“Out we get, then,” Aunt Florence said brightly. “You first, dear. It always takes me an age to haul myself up.”
There was nothing for it. Abigail’s heart pounded and she felt almost dizzy with fear, but her body made her move.
Getting out of a carriage was never particularly dignified, but she was used to it. Being the last one to climb out, the single footman who came out to help was usually already occupied with Scarlett or Harriet, leaving Abigail to hop down herself.
Swinging the door open herself, Abigail noticed with a pang of anxiety that footmen were already hurrying towards her, three of them, all of the same height and dressed in identical, grand-looking livery.
In her hurry to climb down before she had to accept their help, Abigail’s too-long skirt caught under her foot.
She realised her mistake at once, but it was already too late. Bent over to step through the carriage’s narrow entrance, momentum behind her, and nothing to grab onto, Abigail stumbled, overbalanced, passed the point of no return, and toppled forward onto the gravel drive.
Not quite, actually.
She thumped against a broad, firm chest, cheek sliding against what felt like a fine silk brocade waistcoat. A large pair of hands closed around her upper arms, steadying her, and her feet landed squarely on the gravel. She gave an unladylikeoof.
“I beg your pardon,” Abigail stammered, not daring to look up at the unfortunate footman who’d caught her. “I am rather clumsy.”
“Think nothing of it,” responded the man, in tones too airy and confident to be a footman.
Swallowing hard, Abigail shuffled back and made herself look up at her saviour. His hands dropped from her arms, but she could still feel where he’d touched her. Perhaps that was a trick of the dress material.
The man smiling down at her was certainly not a footman. He wore an emerald-green suit, shockingly bright and certainlynotlivery, and there was a gold-coloured brocade waistcoat underneath. His skin was olive, he had thick and glossy chestnut hair, and the most beautiful hazel-green eyes Abigail had ever seen.
In short, he was shockingly handsome, a fact which Abigail was aware of in a way she had not before. She’d met handsome men before, surely? Not all of them made her chest clench. None of them, in fact.
“I am sorry,” she repeated, since he seemed to be waiting for her to say something. “It was an accident.”
The green-eyed man laughed. “It’s lucky I was here. It would be an inauspicious start to your stay to land face-first on the ground. Ah, this is Lady Caldecott’s carriage! Can I assume you are the infamous niece?”
Abigail opened her mouth, not entirely sure what to say. The wit which her aunt had praised only a few moments ago had deserted her. In fact, all of her words had. The green-eyed man lifted his eyebrows, obviously expecting some response.
A Society Beauty would respond with some witty and ever-so-slightly flirtation sally, something to make him laugh, but not clever enough to make him feel silly.
Unfortunately, Abigail could think of absolutely nothing to say. She could practically see the boredom creeping over the young man’s face. No doubt he thought her dull as well as ugly, and probably wished he’d simply let her fall.
Where was heraunt?
On cue, the carriage gave a groan of relief, and she heard thethudof her aunt stumbling down onto the gravel.
“Ah, it’s wonderful to be out of that wretched thing,” Aunt Florence sighed. Abigail took the opportunity to turn away from the green-eyed man who made her feel so very inferior, and scurried over to her aunt, taking her arm.
The green-eyed man and Aunt Florence eyed each other warily.
“Lord Alexander,” Aunt Florence said, voice strangely shielded. “I had it in my head you’d be away.”
“You know me, Lady Caldecott. I’d never miss my mother’s summer ball. This is your niece, I assume?”
“Yes, yes,” Aunt Florence said, smiling weakly. “Miss Abigail Atwater. I’m terribly fond of her. I daresay I shan’t let her leave my side for our entire stay.”
Was it Abigail’s imagination, or was there a hint of warning in her aunt’s voice? Aunt Florence cleared her throat, nudging her niece.
“Make your courtesies and say how-do-you-do to Lord Alexander Willenshire, my dear. He’s the youngest of the Willenshire siblings.”
Abigail murmured a greeting, dropping into an ungraceful curtsey. His lordship bowed back.
“Shall I escort you in?” he asked. Aunt Florence’s arm tightened in Abigail’s.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I know my way well enough. Oh, and I see the Duchess at the top of the stairs! Don’t let us keep you from your business, my lord. Good day to you.”
