Page 4 of Never Dare a Duke
With an exaggerated sigh, Gwen flounced back on the bench, tilting her parasol to block her face from Abigail.
“And will you forgive me if I do not go along with this insane plan?” Abigail asked, trying not to laugh.
Gwen dipped the parasol to peek at her with narrowed eyes. “Probably not.”
“Then that is even more reason to give this great thought.”
“You think too much. Now stop thinking, and begin to nod regally. You never know if we’ll meet someone who might be in attendance at the duchess’s country house party.”
Abigail’s smile died as she stared at the crowded lane, full of beautiful carriages and beautiful people. Gwen could not possibly imagine that Abigail could fit in, that she’d even know what was expected of a gentleman’s daughter.
That night, Abigail settled into her well-loved role by her father’s side at a paper-strewn table in the drawing room. He was a beefy man, given to living a good life with the money he’d worked hard to earn, with sparse gray hair on top of his head and a mouth that seemed incomplete without a cigar. Several times a week, he brought home articles that his writers were working on and sought her opinion on how they appealed to women. She couldn’t help but be flattered since he was a man whose newspaper sparked discussions in Parliament, bettering society.
“What about this one, Abigail?” he asked, putting another paper before her though she hadn’t finished the last one.
She skimmed the article, trying not to wince at the plight of solitary women immigrants and what they did to survive. She would never have such problems, she knew—she had plans for her life, talents that would aid her. Surely she’d inherited her skill from her father. For just a moment, she thought about confiding everything to him.
Suddenly, he snatched back the article. “Wait, I did not mean you to read this one. I haven’t edited it yet, and it is far too graphic for feminine eyes.”
“But Papa, I’m an adult now. I have been reading your paper for many years. You don’t need to protect me from life.”
He gave her an absent smile, still engrossed in his work. “That is what a father is for. And then it will be your husband’s duty.”
She sighed. Until she proved herself to him, she would always be his little girl rather than a talented woman. Her investigation into the duke could accomplish that. She thought again of Gwen’s offer to take her to Madingley Court and the risks involved. If she had it in her power to help theMorning Journal—and her father’s reputation—shouldn’t she do all she could?
The bell at the front door rang, and neither father nor daughter paid attention to it.
A few minutes later, a feminine voice said, “Excuse me, Lawrence.”
Abigail looked up with a smile. Her mother, Henrietta, stood in the doorway, thin and delicate, her hair a light brown that had begun to fade. She was the daughter of a tailor and had never quite accustomed herself to the luxurious life her husband had lavished on her.
And then Abigail saw that her mother was not alone. A young man wearing an earnest, hopeful expression gave her a tentative smile. He was of middling height, pleasant of features, trim enough to indicate an active life.
Her father rose to his feet, fairly beaming between Abigail and the young man. Abigail hid her resigned sigh. Though she’d grown up worshipping her father, she was dismayed that his newest project was her respectable marriage to a man above their station. What else did a businessman’s plain daughter have to offer a nobleman—but money?
But never did her father mention his problems at the newspaper as being one of his motivations to marry her off. How could she not love him, regardless of the controlling nature he softened with his love?
When she rose, her father urged her forward by the hand, displaying her. “Abigail, may I present Mr. Wadsworth? He is in town for the season and owns ancestral property in the Lake District.”
Her father looked a bit too proud of himself, and she understood at once: Mr. Wadsworth was a “gentleman” in the truest sense of the word. She curtsied in resignation.
“Mr. Wadsworth, my daughter, Miss Shaw.”
Mr. Wadsworth bowed to her.
“And how are you and my father acquainted, sir?”
Mr. Wadsworth’s florid face blushed even more. “I am a new member of Parliament, Miss Shaw, and theMorning Journalhas been a staunch supporter of several bills I am sponsoring.”
Abigail smiled at her father. “He is always so interested in helping people.”
She glanced at her mother, who hid her amusement behind her sudden concentration on the embroidery she’d picked up.
“I invited him to dinner,” her father said, “and he could not wait to agree, especially when he heard he could meet the whole family.”
Including my marriageable daughter,were the unspoken words.
Was this going to be her future? Married off to her father’s ideal prospect while he still had the dowry money to make it happen? Was she going to succumb to his desperation and just give in, hoping that with a good marriage, she could support her parents when they no longer could? How would her father survive the humiliation of bankruptcy?
