The Brooding Duke of Danforth

by Christine Merrill

  Her traitorous mother, who had never been able to resist a title, abandoned the last of her pride and curtsied to the Duke’s woman as if there was nothing the least bit wrong about it. Then she gave Abbey a pointed look, as if she expected her to do the same.

  It proved just how little she knew about her own daughter. She had walked away from the most successful match of the Season, to avoid this exact moment. She could feel the entire room watching her, analysing her every move, searching for any clue to her thoughts. As she did when dealing with her father, she forced her face to remain impassive and unreadable.

  But her body’s response was much harder to control. She could feel her palms grow clammy and fought the urge to wipe them on her skirt, since the act would only embarrass her more. Though the room was lit by candles, it suddenly seemed impossibly bright. The glare burned into her brain making her head feel both unbearably heavy and dangerously light. If she did not do something, and quickly, she was destined for complete humiliation. She would be sick, right in the middle of Lady Comstock’s ornate Aubusson rug.

  So, she did as she had planned to do, months ago, in London when she had spent weeks in dread of the meeting that had now finally occurred. Without another blink of acknowledgement to either Lady Beverly or the Duke, she looked through them as if they did not exist, turned and walked away.

  * * *

  She had done it again.

  Had it been insufficient to making him a laughing stock in London? She had tracked him to the country so he might watch her hunt for a husband before their uneaten wedding cake had had a chance to stale. He had been ready and willing to make peace with her. He had even made a joke out of the comments of her ill-bred mother. But instead of accepting the olive branch he offered, she had cut him dead.

  Of course, Lenore was partly responsible for how badly this first meeting had gone. If she had allowed him a few moments to speak with the girl before sailing into the midst of their conversation, things might have gone better. But once she took a mind to meddle in his affairs, Lady Beverly was a force of nature. Avoiding her help would be almost as challenging as forging a truce with Abigail Prescott.

  Right now, Miss Prescott was sitting down the table from him, making polite conversation with the lady next to her. The only indication that she remembered the scene she had made in the sitting room was the way she refused to acknowledge Lenore, who was sitting directly across the table from her. All around them, people were trying to pretend that nothing of interest had happened while eavesdropping to see if it might happen again.

  It was a pity that Lenore had not decided the same. While she did not speak directly to Abigail, she had no such qualms about talking to Mrs Prescott. She complimented the woman on her lovely daughter and listened with fascination to the dramatic story of their arrival at Comstock Manor. It did not seem to bother her one whit that Miss Prescott had walked away from her offer of friendship. In fact, it seemed to intrigue her. She had turned to Benedict after Abigail had left them and whispered that the girl was indeed perfect for him, insisting that she would fix everything.

  Benedict did not want things fixed. If he did not want to make things even worse, the best course of action was to do what he did best and maintain an unruffled demeanour, showing no signs of the anger seething inside.

  It did not help that Abigail Prescott was even more beautiful than she had been three months ago. Then, his fleeting feelings of desire at the sight of her had made him feel slightly guilty. To want a woman because of her appearance was not unusual. In some ways, men were still little better than animals. But to be thinking of one’s future wife in such a way seemed somewhat immoral.

  So, he had tricked himself into believing that he was attracted to her spirit. The audacity of her response to her father had not been admirable, as he’d first thought. It was probably a symptom of misandry. Pity the man who finally succeeded in marrying her. He would be treated as she had treated Benedict: as the butt of a joke.

  But now, even after he had learned the truth, he could not stop thinking about her. When he had seen her in the sitting room before dinner, polite conversation had been the last thing on his mind. Just as it had been in London, he had wanted to see her dark eyes hooded in pleasure, her white throat stretched in yearning and her red lips parted in a gasp as he thrust...

  Such thoughts were unseemly. To prevent them, he had seen to it that their contact before the aborted wedding had been minimal. The few meetings they’d had had been well chaperoned to avoid any hint of impropriety. His manners had been impeccable. He’d given her no cause to treat him as she did.

  But now, like it or not, here she was. And although the other guests were too polite to speak within earshot, he could feel the gossip in the air like eddies in the water of a pond. Everyone was waiting to see what would happen next.

  He felt a certain curiosity about the matter himself. He knew what he wanted to do...had wanted to do since the fateful day at St George’s Church when he had stood, shifting from foot to foot beside the bishop as he had waited in vain. Then he had imagined going to her town house, kicking in the door, throwing her body over his shoulder and hauling her back to the church.

  Tonight, a similar fantasy gripped him. It began with spilled wine glasses and shocked guests and ended with her sprawled naked on the wide mattress of the Tudor bedroom, begging him for marriage or anything else he suggested.

  But that was not the end. Only the beginning.

  Instead, he sipped his wine in silence, staring down the table to where the ladies were seated.

  ‘Comstock Manor is a very large house.’

  Benedict started at the comment, which appeared to be directed at him, then focused his gaze on his host, the Earl of Comstock, and did his best to appear attentive. ‘Indeed.’ He paused for a moment to select the correct compliment for the situation. ‘It is most attractively arranged.’

  ‘It is a damned nuisance under most circumstances,’ the Earl replied. ‘We spend all our time patching the leaks in the roof. But it is fortunate to have the extra rooms when one has a sudden influx of guests. There is a whole wing beyond the central one that is totally empty, save for the Prescotts.’

  Benedict gave the Earl a much sharper glance this time for it sounded almost as if he was giving directions to Miss Prescott’s bedchamber. ‘I am sure they are glad of the privacy,’ he said in a warning tone.

  It had no effect on the Earl, who was gazing blandly into the baked apple that had been set before him. ‘Should they wish for even more solitude, they have only to proceed further down the wing. It turns, you see. If one does not get lost, one ends up far out of sight and hearing of even the most inquisitive servants.’

  ‘How interesting.’

  ‘Beyond that, there are stairs to the main floor and a plethora of rooms we have not bothered to open for this party.’

  When Benedict did not respond, he added, ‘If I wanted to speak to my Countess—or engage in any other activity I did not want the house to know of—I would consider exploring the back of the house.’

  ‘I assume you are suggesting that I speak with Miss Prescott,’ he said, frowning at the Earl to show him how little his advice was wanted.

  ‘Speak with her,’ Comstock repeated, with a sigh. ‘If talking is all you wish to do, then I encourage you to do so. But first, I suggest you listen to her.’ He stared down the table at Abigail. ‘She looks like a lady with much to say.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘That went well,’ Abigail said, as she held the taper aloft to light their way down the long corridor to their rooms.

  ‘Sarcasm is not a virtue in young ladies,’ her mother said, peering into the gloom. ‘I have had far too much of it from you already.’

  ‘I was not being sarcastic,’ Abby replied. It was more an outright lie, as was the smile she’d pasted on her face so she might look sincere. ‘I was quite satis
fied with the outcome.’

  ‘You alienated yourself from a lady who is esteemed by the Countess and her guests. You will find Lady Beverly to be quite charming, should you decide to speak to her.’

  When put that way, it sounded almost reasonable to accept Lady Beverly’s friendship. Since things between herself and the Duke had come to a permanent end, the presence of his mistress should not really matter at all.

  And yet it did. It still hurt to think of the two of them together, smiling and laughing, and even worse, doing the private, secret things that men and women did together. The rest of society might be able to forgive the charming Lady Beverly for her disgraceful behaviour. But they had not spent weeks wondering if the man they were to marry would stay with them long enough for the bed to grow cold.

  But there was no point in living in the past or the future. To maintain her fragile peace of mind, she must concentrate on the present. She forced herself to smile at her mother, opening the older woman’s door and lighting a candle at her bedside. ‘You must console yourself on one point, at least. I will not be able to do anything else disgraceful until morning. Now, ring for your maid and get a good night’s rest, Mama. You will need all of your wits about you to mollify whomever I manage to offend at breakfast.’

  Her mother’s mouth opened, ready with a scold. But before she could manage it, Abby had exited her room and shut the door after her. She leaned her back against the panel for a moment, listening to the sounds beyond until she was sure that her mother was settled. Then turned to go to her own room.

  Suddenly, there was a scrabbling and clicking of nails on the oak floor of the hallway and the little black and white dog she had seen earlier came trotting out of the darkness towards her.

  ‘Hello, little fellow,’ she said, stooping down to pat him. ‘Have you been sent to guard our rooms? I do not think you are big enough to prevent a liaison, should I choose to have one.’

  The idea was both bold and optimistic, since her public fall from grace had gone past the point where a man might consider her seducible. Even a rake would think she was more trouble than she was worth. But the little dog seemed to like her well enough and wagged his tail as he worried the toe of her slipper.

  ‘Be careful,’ she whispered. ‘They are silk and cost me all of five pounds.’

  The dog was clearly unimpressed by the warning. When he looked up at her, he had a ribbon rosette clenched tightly in his teeth.

  ‘You little beast. Give me that before you ruin it.’ Then, as she usually did, she opted for rash action instead of discretion and lunged to grab him.

  The dog proved too quick for her, darting between her outstretched hands and running further down the hall, pausing at the edge of the candlelight. There, he dropped the ribbon on the floor and offered a lopsided doggy grin of challenge.

  ‘I am not playing,’ she said, walking towards him more slowly this time so as not to startle him. ‘Give me that flower.’

  His tail wagged slowly from side to side like a Maelzel metronome, timing her approach.

  She slowed and the tail stopped, the little legs of the terrier tightening for a sprint.

  ‘Good doggy.’ It was a lie. Judging by the narrowing of his little black eyes, even the dog knew that. If she could not manage to make nice with the Countess’s guests, the least Abby could do was try to befriend her horrible little dog.

  But not to the point of sacrificing a shoe. She ran the last few steps towards him and made a grab for the rosette. Her fingers touched the drool-damped silk for only a moment, then the dog grabbed it and tore down the hallway deeper into the house.

  She ran after him, her candle waving wildly in her hand to light the way. In a house of such enormity, she would never see the thing again should she let the dog out of her sight. There were too many beds and sofas to hide it under and acres of lawn to bury it in.

  Ahead of her, the dog reached the end of the corridor and went skidding around a corner. She hurried to catch up, turning to the right, then pulled up short. Halfway down the hall, the glow from a single candle revealed a man blocking the way. The dog was sitting in front of him, wagging his tail as if seeking a reward for the decoration that had been dropped at his feet.

  Even before she could see him clearly, she had no doubt as to who it was. When lit by candles, the Duke of Danforth’s skin had a golden glow about it, as if he had been cast in bronze. The faint glints of copper in his hair that matched the flecks in his verdigris-green eyes only added to the illusion.

  That first time she had seen him across the crowded room at Almack’s, he’d been so still and quiet that she’d imagined that someone had draped a burgundy wool coat over a metal statue. He had been a little too large and a little too perfect to be a living, breathing man.

  Then, an equally inappropriate thought had struck her. Would the comparison to well-cast bronze hold, should he remove his garments? Without shirt and breeches, would she be able to find some flaw in him? Would he seem small and ordinary? Or would he have the deeply ridged muscles of a Poseidon, the commanding presence of a naked god?

  Then she’d realised that he was looking at her.

  Perhaps her speculation upon his person had been obvious on her face. For just a moment, his composure had slipped. Though he’d made no effort to cross the room, he had stared back at her, the rest of the room forgotten. Their gaze had locked for what seemed like hours. And then he had turned back to the woman next to him, offering a quiet aside and a last glance in her direction.

  Lady Beverly had looked at her as well. Then, immediately back to him, offering information.

  He had asked about her.

  She had looked away, momentarily shaken by the attention, and enquired of the patronesses who he was. After learning that he was the ranking peer in the room, she began to hope that the night might not be the disaster she’d been fearing.

  But nothing had come of it. As the hours ticked by, he had not come to speak to her. He’d not enquired as to the huge gaps in her dance card or the fact that her hands were empty of refreshment. He had not made even the most banal comment about the closeness of the crush, the quality of the music, or the beneficence of the hostesses. So, she had forgotten him.

  At least, she had tried. Since he was a duke, he was not the sort of man it was possible to forget.

  A week later, he had come to the Prescott town house to speak to her father. And before she had understood what was happening, she was engaged to him.

  Now, he was staring at her out of the darkness with the same impenetrable expression he had worn that night, watching her approach without a word of greeting.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered, glancing around her to be sure that they were not observed.

  ‘Waiting for you,’ he said in a normal volume. The statement was accompanied by a bland look that implied the answer was obvious. ‘The Countess assured me a meeting would be arranged.’

  If her idea of an invitation was to send that annoying little dog, then perhaps it had been. It had been surprisingly effective. Had the Countess of Comstock suggested that she come to an isolated part of the house to speak to him, she’d likely have refused. ‘What did you wish from me?’ she said at last, then waited for him to explain himself.

  His answer came without polite preamble. ‘I suspect you are eager to get away from here. In the morning, my carriage will be at your disposal. You may be on your way before breakfast has ended.’

  It had been too much to hope that he’d wanted to apologise for his part in the embarrassment before dinner, but she had not thought that he would be so eager to be rid of her. There was some consolation in his bluntness. She was far too annoyed by it to feel nervous. ‘Why wait for morning? I will wake my mother and we can be gone immediately.’

  There followed a moment of silence that seemed to last an eternity. ‘You are mocking me,’ he said, at
last. ‘It is pitch-black and pelting rain.’

  ‘How perceptive of you to notice,’ she said.

  ‘The weather, or the mockery?’

  His riposte threw her off balance, for it had almost sounded like a joke. But it could not have been, for she had yet to see evidence that Danforth had a sense of humour. She blinked, marshalling her thoughts. ‘The weather is fearsome. I know, because I came in from it just a few hours ago. Do you have some prescience about tomorrow that you can assure me that the roads will be any more passible or the journey less of a threat to my safety?’

  When he did not immediately reply she added, ‘Or do you simply want me to go away?’ The worry she felt in the ensuing silence was strange, for there was no reason to fear his answer. If she had cared what he thought of her, she should have found a less public way to cry off.

  ‘I thought I made it clear enough, when I offered for you, that I desired your company.’ Though she heard no trace of sarcasm in his voice, she was sure it was there. ‘You were the one to leave me. I am merely giving you the opportunity to do so again.’

  Though it should not have, his frank assessment hurt. Some part of her had hoped he was angered by her departure. She had wanted him to feel something, anything at all, over the loss of her. But there was no indication that it mattered to him at all. ‘I will leave when it is sensible to do so, with or without your help,’ she replied. ‘At the moment, the roads are inches deep in mud and were near to impassable even before our accident. Once the rain has stopped it will be several days before they are dry enough to be driven on.’

  He considered the fact for a moment, then nodded his acceptance. ‘Very well. If departure is impossible, we must learn to make the best of our time together and avoid any more unfortunate incidents like the one before dinner.’

  ‘When you attempted to introduce me to your mistress?’ she said, not bothering with subtleties.

  ‘When you snubbed a marchioness, who has been welcomed and befriended by your hostess,’ Danforth corrected, in the patient tone one might use on a child. ‘Lady Beverly has no problem with you and is eager to be your friend. If you expect the other guests to take your side in a feud of your own creation, you will be sorely disappointed.’