win their wager. Since he would name the terms for their next bet, why shouldn’t he take the same opportunity?
“Are you going to shoot it or stare at it all evening?” one of the other men in the small group asked, and elicited a laugh from the others.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Nathan said. “I know exactly what I’m going to do.”
Win. He was going to win against Abigail. And it didn’t mean a damned thing, no matter how many times Rhys arched an eyebrow about it.
Chapter 3
Abigail smiled as her carriage pulled up to the little blue house Owen and Celeste lived in near Pettyfort Park. She was so looking forward to this afternoon. Celeste had promised a small gathering, just friends. Abigail knew Rhys and Pippa would be there. She was also excited to learn that Pippa had invited her former governess, Harriet, and her paramour, Lena Bright. The two women owned the most popular salon in London, Lady Lena’s. Abigail had met them before, of course, but she hoped to get to know the pair better. Perhaps even angle to garner herself an invitation to the salon. She was so curious about it.
She went to the door and was allowed in by Owen’s butler, Cookson. She was taken to the small parlor and smiled as she entered to find the party already gathered.
“I seem to be fashionably late,” she said with a laugh.
Celeste and Pippa both laughed as they approached her. She was enveloped in their welcoming hugs, and for a few moment it was all giggles and catching up with these two women she hadn’t even known a year ago. Couldn’t have guessed when she realized their existence that she would come to love them like sisters.
Lady Lena and Harriet said their good afternoons, along with Owen and Rhys. As everyone settled back into their cheery conversations, Abigail took a chair with a smothered smile. It seemed their party was complete—and it did not include the Duke of Gilmore.
She hadn’t seen him since Rhys and Pippa’s gathering a few nights before, when they’d wagered so inappropriately and he had requested a chance to win his money back. She’d waited for him to clarify how that would happen, but he’d said nothing more to her that night. He had also not reached out to her since.
And she was relieved, not disappointed. She didn’t want to have some silly secret with the man. She didn’t want to spend time with him. It was better just to forget the whole thing had happened and move on with her life.
Which she promptly did as she fell into a conversation with Lena Bright about Sir Walter Scott. She was perfectly comfortable and happy when Cookson stepped into the doorway and the room turned toward him with an expectant air.
“The Duke of Gilmore,” he intoned.
Abigail stood with the rest of the group, but it took some effort. She would have told anyone around her that her heart sank at that announcement. She might have even tried to tell herself that it was horror and annoyance that cropped up in her chest when Cookson stepped aside and Gilmore strode into the room.
But it wasn’t. To her great confusion, there was a flutter in her stomach when Gilmore scanned the room and his dark gaze settled, momentarily, on her. She shifted slightly, willing her hands to stop trembling, and then forced a scowl on her face.
“Good afternoon,” he said, holding out a hand as Owen crossed the room to greet him. “Pardon my tardiness. I received a letter just as I was leaving and the answer couldn’t wait.”
There was something about his mouth as he said those words. A slight downturn to his lips that made Abigail wonder what the letter had been about.
It seemed Owen could sense the same, for he tilted his head. “Anything I can assist with?”
Gilmore clapped his forearm with a smile. “No. Thank you, though. I appreciate the offer.”
He moved around the room, saying good afternoon to each attendee and making more personal apologies for his lateness. He was reintroduced to Lena and Harriet, and Abigail’s lips thinned as he spoke to Lena in French for a moment when she brought up that she had been reading Voltaire. Showing off, of course. He couldn’t seem to help himself.
Finally, though, he stepped away from the other ladies and moved to her. “Mrs. Montgomery,” he drawled.
She flinched, as she always did when someone used her married name. “Your Grace.”
She heard the coldness of