A Hero for Lady Abigail (A Wallflower's Wish #5) - Maggie Dallen Page 0,1

enjoying Abigail’s plight far too much. The Duchess of Gorem was many things—but maternal was not one of them. Her relationship to her one and only daughter had been based more on rivalry and jealousy rather than nurture and guidance.

It was hardly Abigail’s fault that she was still in the prime of her youth, but try explaining that to her mother. She seemed to take it personally.

“Well?” Her mother glanced meaningfully toward a group of eligible gentlemen who were laughing loudly amongst themselves as they pretended not to notice the attention they’d snared from every marriage-minded mama in a ten-mile radius.

Abigail huffed. Preening peacocks, the lot of them.

Perhaps she’d inherited a bit of her mother’s resentful temperament in addition to her cheekbones, because at this particular moment she wanted nothing more than to thumb her nose at the wealthy, titled lords who held all the power in the world.

Well, the power to choose their own spouse, at the very least. But with Abigail’s current predicament, that seemed like everything one could ever hope for.

Abigail turned back to find her mother openly gloating. “So, Abigail, whom will you choose, hmm?” Her eyes widened with feigned concern. “Or are you perhaps ready to concede?”

Concede. She might as well have said surrender. The topic of Abigail and her marriage prospects had become nothing less than a war at home and there was nothing her mother wished more than to win this final battle.

Once upon a time when Abigail was in her first season, it had been understood that Abigail would have a say in the matter of whom she would marry. As that season passed without a wedding, and then another, and then still another—that understanding had disappeared right in front of her eyes. Both her parents were growing impatient, and her mother had declared it was time she took matters into her own hands.

As if her mother hadn’t been attempting to manage Abigail and her prospects for years now.

But now her mother meant to choose her husband for her, taking no account of Abigail’s preference or opinion. Abigail narrowed her eyes in the face of her mother’s expectant, smug smile. Would she concede?

Never.

In an effort to placate his determined wife and his admittedly stubborn daughter, her father had given Abigail one last chance at choosing for herself. If she could not find an eligible suitor to ask for her hand by the end of this season, she would be forced to marry the gentleman her mother chose for her.

Experience told her that her mother’s choice would be whomever would make Abigail most miserable.

“There is no shame in admitting defeat, dear,” her mother said, her words so sugarcoated that a passerby would never know they were actually salt being rubbed into a wound.

The wound was metaphorical, of course. It was only her pride that suffered after watching each and every one of the young ladies she’d made her debut with marry, leaving her with increasingly bad prospects as she hovered near the brink of spinsterhood.

Abigail straightened her shoulders and held her fan up higher as she shoved that tight knot right back down again before it could rise up and choke her. It was not as though she hadn’t had prospects over the years. Her situation was of her own making. It was by choice.

And now she had one last choice to make, and there was no way on earth she’d hand that over to her mother. “I feel quite optimistic about my options.”

Her mother’s huff of disbelief couldn’t hide her irritation. Abigail was spoiling her fun by not playing the part of the desperate young lady. But what else did she expect? After all, it was Abigail’s mother who’d taught her that showing one’s weakness was what made a woman pathetic. Pitiable, even.

Abigail had learned her lessons well.

“I can’t imagine why you’re so optimistic,” her mother murmured beside her. “You’ve lost the advantage that comes with youth. Especially with so many newcomers to the scene.”

Her mother glanced pointedly in the direction where everyone had been staring all night. The Darling ladies. Abigail wasn’t sure of their names, and she didn’t care. The three blonde ladies looked entirely out of place as they hovered awkwardly beside the Earl of Darling and his new bride. No one had expected this man to inherit, and his sisters were so out of place, she almost pitied them.

Almost.

She turned back to her mother with a sniff. “Please, Mother. Those upstarts are hardly competition.”

Her mother shrugged. “They’re young,