Chapter 55
Two days before the Winterset Ball, Abigail sat at the drawing room desk, reviewing lists with far more diligence than necessary.
Final confirmations had been received weeks ago.
The florists were scheduled. The orchestra was booked.
Martha had memorized the seating chart, Grace had ordered extra champagne, and Sophia had lent two footmen from her and Philip's new townhouse to assist the Winterset staff.
There was nothing left to be done.
And yet, Abigail lingered over the paper, pen in hand, absently tracing flourishes in the margin of the menu.
Her mind had been full since the garden party. The conversation with her mother had left her with clarity—she knew she wanted to move forward. To stop holding herself back. To let herself hope.
But knowing what she wanted and knowing how to begin were entirely different things.
"Your gown arrived," Mrs. Rigby had informed her just before the evening meal. "I took the liberty of hanging it in your room. From Madame Mercier. Special delivery."
Abigail had blinked in surprise. "Truly? I know she mentioned at the beginning of the Season during our initial sitting that she would handle it, but I assumed she'd request a fitting—or at least inquire about color preferences."
Mrs. Rigby had only smiled. "She may have been helped along by a special someone."
Abigail had smiled too, naturally assuming Martha was the culprit.
"She said it was one of her masterpieces. Said it needed no further work." Martha said with a satisfied nod.
Her mind kept circling back to her mother's words—how only she could decide how to move forward, whether to keep the wound raw or allow Jasper the chance to help her heal.
Grace had believed that love, if given room to grow again, could become something stronger than what was lost. The thought lingered all through dinner.
Abigail had tried to focus on the roast and Emmeline's drowsy chattering about the "big brown dog" she'd seen in the park that afternoon, but her mind refused to settle.
But once the plates were cleared and Emmeline carried off, yawning in Marthas arms, Jasper had offered Abigail a glass of dessert wine—and she had stayed.
As she often did now.
They spoke easily, as they had most evenings since her arrival. Of the weather. Of Emmeline's new fascination with bugs. Of books they had both read. Occasionally, they debated plot or theme with passionate resolve—each fiercely loyal to their own interpretation.
They talked with the kind of familiarity only long-shared history allows.
It was warm. Familiar. It felt like a life that had once been theirs—and might be again.
When the clock chimed the hour, Jasper rose and offered his hand. She took it.
He walked her to her chambers, his presence beside her quiet and comforting. At her door, he turned as he always did, meaning to kiss her cheek. And as he leaned in, she moved—just slightly. Just enough.
His lips brushed hers. Something she hadn't felt in nearly two years.
It was a soft kiss. Barely more than a breath. But it was real.
He pulled back, surprised, as if uncertain what to say. Abigail felt warmth bloom in her cheeks.
"I'm not sure what possessed me," she said softly, her heart unsteady, "but that was... quite lovely."
He smiled—gentle, aching, full of something unspoken.
She held his gaze a moment longer, then slipped inside her room and closed the door.
A single candle on the bedside table cast a soft glow over the darkened space. And there—hanging from the screen near her wardrobe—was the gown.
At first glance, she recognized it. Pale blue silk, just a shade deeper than the dress she had worn to her debut.
The neckline had been updated into a subtle sweetheart curve—modest, but graceful.
The sleeves were capped with sheer netting embroidered in fine silver thread, and the skirt was full without being heavy, the hem stitched with delicate needlework that shimmered in the firelight.
It wasn't an exact copy. But it was close enough to stir something deep.
Her breath caught.
Resting at the base of the screen was a folded sheet of paper. Her name was written across the front in Jasper's unmistakable hand.
She reached for it slowly and opened it with care.
My dearest Abigail,
You once wore a dress like this and changed the course of my life.
I remember how the candlelight caught the blue of your eyes, how you looked up at me without guile or artifice, and how—just for a moment— the weight of being a Duke felt bearable. Because I saw you. And in that moment, I understood what it meant to want more than duty.
I saw the possibility of a true partner—not just a bride taken out of obligation, or chosen for title, but someone who might walk beside me. Someone who could share both the burdens and the joys.
That night, I fell in love with you. Completely. Silently. And perhaps, fatefully.
This gown is not a replica of the one you wore then. It is something new—just as you are. Made in your color. Designed for the woman you've become.
A woman who has endured more than she ever should have. A woman who still moves with grace, still speaks with kindness, and whose strength humbles me more each day.
It is a tribute to the girl I once failed—and a gift for the woman I still love beyond measure. Only now with deeper reverence. With truer understanding.
If the past few years have taught me anything, it is that nothing in life is guaranteed. And yet, each day I spend with you now—even in silence, even at a distance—feels like something rare and undeserved.
The young woman I fell in love with is still within you, but she has grown into someone even more extraordinary. And I love who you are now, just as I loved who you were then.
Perhaps more.
Because now, I know what it is to nearly lose you.
Whatever you choose, wherever your heart leads, I will honor it. But I hope—fiercely, quietly, endlessly—that we might still find our way back to each other.
Yours—always, if you'll have me,
Jasper