“I’m not hiding you away. But you cannot show up at Town for a Season without a reputable sponsor.”
“And that’s not you?”
James laughed.
“No, that is most certainly not me.”
“But aren’t you rather a big deal here? Mother said you were.”
“Yes, I am. But I am also male. And single.”
“And my cousin,” Abby reminded him. “Practically a brother.”
“How you feel about me, and I you, has very little to do with it.”
Abby sighed and shook her head, dislodging a golden blonde strand from her chignon.
The maid James had insisted on hiring for propriety’s sake, who was currently sitting atop their conveyance since she didn’t travel well, would be angry with her.
Abigail had yet to go an entire day without doing damage to her maid’s attempts at styling her hair.
“I will never understand your stuffy customs, James.”
“They’re not my customs. They are the customs of the beau monde. And if you want to experience a London Season, which you claimed to do loudly, then you have to follow the rules.”
“Very well,” she sighed. In the next moment, however, she brightened considerably. “I don’t care how I get there, as long as I get there.”
James grinned indulgently.
“I’m only sorry I don’t have any sisters, my dear. If I did, we could have gone directly to London and gotten you ready.”
“I suppose if you’re not an appropriate chaperone, then Thomas is definitely out of the question,” Abby grinned.
She’d never met her cousin Thomas, James’s younger brother.
And she’d only met James because he had business in New York that he’d oversee.
It had been destiny, she’d told him the day she’d begged him to escort her back to London. The fates wanted her in England.
“The fates might,” James had quipped. “But I’m sure your parents don’t.”
Abby hadn’t quite known how to explain that she had been little more than a thorn in her mother’s side ever since her birth.
Mrs. Langton was an inherent snob whose life’s ambition was to ensure that everyone around her knew she was the epitome of high society. Blue-blooded English stock, the daughter of a marquess.
As a wilful youth, she’d found it terribly romantic to run away to America with a wealthy merchant’s son.
However, it hadn’t taken long for her to realise she desperately missed the rolling green hills of England and, more importantly, the sycophantic fawning that came with being the daughter of a powerful Peer.
Unfortunately for the newly-married Mrs. Langton, she had become pregnant with Abigail only months later, and her fate had been sealed.
Which was how Abby had become a source of regret and bitterness for both her parents, though her father made the effort to hide it occasionally. In her father’s defence, he hadn’t always been uncaring of Abigail. In truth, he’d rather doted on her in her earliest memories. But, Abby supposed that years of his wife’s obvious unhappiness, and Abigail being one of the main sources of it, had worn the man down. And so it was that he had come to care as little as his wife did.
Abigail knew their disastrous history because it was one of her mother’s favourite stories to tell.
“And the duchess doesn’t mind sponsoring me?” Abby asked now, refusing to give her uncaring mother any more headspace.
James had told her very little, save that the dowager duchess had only a son and would benefit greatly from a young lady to go about London with.
Plus, being the particular friend of the Duchess of Montvale would open every conceivable door to her, James had said.
When she’d first put the proposal to her cousin, whom she’d only met a year ago but who had already come to be like a brother to her, he’d steadfastly refused.
There was no way he was taking her across the Atlantic with him to jolly old England. No, he didn’t care that she was positively desperate for a famed English Season. No, he didn’t care that she dreamed of seeing the land she read so much about in her ridiculous romantic novels. No, he didn’t care that it was high time she found a husband, and that as the granddaughter and now cousin of the esteemed Marquess of Avondale, she really should marry a Peer.
And poor James had naïvely thought that was the end of the matter.
But Abby had long since had a reputation of being able to get her own way, whether through winsome smiles, pretty pouts, or good old-fashioned manipulation.
She’d engaged in all three zealously until she’d worn James down and he’d helped her convince her mother, his aunt, that it would be a good idea.
Their journey across the Atlantic had been dull as ditch water. James had barely allowed her to leave the cabin he’d procured for her. And never, ever without her maid.
It had been a long and arduous journey and not one that she relished completing.
Well, perhaps she’d fall in love with an English lord and would end up making her home here rather than make the return journey, though she couldn’t imagine never seeing her sisters again.
Her poor sisters hadn’t fared much better than Abby when it came to their mother’s regard. She had done her duty, providing more children to her husband, though she had never managed to give him the son he so craved.
It had been left to Abigail to provide any and all real love and affection to her sisters. But they were no longer very young. In fact, Alison had already come of age, and Elizabeth wouldn’t be far behind. So, much as Abby knew how terribly she would miss them, she had to think of her own future. Maybe her sisters could even visit, when she got herself settled somewhere.
Abby smiled to herself. Her mother would no doubt shake her head at her eldest daughter’s romantic nonsense. And resent her even more for having the life she, herself, had thrown away.
“Not at all,” James said jovially enough, though Abby thought she sensed a tightening around his mouth.
“You’re sure?” she pressed.
Did he hesitate a moment? It seemed he hesitated a moment.
“Of course. Ah, we are almost here.”
That sounded suspiciously like changing the subject, but Abby was suitably distracted.
She turned toward the window and gasped at the beauty of the coastline. The lush green of the verdant grass interspersed with outcroppings of rock, and stone disappeared into a vista of the startling blue of the ocean that seemed to go on forever.
“Montvale Hall is one of the most beautifully situated houses in the country,” James explained. “Though “house” doesn’t really do it justice.”
“Is it as big as Avondale Abby?” Abigail asked.
Her younger sisters had been vastly amused to know that the seat of their cousin had the same name as their sister.
“Bigger,” James said with a wry smile.
“It is very kind of the duke to allow us to impose on him for almost four weeks,” Abigail said, eyes still on the landscape.
If she had looked at James then, she would have seen him pull guiltily at his cravat.
“Well, he is family,” James said, and there was that strange expression on his face again.
A prickle of unease ran along Abby’s spine.
“Your family,” she corrected. “Not mine. And not really, come to that. You aren’t actually related.”
“Nevertheless, it will be good for the dowager to have you there. He will see that.”
Abigail frowned at the cryptic remark but before she could question anything else, they passed through two massive wrought iron gates and onto the long driveway toward the Hall.
She resisted the urge to stick her head out the window in order to catch a glimpse of the house.
Finally, after an age, the carriage pulled up to a circular driveway, centred by an ominous looking fountain.
Abigail felt her jaw drop at the image in front of her.
The place was a fortress, and it rea
lly did nothing for Abby’s sudden unease.
Learn more about The Saints & Sinners series by clicking here.
About Nadine Millard
Nadine Millard is a bestselling writer hailing from Dublin, Ireland.
When she’s not writing historical romance, she’s managing her chaotic household of three children, a husband and a very spoiled dog!
She’s a big fan of coffee and wine with a good book and will often be found at her laptop at 2am when a book idea strikes.
Connect with Nadine!
Website
Newsletter
BookBub
Amazon
Facebook
The Saint of St. Giles Page 22