The Brooding Duke of Danforth

by Christine Merrill

  ‘I expect nothing of the kind,’ she insisted.

  He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. ‘Then I shall put it down to a flair for the dramatic and a youthful tendency to act without thinking of the consequences.’

  ‘And now you are referencing the end of our sham engagement,’ she said, feeling a tiny spark of the anger she had felt in the weeks before the wedding.

  ‘A sham?’ Now, he seemed more puzzled than angry. ‘I offered in all sincerity.’

  ‘Not to me, you didn’t,’ she replied.

  ‘I distinctly remember speaking to you on the matter,’ he said, his brow furrowing. ‘We met in the salon of your family’s town house. I offered and you accepted.’

  ‘What else could I do? The whole matter was settled before anyone thought to involve me.’ Now, the single flicker of irritation was growing to something much more like rage. ‘You spent more time talking to my father than you ever did to me. The day of the wedding arrived, and I realised that I had not seen you since the day you made the offer. But my father had spoken to you at least a dozen times.’

  ‘We share a club,’ he said absently.

  ‘And we were to share a bed,’ she snapped.

  For the first time since she’d met him, the façade of perpetual ennui disappeared and she saw real emotion on his face. His eyes darkened to the deep green of the sea in a storm and his lips parted in a smile that had nothing to do with mirth. Then, he moved closer until she could feel the heat of his body through the air between them. ‘Yes, Miss Prescott, after our wedding, I would have taken you to my bed. But a meeting of bodies is one thing and a meeting of minds is quite another. I had hoped that, after some time together, the latter would develop from the former.’

  ‘And I hoped quite the opposite,’ she said, surprised. ‘It cannot be possible to enjoy the marital act with a complete stranger.’

  In response, he laughed. And something deep inside her trembled in answer to the sound. ‘Would you care to wager on the fact?’

  ‘It is likely different for men,’ she added, taking a steadying breath to counter the odd sensations that the question evoked.

  ‘In a way, perhaps.’ He placed a hand on the wall beside her head and leaned even closer, until she felt his breath at each word. ‘In my experience, it matters little whether the woman is a friend or a stranger. But for a woman?’

  His voice grew soft until it was barely more than a whisper. And against all modesty, she leaned closer to him, so she would not miss a word.

  ‘The pleasure of the act has much to do with the skill of the partner. I can assure you, Miss Prescott, you would have had nothing to worry about.’

  Then he reached for her. And without another thought she closed her eyes and waited for his kiss.

  When it did not come, she opened them again, feeling like the foolish young girl he seemed to think she was. He had not been about to touch her. Instead, his fingers rested lightly on the holder of her candle, steadying it to keep her trembling hand from dropping it.

  He nodded, confident that he had proven his point. ‘I believe we have reached an understanding on one thing, at least. When we see each other tomorrow at breakfast, I trust that there will be no more embarrassing scenes. If we can bump along together for a few days in peace, this whole unfortunate incident will be over and we need never see each other again. Goodnight, Miss Prescott.’ Without another word, he stepped away from her and proceeded back down the hall towards the occupied portion of the house.

  At her feet, the black-and-white terrier sneezed as if to remind her of his presence. Then, after one final snuffle at the silk rosette, he trotted after the Duke, leaving her alone.

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, Abby rang for a maid to bring chocolate and toast to her room. It was the same meal she would have taken at home, therefore it was almost honest to claim that the choice had nothing to do with a fear of whom she might see in the breakfast room of Comstock Manor.

  Since he’d shown scant desire to talk to her thus far, she doubted that the Duke of Danforth meant to comment directly on her behaviour in the hall the previous evening. But if he wished to speak to others of the complete and utter looby she had been, she hoped he would use the time she had allotted him and be done by the time she came down stairs.

  Of course, he might have informed Lady Beverly of it immediately after he’d left her. Abby could imagine the pair of them, sharing a pillow and laughing at how lucky it was that he had not been trapped into a permanent union with such an idiot. Though she had hardly managed a bite of last night’s dinner, she pushed her plate away and set down her cup, unable to eat. She was unsure what part of that picture bothered her most, but she was sure that Lady Beverly never had to beg for kisses. If she had wanted one, it would have been given immediately.

  There was a sort of dismal satisfaction in the realisation. Abby’s presence here would have little to no influence on whatever was happening between the Duke and his lady. Though her embarrassment was acute, they were so far in each other’s pockets that they had probably forgotten all about her by now.

  If anyone else cared about her, they were likely to gossip more if she kept to her room than if she went downstairs to face them. If she sulked upstairs all day, she would worry herself into a state over nothing at all. The wisest course of action was to do what she’d told her mother she would do. She must get dressed, go down and join in whatever activities were planned for the day.

  * * *

  It appeared that the morning’s entertainment was nothing to be frightened of. Judging by the sounds of laugher ringing down the halls, the gentlemen were enjoying their game in the billiard room. The ladies were gathered in the morning room, listlessly picking at needlework or writing letters that could not be posted until the weather cleared.

  As Abby entered, heads rose, eyes blinked and minds seemed to consider whether whispering about her was even worth the effort if the Duke was in another room. She tensed for a moment, then heard a collective sigh of boredom as almost everyone returned to what they had been doing.

  Then she noticed Lady Beverly sat at a table across the room, shuffling cards in preparation for a game of patience. The riffling stopped and she set the deck on the table with a final snap. Then she rose, directed her brilliant smile at Abby and started towards her.

  That single smile was all it took to destroy her calm. Abby glanced around the room in desperation, searching for her mother or anyone else who might provide a rescue. She could feel the beginnings of a megrim starting at the prospect of another meeting with the Marchioness. There had to be someone else she could talk to, instead.

  ‘The Countess has taken Mrs Prescott to the library to find a book,’ Lady Beverly said before she could even enquire. ‘I will escort you to her.’

  Abby considered responding with another snub, then decided to accept the information as the perfect reason to escape. ‘The library,’ she repeated with a stiff smile. ‘Thank you for the information. An escort will not be necessary. I will find her myself.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ the other woman replied, her smile widening. ‘The house is large and difficult to navigate. Let me help you.’ There was a strange urgency to the last words, as if she thought she was the one who could provide the rescue that Abby wanted and not the thing she had needed saving from.

  Before she could refuse again, Lady Beverly’s arm was linked with hers. ‘Come. Walk with me. We have so much to talk about.’ The grip might have looked sisterly to the other ladies watching, but it felt like an iron manacle as it pulled her out of the room and down the hall.

  Abby had a brief and misguided urge to struggle free and run. But if the Marchioness did not intend to leave her alone until she had been acknowledged, it would be easier if their meeting took place away from the prying eyes of a dozen gossipy women. Talking with the Duke alone in the hallway had raised any number o
f strange desires in her. But even so, it had been easier than making polite conversation in the sitting room. Perhaps solitude would make the current interview less awkward.

  Once they were clear of the room, Lady Beverly loosened her grip and gave Abby an affectionate pat on the arm. ‘Alone at last, Miss Prescott. You have no idea how eagerly I have been waiting to talk with you.’

  ‘I thought I had made it clear to you when we first met that I had nothing to say to you,’ she said through clenched teeth, resisting the urge to strain back towards the morning room like a dog on a leash.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Lady Beverly replied, still smiling. ‘We have Danforth in common. And that is all the world.’

  ‘Not to me,’ she insisted, wishing her voice sounded as convincing as Lady Beverly’s. ‘If you recall, I ended our engagement months ago.’

  The other woman smiled and arched an eyebrow. ‘If you are really done with him, then you have no reason to dislike me.’

  The Duke had said as much, last night. There was a certain logic to the argument, but it overlooked one important point. ‘I do not wish to associate with you, because I was raised to believe that ladies did not socialise with...’ She left the sentence unfinished, hoping that it would not be necessary to explain.

  ‘With girls so far beneath their station?’ Lady Beverly said with a laugh. ‘Do not worry, my dear. If you are good enough for Danforth, you are good enough for me.’

  ‘Was good enough,’ she snapped, forgetting the problem at hand. ‘The engagement is over.’

  Lady Beverly’s smile turned sympathetic. ‘Of course it is, Miss Prescott. And just now, I was only teasing you. I know exactly what you were hinting at and what you must think of me. You are young yet, my dear, and still have the shine of idealism. The rules you describe are commonly ignored when there is sufficient money or status involved.’

  ‘Not by me,’ she said, slipping her arm free. But now that she could leave, she did not want to go until she had made herself understood.

  ‘Of course, your convictions have nothing to do with your feelings for the Duke.’ The woman nodded, with a sceptical quirk to her smile.

  ‘I feel nothing for him,’ she said firmly. ‘I barely know him.’

  ‘If that is true, then there is no reason we can’t be friends,’ Lady Beverly said, nodding again as if the matter was settled. ‘You must call me Lenore.’

  There was a conversational gap where Abby was expected to offer a similar latitude. When she did not, Lenore continued. ‘I would not blame you if you did harbour a lingering penchant for Danforth. He is magnificent, is he not?’

  It was impossible to argue with this, so again, she said nothing.

  ‘You are a lucky woman to catch the eye of such a man.’ Abby could find no trace of irony in the woman’s tone, but neither did she hear envy. The words almost sounded like approval and that made no sense at all.

  She shook her head, rejecting them. ‘There was little more to his side of our engagement than expediency and likely a hundred other girls in London who might have suited as well.’

  ‘And yet he chose you. He feels more deeply than you know,’ Lady Beverly said in a low voice.

  ‘How can you tell?’ Abby blurted, before she was able to stop herself.

  ‘Because I am his oldest friend,’ the other woman replied. ‘He spoke frequently of you during the brief period between the offer and the ceremony and expressed his hopes for the success of your marriage.’

  ‘I do not like being the topic of other people’s conversation.’ Though it was some small comfort that it had not been the mockery she had assumed, the idea brought forth small stirrings of the anxiety she’d felt in the weeks leading up to the wedding.

  ‘Then I can see why you might have hesitated to marry a duke,’ Lenore said and this time her nod was approving. ‘You must realise that, no matter what your union is like, people cannot seem to help gossiping about the titled men who run our country and the women they marry.’

  ‘I do not care what most people think of me.’ Perhaps if she said the words often enough, she would come to believe they were true. But even now, she could not help wondering what the ladies in the morning room were saying about them in their absence. ‘And I expect any man who, as you put it, cares deeply, would bring his thoughts and concerns to me, rather than sharing them with another woman.’

  If possible, Lenore’s smile grew even more brilliant. ‘You are jealous.’

  ‘Of you?’ She had hoped that the words would sound scornful and put the Marchioness in her place. But they came out weak, revealing that she was all too aware that if this was a competition between them, she had lost it in the very first move.

  ‘I knew that was the problem. Danforth refused to acknowledge that our friendship would be a difficulty. Men, even when they are great and powerful, can be terribly naive when it comes to the hearts of the women around them.’

  Abby smiled in amazement at the woman’s audacity. ‘Your friendship?’

  ‘You think it is a polite euphemism,’ the woman said, with another smile. ‘But it is not. We are friends. Nothing more.’

  ‘It does not concern me, one way or the other.’ She stopped just short of disproving the statement by telling Lady Beverly that it was far too late to waste the energy to lie about such a thing.

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ Lenore replied. ‘And do not trouble yourself that Danforth has not declared himself. I know him better than he does himself and can assure you that he is a surprisingly sensitive soul.’

  ‘Really,’ Abby said, unable to let such a monumental falsehood pass. ‘I have met stable doors with more tender feelings than he has shown me.’

  ‘You could blame his father for that,’ Lenore replied. ‘The elder Danforth was prone to rages that reduced his family and servants to tears. He saw emotion in others as a weakness and proof of his own strength. The impassivity that his son cultivated must have been maddening.’

  ‘How unfortunate for him,’ she replied, not wanting to feel the rush of kinship as she thought of her own father’s rants.

  ‘It was indeed. That is why I am so happy he has found someone who will understand him,’ Lenore said, opening the door in front of them. ‘And here is the library. Is it not every bit as awful as I said? Let us collect your mother and go back to the others.’

  * * *

  When Benedict returned to his room after breakfast, it was to find Lenore ensconced in the pile of pillows on the bed and reading a book. She set it aside and looked up expectantly.

  ‘Don’t you have somewhere else you wish to be?’ he said, glancing into the hall before closing the door and wondering how many people had seen her arrive.

  ‘Nowhere nearly as interesting as this,’ she said, smiling. ‘I have spoken to Miss Prescott.’

  He passed an exasperated hand over his face. ‘Did she speak to you in return?’

  ‘A little,’ Lenore said, obviously quite pleased with herself. ‘She is consumed with jealousy over our relationship.’

  ‘We do not have a relationship,’ he reminded her.

  ‘That is what I told her. When you offered for her, you should have told her the same,’ Lenore said, shaking her head.

  ‘Polite young ladies should not be listening to gossip, much less believing it.’ It sounded like the sort of judgmental nonsense her parents would have told her, had she objected to the match. ‘I meant to explain,’ he said. ‘But I thought there would be more time.’ Instead, he had lied to himself and said nothing at all to her.

  ‘After her reaction to me last night, it should have been clear to you that some action was necessary,’ she said, obviously exasperated.

  ‘I spoke to her about it,’ he admitted, wishing that the conversation could end there so that he did not have to admit what a fool he had been.

  But now Lenore was staring at him
as if she was surprised that he had not told her every last detail of the exchange immediately after it had happened. ‘I offered her the use of my carriage to depart and she declined. I reminded her that you are an honoured guest here and cautioned her to refrain from further ill-mannered behaviour towards you, then we parted company.’

  ‘After three months of silence, that was all you could manage?’ Lenore’s mouth gaped with an incredulous smile. ‘To tell her she was rude and that you wished her to go away?’

  ‘I was angry.’ He had told himself that, because he was not shouting, he was in complete control of his temper. But a half day later, his suggestion that she go sounded both cruel and petulant.

  ‘That would be a surprise to her. She still thinks you care nothing at all about her,’ Lenore said, rolling her eyes.

  ‘I am not very good at being angry,’ he admitted. It made him feel even more foolish than the attempt had been.

  ‘Considering the lessons you had from your father, you should be a master of invective,’ she replied. ‘Did you at least learn why she broke from you?’

  ‘It was clear from our conversation that she had expected a level of intimacy in our early associations that I would not have been comfortable with.’

  Lenore laughed. ‘Even if you have become a monk without telling me, I doubt you have forgotten your previous sins. What could a young lady of good character possibly desire that you have not already experienced and enjoyed?’

  ‘And you are clearly no nun, that your mind immediately turns towards such ideas,’ he replied. ‘She complained that I did not talk to her. She feared that the lack of communication between us during our betrothal was proof that the impending union would fail.’