A plan was beginning to take shape — deliberate, delicate, and designed to secure what she was owed.
She had waited long enough.
Now, it was her move.
Chapter Seven
The countryside — once a distant dream during the bustle of the London Season — now cradled Abigail Browning in the soft embrace of familiarity. Summer was nearing its end, and with it came the promise of her wedding, set for the final days of the season. The rolling hills around her childhood home of Lyndhurst Manor were dotted with wildflowers, the wind whispering through hedgerows like a vow.
In the quiet rhythm of home, Abigail found peace — and purpose.
Jasper had hardly left her side since their return. He rode with her through fields they had known since childhood, now cast in new meaning. He walked the chapel grounds with her as the vicar reviewed the ceremony, pausing to kiss her knuckles whenever she grew overwhelmed by decisions about ribbons or flowers.
They were to marry in the same place their parents had, decades before — a sun-dappled chapel carved of weathered stone and memory. A place where vows truly meant something.
The days passed quickly. Dress fittings filled the afternoons, and Great Aunt Matilda had transformed the east wing into her personal headquarters for wedding planning. Servants bustled through the halls carrying fabric samples, guest lists, and hastily scratched notes. Invitations had been sent; responsesreturned with delight. The estate buzzed with preparations, and decorations and menus for the engagement party — to be held one week before the wedding — were well underway.
Abigail still woke some mornings in disbelief — not from fear of the future, but from the unexpected steadiness of love. She had never imagined it could feel so rooted, so real.
Her brother, Philip, had traveled to one of their family's smaller estates, closer to the country home of his fiancée, Lady Sophia Marlow. They would soon journey together — along with Sophia's father, the Earl of Blackwell — to Rosefield for the engagement party and remain until the wedding. Sophia had even offered her assistance if Abigail needed anything, and she was grateful; there had been so much to do.
Her friend, Lady Charlotte, had chosen to remain in London until the engagement party. She had reconnected with a few girls from their seminary days and was currently lodging with one of their families — a reasonable excuse, certainly. That Charlotte would soon be her sister in truth was both thrilling and oddly delicate.
Charlotte had not always been kind — but that was simply her nature. Sharp when crossed. Distant when uncertain. At times even cruel. But Abigail had long since grown used to Charlotte's acerbic tongue and still found herself genuinely excited to call her family.
And then the evening came.
The engagement ball at her family's estate unfolded like something from a dream. Lanterns floated above the gardens, casting a golden glow over marble statues and fountains that shimmered in the summer twilight. The ballroom gleamed — soft pinks, golds, and ivories blooming across floral arrangements like brushstrokes from an artist's hand.
Abigail's gown was ivory silk embroidered with silver thread, the neckline edged with tiny pearls. Her hair was swept up andfastened with her mother's brooch. At her side, Jasper — the Duke of Winterset — stood proud in formal attire, his hand resting possessively yet tenderly at her waist as they moved through the receiving line.
Guests clapped as they entered the ballroom, a string quartet filling the space with elegant sound. Toasts were made — to love, to fortune, to a future yet unwritten.
Glasses were lifted. Words were spoken. And then came the dancing.
Abigail and Jasper took to the floor, their steps effortless and elegant. Around them, laughter rang out, and rose-scented air drifted in from the open terrace.
Charlotte looked stunning in her violet ball gown, and Sophia glowed beside Philip — so evidently in love. The thought made Abigail smile. Soon, they would be the guests of honor at their own engagement celebration, to be held at the Earl of Blackwell's estate.
Abigail danced with her father while Jasper took a turn with her mother — a beautiful waltz that brought tears to more than one pair of eyes. As Abigail looked around the room, she saw her wedding day unfolding in her mind with crystalline clarity. It was so near now.
Everything was coming together.
And as the night drew to a close beneath the stars, she felt it settle in her chest — the quiet certainty that this, finally, was her beginning.
In only a week, she would be Jasper's wife. Jasper — whom she had known since childhood. Falling in love with him was something she had never anticipated, but now, she could not imagine her life in any other hue. She would stand beside him as the Duchess of Winterset.
She imagined their children running through the same fieldsthey had once played in, and she fell asleep dreaming of a beautiful future.
Chapter Eight
The clink of silverware and the quiet murmur of the footman clearing dishes was the only sound in the dining room of Roselawn Manor. Jasper had just returned from a morning of correspondence and mild headaches induced by wedding logistics. Opposite him sat his younger sister, Charlotte, in unnaturally high spirits, swirling her spoon in her soup with barely restrained glee.
"Jasper," she said suddenly, her voice feather-light, "has Philip spoken to you yet?"
He looked up from his plate, brow furrowed. "Philip?"
"Yes, Philip!" she repeated, eyes shining. "Philip Browning."
