Chapter Four
It was almost a weeksince Abigail had last seen Mr. Townsbridge, a day she recalled as the one where he’d proven he had a good reason for being ill-tempered the night they’d met, and the one where she’d proven herself a liar. It had been wrong of her to mislead him – even Petra had disapproved – but when he’d inquired about her wellbeing, blaming her ailment on something she’d eaten had seemed so much simpler than telling the truth.
Because really, how did one inform a man that he was responsible for her fluttering heart, the reason she feared casting up her accounts, and why she could never think of what to say while in his presence? It was impossible to do so.
And so she’d dreaded having to see him again. For she’d known her palms would start sweating, her legs turn to jelly, and her brain to mush the moment she did. But contrary to what he’d told her when they’d parted ways in the park, he hadn’t come to call in the days that followed. Instead, he’d sent a letter, excusing himself until further notice and inquiring about her health.
And since writing a letter was simple enough and something she actually excelled at, Abigail had responded, informing him that her health was much improved. She’d added a few extra points about the wedding preparations, signed it, and paused. For long moments after, she’d stared at the piece of paper and then, recklessly, she’d added:P.S. I am also planning a funeral. Just in case.
A day had gone by without a response, during which she’d started to fear that she’d gone too far. She’d even begun wondering if there were a way for her to retrieve the blasted letter and tear it to shreds before he read it. Perhaps she’d misread him when he’d made that comment about the vicar. Perhaps he hadn’t been joking. In which case he must think something was wrong with her for responding as she had, as if what he’d said was incredibly funny.
But then, when she’d just about convinced herself that her only viable option was to leave the country and never return, she’d received another letter from him, this one slightly longer than the last and with a post script of his own which read:If you would be kind enough to tell me your height, I can order the caskets.
A smile had spread across her face, replacing all doubt with joy. And then she’d laughed. Not only because of his perfect response but because it had given her hope. If she could just get her nerves under control where he was concerned, then there was a chance of things turning out well between them.
Additional letters had followed, during which Abigail had become increasingly certain that when she met Mr. Townsbridge again, she would be able to speak with him properly. She even fantasized about what she would say and how he’d respond, about sharing smiles and laughter, and slowly falling in love.
Until she arrived at Bethany Townsbridge’s home for dinner one evening and realized fantasy was very different from reality. Because the moment she followed her parents into the parlor and actually saw him, her heart leapt into her throat and her stomach began turning inside out. His eyes, fixed solely on her, seemed brighter than ever before. And then he smiled, the sort of smile that spoke of shared secrets and something bordering on sin.
Abigail felt the familiar queasiness swamp her. She took a deep breath and attempted a smile of her own, only to find that it felt too tight.
Abigail’s parents, Miranda and Edward, wasted no time in greeting Bethany and her husband, Charles Townsbridge. Abigail followed suit and even managed to address Viscount and Viscountess Roxley, her soon-to-be parents-in-law with a polite, “How do you do?”
But when she was faced with James Townsbridge himself, the air seemed to thicken, making it harder to breathe. She tried to inhale, to force her quickening heartbeats into a calmer rhythm. But it was to no avail. The effect he had on her was so intense, she started to fear her knees might buckle beneath her weight.
He frowned at her. “You do not look well,” he said while searching her face in a way that only increased her discomfort. “Based on our correspondence, I imagined you’d found the source of your malaise, but that’s clearly not the case.”
“I...um...” Oh, how she wished she could get both her mind and body under control. Instead she just stood there, unable speak.
“Fresh air,” Mr. Townsbridge declared as if stumbling upon some fantastic discovery. Before Abigail could blink, he’d linked his arm with hers and steered her through to an adjoining sitting room. “We’re going for a walk,” he added while passing his brother.
“But dinner’s about to be served,” Charles Townsbridge said.
“Then you must excuse us,” James Townsbridge told him without breaking his stride. “Lady Abigail is in need of fresh air, which I intend to provide. We shall return as soon as she’s feeling better.”
“Thank you,” Abigail murmured as soon as they’d exited onto the terrace and she’d managed to take a deep breath. The air was cool and fresh, infused with the sweet scent of jasmine growing nearby.
