Conquering her Heart Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Book

  Prologue

  Chapter One − The Colours of a Flower

  Chapter Two − The Most Awful Woman in all of England

  Chapter Three − Something Rather Unexpected

  Chapter Four − Trust Given & Received

  Chapter Five − Honest Words

  Chapter Six − A Brother's Suffering

  Chapter Seven − Perseverance

  Chapter Eight − An Afternoon at Hyde Park

  Chapter Nine − An Act Observed

  Chapter Ten − Past Pain

  Chapter Eleven − A New Pact

  Chapter Twelve − A False Truth

  Chapter Thirteen − A Favour to Ask

  Chapter Fourteen − A Theory Confirmed

  Epilogue

  About Bree

  Also By Bree

  Read a Sneak-peek

  Prologue

  #1 Forgotten & Remembered

  Overview Love's Second Chance Series

  Love's Second Chance Series 1-10

  Box Sets

  Bree's Belles of the Ball

  Conquering her Heart

  (#8 A Forbidden Love Novella Series)

  by Bree Wolf

  Conquering her Heart

  by Bree Wolf

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, brands, media, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Art by Victoria Cooper

  Copyright © 2018 Sabrina Wolf

  www.breewolf.com/

  All Rights Reserved

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To Monique Takens

  A wonderful beta reader with lots of smarts and eyes like a hawk

  Acknowledgments

  A great big thank-you to all those who inspire me daily, those who tell me to keep writing, those who laugh and cry with my characters and me. I love being a writer, and I could never sit down every day to do what I love without all of you. Thank you.

  About the Book

  The most awful woman in England.

  An honour-bound gentleman.

  And a pact that will benefit them both.

  Not too long ago, GRIFFIN RAMSEY, EARL OF AMBERLY, thought that agreeing to his sister’s suggestion of choosing each other’s spouse was an acceptable idea. At the very least, it was worth ensuring that she would marry the one man she had always loved.

  However, when it is his sister’s turn to present him with the woman of her choice, Griffin realises that he might have made the biggest mistake of his life.

  Does Winifred hold a grudge? Did she choose that despicable woman in order to spite him?

  Growing up as a simple man’s daughter, ABIGAIL ABBOTT is overwhelmed when her late mother’s father, the Duke of Ashold, appears on her doorstep and whisks her away to London for the Season.

  All of a sudden, Abigail finds herself swarmed with eligible suitors, who fail to see past her grandfather’s title as well as the enormous dowry bestowed on her. Desperate to evade a marriage of convenience, Abigail reinvents herself in a most awful way.

  Is there any chance for a happily-ever-after when both parties dislike one another?

  Prologue

  On the road to London, spring 1820 (or a variation thereof)

  The world looked different through a curtain of tears.

  Gritting her jaw, Abigail Abbott−recently orphaned at the ripe age of nineteen−kept her gaze fixed out the window of the moving carriage, blinking her eyes fiercely to dispel the tears that seemed to fall of their own accord at any time of the day.

  Would they ever stop?

  Silence hung in the air−uncomfortable silence−and Abigail risked a glance at her aunt Mara, the Dowager Marchioness of Bradish, who sat with her head bowed, her hands linked in her lap, on the other side of the carriage. Not a single word had left her lips since they had set off, and Abigail wondered at the timid-looking woman she had never met before.

  Instantly, Abigail’s thoughts drifted to the man who had sent Mara−his son’s widow−to fetch her to London: Abigail’s grandfather, the Duke of Ashold.

  Only when asked−begged!−had Abigail’s father spoken of the man who had refused his consent, forcing his only daughter to steal away in the night to marry the man she loved. Cold and distant, he had not cared about his daughter’s love, her happiness, her wishes. No, among the ton, marriages were forged, based on different aspects, and Abigail’s father had been a mere solicitor with hardly a penny to his name.

  To this day−even now that he was dead−Abigail could hear the regret and pain over what had happened before her birth in her father’s voice, for it had been swiftly followed by an even greater tragedy. Only days after giving birth to their beloved daughter, her mother succumbed to childbed fever. Not even then had her father received word−any word!−from the man who had forced them into hiding. Had he not cared? If so, then why would he send for her−his granddaughter!−now?

  Only a week after her father’s passing, Abigail had found herself sitting in the small parlour of their home, her gaze drifting over her father’s books, neatly sorted and lovingly cared for, a representation of the man himself.

  Hours had passed as Abigail had stared into nothing, feeling strangely numb and, yet restless. Sitting idly in a chair was not something she had been accustomed to. After falling ill about two years before, her father had slowly grown worse. No remedy had been able to improve his health, let alone cure him, and as a dutiful and devoted daughter, Abigail had waited on him hand and foot, taking care of their household as before while also seeing to her father as well as his few clients. She had helped him draw up documents, delivered messages and prepared the few consultations with paying clients.

  Despite the looming sadness, Abigail’s life had been busy from sunup to sundown.

  Now, that was over.

  For a week she had mostly sat in her father’s armchair, not lifting a finger, her eyes red-rimmed from the constant flow of tears. Grief and loss had squeezed her heart, and still, she had noticed the small stabs of fear that assaulted her whenever she dared to think of the future.

  What was to happen to her now?

  With both her parents gone and no family to speak of, Abigail had been near yielding to despair when a soft knock had sounded on her door.

  There, on their front stoop, had stood a finely, though inconspicuously dressed woman, her gaze soft and fleeting, her hands afflicted by a slight tremble. When she had opened her mouth to introduce herself, her voice had come out as a mere whisper.

  Abigail’s head had started to spin when she had realised what was happening. Bidding her aunt inside, she had listened silently as the dowager marchioness had extended her grandfather’s condolences. “His grace was saddened to hear of your father’s passing and bade me come here post-haste to extend an invitation to join him in London.”

  Swallowing, Abigail had accepted her grandfather’s invitation. However, she did not doubt that her aunt’s words had been far from the ones the duke had uttered. From what she had learnt of his character from her father, Abigail doubted that the man would ever ask. No, he was a duke. He would not ask. He would simply order and expect everyone to do as he bid.

  Judging from the apprehensive look in her aunt’s eyes, Abigail thought that the duke had nev
er seen one of his requests refused.

  For that reason alone, Abigail had felt tempted to do just that. However, her current situation did not allow her to choose without regard. No, if she did not wish to end up on the streets, she needed to accept her grandfather’s hospitality. Perhaps, this would be a chance to learn more of the mother she had never met.

  Once more glancing across the carriage at her aunt, Abigail heard her father’s words echo in her ears: Use your head wisely, Child, for it is your greatest ally. One who will never abandon you.

  “Aunt Mara,” Abigail began, cringing slightly at the croak in her voice, “may I ask you a question?”

  Her aunt’s gaze rose from the floor of the carriage, her eyes widening as though she had just received a small shock. “Certainly, my dear.”

  Abigail frowned. Was she not supposed to address her aunt like that? Would it have been more appropriate to call her my lady?

  After growing up far from any kind of upper society, Abigail could not recall the correct form of address, and quite frankly after what she had been through, it seemed a silly thing to focus on. After all, this was her family−however strained their relationship might be−and she would address them in the same respectful but personal way she had always addressed her beloved father.

  “Do you know why Grandfather suddenly sent for me?” she asked, welcoming the chance to speak to someone after a week of mourning her father’s passing in solitude. “I’ve never even received a letter from him. I admit this is all very strange.”

  Aunt Mara swallowed, her pale eyes gentle as they looked at Abigail. “I cannot say what his grace’s motivations might have been,” she said in a quiet voice. “I am certain you will receive your answers once we arrive in London.” A slight shiver shook her frame as though the thought of arriving back at her father-in-law’s house terrified her beyond imagining.

  Abigail frowned. “I assume grandfather is not a kind man, is he?”

  Instantly, her aunt’s eyes flew open, and her cheeks turned as white as a sheet. “I would never say such a thing, my dear. He is…he is…He likes everything a certain way. He is fond of order and structure and routine. Nothing is left to chance.” Swallowing, her aunt seemed to be groping for words. “To some, his ways might appear cold-h…hearted, but I can assure you he is a most respectful gentleman.”

  Seeing the signs of terror in her aunt’s eyes, Abigail liked her grandfather even less. “I see,” was all she said, knowing that her aunt would only grow more agitated if she were to argue the point. “And you were married to his son?”

  Her aunt nodded.

  “He has passed on?”

  Her aunt nodded again.

  “I’m sorry,” Abigail said as fresh tears shot to her eyes. “You must have been heart-broken.”

  Her aunt sighed, “He was a good man.”

  Watching the woman across from her, Abigail realised that no love had been lost between her aunt and uncle. Although she mourned his death as was expected, she had not loved him. Like so many others, she had married for other reasons.

  “Did you have children?” Abigail asked, trying to find a more cheerful subject.

  Instantly, her aunt’s gaze brightened. “We had a son, who is now married with two children of his own.”

  “That sounds wonderful. You must be very fond of your grandchildren.”

  Although a smile came to her lips and she nodded her head, there was a sadness in her aunt’s gaze that spoke loud and clear of pain and regret. Something was not as it ought to be in this family. Her family!

  Once they arrived at her grandfather’s townhouse, a tall and imposing structure, towering over its neighbours, Aunt Mara led her inside. They stopped in the great hall to hand their coats and hats to a footman.

  “Welcome back, my lady,” an impeccably clad older man with a serious frown addressed them. He was dressed in butler’s robes and possessed that air of self-importance only a high-ranking servant did.

  “Thank you, Orwel,” Aunt Mara replied, her shoulders tense and her voice sounding a tad strained. Apparently, she was not so happy to have returned!

  “His grace requests to see Miss Abbott immediately,” Orwel continued, “alone.”

  Aunt Mara swallowed, then forced a smile onto her pale face. “I shall see you at supper,” she said to Abigail, gesturing for her to follow in Orwel’s wake who had already taken off toward the eastern wing. Quite obviously, her grandfather did not hold her in high regard or his most trusted servant would not have treated her with such open disrespect.

  Smiling at her aunt, Abigail hurried after the butler, disliking her grandfather a tad more. Where was this to end?

  After walking down a wide hallway, Orwel knocked on a large door, waited for the sign to enter and then stepped forward, not even casting a glance over his shoulder to ensure if his master’s granddaughter would follow.

  “Your grace, may I present Miss Abbott.”

  Stepping over the threshold, Abigail was not at all surprised to see that her grandfather’s study reminded her of a lion charging a gazelle. Everything in it appeared cold and hostile. Dark curtains hung on the windows, half-drawn even though the day was barely at an end. The wood paneling was dark, matching the floors as well as the enormous desk, separating the duke from the visitors he clearly disliked receiving. On top of everything, the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk looked terribly uncomfortable as though her grandfather had chosen them with great care to discourage people to linger.

  With everything Abigail saw, she liked her grandfather a bit less.

  “Good day, Miss Abbott,” a hoarse voice spoke from the dimness behind the desk. “Welcome to London.”

  Lifting her gaze, Abigail found her grandfather nod at Orwel, who quit the room immediately. Seated in his large armchair−the only comfortable chair in the room−he merely beckoned her forward, not bothering to rise. His grey eyes slid over her with frank perusal, narrowing slightly as though he disapproved of what he saw.

  Abigail suspected few people received his approval.

  Determined not to allow him to intimidate her, Abigail squared her shoulders and met his gaze unflinchingly. “Good day, Grandfather. It is so nice to finally meet you.”

  At her informal address, her grandfather’s eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned. Then he inhaled deeply. “You are to address me as your grace, do you understand?”

  “I shall do my best to remember that, Grandfather.” Smiling sweetly, Abigail held his gaze, wondering at the slight twitch in the right corner of his mouth. However, it was gone before she could be certain if it had even been there.

  “Do try,” he stressed, “for impeccable manners will no doubt aid you in procuring a most suitable match. In addition, I am certain that my name and fortune will assist you in that endeavour.”

  “A suitable match?” Frowning, Abigail stared at her grandfather.

  “Yes, a husband,” he clarified, a touch of amusement in his tone. “The season has only just begun, which will give you ample opportunity to get acquainted with suitable gentlemen. I have no doubt that your aunt will be happy to make introductions.”

  At the self-assured tone in her grandfather’s voice, Abigail chuckled, “I can assure you, Grandfather, I am not looking for a husband at present. I…” Swallowing, she forced back tears. “I only just lost my father. I am in no state of mind to−”

  “Nonsense!” the duke exclaimed. “You’re my granddaughter and you will marry a man of high standing. I shall see to it.” He held her gaze, a challenge lighting up his own. “And do try harder.” Then he waved his hand in dismissal, and as though he had been eavesdropping on the other side of the door, Orwel stepped in and ushered her outside. “I shall see you to your rooms, Miss.”

  Somewhat annoyed with her grandfather’s commanding demeanour, Abigail followed the old butler. Still, she could not deny that there was something about the duke that spoke to her. At the very least, she felt certain that her stay in London would
be far from boring.

  And that was exactly what she needed.

  Not a husband, to be certain!

  But something to take her mind off her father’s death and circumventing her grandfather’s orders would certainly prove to be most eventful indeed!

  Chapter One − The Colours of a Flower

  A fortnight later, Abigail had to admit that her grandfather might possibly have been correct.

  She had indeed found suitors.

  A whole flock of them!

  And without even trying!

  This was worse than she had expected as they seemed determined to pursue her…no matter what she said to discourage them.

  While London was a breath-taking city and Abigail enjoyed nothing more but to wander the many streets with her aunt by her side, allowing her eyes to take in all the many wonderful sights, the society she was forced into due to her station was less desirable. And she had to admit she felt a bit disheartened.

  “I’ve already received a marriage proposal!” Abigail exclaimed as she stood on a small pedestal in the modiste’s shop, being measured for yet another armada of gowns. “I’ve only been in town a fortnight, and I’ve already received a marriage proposal!” Shaking her head, she stared at her aunt.

  “Congratulations!” the modiste beamed, clearly missing the touch of panic in Abigail’s voice.

  Frowning at the dressmaker, Abigail shook her head, then turned her gaze back to her aunt. “Aunt Mara, you need to help me. What do I do? When I refused him, he looked at me as though I had sprouted another head.” She inhaled deeply. “And Grandfather was less than amused…although I did get the impression that he wasn’t all that fond of Lord What-was-his-name, either.”

  Aunt Mara sighed, her mouth opening and closing as she considered what to say. Although her aunt was no one to express her thoughts freely, she had come a long way in the past fortnight, obliging her niece wherever she could. It was also possible that Abigail’s way of including her aunt in everything she did, sharing her thoughts and asking for advice was slowly wearing the older woman down. However, Abigail could not help but feel that her aunt led a lonely life and that deep down she wished for nothing more than to be needed, included…loved.