And with that decidedly unfriendly greeting, Aunt Florence towed Abigail forward, towards the wide marble steps. Behind them, the footmen were untying their boxes and bags from the carriage, taking them in through a servants’ entrance to the side.
That made a change, too – Abigail was generally the one to bring in their bags at home.
Unable to stop herself, Abigail twisted to look around over her shoulder. The green-eyed man – Lord Alexander Willenshire, she now knew – was standing there, staring after them curiously. He smiled when he caught her looking and lifted a hand in a half-mocking wave.
Flushing, Abigail turned to face away.
“Steer clear of him, won’t you?” Aunt Florence whispered, once they were mostly out of earshot.
Abigail flinched. “What, Lord Alexander? But he’s a Willenshire, isn’t he? We’re staying with the Willenshires.”
“Indeed we are, but I reckon we won’t see much of him. I don’t object to the boy himself. There’s no real harm in him, but lately he’s taken to bad company and worse decisions. He’s a rake, you know. Ladies steer clear of rakes, if they’re sensible.”
Abigail bit her lip. Was that disappointment she felt? That was silly beyond reason. It wasn’t as if Lord Alexander was going to be hungering for her company anyway.
“Whatever you say, Aunt.”
“Good,” Aunt Florence squeezed her arm. “You’re a good girl, and a clever one. I’m sure I won’t have to keep a close eye on you.”
Abigail smiled tightly and said nothing. It seemed safer.
***
They reached the top of the marble stairs and were ushered into a cavernous hallway. The floors were highly polished stone, the walls hung with fine old tapestries and portraits of austere men and women, and Abigail’s footsteps seemed to echo louder than they should have done.
A faded woman beyond middle years waited to greet them. A tall, severe-looking man stood behind her, arms tightly tucked behind his back. He had the same olive skin as Lord Alexander, and the same chestnut hair. There was enough family resemblance to mark them out as brothers.
“Florence, my dear!” the faded lady fluted, coming forward, arms outstretched. “It has been too long.”
“Too long indeed,” Aunt Florence agreed, kissing the woman on both cheeks. “This is my niece, the one I mentioned, Abigail. Abby, this is her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Dunleigh.”
“You may call meyour Grace,” the dowager said encouragingly.
“And this gentleman is William Willenshire, the Duke of Dunleigh. He’s only recently taken up the post, you see, on account of his father passing away.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” was the only thing Abigail could think of to say. She immediately regretted it. It sounded silly.
The Duke turned his cool gaze on her. He did not smile, or make any response to her condolences, which now that she thought about it, were probably at least months too late.
Before the conversation was allowed to grow cold, Aunt Florence stepped in. They exchanged pleasantries and small talk, and Abigail tried not to shift from leg to aching leg. Her back hurt from the long carriage journey, and she was beginning to feel embarrassingly tired.
Better wake up soon,she warned herself.There’s a ball tonight. Do you want to be sent back to Mama and Scarlett in disgrace? I don’t know what would make them angrier – me embarrassing myself here, or me being chosen in the first place.
Oh, Aunt Florence, why didn’t you just choose Scarlett? I could have had a few days of peace!
She jerked herself back to the present with an effort. Another carriage was rattling down the drive now, bringing more guests.
“You must be exhausted from your journey. I’ll have you shown to your rooms right away.” the Dowager said, smiling at them both. There was something oddly hollow about her smile, but Abigail didn’t want to think about that. These great ladies always had a host of tragedies in their pasts. And that wasn’t just a conclusion which she’d drawn from novels.
And then the first conversation was over, and Abigail was able to climb the red-carpeted stairs behind Aunt Florence. A maid led the way, head down, hair covered by an old-fashioned mob-cap. She didn’t speak.
“Will I have a trundle bed in your room, Aunt?” Abigail asked.
Aunt Florence laughed. “Heavens, no, girl. You’ll have a room of your own. And since you don’t seem to have your own maid already, I’ve brought a girl from my house to wait on you.”
Abigail swallowed reflexively. “That’s not necessary, Aunt. I can dress myself.”
“I’m sure you can, but Lucy will see to you anyway.”
