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cousin, Beatrice, reached out to steady her, a sparkle in her kind blue eyes. “Where have you been, Abby? My brother has been searching for you. I explained you had a tear in your gown. This isn’t where one goes to have her hem r…” Her words died. Of a sudden, Beatrice seemed to take note of the out of place locks that had fallen around Abigail’s shoulder. The warm, teasing light always found in Beatrice’s eyes flickered out, replaced by a hard fury better suited to a ruthless warrior than her gentle-spirited cousin. “What happened to you? Who did this?” she hissed.
    Abigail brushed a strand back into place with trembling fingers. “D...did w...what? It is merely my hem that is ruined. Truly.” With her eyes, Abigail implored Beatrice not to ask any further questions. Now that Abigail was free of Lord Carmichael’s clutches, the reality of his assault began to settle around her brain like a serpent sinking its venom into her and poisoning her with the hideous memories of Carmichael’s touch.
    Her cousin was good enough not to press Abigail for details. “We need to leave. You can’t be seen like this.” Beatrice glanced around. “Come,” she murmured, and took Abigail by the hand.
    “Where are we going?”
    “Shh, we must be quiet,” Beatrice whispered as she tugged Abigail along. “We’ll find a place for you to wait while I have the carriage called for.”
    “Your father and brother—”
    “I’ll tell them your hem was ruined beyond repair, and must leave at once. Robert will see us home.”
    Oh, God. Her cousin would need only a glance to know that she’d nearly been ruined here this evening.
    Beatrice held her gaze. “ You look perfectly lovely.” You’ll do , he’d murmured in a silken baritone that had washed over her. Beatrice pointed her eyes to the towering ceiling. “Many witnessed what transpired, Abby.”
    The breath lodged in Abigail’s chest. “What happened?” Her voice emerged as a hoarse croak.
    Beatrice spoke in a gentle whisper. “The whole manner in which Lord Redbrooke knocked down that poor servant and ruined your gown.” She wrinkled her nose. “He is a very severe, proud man. Lord Redbrooke, not the servant,” she clarified.
    “Beatrice,” Abigail chided. Though serious, and driven by propriety, Lord Redbrooke had also been the man who’d intervened and saved her from certain ruin.
    Beatrice shook her head. “Regardless, Robert will never assume anything else is to account for your appearance.”
    Abigail bit the inside of her cheek to keep from pointing out that Lord Redbrooke had in fact stepped on her hem, but t it had been Abigail who’d knocked into the servant and sent his tray falling.
    Her cousin ran her pale blue gaze over Abigail’s face. “Are you certain you were unharmed because Robert will gladly call out the scoundrel who—”
    “No! You mustn’t say anything. It was merely my hem that was ruined. Just my hem.” She’d not allow Robert to risk his life on a dueling field. Abigail’s tattered reputation didn’t deserve such a sacrifice. And for that matter, she’d already ruined enough lives with her scandalous ways.
    Beatrice said nothing for a long moment, and then gave a slow nod. “Very well.”
    Abigail’s eyes slid momentarily closed. “You are too good to me.”
    “Do hush. I’m just very glad for your company. I’ve had a remarkable lack of feminine companionship.” Her mother, the duchess had died giving birth to Bea. Beatrice took Abigail’s hands and gave them a slight squeeze. “And I’ve always wanted a sister.”
    Abigail managed her first smile that evening. She and Beatrice had fallen into a fast friendship from the moment Abigail had set her unsteady sea legs upon English soil. Beatrice had been waiting for her at the wharf side with her father and brother. Unlike Abigail with a gaggle of brothers and a sister, Beatrice remained the sole female in a male household.
    Beatrice paused beside a closed