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door. She shoved it open and peeked inside. “No one is in here,” she whispered over her shoulder. “Go and wait for me,” she ordered, gently propelling Abigail into Lord Hughes’s office. “Now, lock the door. Do not open it until you hear me.”
    Abigail managed a nod and shut the door behind Beatrice. She turned the lock.
    The hum of silence filled the room, punctuated by the steady tick-tock of the clock.
    Abigail closed her eyes, and rested her back alongside the thick wood-panel of the door. Lord Carmichael’s attack swirled through her mind. She hugged her arms close to her chest to ward off the chilled remembrance of his vile grasping. Tears filled her eyes, and the dimly lit library blurred before her. She blinked but the tears would not fall.
    As abhorrent and reprehensible as Lord Carmichael was, there had been merits to the charges he’d hurled at her.
    Abigail considered Geoffrey Winters, the Viscount Redbrooke’s gallant rescue. He’d saved her from ruin, restored her hair to rights, and retrieved her lace memento…and what was more, not once had he looked upon her with the icy condescension she’d come to expect from respectable members of society. Lord Redbrooke might be a proper lord, but he possessed the kind of heroism the Greeks had made into legend.
    Abigail dropped her head into her hands, and wondered whether he’d be so quick to rush to her defense if he learned she’d given away her virtue on an undeserving gentleman.

A gentleman conducts himself with honor and integrity in all matters.
    4 th Viscount Redbrooke

    ~5~

    The next morning Abigail kept company with Beatrice in the Yellow Parlor. Abigail sat at the window-seat that overlooked the walled-in garden at the back of the duke’s townhouse, and sighed. She rested her forehead against the cool pane and gazed down at the stream of sunlight reflected off the armillary at the center of a collection of rose bushes.
    He’d rescued her.
    He’d rescued her as though she were the pure, innocent woman in desperate need of saving.
    Well, the latter part of that had been true, anyway.
    Since last evening, Geoffrey Winters, Lord Redbrooke had occupied ever single corner of her mind.
    She considered Beatrice’s visage reflected back in the glass window pane. Head bent as she worked diligently on her very ladylike endeavor. Her cousin moved the needle in her hand with expert precision through the embroidery frame upon her lap. Beatrice represented everything Abigail was not—a flawless lady. Her skills upon the dance floor were only rivaled by her mastery of watercolors and embroidering.
    As though she felt Abigail’s stare upon her, Beatrice paused mid-stitch and looked up. She tipped her head at a slight angle and set the frame aside. “You have a sad look about you, Abby.”
    Abigail fixed her gaze on the fuchsia rose bush below. “Do I?” She’d felt mired down in sadness since the night of her great scandal—except, last evening when she’d nearly been knocked down by stiffly proper Lord Redbrooke. For a too-brief moment she’d remembered what it felt like to smile again, and laugh, and yearn for all manner of things she’d thought forever lost to her after Alexander.
    “Did you love him?”
    Abigail froze at the probing inquiry.
    “I’m sorry,” Beatrice said quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked. I thought it might be helpful to speak of h…it. Please forgive me.”
    Abigail shook her head, and turned to face her cousin. She dropped her legs over the side of the window-seat, and her emerald green muslin skirts fluttered about her ankles as her slippers graced the floor. “No, it is fine,” she assured her.” Abigail considered Beatrice’s question. “I believed I loved him.” Now, she suspected she’d worshipped him with girlish eyes.
    “Does it hurt to speak of him?” Beatrice asked tentatively.
    “It doesn’t.” And oddly, Abigail meant it. The shock of Alexander’s betrayal , she believed, would always