When the carriage came to an abrupt halt, Abigail jerked awake.

The two older ladies on the opposite seat were huddled to one side, staring wide-eyed out the window. One was Mrs. Frances Biddleton, of course, and the other, Abigail’s own mistress, Mrs. Selina Gordon. The latter wore her customary turban, having been celebrated in her youth for her raven locks only to suffer—her word—their prematurely greying.

Whatever Abigail was needed for to make part of the company was quite unknown, but Mrs. Gordon wouldn’t hear of her being left behind.

Carter and Mrs. Biddleton’s lady’s maid were crammed onto the seat beside her, the carriage not meant to seat more than four. Carter patted Abigail’s hand, sending her a concerned look.

To be so crowded amongst people who meant her so well and to still be so alone…

The only way to cut through the sorrow was to focus on the minutiae of the present. Whatever task needed attending would have nothing short of her absolute fullest attention. She wouldn’t regret her life, she wouldn’t. Nor would she wish to be something she was not.

Servants came to see to the horses, carriage, and trunks. The day was frigid, but the clear sunshine was warm upon her face.

Abigail, in her best calico day dress under the traveling cloak lest she not have time to change and set herself to rights after traveling, stood to the side staring up at Westmore Hall. It was imposing enough, with a smooth grey stone edifice and banks upon banks of windows bespeaking nothing but centuries of wealth and status.

The great hall was in her home county, but quite on the other side of where she’d been raised.

Two of the grooms exchanged a few sentences in the same dialect she’d grown up speaking with her father before she’d learned to school her tongue when playing in the great house with her highborn friend.

She was naught but the daughter of a gamekeeper who’d been born with bowing words and a different pattern of speech in her mouth. The whole world would view her as being highly unsuitable to even be in the presence of a marquess, unless viewing him from a distance. Completely below his notice, that’s what people would think.

But she hadn’t been. And she wasn’t. Would he think differently if he knew? He hadn’t seemed particularly interested one way or the other when she’d told him what her father had done.

Never mind, it was better this way. There was a reason she’d never told him her name. She was a gamekeeper’s daughter turned companion. He was a marquess. What could they possibly have together that might extend beyond their one night?

* * *

Abigail kept to the far wall well away from the others, hardly part of the room at all. Going with Carter would have been preferable, but that was not an option. Companions were stuck in that same bind that shackled governesses. They were not a part of the family, but not a true servant, either.

Her place was by her mistress’s side. Or near, should she be needed, which certainly did not seem to be the case.

The house itself might have been several hundred years old, but the first drawing room—a distinction Mrs. Biddleton had not allowed Mrs. Gordon to overlook—was nothing but the picture of elegance. Perfectly appointed, it was done to the height of style late in final decade of the last century, with sea-foam green walls decorated with elegant plasterwork patterned from nature and long sweeping lines harmonizing every object, piece of furniture, and item to be seen.

A footman in full livery stood back by the windows overlooking an enclosed garden, ready to attend every and any whim of the ten or so assorted guests, including Abigail.

It was a stark contrast to the little cottage in which she’d spent the night with the marquess. Yet, he’d been born to this world. If he ever found himself in a room such as this, he’d probably not think twice.

The woman of the house, the small yet regal Lady Ingrahme, with her hawkish eyes and an odd little arching trick to make her appear in possession of the most imposing set of brows Abigail had ever seen, sat with her guests as if holding court.

By all appearances, Mrs. Biddleton had capacity to speak on but a single subject. “I don’t suppose your nephew might be joining us any time soon, my lady?” While speaking, she patted the back of her hair, apparently highly concerned with her toilette.

If Abigail had been subject to the glowers Lady Ingrahme was bestowing upon Mrs. Biddleton, she would have been able to do a fine impression of a Gunther’s ice, albeit in a rather unusual flavor.

Mrs. Biddleton, however, brought the subject back to the man at least thrice during the first insufferable hour. After the first mention, Mrs. Gordon cast her friend a warning look.

The way Mrs. Biddleton carried on, it was like she had hope of catching the man’s eye. It was almost enough to rouse some curiosity about the man. It certainly made Abigail impatient for his arrival to see what would play out once he’d arrived.

By the third mention, the most intrusive and clumsy of all, Abigail’s mistress made an excuse about the heat from the fire to take a seat completely opposite and as far from Mrs. Biddleton as possible.

It wasn’t an unusual pattern. Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Biddleton fell in together as quickly and easily as they fell out, the former mortified by the manners of the latter, but unable to stay too far away for any overly long period due to the fact that Mrs. Biddleton had a knack for ferreting out all the best on-dits. And Abigail’s mistress had a penchant for wanting early and detailed knowledge on all the best gossip.

What would they say about her if they’d known how she’d spent the previous night?

Though her mood was far from mirthful, the idea pulled a smile to her lips. She bowed her head, looking into her hands trying to suppress the expression.

The two women’s eyes would go wide and they’d cover their mouths, inhaling audibly, and then declare they’d never heard of anything more shocking. And who knew, maybe they wouldn’t have. What Abigail and the marquess had done was so far beyond the pale as to be transparent. Either way, Mrs. Gordon might show some sense on the subject, but Mrs. Biddleton would lean in and no doubt ask the most unimaginably impertinent question possible.

Biting back laughter, Abigail’s fingers went to her throat. Instead of finding the cameo pendant Edward had given her, she found nothing. Rather like the omission of gemstones about her ears and throat for the ball, only this time, the realization came with no pitching regret. She’d given the cameo, chain and all, to one of Mrs. Gordon’s maids who’d always admired it.

As it should have been. It was one thing to vow to oneself that there would be no more clinging to impossible dreams. It was another to shed all evidence of ever having them out of one’s life for good.

“Excellent.” Lady Ingrahme’s attention focused on the new arrival shadowing the doorway. “You’ve come at last, nephew.”

The entire room went silent.

Situated in an awkward part of the room as she was, Abigail was without vantage and didn’t have an immediate view of the newcomer. But she too had her head turned, her eyes unblinking waiting for this man to make his entrance.

“I apologize for keeping everyone waiting.”

Icy shards of dread drew clawing marks down Abigail’s back. The voice was enough. It could belong to but a single person in the world. She didn’t need to see.

No, it couldn’t be. It was impossible. Completely and utterly impossible. Fate wouldn’t be so—couldn’t be so—what? Cruel? Kind?

But it was. It was.

Her insides turned into a mad flutter of tiny beasts writhing to free themselves from their confines.

Sweet savior, help her.