A colonels sinful dilemm.., p.24
A Colonel's Sinful Dilemma, page 24
“You must have someone in mind already, then,” Abigail said. She now struggled to keep control over her voice.
“We’ll let you know as soon as we do, darling,” her mother recited.
“And you’ll be grateful for whoever he is,” her father insisted, annoyance making his voice boom. “I look forward to you growing up, Abigail. After twenty-two years, it will be a remarkable thing to witness. I thought it not possible.”
Chapter 2
Abigail stormed out of the parlour, stomped up the staircase, and smashed the door to her room closed. She heaved as she leaned against the closed door, gazing out across the moors. A glossy sunset smeared itself into pinks and purples over the moor hilltops.
The colour was enough to break her heart. She’d seen countless sunsets over the years, many from that very bedroom—and yet this one ached with the enormity of losing the life she loved.
Slowly, Abigail removed her dinner garments and sat at the edge of her bed in her bedclothes, staring at the floor. Throughout her life, she’d never understood the formation of marriage. It had seemed strange to her that any man was meant to swoop into her perfectly constructed mind and demand differences within herself.
She’d heard from her sisters that their husbands frequently told them what to wear, where to shop, what to buy, how to raise their children—even what to read to them. Men, it seemed to Abigail, wanted unique and all-powerful control. And she detested it.
It was wretched to blame Tabitha for her newfound situation, but Abigail couldn’t help it at this moment. If Tabitha hadn’t confessed the nature of her engagement, perhaps her parents would never have braved it for Abigail.
Still, arranged marriages were something of a commonplace thing in England. Abigail marvelled at this. She lived in a society that was borderline obsessed with nearly every element of romance, of courting, of ballroom dancing. Yet still, parents were required to pair off their children, in order for procreation to begin.
It disgusted her.
Abigail wasn’t entirely sure she believed in love. She felt that, if it did exist, love was the only true reason to be married; however, she’d never felt any sort of real attraction towards anyone and had assumed that love only happened to overly lonely people. Case in point: Tabitha didn’t love Reginald, because Tabitha and Abigail had always had one another, and needed nobody else.
Still, Tabitha’s forced marriage to Reginald could very well push Abigail into a territory of her own loneliness, which was fearful in and of itself.
She never wanted to be desperate for someone else’s affirmation. She never wanted to need anyone but herself.
If her parents wanted to arrange her marriage, however, Abigail wasn’t entirely sure how on earth to wiggle herself out of it. She was no longer twelve, attempting to get out of eating her vegetables. This was a far more difficult feat, something that required planning and unique skill.
“Think, Abigail,” she muttered to herself. She splayed herself across her bed and blinked at the ceiling, as the orange and pink sunset dribbled into darkness.
Over and over again, it seemed, she reached the same conclusion. Her family, the Youngs, was an immaculate one—certainly the type of family a man would long to marry into.
Indeed, both Esther and Georgina’s husbands had leapt at the chance, and many men Abigail had encountered at various balls over the years had further indicated that it would be a prosperous marriage for them. Thus, whoever her parents found would certainly not disagree with the arrangement.
If only she’d come from an unrespectable family. If only she could besmirch her name.
If only …
Ah! The thought smacked her over the head. What if she didn’t have such a stellar reputation?
What if she could ruin her name, make herself out to be a wretched match—the kind of woman one had to poke with a stick before getting closer to?
Oh, but how?
Again, her thoughts raced. She considered making up a terrible rumour about herself, something that skated through the various alleys and parlours and ballrooms of the surrounding counties in such a manner that it forced any man to think twice about an engagement with her.
Of course, such a rumour could very well be doubted. If someone dug deep enough, the rumour would be proven to be just that—lacking in any real fact.
This meant that she had to perform some action so wretched that memory of it latched to her forever. She had to do something that forced the rest of the world to take notice. If she had such a horrid reputation, it would put real issue on her parents’ search—such that, perhaps, they could even put the marriage search off for a bit, maybe even a few years, to allow people to forget about Abigail’s little mistake.
By that time, Abigail assumed that she would discover yet another reason not to wed whoever came next.
The idea of it all was entirely delicious. It allowed for a lot of her favourite things: disobedience, outlandish behavior, shock.
But what must she do to generate such an outcry against her very person?
Of course, in the country of England, it seemed that every rule, every idea, revolved around the concept of romance. Many women became worried if a man with an off-putting reputation so much as breathed in their general direction, for fear that her association with him might put off other men in the area.
“I’ve only to find a man with a questionable reputation,” she whispered into the darkness. “Someone entirely wretched. Someone willing to have a public kiss with me, one that will force gossip and rumours to fly.”
A public kiss with a questionable man was a nearly perfect solution. It wouldn’t completely ruin her reputation; rather, it would hamper it for only a few years’. Besides: men with questionable reputations seemed far more interesting to her than, say, the likes of Reginald.
Finally, her mind made up, she closed her eyes and fell into a deep slumber. Her plan was foolproof: certainly the sort of thing to drive her parents wild with anger, to confuse the rest of the county, and to allow her a cushion of solitude for many years more.
Chapter 3
Seth propped his feet up on his father’s desk and gazed down into the glossy, honey-coloured liquid, a glass of his father’s old Scotch. The old grandfather clock in his father’s study ticked ominously, a reminder of the coming lateness of the hour. It was just after nine in the evening, and Seth hadn’t seen anyone at all at the estate—no one except the single remaining butler, who longed to leave as soon as he could.
There was a boisterous knock on the front door. Seth hadn’t expected anyone to arrive, not so soon after his father and mother’s departure for the other estate, and he listened intently as the butler greeted the visitor and then led him down the long hallway. At the door, the butler rapped his knuckles and said, “Lord Nicholson, you’ve a visitor.”
“Come in,” Seth said.
When the door cracked open, Seth was warmed to see the friendly brown eyes of his good friend, Giles Clarke, a sort of a mastermind in terms of raucous season antics—a man Seth would have done anything for, as he’d livened up his life for as long as he could remember.
“Giles! I hadn’t a clue you’d planned to stop by,” he said, as Giles strode into the study and slipped the door closed.
“I hadn’t heard from you after my last letter,” Giles returned.
“Ah, well. I didn’t receive it. The estate has been in a state of chaos the past few weeks, and it must have slipped through a servant’s fingers.
“Yes. I see that,” Giles said. “It feels like a haunted house. What’s happened?”
“My parents took the majority of the servants and returned to the other estate,” Seth affirmed.
“That’s right. It’s always a surprise when they run off like that,” Giles said.
“It’s always a surprise to me, as well, as they hardly make any bother to tell me. Of course, I love the feeling of the house to myself, no matter how haunted it may be. I like the little gasps and groans of the old construction,” Seth said.
Seth grabbed his father’s bottle of Scotch and poured Giles a glass. Giles blinked around the shadowed study, lit only with candlelight, and said, “It’s always a funny thing to be in here without the old man.”
“He hardly likes knowing that I use it when he’s gone,” Seth admitted. “He’s quite selfish with his things.”
“I hope he’s not so selfish about his Scotch,” Giles said with a laugh.
“He’ll assume that he drank it himself,” Seth affirmed, clicking his glass with Giles’s. “To summertime, just around the bend.”
“Another summer of chaos, I hope,” Giles offered.
“Ah, Giles. You know I’m trying to be a far different man these days,” Seth said.
Giles considered this for a moment, seemingly turning the Scotch over his tongue. “You mentioned that you wanted to try. But I assumed it would be different. I haven’t seen you around town at all in previous weeks. It’s felt a bit empty to tell you the truth.”
Seth slipped his hand across the back of his neck, his heart thudding. “I’ve told you. I’m on my best behaviour.”
Giles clucked his tongue. “Seth Nicholson, on his best behaviour. I never imagined I would see the day.”
“Well, here is that very day for you,” Seth said. “We had some mighty wild times. Now, those days have ended for me.”
Giles clucked his tongue. “Come now. You must understand how silly you sound. This is no way to act. You’re a twenty-seven-year-old man, still in the prime of your life.”
“I told my parents that I would calm down a bit,” Seth said, his words heavy with regret. “You know that I want nothing more than to follow you into the impossibly raucous night.”
“And that’s yet another reason that I’m here,” Giles recited. “There’s a stellar party this evening. Ian Montgomery’s place. You remember the last one he held last year, don’t you?”
Seth clamped his eyes closed. In fact, he did remember it. It had been one of the most remarkable nights of his life. Ian Montgomery was something of a town miscreant, nobody his parents had ever wanted him to hang around—but he was stellar in conversation, always the first to make a joke, and he knew some of the wilder and frivolous people in town.
“You know it will be just as frantic as last year,” Giles affirmed. He lifted his Scotch and swirled it contemplatively. “And I really think you should come.”
Again, Seth groaned. “Your words are entirely too tempting.”
“So you’ll come?”
Seth turned his forehead to the edge of his father’s desk. His thoughts hammered out, louder and louder, as he imagined the various potential routes of the evening. On the one hand, he yearned to grow glossy with drink, to flirt and banter, to cause a ruckus. On the other, he wanted none of the news of the party to reach his father’s ears. Already, his parents had threatened him, declaring that he was on the verge of receiving a lacklustre reputation.
“I really cannot, Giles,” he muttered.
Giles lifted his Scotch back and sipped down the rest. His eyes glistened with regret. “If you’re really certain about it, then I suppose I’ll bid you goodbye.”
“Giles, I’m quite sorry,” Seth said.
“It’s nothing.”
Of course, it wasn’t nothing—it was very much something. Seth knew that he’d broken some sort of code between them, something that had once assured they would always have someone with whom to sit and make horrendous decisions with. Now, Giles had to find another, he supposed.
This, in and of itself, made Seth burn with jealousy.
“I’ll see you soon, then, My Lord,” Giles said with a slight wink.
“Don’t have too much fun without me. Or do,” Seth said, heaving a sigh. “Perhaps you can come back soon. We can play croquet in the garden. Drink Scotch all night.”
“Perhaps,” Giles said, although he seemed less-than thrilled about the prospect. “Goodnight, Seth.”
With that, Giles rose, nodded, and eased out of the study, leaving Seth alone in the chaotic stirrings of his own head. Long after he left, Seth remained staring into his half-drunk Scotch, marvelling at his own boredom.
It hadn’t been anything he’d planned for, this reputation. Most of it had come from stirring gossip that he had had nothing to do with. Perhaps he’d kissed a few too many high-society women; perhaps he’d “pretended” to court a few, for the benefit of their conversation and company. He hadn’t been serious about any of it, as, in his mind, he was still only twenty-seven, and still had a few years left before he was required to settle. His life wasn’t like a woman’s life. He had time to flourish, to become something else.
Of course, he’d never heard a woman complain about that lot in life. It seemed that every woman he knew yearned to marry early and begin to craft babies until an entire estate seemed to teem with them. Many-a woman had attempted to latch him to this sort of fate.
Giles felt similarly to this future. He wanted to draw out the events of their youth as long as he could—and hadn’t been as unlucky as Seth had, in that the majority of gossip had slipped over him without tainting.
Still, when gossip about his exploits had reached his father’s ears, he’d been angry, his cheeks bright red, and his voice monstrous. Seth had never seen him like that. It was enough to keep him at home, at least for a little while—at least until the gossip surrounding him cooled.
“You’re my son!” his father had spewed. “Poised to be a Duke! I cannot envision this future for you if you keep up these exploits. I will disown you as a son. Mark my words, I will.”
Thus, Seth sat alone on yet another evening, drinking Scotch alone in the shadows of his father’s study. He visualized the party: the beautiful women with their low-cut gowns and their vibrant laughs and their chaotic eyes.
What had he done before his beautiful life of grandeur and parties? He struggled to remember. He supposed he’d been a boy, then: the sort overly willing to grow lost in the forest, or in a good book, or both at once. Now, in the growing dead of night, he searched his father’s bookcase for something, anything to read. He leafed off a book of poetry and placed it atop his lap, flicking through the pages.
Back in the old days, he’d utilized poetry as a way to grow closer to women. He was a firm believer in the beauty of poetry—yes—but he also knew that proof of this big, beating heart within his chest lured women closer to him. Usually, he just adored making them adore him, nothing more. Giles had called this “going fishing.” Still, Seth had always taken unique pleasure in quoting some of his favourite poets, listening to the syllables as they left his tongue. “Monstrous,” Giles had said of his mode of attack.
Now that there was nothing in his life to call his own, however, Seth struggled with what came next. Even his eyes couldn’t latch onto the poetry; his mind couldn’t bend around the metaphors. He felt akin to the colour grey: a twenty-seven-year-old man with absolutely nothing to offer the world. He was lost.
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Harding, Henrietta, A Colonel's Sinful Dilemma
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