The Brooding Duke Of Danforth

‘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 (#u488f92d8-84df-572f-a4e0-af2a6482bda6)

‘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 satisfied 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.