‘Miss Sommersby was mistaken,’ she said hurriedly.
‘Are you sure there was no hint...?’
What was the true answer to that? She wanted there to be something. But not as much as her mother did. And certainly not as much as a house full of bored guests who were hanging on every word, every glance, every shared joke. If there was nothing to find, they would make something up.
She gave her mother a firm smile. ‘Nothing, Mama. He was in need of aid and I helped him. That is all.’
Her mother sighed. ‘What a pity. And a pity about his drinking as well. He will not keep his handsome looks for long if he cannot keep out of the brandy bottle until after supper.’
‘That is no business of ours, Mama,’ she said, pushing her sewing basket, complete with red silk, into her mother’s arms. ‘Now let us go back to our needlework and mind our business.’
* * *
It seemed rather weak-willed for a grown man to hide in his bedroom to avoid gossip. But for the moment, it was the only solution Benedict had come up with. At the sight of Mrs Prescott and her friends, he had released Abigail as quickly as possible, made his apologies and disappeared without explanation.
If he had thought the incident would die without comment, he had been a fool. It had taken less than an hour before a knock sounded on the door of the Tudor room. The sound was masculine in its decisiveness, as if delivered by someone who required an explanation and would demand it, if it was not given freely, post-haste.
He put down the book he had been reading. ‘Come in, Comstock.’
If the Earl was surprised by his correct guess, he showed no sign of the fact as he entered. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but I was given to understand that you might be in some distress.’
‘I?’ he said, surprised. If anyone needed consolation, he’d have expected it to be Abigail.
For the briefest of moments, Comstock seemed to be stifling a smile. Then, his expression returned to one of gentlemanly concern. ‘Yes. There was talk among the guests that you might not be able to see a hole in a ladder.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Comstock cleared his throat. ‘That you might be a trifle disguised.’ When Benedict did not immediately respond, he added, ‘Bosky. Foxed. Drunk as a wheelbarrow and crawling down the upper halls on your hands and knees, unable to rise without help.’
‘Inebriated?’ he said in a tone meant to wipe the smile off the Earl’s face, for he was close to laughing at Benedict’s expense. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘That is Miss Prescott’s story,’ the Earl said, his smile turning sympathetic. ‘Her mother is under the impression that she interrupted a proposal. But Miss Abigail insists that it was nothing of the kind and that she was only trying to help you to your feet.’
‘I see,’ Benedict replied, making sure that his voice was as sober as his expression.
The Earl continued. ‘The rest of the household is split on which they think is the most likely answer. But each side is supporting their theory with clandestine meetings they claim to have witnessed or times when they suspected that your cologne masked the scent of gin.’
He had chosen wrong. He should have followed the Prescotts down the stairs from the first. His presence would have stifled the gossip before it began. Then, Abigail would not have had to come up with a story to preserve her reputation. ‘And which side are you on?’
‘I think the explanation is obvious enough,’ Comstock replied. ‘When I saw her just now, Miss Prescott’s hair was falling down as if she had just been tussling with someone. A short time before that, you were caught by her mother, down on one knee...’
‘Both knees,’ Benedict insisted. ‘And just a single curl was out of place. I needed to borrow a hairpin.’
Comstock’s expression now said he could not quite believe what he was hearing. ‘Were you picking locks? If a door is shut, you need only ask me and I will give you a key.’
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ Benedict snapped. ‘There is a perfectly logical explanation. If you could manage to stop laughing at me for a moment and listen.’ But the further he got in the story, the more irrational his behaviour sounded.
By the time he had finished, Comstock’s smile had become a sceptical grimace. ‘An impromptu engagement makes far more sense than what you just told me.’
‘Perhaps it does. But Miss Prescott and I are nowhere near to that. We have only just begun to speak again.’
The Earl gave a nod of approval, then frowned. ‘You could not converse standing up?’
‘I was apologising,’ Benedict admitted. ‘For kissing her.’
‘Hmm.’ By the look on Comstock’s face, he was imagining the sort of situation that would require such an apology and wondering if the lady needed rescuing from an unwelcome advance.
‘It was an honest mistake,’ Benedict added, remembering why it was that he did not like conversing with strangers. It seldom seemed to go the way he expected. ‘I doubt it will happen again. If the whole house suspects that there is something between us, they shall be watching our every move, trying to catch us together.’ And that was not what he had wanted at all. ‘I doubt we will have another moment’s privacy for the rest of the week.’
‘Do you wish for one?’ Comstock asked. ‘More importantly, does the lady wish to be alone with you again?’
‘I do,’ Benedict replied, relieved. ‘And I do not think Miss Prescott would object to it, should the opportunity present itself.’
Comstock gave a sigh of relief. ‘If all you require is privacy, you shall have it. As I have told you before, this is a very large house.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And what do you wish me to do about the rumours currently circulating about the pair of you?’
‘Ignore them. That is what I plan to do.’ People only had to look at him to know he was not a drunkard. And as for his re-engagement to Abigail Prescott? That might be true, soon enough. ‘As long as people do not learn the truth of us before I am ready to tell it, I do not care what stories they make up for themselves.’
‘If that is what you wish, Your Grace.’ Comstock’s words were agreeable enough, but the look in his eyes said that he saw trouble ahead.
* * *
When he came down to the salon before supper, it was clear that, after finding herself at the centre of several fresh rumours, Miss Prescott was going out of her way to avoid further gossip. She made a point of staying on the far side of the room from him, moving away each time he tried to come close to her. During the meal, her mother seemed even chattier than usual. But Abigail kept her eyes on her plate and made little effort to speak to the ladies on either side of her, chewing and swallowing methodically as if the excellent food had no flavour at all.
* * *
Later, when the men joined the ladies in the parlour, she made sure that the seats at her card table were always occupied so there would be no chance of receiving another of the Danforth family heirlooms. When the game ended, she shared a sofa with her mother, so deep in conversation that there was no hope of interrupting.
Since it was clear that there was to be no romantic tête-à-tête or shared smiles to support a clandestine engagement, the party began to look for proof of the other rumour. Each time his glass was refilled he felt rather than heard a collective intake of breath, as the room monitored him for signs of unsteadiness. Unable to resist, he tossed the last of his drink back with obvious relish and grinned at them.
From her usual place at his side, Lenore laughed.
‘Drowning your sorrows, Danforth?’
‘Giving the people what they want,’ he said.
‘Bread and circuses?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘Then let me play.’ She whispered the last words into his ear.
He knew what would come next. It was a trick they’d played often enough when one or
the other of them had wanted to escape a party, leaving no question of where they were going. It was effective. But tonight, he wished there were some other way.
Lenore was staring across the room, her gaze fixed on the place where the Prescotts sat. It lingered there until Abigail felt it and looked in their direction. Then his friend turned back to look up at him, tracing a fingertip along the shoulder of his coat before yawning dramatically and wishing him a goodnight.
As he had done so many times before, he waited twenty minutes before bidding his own goodnights to the group and following Lenore up the stairs.
Chapter Nine
Abby waited a full hour after Danforth retired before she deemed it safe to go to her room. If she wanted to maintain the illusion that there was nothing between her and the Duke, she must act as if she believed it herself.
All the other women in the room did not care about him in any but the most academic way. He was a curiosity to be observed. His relationship with his mistress even more so. It did not hurt any of the other ladies to see them together. Their mouths did not go dry when the Marchioness whispered in his ear, nor did they feel their own skin burn as those delicate fingers brushed the wool of his coat. When Lady Beverly left the room after one long, lingering glance in his direction, the people around her hid their smiles, trying to pretend that they did not understand what they were seeing.
But Abby knew and so did Danforth. He poured another drink, glanced in her direction and held it up in toast before finishing it in a gulp. Then he waited. More accurately, he pretended to. In less than a half an hour, he excused himself. Once the door had closed behind him, the room buzzed with whispered comments and knowing chuckles.
And, just as she’d known there would be had she married him, there were looks cast in her direction. Pitying, knowing and equally curious. They were wondering if she understood. She was a good daughter who had been raised to be a good wife, so she did what was expected of her and pretended that she had no idea what was happening upstairs, at this very moment.
But she did know and the truth felt like ants, crawling on her skin. She reached for a shawl to hide her trembling and made an offhand comment about a chill. In truth, the room felt uncomfortably warm. She forced herself to make polite conversation with her mother for a few minutes, then moved back to one of the card tables and laid out game after game of patience, though she was too distracted to know or care about the figures on the cards in front of her. She watched as Lady Elmstead retired and then the Sandersons.
* * *
When at least an hour had passed since the Duke’s departure, she put aside the cards and announced herself ready for bed. Then she progressed towards her room at a leisurely pace, giving no indication to the people left in the room that she had even noticed the Duke’s absence.
When she arrived at her bedroom door, the black-and-white dog was already waiting for her. He looked up at her and stomped his little feet, then gave an expectant huff before trotting a few feet down the hall. When she did not immediately follow, he trotted back to her, staring up.
She looked down at him with a sigh. ‘Must we do this again tonight?’
The dog eyed her shoe for a moment as if considering, then laid a single, warning paw on the diamante clip decorating it. Then he looked down the hall in the direction of the unoccupied rooms.
‘Very well, then. If we can dispense with the thievery, that is something, at least. Lead on, MacDuff.’
Tonight, the dog took her further down the back hallway to an open door. She stood on the doorstep, looking into a candlelit bedroom where the Duke of Danforth lounged on a dusty coverlet. He looked up at her, making no effort to rise. ‘I thought you would never get here.’
She stared directly at him, resisting the urge to search the corners of the room for some sign that Lady Beverly had been and gone. ‘I thought you had better things to do at this hour than to bother me.’
He laughed. ‘And what might they be?’
As usual, he was forcing her to admit to knowledge she never should have had. ‘Spending time with your friend Lenore.’ Though she gritted her teeth to prevent them, the words forced themselves out of her.
‘If I meant to be with her this evening, I would still be there,’ he said, his laughter changing to a soft, sympathetic smile. ‘Although, it is often said that drunkards lack the stamina to perform the acts you are imagining.’
She swallowed nervously, for she had forgotten what she had accused him of, earlier in the day.
‘You told everyone I was a drunkard,’ he reminded her, shaking his head in amazement.
‘I am sorry,’ she blurted, her anger turning to embarrassment. Then she gripped the door frame, waiting for the explosion she was sure would come.
‘Cringing? I did not expect that from you.’ His voice held the faintly flat tone she had heard in London as he’d proposed. It was not precisely emotionless, just far too measured to be appropriate for the occasion.
She did not realise she had closed her eyes against his anger until she had to open one of them to gauge his true mood.
He was still smiling at her in a polite, distant way that was suitable for a drawing room or a ball. When he was sure she could see it, he crooked his finger, beckoning her into the room. ‘Come closer. I do not bite.’ She took a step forward and he added, ‘At least, not in such a way as you’d mind.’
She stopped.
He let out an exasperated sigh. In a flickering of candlelight, he seemed to relax, transforming from the distant and sophisticated peer into someone much more human. And then he was gone again and the noble had returned. ‘Really, I thought you were made of sterner stuff than this.’
Other than standing up to him, she could not think of where he had got such an idea.
‘Come on, then, and close the door behind you. We must talk and I will not have that little dog listening to us as we do. I fear he will relay the conversation to his owner.’
‘Dogs don’t talk,’ she scoffed, before realising that he was joking. His face and voice gave her none of the clues that she would have looked for to tell her so.
‘Of course, they don’t. But in this house, I would not be surprised to find the exception. For all his rough, country manners, Comstock is wickedly smart and his wife is just the same.’
‘I see,’ she said, still totally confused, remaining on the doorstep.
He crooked his finger again. ‘Never mind the dog. We must still discuss the Banbury tale that you told to the other guests this afternoon.’
‘I am terribly sorry to have defamed you in that way, Your Grace. I will explain tomorrow that I was obviously mistaken,’ she said, inching towards the hallway. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I think we’ve spent enough time alone together for the day.’
Before she could complete her retreat, he’d sprung from the bed and moved behind her, closing the door on a yip of disapproval from the terrier. ‘It is no longer day,’ he said. He was now standing so close that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck, which made her spin to face him and back further into the room, just as he’d intended. ‘It has been night for some time and is very near to being tomorrow.’
She swallowed again. ‘I do not plan to remain with you until morning, if that is what you are suggesting.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘Actually, that had not occurred to me. But I find it interesting that your mind runs so quickly in that direction,’ he said. ‘It likely explains why your body runs in the opposite way, each time I try to get close to you.’ Then he smiled. It was one of his rare, true smiles, the sort that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
‘I am not running,’ she said, dragging her gaze from the kissable dimple that had appeared in his left cheek. She lifted her chin and tried to show some of the strength of character that he seemed to think she had. ‘I am simply trying to maintain a respectful distance.�
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‘Respect for whom?’ he asked. ‘If it is for me, you needn’t bother. A title does not mean I need to be treated like a glass ornament and observed from a distance. And if it is respect for you?’ He smiled again in a way that was magnetically attractive, and yet quite frightening. ‘I give you my word that you are perfectly safe, both in person and reputation. Nothing will happen between us that you do not agree to.’
If that had been meant to give reassurance, it failed utterly. If the previous evening had taught her anything, it was that she was likely to agree to do things with him that were not the least bit wise. ‘Since you are still blocking the doorway, I find it difficult to believe you.’
He held his hands in the air palms forward, in surrender, and walked towards her, circling her as she returned to her position near the now-closed door. The distance between them remained the same, like a carefully choreographed dance where the partners could be connected without needing to touch. ‘Better?’
She gave him a hesitant nod. She was able to escape again, should she need to. But as she had the previous night, she felt a strange sense of disappointment. ‘I am simply trying to avoid any more awkward situations that might lead to gossip.’
‘That has already been taken care of, for this evening, at least.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You cannot lie and claim you did not notice the show Lenore put on, since you already remarked on it.’
‘It was in show?’ she said, still doubtful.
‘She made sure that, whatever people assumed you and I were doing after we left the drawing room, they would not assume that we were together,’ he said. Now his eyes had a suggestive twinkle that made her eager, but uneasy.
‘To what end?’ she said, confused.
‘I will not speak for Lenore. It is none of my business what she is up to or where she spends her nights. But I wished to talk with you.’
The Brooding Duke 0f Danforth (HQR Historical) Page 9