Once upon a time when Abigail was in her first season, it had been understood that Abigail would have a say in the matter of whom she would marry. As that season passed without a wedding, and then another, and then still another—that understanding had disappeared right in front of her eyes. Both her parents were growing impatient, and her mother had declared it was time she took matters into her own hands.
As if her mother hadn’t been attempting to manage Abigail and her prospects for years now.
But now her mother meant to choose her husband for her, taking no account of Abigail’s preference or opinion. Abigail narrowed her eyes in the face of her mother’s expectant, smug smile. Would she concede?
Never.
In an effort to placate his determined wife and his admittedly stubborn daughter, her father had given Abigail one last chance at choosing for herself. If she could not find an eligible suitor to ask for her hand by the end of this season, she would be forced to marry the gentleman her mother chose for her.
Experience told her that her mother’s choice would be whomever would make Abigail most miserable.
“There is no shame in admitting defeat, dear,” her mother said, her words so sugarcoated that a passerby would never know they were actually salt being rubbed into a wound.
The wound was metaphorical, of course. It was only her pride that suffered after watching each and every one of the young ladies she’d made her debut with marry, leaving her with increasingly bad prospects as she hovered near the brink of spinsterhood.
Abigail straightened her shoulders and held her fan up higher as she shoved that tight knot right back down again before it could rise up and choke her. It was not as though she hadn’t had prospects over the years. Her situation was of her own making. It was by choice.
And now she had one last choice to make, and there was no way on earth she’d hand that over to her mother. “I feel quite optimistic about my options.”
Her mother’s huff of disbelief couldn’t hide her irritation. Abigail was spoiling her fun by not playing the part of the desperate young lady. But what else did she expect? After all, it was Abigail’s mother who’d taught her that showing one’s weakness was what made a woman pathetic. Pitiable, even.
Abigail had learned her lessons well.
“I can’t imagine why you’re so optimistic,” her mother murmured beside her. “You’ve lost the advantage that comes with youth. Especially with so many newcomers to the scene.”
Her mother glanced pointedly in the direction where everyone had been staring all night. The Darling ladies. Abigail wasn’t sure of their names, and she didn’t care. The three blonde ladies looked entirely out of place as they hovered awkwardly beside the Earl of Darling and his new bride. No one had expected this man to inherit, and his sisters were so out of place, she almost pitied them.
Almost.
She turned back to her mother with a sniff. “Please, Mother. Those upstarts are hardly competition.”
Her mother shrugged. “They’re young, pretty, and new.” Her mother smirked. “Never underestimate the power of novelty.”
Abigail tilted her chin up higher and turned her gaze back to the crush of lords and ladies before them. She wouldn’t dignify that with an answer. The earl’s sisters might have been new, but they were still outsiders. No amount of beauty would make up for their poor manners and unfortunate upbringing.
But Abigail’s mother was right on one point. She couldn’t afford to waste the first prime husband-hunting event of the season by standing here alone on the outskirts.
Her gaze flickered left and right, dismissing every gentleman she saw as either married, unsuitable, or irredeemably unlikeable. She couldn’t afford to be too choosy, of course, but she had her standards.
“See there?” Her mother leaned in close, following her gaze like a hawk. “Lord Tennent is looking this way. Everyone knows he needs a hefty dowry to keep his estate in order.” Her mother’s fan did nothing to hide her smirk. “I’m sure he’d take pity on you.”
Abigail’s cheeks ached with the effort to keep her smile in place, her voice light and sweet. “But Mother, Lord Tennent is nearly as old you are, which means he’s…” She gave a delicate shudder. “Positively ancient.”
Her mother’s smirk fell flat but Abigail’s triumph was short-lived. She’d eyed the entire room and not one decent prospect to be found.
Well, there was one, but the Duke of Walton was notoriously elusive. It was a wonder he was here at all, although she had heard he was friends with the host. But even if the eligible duke had deigned to attend a societal event, he’d made it clear he was in no rush to marry.
And Abigail was. It would not do to set her sights so very high when the odds were not in her favor.
She tried to swallow down the growing panic, but her mouth was dry and her last conversation with her father rang in her ears. He wasn’t nearly as harsh as her mother, but perhaps that was why his stern lecture had hurt so much more than anything her mother had said over the years. You’ve become an embarrassment, Abbie.... You’re too much like your mother…. It will take a miracle to find a man who can tolerate you.... What on earth are you waiting for?
What was she waiting for? The question had been hounding her for days. Not love, nor romance, obviously. She wasn’t so foolish to believe in all that. So what then?
“Well, dear? Which one of these wonderful prospects will you pursue?” her mother asked.
Abigail pressed her lips together. Right. It was time to pick someone. Anyone would do just so long as it silenced her mother and gave her a chance to breathe.
The crowd to her right parted and her eye
