Chapter 56
The morning of the Winterset Ball dawned bright, and by midday, the townhouse was already humming with quiet excitement.
In the kitchens, platters were being arranged and crystal polished to a gleam.
Upstairs, maids darted back and forth with freshly pressed garments and last-minute ribbons.
Emmeline had been temporarily relocated to Philip and Sophia's townhouse for an overnight visit with her cousin, and for the first time since they had arrived for the Season, the Winterset nursery was still.
Abigail stood at the window of her bedchamber, watching as hired footmen strung the final garlands across the garden terrace. Her gown hung from the wardrobe door nearby, the soft blue silk catching the afternoon light.
Her thoughts, however, were far from flowers or fabric.
The night before, after supper, she and Jasper had lingered in the drawing room—as they had often done lately—enjoying a glass of wine and each other's company.
Conversation had flowed easily between them until, with a trace of hesitancy, he had asked where she might like to go once the Season concluded.
He mentioned several possibilities: the seaside villa they had once intended for their honeymoon, a quiet estate in Somerset, a lake house said to be beautiful in early autumn, or Roselawn Manor—adjacent to her parents' country estate.
All were furnished and ready, he assured her, and well-suited for Emmeline.
It had been a casual question. A simple, open offer.
But Abigail had heard the deeper note beneath it: What do you want next—for us?
Her thoughts had stuttered to a halt. In the beginning, she had fought the very idea of coming to London with her husband—resisted the notion of staying under Jasper's roof. And now, with the Season nearly at its close, she found herself reluctant to leave.
Not because of the parties.
Not because of the invitations.
Because of him.
Because, despite everything, the life they had shared these past few months had begun to feel almost real.
And if they left—if they went somewhere new—could that fragile closeness survive? Would it grow stronger? Or would the unfamiliar undo all they had begun to rebuild?
For a woman nearly two years married, she felt startlingly inexperienced at being a wife.
A gentle knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts.
"Come in," she called.
Jasper entered, carrying a small velvet-lined box. He hesitated just inside the threshold, then smiled, his gaze flicking to the gown hanging from the wardrobe.
"I'm glad I caught you before you began dressing." His voice was soft, warm. "When I commissioned the gown from Madame Mercier, I paid a visit to the family jewel vault. I hoped to find something that might suit."
He crossed the room and held out the box. Inside, nestled in folds of ivory satin, lay a set of pearl-drop earrings, a matching necklace, and two silver combs tipped with tiny paste diamonds—delicate, refined, and clearly chosen with care.
"They were my mother's," he said quietly. "But I think she would have liked you to have them."
Abigail's breath caught.
"They're beautiful," she murmured, fingers brushing lightly over the pearls. "Jasper..."
His gaze held hers. "You don't have to wear them. Only if you wish to."
She nodded slowly. "I do. I loved your mother dearly. It would be an honor."
Jasper lingered for a beat longer, as if weighing something unsaid. Then he smiled, lifted her hand to his lips in a gentle kiss, and left her to prepare.
By the time Abigail descended the main staircase, music had begun to swell. Guests were arriving in a steady stream—gowned, gloved, and glittering under the soft glow of candlelight. Footmen in full livery moved with practiced ease, directing guests toward the ballroom and drawing rooms.
Jasper stood waiting at the base of the staircase, where he had been welcoming guests for the past ten minutes.
He had not yet seen her.
When she stepped into view, a hush rippled through the entry hall. Heads turned. Fans stilled. Even the musicians, seated nearby, seemed to soften their playing.
And Jasper—Jasper looked up and stopped completely.
His gaze traveled the length of her: pale blue silk and silver embroidery, the shimmer of pearls at her throat and ears, her dark hair swept up with the combs he had chosen. A vision of grace and elegance—but more than that.
She wore his mother's jewelry.
When their eyes met, she saw it—how his composure faltered, how his eyes softened with something deeper than admiration.
Gratitude. Awe. Love.
He crossed to her at once.
"You look..." He shook his head, visibly moved. "Beyond compare."
Abigail smiled, quiet but sure. "And you are devastatingly handsome this evening, Your Grace."
Jasper laughed under his breath. "A compliment from my wife. I may swoon."
She slipped her hand into his offered arm, her touch steady. "Not before the first dance."
As host and hostess, it was their duty to open the ball. They stepped into the ballroom together. The polished floors gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers, and the orchestra—stationed on the dais—struck up a waltz.
A newer dance, more intimate than the traditional country set—but no one questioned it. They were the Duke and Duchess of Winterset. And tonight, the ballroom was theirs.
When Jasper placed his hand at her waist and took her other in his, Abigail felt it again—that strange, breathtaking rightness. Their steps were fluid, their timing instinctive. It was as though they had always danced together.
Throughout the evening, they moved gracefully from partner to partner. Jasper danced with dowagers, debutantes, and visiting ladies of rank. Abigail was greeted warmly and often—by gentlemen eager to be seen in her company, by matrons eager to praise her.
The Duchess of Winterset was no longer the subject of whispers.
Tonight, she was admired. She was respected.
And more than that—she was loved.
But it was the final dance—well after midnight, when most guests had taken their leave and the orchestra played a quieter, more wistful melody—that belonged to them again.
No duty. No expectation.
Only them.
They found each other once more at the center of the ballroom, and this time, the steps came even more easily.
When the music ended, Jasper leaned close. "Would you care to join me for a walk in the garden?"
She nodded.
The terrace doors had been left open to the warm night. The garden was still, lanterns flickering along the hedges. The scent of roses and late summer blossoms lingered in the air.
They walked in silence, arms brushing as they moved.
"I wanted tonight to be special," Jasper said quietly. "For you. For us."
"It was," Abigail replied softly. "More than I expected."
He smiled faintly. "You are magnificent. You once said you didn't know how to move forward... but I think you're already doing it. And doing it beautifully."
She met his gaze and smiled. "I think I am, too."
When they returned to the house, the ballroom was empty. Servants had begun to extinguish the candles, murmuring quietly as they moved about the hall.
The party was over.
Abigail turned to Jasper beneath the ballroom's archway; her eyes lit with a quiet certainty.
"I believe I'm ready to retire," she said lightly. Then, with a flicker of mischief, she added, "Would you be so good as to escort me to my room, Your Grace?"
Jasper blinked, then offered his arm with perfect gravity. "It would be my honor."
They walked the halls together, their pace unhurried.
When they reached her door, Abigail slid her hand from the crook of his arm and took his hand in hers.
"Would you like to come in?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jasper stilled. "Are you certain?"
She nodded. "I am."
He kissed her hand, then reached past her to open the door—stepping closer, gently urging her backward into the room with just enough eagerness to make her laugh.
The door clicked shut behind them, her giggles echoing softly into the quiet hall.
.