Jasper offered his arm again. Abigail cast a final glance at her daughter before taking it and following him out.
Despite her quiet reminders that she'd visited the townhouse many times—whether as Charlotte's guest, for one of their parents' dinner parties, or while Jasper was courting her—Jasper insisted on showing her every room. He pointed out improvements, upcoming renovations, and shared distant memories. When they returned to her chambers, a new ladies' maid awaited to help her dress for dinner.
The young woman helped her into a pale blue silk gown trimmed in ivory lace. Her hair was styled in a soft chignon, with curled tendrils framing her face.
Just as the last pearl pin was placed, a knock sounded at the door.
Jasper stood there in a deep navy evening coat, his cravat perfectly tied.
"You look beautiful," he said simply. "Shall we collect our daughter?"
"Yes, please," she replied, managing a faint but genuine smile.
Dinner was warm and lively. Emmeline chattered between bites, occasionally reaching for Jasper's hand or tugging on Abigail's sleeve. A footstool and cushion had been arranged so she could sit comfortably at the table.
When the meal ended, Mrs. Rigby returned to collect her for her bath and bedtime.
"I love you, my sweet girl," Abigail whispered, kissing her cheeks.
"Love Mama," Emmeline murmured sleepily. Jasper followed with a kiss of his own.
After she'd gone, Jasper gestured toward the hall.
"Would you care to join me for a glass of wine? The Blue Salon is quite comfortable. I thought it might be a pleasant way to end the evening."
Abigail hesitated.
"Please," he added softly. "We need to speak about a few things. Now seems as good a time as any."
At last, she nodded. "Very well. A glass of wine, then."
He called for wine and a tray of fruit and cheese. The moment they sat, the refreshments arrived—too quickly, she thought. He'd planned this.
She perched at the edge of the sofa, untouched wine in hand. Jasper took the nearby chair. Silence stretched between them.
"Please," he said finally. "Relax, Abigail. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable around me."
"I'm sorry, Your Grace. I shall try," she replied, flatly—and with no such intention.
He let the title slide. "I've scheduled an appointment tomorrow with Madame Mercier—London's finest modiste. You and Emmeline will need new wardrobes for the Season. Afterward, I thought we might enjoy a picnic in the park."
Abigail's eyes narrowed. He wasn't asking. He was informing her.
"You do realize what will happen if we're seen in the park with Emmeline?" she asked.
He began to reply, but she continued, her voice low and tight.
"The gossip. The speculation. Why was the duke’s new bride absent last Season? Why did he attend alone if she was expecting—or had just given birth? Why didn't he stay with her during her confinement? Was there a scandal? Did she do something to be cast aside?"
She regretted saying so much. She'd promised herself—bare minimum. No feelings. Nothing that could be turned againsther. It was bad enough he could take their child, make decisions without her, hold all the power.
"Abigail," he said gently, "if anything, they'll think poorly of me for leaving my wife. No one knows the truth. All the world knows is that we courted two Seasons ago—and then married."
She placed her glass down and stood. Fine, she thought. I'll start again tomorrow. One-word answers from now on.
"If that is what you believe, Your Grace, very well. We shall follow your lead."
For a breath, she nearly held her tongue—the resolve of moments past warring with the rising tide of fury.
