The Brooding Duke of Danforth

by Christine Merrill

  She must have realised his true feelings. By the stricken look on her face, it had never occurred to her that the ring he’d given her as a pledge had held any real meaning to him. ‘I am so sorry.’ The words were a whisper so faint that it hardly carried across the table to him.

  Now that he had his apology, he was not quite sure what to do with it. ‘Never mind it,’ he said gruffly, reaching for the cards. ‘Our engagement is long over. But tonight, I will say when we are through and that time has not yet arrived. I wager my ring against all the money you have before you.’

  ‘But...’

  While she tried to think of another objection, he dealt the cards.

  It took only one look to remind him what happened when one allowed emotion to gain the upper hand over rational thought. While making bold statements about the insignificance of his dukedom when compared to his heart, he had not accounted for what he might do with a near-unplayable hand.

  You lost the ducal signet in a card game with a pretty girl? He could almost hear his father raging in his ear.

  No, Father. It was a beautiful girl. And I did not even bed her.

  He could not help but smile at the thought and saw the furrow it caused on the face of his opponent. She thought he was pleased with his cards. How wrong she was. But there was not much to do but make the best of them.

  And Abigail, God bless her, lacked the ability to play badly and let the peer win. Even though he doubted she wished to take this prize, she was not able to be less than her best.

  The warmth that this revelation engendered was surprising. When had earnestness and sincerity come to feel like such a novelty? Being abandoned at the altar had been insulting and embarrassing. But at least it had been honest. In some small way, it had been as bracing as a cold bath.

  Or a slap in the face. If he had taken to betting the entail on a whim, he needed a good slap to knock some of the self-importance out of him.

  After a final draw and discard, she laid her cards in front of her to display the sets. She did not look particularly happy to be winning, but she had won all the same.

  He laid down his cards as well and pushed the ring across the table to her. ‘Congratulations, Miss Prescott.’

  ‘What am I to do with this?’ she said, even more dismayed then before and looking around to be sure that the other guests were occupied with their own games.

  At a nearby table, Miss Sommersby had noticed the lull in their play and her head was turning in their direction. Before she saw the ring, he seized Abigail’s hand, covering it with both of his and closing it in a fist around the signet to hide it. Tomorrow it would be all over the house that he had been holding hands with Miss Prescott. But at least no one would think he had given her another ring. ‘Put it in your pocket with the rest of your winnings,’ he said, trying not to move his lips. ‘It is not large. I expect it will fit.’

  ‘But after that...’

  ‘Take it out on special occasions to show your grandchildren. You can tell the boys of the dangers of gambling and the girls of its advantages.’

  ‘Take it back,’ she said, extending her arm to try to push it back across the table.

  He released her hand and folded his arms across his chest. ‘I knew the risks when I wagered it.’

  Then her hand dropped into her lap and out of sight. She tipped her head to the side and stared at him, trying to puzzle out what his actions might mean. ‘Then you are a fool,’ she said at last. When her hand reappeared, it was empty.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he admitted. ‘But it is not the first time I have been a fool for you. I doubt it will be the last.’

  She stood and he rose as well, bowing to her. ‘Thank you for a delightful game, Miss Prescott.’

  ‘Your Grace.’ She dipped a convincingly respectful curtsy. But when she raised her face to look at him, though her mouth was smiling, her eyes were wishing him to perdition.

  Before she could say another word, he abandoned the card room for billiards.

  * * *

  For something so small, it was very heavy.

  Or perhaps it only seemed so because of the burden of guilt. The ducal signet of the Danforth line might as well have been a lead bar. As she moved through the room pretending to observe the other games, she was always conscious of the weight of it in her pocket, bumping against her leg.

  He should not have bet it. When he had, she should have refused. She could have at least had the sense to lose on purpose. If not that, she should have walked away and left it on the table, knowing that he would not abandon it to strangers. But he had told her the origin of the betrothal ring he had given her before and she had forgotten everything else.

  That tiny piece of gold had been oppressively heavy as well, the weight a constant reminder that she had sold herself to a man who did not care about her. Each day she’d worn it, it had grown heavier. The pain in her head had grown as well. Her stomach had twisted and roiled until she could hardly stand the sight of food. By the day of the wedding, the morning light shining into her bedroom had been agonising, sharp as knives.

  But the moment she’d pulled it from her hand, she’d begun to feel better. She’d taken no great care in returning it since she’d assumed it had no real value to him. If it had, he would not have wasted it on a girl he’d barely met.

  Had it been a message that she meant more to him than she knew? When he had proposed to her, there had been no indication that he held some secret tendre. Her father had introduced them and then left them alone together. Before she’d had a chance to grow accustomed to her first unchaperoned hour with a gentleman, she was engaged. The Duke had not bothered to go down on one knee as she had girlishly imagined a man proposing might do.

  The Duke of Danforth did not beg for anything, especially not the love of a woman. The minute they were alone, he had walked to the fireplace and placed his hand on the mantle. It had almost looked as if he’d needed to gather his courage. Then he had turned and explained the situation in a tone that brooked no opposition. He had already requested and received her father’s consent. The only thing that remained was for her to answer him.

  She had stammered out an acceptance, too shocked to think of anything else to say. And from somewhere close by, she’d heard a door click shut. There had been no sighs or sobs or accompanying huffs of exasperation, so it could not have been her mother. The door had been closed instead of slammed, so it could not have been her father. One of them had sent a maid to spy on the event and make sure that she had done the right thing.

  She thought of that door often during the next three weeks as the banns were read. She dreamed of it, closing and locking with her on the inside, trapped. It would not open until the day of her marriage. Then, Danforth would exchange the betrothal ring for the wedding ring and take her to a different house, with more doors and more locks.

  She had escaped. But now, months later, he’d tricked her into taking another ring from him. Absently, she tucked her hand in her pocket to make sure it was safe and slipped it on to her finger. It was so large that it slid off again immediately. If she had wanted to wear it, she’d have to close her fist tight, just to keep it from rolling away.

  It was a trap of some kind, she was sure. He wanted something from her, but she had no idea what it could be. She could find no explanation for his willingness to risk it, nor could she understand his lack of remorse when he’d lost. For a moment, her mind spun the wild fancy of a cursed ring. But that made no sense at all. The Duke of Danforth, with his wealth, health and stature, was as far from a cursed soul as a man could get.

  The way he had spoken after was even more confusing. He had said that she’d made a fool of him. Had he been expecting her to apologise again for jilting him? If so, he’d been none too clear about his wishes. Though she was sure he’d been angry when he mentioned the betrothal ring, he’d shown no rancour when he left her. As he’d
announced that she’d made a fool of him, the calm smile never left his lips. It was as though being made the talk of the Season was little more important than the current weather.

  And then, at last, she saw what he had done. It would not be long before someone noticed that he was not wearing his ring. No one would dare ask him what had happened to it. But they would speculate. There would be no stopping the gossip. And it would not be long before someone realised that he’d had it at dinner, but that it had been gone after playing cards with Miss Prescott.

  He had tricked her into taking it, knowing that someone, some day, would realise it was in her possession. People would think her a thief or a fortune hunter. He would be seen as the victim and she as some sort of temptress who kept the Duke of Danforth dancing on a string.

  She had not thought him a cruel man. In truth, she had not thought he’d cared about her enough to be so. But he could not have devised a more devious punishment than to hand her a ring after she had refused to accept one in church. The first scandal would never die away if he meant to keep bringing it back into the public eye whenever he saw her. Just the thought of it made her ill.

  She would not stand for it. She would sneak it back to his room tonight, before anyone noticed it was gone. At the moment, he was still playing billiards with the Earl. If she made a show of exhaustion and announced she was going to bed, she could go to his room and drop the cursed thing on his nightstand. He could not exactly force it on her again, once she had returned it. And she would not be so foolish as to sit down at cards with him again so he might play the same trick.

  The idea gave her an immediate rush of relief, which she disguised with an exaggerated yawn and announced that she meant to have an early bedtime, excusing herself from the room. Once on the first floor, she glanced around her to make sure the halls were empty. Then, instead of following the corridor towards the back of the house and her room, she turned to the left and went all the way to the end of the hall where she had been told the best guestroom lay.

  It was a relief that he had left the door unlocked, for she’d had no plan if he had secured it. Nor did she know what to do should she see the valet. It was unlikely he would believe her should she claim to be lost. Was he the sort who would keep his master’s secrets, or would there be rumours about her in the servants’ hall that might spread to the guests?

  But no problems materialised. She opened the door to a large room that was well lit and empty. It certainly looked grand enough to house a duke, with crossed swords over the mantel and a heavy oak bedstead carved with Tudor roses. But before she left one of Danforth’s most precious possessions here, she must make sure that it was the right room and not simply the room she assumed was right. She needed evidence that it was his.

  But the space was so tidy that it was hard to know if it was occupied by anyone, much less the house’s ranking guest. There was not so much as a hairbrush sitting out on the dressing table, or a book beside the bed to assure her that she was in the right place.

  There was, however, a wardrobe. She had but to open the door and look inside. The coats would be labelled for him by the tailor and his linen was likely embroidered with his crest.

  Once she opened the door, she did not even have to look for proof. She knew. She was enveloped in a distinctive combination of bay cologne, shaving soap and the delicious underlying scent that was uniquely his. For a moment she swayed on her feet, leaning towards it, just as she had towards him on the previous evening. Then she succumbed and buried her face in the sleeve of the nearest coat.

  A man so odious had no right to smell so good. She knew this coat well, for he’d worn it when he had come to make his formal offer to her. On that day, she had been unable to look him in the eye. She had stared at these buttons and memorised each stitch in these lapels.

  She released a shaky breath and imagined how it might have been had he loved her. These arms would have held her as she murmured her acceptance, pulling her close to kiss her hair and assure her that he was the happiest man in London. She would have reached around him and hugged him, just like this. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his coat, pulling it from its peg and holding it close.

  Behind her, a man cleared his throat.

  She dropped the coat and whirled around to see the Duke standing in the doorway of his room, watching her embarrass herself. The apology stuck in her throat. Once she started it, she doubted it would ever stop, until she had included the acceptance of an engagement that she had not liked or wanted. Their relationship had been a sorry mess from the moment it started and it had been her mistake not to end it before it had begun.

  Before she could form the words, he had crossed the room and seized her with such force that she was almost lifted from the floor.

  Swept off my feet.

  She had heard the phrase but had never given it much thought until it was happening. It was like being caught in a gale and knowing that, since it had been her own foolishness to take herself out in the storm, she could not be overly surprised when it blew her down. He caught her and lifted her as if she weighed no more than his empty coat. Then he was kissing her.

  And she was allowing it, just as startled as she was on the day he had proposed. But it was not the gentle kiss she had imagined while hugging his coat. He was kissing her like a man with expectations, opening her mouth and delving into her as if he meant to join them for eternity.

  She was supposed to object to this. She should fight, or perhaps she should strike him. But she could not seem to manage the proper reaction. Instead of turning her head, she was answering his kiss with careful thrusts of her tongue, trying to mimic what he was doing to her. She was gripping his arms, not to push them away, but because she wanted to feel the muscles of them, bunching as they held her. As she did so, the ring that she had still been holding slipped from her gasp and thumped to the carpet at her feet.

  The sound was not loud, but apparently, it was enough to break the mood. The Duke pulled away and set her gently back on her feet. Then, he stared down at the signet between them and back to her. ‘You came to return the ring.’

  ‘I thought you were still in the billiard room,’ she whispered.

  He ran a harried hand through his blond hair and uttered a curse, then added, ‘Of course you did.’ He inhaled deeply as if about to say something, then let the breath out slowly before adding, ‘I misunderstood.’

  Was that what it had been? He had kissed her because he’d assumed she’d come for an assignation? If that was what he had been offering in giving her the ring, perhaps she should be insulted. But she was sure he had not expected her to come into his room and begin riffling through his possessions. There was no way to explain what she had done, since she did not fully understand it herself.

  ‘My fault,’ she whispered at last, thinking it all sounded rather like they had bumped into each other in the hall and not been passionately kissing just moments before.

  He reached down and picked up the ring, slipping it on his finger with an absent gesture, then walked past her as if she did not exist, going to his bedroom door and opening it to look up the hall. Leaving the door ajar, he walked towards the central hallway, checking in all directions and down the stairs before hurrying back to her. ‘There is no one about. No one will see you leave. There will be no awkward questions.’

  She had not considered what she’d have done if she had been discovered exiting his room. It was thoughtful of him to do so. It had never occurred to her that there was some sort of etiquette involved with romantic liaisons. But, of course, he would be as well versed in that as he was in all other courtesies. He was a peer, after all. As an inferior, she found his aloof and dismissive nature maddening, but it had never been out of line with good manners.

  She had an inappropriate desire to laugh. She would sit down on the end of his bed and ask him if he could see the absurdity of their interactions t
hus far. Perhaps, if she was honest with him, he would sigh in relief, relax and show his true self to her.

  He would think she had gone mad. He was standing in his doorway now, staring at her expectantly, wondering why she hesitated to leave since she had accomplished what she’d come for. Only a wanton would want to remain with him, after he had kissed her without permission. If she stayed, that was what she would be. She gave another quick nod of thanks and hurried from the room.

  * * *

  He looked down the hall after the fleeing girl, waiting to be sure she had rounded the corner by the stairs without incident. He closed the door, taking care to make no noise that might alert someone dozing in a neighbouring room, turned and sagged against it, breathing in, out, in, out, until his heartbeat returned to something closer to normal.

  He had behaved just as he’d feared he could on the day he proposed. He had pounced on her like a wolf on a lamb, leaving no time for seduction, or even enquiry as to whether his attentions might be welcomed. It had been wonderful. Even sweeter since he was sure that this had been her first real kiss. Just the thought made his body leap to think of all the other delicious firsts they might have in store.

  He took another deep breath. He should have known that there was a logical reason for her to be waiting in his room. Young ladies of good family did not go sneaking from room to room at house parties, bedding and being bedded. Her presence in his had been caused by his provocative actions at the card table.

  But that did not explain what she had been doing inside his wardrobe, all but making love to his tailcoat. He had stood in the doorway watching, surprised, amused and perhaps just a bit envious of the wool pressed against her face. He had been wrong to kiss her. But her behaviour had to mean something and he refused to believe that it was some bizarre fascination with bespoke tailoring.

  She wanted him. She dreamed of him. She had been willing last night. Tonight, she’d made no effort to resist his kiss. She had responded to it. He sat on the bed. It was not much to go on with. But it was more than he’d had this morning. The seemingly impenetrable defence she’d raised against him was much weaker than it looked.