed her lips. “I was not aware you were acquainted.”
She laughed and the other girls laughed with her, though they knew not what they were laughing about. Simpering fools. “Oh, Charlotte, dear. I am well acquainted with just about everyone.” She lifted one shoulder. “The perks of being a duke’s daughter, I suppose.”
Charlotte’s friends looked to her with wide eyes as they waited for her response.
She smiled prettily. “Not to mention the number of seasons you’ve been out.” Her smile turned smug. “I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage there.”
Abigail didn’t flinch. She’d heard the younger girls’ taunts in every different form. It wasn’t as though a vapid girl like Charlotte could ever hurt her.
But Charlotte could hurt the major.
Poor Mayfield. He couldn’t have a clue what this girl was truly about, though he’d likely see through her quickly enough given half a chance. But if he truly wanted the girl, Abigail knew precisely how he could get her. At least, how he could get her attention. The only thing girls like Charlotte responded to was competition.
A Hero for Lady Abigail Page 2