Chapter Eight
Abigail stood by the door, fingers fidgeting at her side, and let her gaze drift over the gown.
White lace traced the edges of the plunging bodice, light catching every delicate thread.
Puffed sleeves drooped down her arms, leaving her collarbones and the curve of her shoulders bare.
Layers of lavender silk and chiffon flowed from the waist, brushing the floor in a whisper.
A flutter of nervous excitement rippled through her—this gown was made to be seen, to turn heads.
The stairs creaked and her breath caught as Mr. Moreau stepped into view.
His dark coat fit the broad lines of his shoulders, tapering at the waist. Crisp white linen peeked from beneath, the high collar framing his jaw and throat.
Hair combed back from his face, he carried himself with an ease and precision that made him almost unrecognizable.
Every inch of him commanded her attention and, for a moment, Abigail could only stand frozen, captivated. He looked…
He looked impossibly handsome.
At the bottom of the stairs, he paused, stiffening as his eyes locked onto her.
His gaze swept over her with a heat that sent her pulse stuttering.
For a moment, he said nothing, and the quiet seemed to thrum between them, each heartbeat deafening.
After a slight shift of his weight, he cleared his throat.
“You…” A rough edge threaded his voice, and he averted his eyes. “The gown suits you.”
He stared into the corner, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Offering Isabelle’s dress had cost him, and a prickling current of guilt ran along her skin. Perhaps she shouldn’t have accepted it.
She dipped into a careful curtsy, eyes lowered. “Thank you.”
He didn’t move, hands clasped loosely before him, still wrestling with whatever quiet storm brewed within him.
Eloise broke the silence. “Shall we be off, then?”
“I still don’t think it’s wise.” Mr. Moreau strode to the door and glanced between Abigail and his aunt. “Warstein brought you here because of how secluded it is. Many guests there will be from the city. Though I hate to make you lie, I would not tell them who you are.”
“Mr. Warstein said the same thing to me.” Abigail gave him a bright smile. “I already told Nellie my last name is Robertson and that I’m a distant cousin.”
Gray eyes met hers again, a flicker of admiration hidden in their depths. “Smart.”
She followed them outside, careful not to snag the hem of the gown on the wood steps, and made her way to the waiting wagon.
Mr. Moreau helped Eloise up first, then turned to Abigail.
With a firm and steady grip at her elbow, he guided her to her seat with the precision of a practiced gentleman.
She dared not meet his eyes, but the brush of his touch lingered as he stepped back and swung up behind the reins, settling his weight with quiet authority.
The wagon rolled forward, the soft clatter of wheels on the dirt road filling the silence between them.
Abigail’s gaze kept flicking to him, tracing the strong line of his jaw, the way his brow drew slightly as he guided the wagon through each turn.
The tension was quiet but electric, a current between them that seemed to hum stronger with every mile.
As they neared the Benoit estate, its silhouette rose against the darkening sky.
Lanterns along the long drive flickered, casting dancing light across the manicured hedges framing the approach.
Warm lamplight spilled onto the gravel below through windows set in the stone walls.
The faint sound of voices drifted through the air, mingling with the distant chirp of evening insects.
Abigail straightened in her seat, smoothing her gown, pulse thrumming in time with the horse’s steady rhythm.
They clattered to a stop, and Mr. Moreau jumped to the cobblestones.
He helped them down, his eyes catching Abigail’s as she set her hand in his.
With a quiet steadiness, he offered both ladies his elbows and guided them up the marble steps.
A restrained energy thrummed beneath Abigail’s fingers, sparking along her nerves like static before a summer storm.
The foyer opened wide, lamplight catching carved moldings on the high ceilings.
Richly patterned tiles stretched beneath their feet, and a grand staircase swept upward, its banister polished to a burnished gleam.
Crimson curtains draped alongside tall windows, the fading twilight pressing against the glass, while gilded sconces cast warm pools of light across the walls.
A gilded mirror reflected the trio as they paused, momentarily dwarfed by the room’s scale.
The Benoit ballroom shimmered with candlelight. Chandeliers blazed overhead, throwing gold across the parquet floor where couples already moved in measured figures. Servants wove through the crowd with silver trays of champagne, while the muted strains of a string quartet floated over the guests.
Mr. Moreau parted with them by the staircase, casting one last unreadable glance toward Abigail before disappearing into the throng.
Eloise adjusted her shawl and moved gracefully toward the center of the room, a serene smile on her face.
They followed the swell of the crowd until they found a space along the wall just beyond the dancers.
Nellie appeared almost at once, cheeks pink from excitement. She clasped Abigail’s hands. “You made it, and Mr. Moreau as well, I presume?” Her gaze scanned the room behind them. Without waiting for an answer, she gestured at the tall man at her side. “You must meet étienne, my fiancé.”
Abigail dipped her head with a practiced smile, murmuring polite congratulations.
Nellie and her betrothed were quickly swept away by another group of guests, and someone called for Eloise.
With the older woman’s attention drawn elsewhere, Abigail stood at the edge of the dance floor, soaking it all in.
The glittering lights and measured music stirred memories of Savannah’s grand ballrooms, where she had always felt at ease.
Yet, as couples passed her by without acknowledgment, the quiet tug of isolation settled over her.
Across the room, Mr. Moreau stood a little apart, a dark figure against the glitter of silks and uniforms. His stillness was almost jarring amid the swirl of movement—shoulders square, expression unreadable.
He looked more like a man stationed at a watch post rather than a guest at a fête, and the contrast made her throat tighten.
Gray eyes swept her way, and for a split second, their gazes locked.
She twisted, pretending to admire the floral arrangements, cheeks warming at the betrayal of her own curiosity.
After a few minutes of studying a single magnolia bloom, she cautiously peeked back. He was gone.
The music swelled around her, strings weaving a soft tension through the room, but her eyes kept drifting toward the spot where he had been.
Every so often, she caught a shadow moving through the crowd, and her heart skipped, a flicker of anticipation and irritation twisting together.
He was vexing, unpredictable—and she had no business letting her thoughts wander.
With a determined tilt of her chin, she turned away from the dance floor.
She found Eloise, who began introducing her to a cluster of well-dressed ladies near the edge of the room.
A little later, as the musicians struck up a new song, someone cleared their throat behind her. She spun at the familiar sound.
Mr. Moreau stood there, one gloved hand extended. “Would you honor me with this dance?”
Why did her heart go light and reckless at the question? She had been asked to dance countless times in her life; never had a simple invitation made her pulse hitch like this. She nodded, throat dry, and rested her fingers on his palm.
The first notes of the waltz swelled around them, and Mr. Moreau led her onto the parquet, steps measured but firm.
His other hand found the curve of her waist, guiding her with an ease that left no room for missteps.
The warmth from his touch seeped through her gown, a quiet fire that threaded through her limbs.
They moved in tandem, turning with an effortless grace.
His thumb grazed her knuckles as he guided her through the pivot, a contact so light it might have been accidental.
Still, a shiver trembled down her spine.
The music rose and fell, sweeping them in a current that made her world narrow to the warmth of his body and the heat in his gray eyes.
A turn brought them face to face, his hand lingering at her back. He leaned in, the smooth baritone of his voice rolling over her. “You’re an excellent dancer.”
Her chest tightened at the compliment. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
She caught the faintest tilt of his lips, the barest shadow of a smile, before the dance pulled them apart again.
Lights sparkled from chandeliers and gowns, but Abigail’s attention remained locked on him and the pressure of his hand steering her through each step.
When the final note echoed through the hall, her lungs ached with exertion, her hair clung damp at the nape, and her chest hammered with a reckless energy that had nothing to do with the dance itself.
He guided her back to Eloise, who gave them both a wide smile.
After a courteous bow and whispered thanks, he slipped back into the crowd, retreating to the far side of the room.
She forced herself to focus on his aunt, on the small talk and polite nods, but the energy from the dance clung, a lingering heat that made her pulse quicken every time her gaze sought him out.
Abigail excused herself from Eloise and drifted toward the refreshment table, fingers brushing the silk of her gown as she balanced her composure. A column along the wall blocked her view, but a familiar voice floated around it.