“If you ask nicely.” Here, his voice turned firm as he tapped their noses with the tip of his finger. “Behave yourselves. I don’t want to return only to hear that you’ve set frogs loose in the hallway again.”
Anne’s lower lip jutted. “It was onlyfourfrogs,” she said.
“Four too many, as far as I am concerned.” He straightened. “I love you, girls.”
“We love you, Papa,” they chorused in unison.
Abel’s heart constricted. Did they know, he wondered? How precious they were to him. Perhaps he ought to remain at home. To stay close, in case they found a monster lurking under their bed. There would be other holiday balls. None as grand or prestigious as this one, but itwasthe height of the Christmas Season. The desk in his study was littered with invitations. He had plenty of opportunities to find a wife. He didn’t have to go tonight. In fact, the more that he thought about it–
“No.” Arms crossed, lips pursed, Miss Ester Hathaway–otherwise known as Nanny–stood firmly in the middle of his path when he quietly closed the nursery door behind him and prepared to return to his own bedchamber. “You’re going, and that’s that. The carriage is already here.”
Abel’s dark brows drew together above the hawkish bridge ofhis nose. “I haven’t said I wasn’t,” he said defensively.
“It’s written on your face, isn’t it?” A brown curl, heavily threaded with gray, slipped out from Ester’s mobcap as she shook her head from side to side.
Further into her sixth decade than she cared to admit, she was one of a surprisingly few number of women that could say she’d seen the Duke of Dorchester naked. Granted, he’d been a babe at the time. The cutest she’d ever cared for, save his daughters. But it seemed reasonable to her that once you had seen the buttocks of a man, even if that man did grow up to become a powerful duke, you were allowed to speak your mind. “That’s the same expression you wore when you suddenly fell ill right before the Glenmoore Ball.”
“Something in the food–”
“And what about the play you were supposed to attend with Lady Farthing?”
“Last minute business–”
“And the dinner party at Lord Hatfield’s manor?”
“Ah…” He racked his brain, searching for one of the dozens of excuses he’d used to bow out of social engagements over the last five years. “I believe the snow–”
“It’s time, Your Grace.” Once, very long ago, Ester would have gathered him into her arms and squeezed her love into him. Now that he towered over her, the best she could manage was to squeeze his hands. “Our Catherine, may God rest her soul, would want you to be happy. I want you to be happy. The girls want you to be happy. They’re growing up, and it will be easier for them if they have a mother by their side. Not someone to replace the one they lost. No one could replace Catherine. But to stand next to where she stood.”
To stand next to where she stood.
But that’s wherehewanted to stand, Abel thought irrationally. Beside the woman he’d fallen in love with when they werelittle more than children themselves growing up on neighboring estates. For him, there had never been anyonebutCatherine. When she was sixteen and he was eighteen, it seemed only natural that he ask for her hand. They’d married in the spring, and had enjoyed three years of each other’s quiet, comfortable company before the unimaginable happened. He had mourned her ever since. Every minute at first, then every hour. Every day. Every month. The passage of time had dulled the grief to an ache instead of a sharp, stabbing pain, but even now he missed her. Or maybe…if he were being completely honest…he missed theideaof her. Of having a wife. A companion. An ear to confide in. A pillow beside his own.
Was there a replacement out there?
An identical replica he could find if only he went looking?
No.
As loathe as he was to admit it, there wasn’t another woman like Catherine. There wasn’t another love like Catherine. Their bond had been forged in adolescence and innocence. Now he was a man full grown. A man with two little girls depending on him and a heart hardened by loss. If he were to meet Catherine in this moment…if he were to meet Catherine in this moment, he doubted that she’d want anything to do with him. Or at least this version of him. This cold, aloof, withdrawn shell of the happy, carefree duke that he’d once been.
“The carriage is ready?” he asked with a last, regretful look down the hall at his bedchamber. He’d have much preferred a book and a brandy than a ballroom, but Ester was right. His excuses had run thin. Whether he was ready or not, it was finally time to find another duchess.
Ester nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Then I suppose I’d better go.”
* * * *
The shutters, Lillian noted as she let herself be carried along in the sea of perfumed bodies fighting to get through the massive front doors of Foxhaven House,wereblue.
And the domed ceilings were gold.
A harpist garbed in winter white greeted the guests in the front hall, her fingertips moving elegantly across taut strings of sinew. Tables heavy with food and drink lined the walls while servants circulated through the crowd carrying flutes of champagne. Wreaths adorned with scarlet ribbon decorated the windows and garland hung from the mantles above crackling fireplaces, filling the air with the crisp scent of evergreen. Woodland animals carved from ice and wearing regal crowns of red berries were scattered throughout the front hall and adjoining parlor, inviting guests to walk around and explore as everyone waited for the ballroom to open and the dancing to commence.
Accepting a flute of champagne and withdrawing to the nearest corner, Lillian wrapped her fingers tightly around the crystal stem as she drew on every acting skill in her possession not to openly gape at the almost otherworldly display of wealth and grandeur surrounding her.
She’d known the Yuletide Ball was for the elite. The powerful. The rich. But this…this went beyond her wildest imaginings and she could only hope no one looked too closely at her dress, as the garment paled in comparison to the gorgeous gowns adorning theton’smost renowned duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses. While she, the daughter of a lowly baron without so much as a ‘lady’ to proceed her first name, held an ill-gained invitation in the folds of atheater costume.
