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The Brooding Duke Of Danforth
Christine Merrill
Stranded at a house party with the mysterious Duke… When a storm hits, outspoken Abigail Prescott is trapped at a house party with Benedict Moore, the Duke of Danforth—the very man she was once betrothed to! Wishing to know the man she’s to marry, Abigail had called off their sudden engagement. But reunited once more, Benedict seems determined to win her back and make her his Duchess. His method: irresistible seduction…


Stranded at a house party
with the mysterious duke...
When a storm hits, outspoken Abigail Prescott is trapped at a house party with Benedict Moore, the Duke of Danforth—the very man she was once betrothed to! Wishing to know the man she was to marry, Abigail had called off their sudden engagement. But reunited once more, Benedict seems determined to win her back and make her his duchess. His method: irresistible seduction...
CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming and as a librarian. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.
Also by Christine Merrill (#u488f92d8-84df-572f-a4e0-af2a6482bda6)
The Secrets of Wiscombe Chase
The Wedding Game
A Convenient Bride for the Soldier
The de Bryun Sisters miniseries
The Truth About Lady Felkirk
A Ring from a Marquess
Those Scandalous Stricklands miniseries
Regency Christmas Wishes
A Kiss Away from Scandal
How Not to Marry an Earl
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Brooding Duke of Danforth
Christine Merrill


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08904-3
THE BROODING DUKE OF DANFORTH
© 2019 Christine Merrill
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To James. For knocking down doors.
Contents
Cover (#uaa96e700-2316-54f2-8921-65029e82b205)
Back Cover Text (#u5286d3c8-b46a-5e9a-a69e-cc3b8dd19374)
About the Author (#ubac5c29f-eb86-5925-9cc4-0712a26c3bdd)
Booklist (#u4793d137-7b80-50a3-a4f1-9834461f5506)
Title Page (#ue02cd76a-1d0a-5378-a34f-896ad1883630)
Copyright (#ucabcc299-9033-5a83-b874-4b8b7ad7cc58)
Dedication (#u5fadf479-3188-51aa-ae87-9c3a7a3420b0)
Prologue (#u7456c878-5a9c-5fac-99c5-e329380752a6)
Chapter One (#uff1476d0-79be-5632-b075-f9b649938c54)
Chapter Two (#u2cd1cfe9-7c25-5702-9eb7-23ce048abe54)
Chapter Three (#u2e868506-3a86-5689-a85e-66399d5f8038)
Chapter Four (#ua77d789f-e77c-56e9-ab8a-0f0f21942b5f)
Chapter Five (#ub4cff1ce-dec1-56a5-813e-17cedcf5a2ab)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#u488f92d8-84df-572f-a4e0-af2a6482bda6)
‘Was there no other way than to spend an evening here?’ Lady Beverly tapped her foot, fighting against the rhythm of the music. ‘Meagre refreshments, tepid dancing and tiresome company will make for the dullest evening imaginable.’
‘You did not have to accompany me, Lenore,’ replied Benedict Moore, Fourth Duke of Danforth. ‘But as you keep reminding me, it is time I married. One hunts for rabbits in the field and fish in the stream. When one is hunting for a wife, one comes to Almack’s.’
‘You are correct that I have been telling you so for years. But why have you suddenly decided to listen?’
‘Considering the family history, I might not have much longer to make such a decision.’ Or the faculties to do so. He did not add the comment, but remembering his father’s final year, the possibility that he might end his days babbling in a sickbed was never far from his mind.
‘You are of an entirely different sort than your father,’ Lenore said. ‘You are not given to excesses of diet or temper. If anything, Danforth, people say that you are not emotional enough. I doubt you will be prone to apoplexy, even later in life.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed. ‘But when he died, the last Danforth was three years older than I am now. I have held his title for half my life. It is time that I see to securing the succession.’
‘True. But I cannot imagine you making a match with any of the girls here,’ she said, glancing around the room with a critical frown. ‘They are all far too...’ She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘The incessant giggling sets my teeth on edge.’
‘When I first met you, you had a giggle that was perfectly charming,’ he said.
‘I was twelve at the time,’ she reminded him. ‘And you were ten and too easily impressed.’ She made another sweeping gesture with her fan. ‘By the time I made my come out, I had cured myself of such annoying habits.’
‘You were truly terrifying,’ he agreed. ‘And not the least bit impressed by me or my new title.’
‘You wanted seasoning,’ she said with an affectionate smile.
A decade and a half had given it to him, if one counted the first grey hairs appearing at his temples. He glanced around the room at the current crop of debutantes and tried to work up some enthusiasm for them. Lenore was right. They were all unbelievably young.
But unlike Lenore in her prime, these were easily impressed. Too much so, in his opinion. When he spoke to them, he saw avarice rather than desire. They wanted the Danforth jewel case and the lines of credit on Bond Street where the shopkeepers would bow and scrape to ‘Her Grace’. They wanted to sit at the foot of the finest table in England. He was little more than a means to an end.
The knowledge was infinitely depressing.
‘Have you at least made an effort to mingle with them?’ Lenore pressured, assessing the crowd with a critical eye. ‘You cannot be your usual taciturn self. Even if acceptance of your offer is assured, you must make an effort to speak with them.’
He sighed. ‘If gentlemen had dance cards, mine would already be full. I have secured a different partner for each one, with not a single break until dawn.’
‘Dancing is not as good as conversation,’ she allowed. ‘But it is the best that can be hoped for in this crush.’
From across the room, they heard a commotion at the door. A dark-haired man was arguing with the footman that they were still two minutes shy of the strict eleven o’clock deadline for admittance. Beside him, a fussy woman in a gown that was ornate almost to the point of being gaudy was searching pockets and reticules for the precious vouchers that would permit them entry. After much hubbub, they located the cards with seconds to spare and handed them over, stepping inside the doorway and allowing the girl behind them to enter as well.
At the sight of her, Benedict’s breath stopped in his throat. Surely this was the answer to his prayers, for the young lady they chaperoned was a goddess. At two and thirty, he should know better than to choose a wife for looks alone. But was it such a sin to wish for a tall wife with a trim figure, huge dark eyes, alabaster skin and hair as black and glossy as a raven’s wing?
But physical perfection was nothing without proper temperament. The other girls in the room were in awe of their surroundings and excited almost beyond sense. They could not seem to cease giggling and fidgeting, simpering at their parents, their dance partners and each other. They fanned and fluttered about the room like so many brightly coloured birds.
The girl in the doorway was different. The faint smile she wore seemed neither jaded nor frenetic. It was inquisitive without expectation. As her eyes took in the room and the crowd around her, there was the slightest raise of one eyebrow, as if she asked herself, ‘Is this really all there is to the great Almack’s?’ With one glance she had seen her surroundings not as she wanted them to be, but as they were: a poorly kept assembly room that stank of desperation.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the ironic expression disappeared and the polite smile returned. She was too well bred to mock the honour of being here or to spoil the pleasure of others. She leaned forward to comfort her mother, who was near to vapours over the temporarily misplaced invitations and allowed her parents to lead her into the room for an introduction to the patronesses.
‘You have noticed the newcomers?’ Lenore said, nudging his arm.
‘One of them, at least,’ he admitted.
‘Close your mouth, Danforth. You look like a dying trout.’
He obeyed and then asked, ‘Who are they?’
‘Mr John Prescott, his wife and daughter Abigail. The husband is the grandson of an impoverished baronet. The wife is a daughter of a cit, with money so new you can smell the ink.’ She raised her quizzing glass for a better look. ‘The bulk of Mrs Prescott’s inheritance came to them recently, which explains their daughter’s rather late come out.’
Not too late, in his opinion. An additional year or two past twenty had allowed her beauty to mature and given her the poise he sought in a duchess. Or perhaps she had always been perfection. ‘Does Miss Prescott have admirers?’ he asked, trying to pretend that answer did not matter one way or the other to him.
‘Not yet,’ Lenore said, lowering her glass. ‘The family connections are nothing to speak of and the parents are...difficult.’
He ignored the warning and concentrated on the lack of competition. The fact should not excite him as much as it did. There were likely a million reasons he should take his time, beyond Lenore’s warning. He did not really know this girl at all. And he had been informed on many occasions that he was difficult to get along with. They might not suit.
He was staring, as if he had no manners at all. She had felt his interest and suddenly her gaze fixed on him with the same undisguised curiosity he had been showing her. For the first time in ages, he felt his stomach drop inside him, as if he had fallen from a great height and was unsure of his landing. If he did not get control of himself, an ungentlemanly rush of blood would announce his interest to everyone in the room.
He thought himself far too sensible to believe in love at first sight, but those that claimed it must have felt something very like what he was feeling now. There was a sudden mutual interest that had nothing to do with his title or her pedigree. As he looked into her eyes, he felt a bond form between them that, with time, might become unbreakable.
He looked away again, to compose himself. He would get nowhere gawping across the room at her like an idiot. He had but to walk a short distance across the room and request that Lady Jersey make the introductions. But before he could take a step, the band played the opening notes of a Scottish reel and his first partner tugged at his coat sleeve to remind him of his obligation to her.
He smiled in reassurance and silently damned his early arrival and his conscientious plan to interview every girl in the room. Now that someone had arrived who actually interested him, there was no time left to meet her. Much as he wanted to, he could not turn his back on the promises he had made to his other, young partners. A single dance meant nothing to him, but it was another matter entirely to them.
He took the hand of the girl at his side, offered a brief apology for the momentary distraction and led her out on to the floor. But he hoped she did not notice that, as the patterns of the dance allowed, he stole glances at Abigail Prescott.
The Countess of Sefton was parading a stream of men past her that the patronesses had deemed worthy for introduction. It spoke much of Miss Prescott’s estimated value on the marriage mart that they were offering nothing higher than a baron. If and when Benedict expressed interest, he could easily outflank her other suitors.
Or perhaps not. When Miss Prescott had looked at him as she entered, there had been none of the usual rapacity he saw in girls who were trained from birth to grab for the highest title they could get. She had given him one brief glance of assessment, then looked away. She had not given him another thought for the rest of the evening.
The other girls in the room were all desperate to capture his attention for longer than the time he’d allotted to them. As each new dance began and another girl was added to their ranks, his previous partners waved handkerchiefs and smiled, trying to catch his eye as he passed them, complete with the subtle signals from their fans to show their high esteem for him.
But Miss Prescott ignored him. Her utter disregard was more intriguing than any flirtation. He was not accustomed to being ignored.
In turn, she was being passed over by the ton. She danced twice. Her first partner was Lord Blasenby, who was a notorious boor. As they stood out at the bottom of a neighbouring set, Benedict watched her nodding patiently at the inanities her partner was pouring into her ear, making no show of being as bored as she probably was. But when the dance ended, Benedict was sure he observed a brief sigh of relief.
* * *
Almost an hour later, she stood up with Andrew Killian, the worst dancer in London, and the partner of last resort for wallflowers and spinsters everywhere. After that, she sat along the wall, her mother at her side, her father pacing nearby. They were ignored by the crowd, but not by Benedict, who continued to observe.
Miss Prescott took two glasses of lemonade, but did not finish her slice of cake. He sympathised. As usual, it was dry and flavourless. After a time, another man approached, but seemed to think the better of it, turning away before he reached her side. Benedict expected it was because of the actions of her father. Mr Prescott’s bellicose behaviour towards his family would frighten all but the most ardent suitor. As the evening passed and it was clear that his daughter was not a success, he made matters even worse by glowering at all and sundry as if their lack of attention was a personal affront.
Her mother had begun to tremble like a mouse before a cat, but Miss Prescott weathered the storm with ladylike stoicism. Her smile was unchanging, her fan moved in time with the music.
Benedict forced himself to continue smiling at his partner, as his jaw tightened in annoyance. If this was how her father behaved in public, he was likely even worse at home. The girl’s admirable control must come from regular practice. It was a skill he wished she’d never had to master. He had always hated bullies. But he truly loathed the sort who would terrorise their own families.
The current set brought him close enough to the velvet ropes separating the dance floor from the seating that he could hear scraps of the family’s conversation, though it did Prescott too much credit to call it that. Diatribe would have been a more accurate description of what was being inflicted on the two ladies.
‘If you had not taken so long in dressing, we could have arrived on time. And then...’
His voice faded as Benedict moved forward, met his partner, circled and returned to his place.
‘Lose the vouchers and leave me stammering at the door...’
He advanced again in an allemande and returned.
‘Those gowns cost a pretty penny.’
He moved forward again to touch palms with his lady, then they executed a promenade down the row and up the outside while he seethed beneath his calm. It was beyond vulgar to complain about the price of a lady’s dress, especially when the money had come from one’s wife. Everyone knew that a lady’s Season was expensive, but a good match made up for the cost.
‘What are the results so far?’
This was outside of enough. His daughter had shown remarkable grace in what must be her first visit to the premiere assembly room in London. But apparently her father expected instantaneous success, though it was clear to a casual observer that Prescott’s bad manners were driving away potential suitors. As Benedict swung past in another turn, he could see Mrs Prescott’s lip trembling in what was probably a prelude to tears.
If she broke down in public, the Prescotts would be the gossip of tomorrow. Today, no one would do a thing to stop it, declaring that it was none of their concern. It made his blood boil, for he hated to see any innocent suffer at the moods of an arrogant man. But how best to intervene without causing more talk?
He smiled. In a minute or two, this dance would end. He would be left in a perfect position to help without having to charge across the room like an idiot. Since he would be standing right in front of her, it would look quite natural to request that a patroness introduce him to a newcomer. He knew from experience that even the most stubborn tyrant would be silent in the presence of a peer. An acquaintance with a duke, even though the meeting was a brief one, would increase Miss Prescott’s worth in the eyes of the ton and assure that she never need be a wallflower again.
Most importantly, she would remember him fondly when he called upon her later in the week.
Another travelling step around the ladies brought him back into position to continue his eavesdropping. And for the first time, he heard her voice, a resonant alto that cut through the tirade like a honey-dipped knife. ‘Father?’
The older man emitted a low growl of warning at the interruption.
‘Mother is about to cry. If you do not stop hectoring her immediately, I shall make a scene that all of London shall remember.’
His partner nudged him until he remembered that one did not stop dead in the middle of a dance floor to listen in on strangers. He rushed the next steps to return for more.
‘A fit, perhaps. Or demonic possession. We shall be banned from more than Almack’s when I am finished. No man in England will want me.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Would you care to try me?’
Benedict grinned as the pattern of the dance moved him away from the group again. She did not need his help after all. Abigail Prescott was better equipped than he had ever imagined to rescue the night and protect herself and her mother.
Across the set, his partner smiled brilliantly back at him, convinced that he was smitten.
Indeed, he was. The Duke of Danforth had found his Duchess.

Chapter One (#u488f92d8-84df-572f-a4e0-af2a6482bda6)
Three months later...
Abigail Prescott stood in the entry hall of Comstock Manor, staring down at the puddle of muddy water that had dripped from her skirts onto the immaculate marble floor. It was an excellent metaphor for her interactions with the peerage thus far. She could not seem to stop making a mess of them.
And her mother could not seem to stop apologising on her behalf. ‘We cannot tell you how grateful we are for your assistance.’ Mrs Prescott’s hands fluttered nervously as she spoke and drops of rain water splashed from lace cuffs to baptise the little dog that sat at the Countess of Comstock’s feet. ‘If there had been any other choice...’
‘One cannot predict the weather,’ the Countess said with a shrug. She was a plain woman with a matter-of-fact manner. Though she was even younger than Abby, she had the serene composure of a woman twice her age and did not seem the least bit bothered to have a carriage full of wet strangers imposing on her hospitality.
‘But to arrive in your home with no introduction...’ her mother added, still pretending to be horrified that they had wandered into an earldom without an invitation.
‘Do not discompose yourself. Even if your carriage was undamaged, I would not have expected you to return to the village in this storm when my home was in sight.’
The exaggeration was another example of the Countess’s generosity. The Manor was almost a mile from the spot on the main road where they had abandoned the brougham, leaning drunkenly on its broken springs. Since she and her mother had got thoroughly soaked during the trudge up the muddy drive to the house, it could have been no worse to walk back down the road to the nearest farm. But her mother had turned towards the luxury of the Manor like a needle to a lodestone and here they were.
‘We have interrupted your house party,’ her mama said, throwing a wistful glance towards the back of the house and the sound of laughter and conversation.
‘You cannot possibly continue your journey until your carriage has been repaired and the road cleared of fallen branches. That will not be possible until the storm has ended,’ the Countess replied. ‘In the meantime, there is ample space here for a few more guests.’
It was probably true. Abby had got little more than a glimpse of the Manor as they had run towards it, bonnets dipped to the ground to protect against the driving rain. But it had seemed almost ridiculously large, with more wings and ells than could be filled by even the largest party.
‘If it is truly no bother...’ her mother said, all too eager to be persuaded.
‘I will send a servant to retrieve your luggage and a maid will show you to your rooms. However...’ The Countess paused. There was a faint smile playing about her lips as though what she was about to say would pay them back for any inconvenience they might have caused. ‘I feel it necessary to warn you that the Duke of Danforth is currently among my guests.’
At this announcement, her mother’s composure failed and her lip trembled, signalling the beginning of a response that might be far too sincere and more embarrassing than her dripping apologies.
Abby grabbed her hand and tugged sharply, pulling her away from the Countess before she could speak. She felt worse than her mother did about seeing the Duke again, but she was not about to break down in the entrance hall and display her emotions to the whole house. ‘Thank you for informing us. I will do my best to prevent any awkwardness.’
‘As will I.’ The Countess smiled. ‘As I said before, it is a very large house.’
Not large enough.
Abby had known that she would have to face the consequences of her actions eventually. But when the moment came, she’d assumed she would have had time to prepare for it. She had not expected that she would come upon him without warning and be unable to get away.
‘I will arrange the seating at the table accordingly. You need not speak, if you do not wish to. Or participate in any activities that might force proximity.’ The Countess gave an airy wave off her hand to indicate the insignificance of the problems. Then she grew serious. ‘But the other guests are likely to gossip.’
Behind her, Mama gave a small yip of distress and the Countess’s lapdog whined in response.
‘There cannot possibly be more talk than there has already been,’ Abby said, reaching into her sleeve for the spare handkerchief she kept for her mother. She turned and offered it, and accompanied it with a warning look to remind the older woman that fussing over the situation only made it worse. Then she turned back to the Countess with a smile. ‘We will be fine. And again, we thank you for your help.’
Lady Comstock nodded in return and reached for a nearby bell pull. ‘You will feel even better after a hot drink and some dry clothes. Dinner is at eight and I do not want you to miss it.’
When the maid arrived to take them to their rooms, they were led up the main stairs, past the main wing of guest rooms and down a dimly lit centre hallway with threadbare carpet and faded wallpaper. Her mother cast a longing glance over her shoulder at the newer, nicer rooms in the front of the house.
‘I am sure these are lovely, as well,’ Abby whispered, not wanting to appear ungrateful in front of the servant.
‘It does not matter,’ her mother replied with a watery sigh. ‘We will not have the opportunity to compare accommodations with the other guests. Despite what the Countess said, we shall have to take all our meals in our room.’ The maid had opened the door of the first room and Mrs Prescott hovered in the doorway, fluttering in and out like a moth trapped in a chandelier.
Abby walked in without hesitation and smiled at the maid. ‘The room is lovely. Please thank the Countess again for her generosity.’ The statement was true enough. Though it was clear that it was not in the first tier of accommodation, the linens had been recently aired and the blue silk on the walls and heavy damask curtains on the bed were free of stains or dust. She gave her mother what she hoped was a significant look. ‘And I assume you are right next door.’
The older woman disappeared after the maid only to reappear a few moments later through an adjoining door. Before she could embarrass them again with her complaints, Abby glanced into the hall to make sure the maid had gone, then shut the door.
Judging by the look her mother was giving her, she had decided against tears in favour of recrimination. ‘Have I not told you often enough that your past misbehaviour would come back to haunt us? Now, when a perfect opportunity to re-enter society has appeared, we have been relegated to the back of the house and kept far away from the rest of the guests like lepers.’
Abby sighed and closed her eyes, trying not to imagine what might be in store for them when they went downstairs again. Just the thought of seeing the Duke again made her head ache. But that was the future and could not be predicted. Here and now, she must calm her mother or she would have two scenes to deal with instead of one.
She opened her eyes again, then put on her most patient smile. ‘We have been given these rooms because the best ones have been given to people that Lady Comstock invited to her home. We would not be here at all if you had not ignored my request to return home when the weather worsened. You insisted that we must go on towards London. Now we are trapped and must make the best of it.’
‘And if you had not jilted the Duke of Danforth, we might have been invited here in the first place.’
There was some truth to that. But if she had married the Duke like everyone had wanted her to, she’d have made everyone happy but herself. After years of keeping the peace by putting her own needs behind those of the family, Abby had not been able to manage it. ‘The Countess of Comstock seems prepared to forgive me on that account. Perhaps, some day, you will as well.’ She sat down at the dressing table, removed her soggy bonnet and began pulling out pins so she might properly dry her hair. ‘For now, I mean to do as she suggested and prepare for dinner. I have no intention of hiding in my room to avoid one man.’ Even if she wanted to, now that they were in the same house, she doubted she could prolong the inevitable meeting for more than a day or two. It would be easier to get it over with quickly.
‘Have you no shame at all?’
‘I have nothing to be ashamed of. I am not the one travelling about England with a mistress always in tow.’
‘Do not be ridiculous.’ Her mother tutted. ‘You could not possibly do so because you are a young lady.’
Abby sighed again. ‘As usual, you are missing the point.’
‘I am ignoring it,’ her mother replied. ‘That is what a decent young girl would do, when given the opportunity to marry a man of such stature.’
‘Then I am sorry to be such a disappointment,’ Abby countered. ‘Despite all your efforts to the contrary, you have raised an abomination.’
It was fortunate that she had not expected a denial after that proclamation, for none came. ‘I knew there were too many books in the house. But your father insisted you be educated. And now look at you.’
Abigail smiled into the mirror. ‘Despite the rain, I do look quite well today, thank you.’
‘You know that is not what I meant.’ Now Mama was positively huffing with indignation.
‘I am what I am,’ Abby announced. Though, in her heart of hearts the fact frustrated her even more than it did her parents. Life would be so much easier if she were anyone else. ‘If I could not manage to ignore Danforth’s mistress before we were to be married, it would have been just as hard, after. I saved us all from future unhappiness.’ In truth, it had been nothing more than a brief reprieve. Despite her mother’s belief she was without shame, she had been far too embarrassed to question the Countess as to whether the Duke had come alone or brought Lady Beverly with him. Tonight, she might have to face her worst nightmare at dinner. She would have to share a table with the two people in England she had never wanted to see again. At the thought, her stomach clenched. Perhaps she could excuse herself early, for she doubted that she could eat a bite, feeling as she did.
‘I am more concerned with the past than the future. The least you could do is apologise to him for the trouble you have caused,’ her mother said with a note of pleading in her voice.
‘Since a lady has a right to change her mind, I have nothing to apologise for,’ she replied, ignoring the niggling fact that there had been many less embarrassing ways to call an end to the engagement. Instead, she had chosen to make a spectacle of him. She felt even worse knowing that she had earned any punishment society decided to inflict.
Her mother deserved some small share as well for putting her in this situation, so she added, ‘I will endeavour to avoid him so as not to make things worse. And, since you were no doubt hoping when we barged in here that we might find me a husband, I will set my cap for the first fellow I see on the ground floor. Then Danforth can keep his mistress and I can keep house somewhere else. The whole matter will be settled by morning.’
At this, her mother’s lip began to tremble, a signal that her brief show of courage was over. ‘Abigail Prescott, you will not flirt with a stranger under the nose of the man you spurned. If you humiliate me again, I do not know what I shall do.’
She would probably cry, in public or private. If Abby was the cause of those tears, she would be no better than Father was. She rose and went to her mother, taking her hands and giving them a comforting squeeze. ‘I was jesting, Mama. It was cruel and I am sorry. While we are here, I shall be on my best behaviour. Since I refused to marry one total stranger, I promise you I will not be flirting with another.’
‘He was not a stranger. He was a duke. Everyone in England knows him,’ her mother said with a wail, still mourning the loss of Danforth. ‘What more did you need to know?’
‘What else could I possibly need to know but his title?’ she said with an ironic smile that was lost on her mother.
There were myriad answers to that question. His favourite colour. Whether he preferred coffee or tea with breakfast. If he had a dog. There were a hundred things she wished to know about him that she had not learned. The most important of them was what had motivated him to offer for her in the first place.
She pushed them all to the back of her mind and tried to give her mother a sincere smile of encouragement. ‘Since he was not particularly interested in me during our engagement and has made no effort to speak with me after, I doubt he will want to acknowledge my existence, much less trail me around the house interfering in my doings. I am sure we will both feel better if I ring for a maid to get us out of our wet clothes and changed for dinner. Then we will go downstairs and meet the other guests, and I will prove to you that things will not be as terrible as you fear.’

Chapter Two (#u488f92d8-84df-572f-a4e0-af2a6482bda6)
Benedict stood patiently in the finest guestroom of Comstock Manor as his valet dressed him for dinner. When he’d arrived, the Earl had told him that it was a former repose for King Henry VIII.
He had seen better.
Until recently, Comstock had been an American. It was quite possible that he knew little to nothing about the house or its previous guests and had made the story up out of whole cloth. Still, it was comfortable enough. The mattress was not a Tudor antique and he slept well on it.
‘Chin up, Your Grace.’
He obliged as Gibbs flipped the linen cravat about his neck and began the knot.
There was a single knock on the door and, as usual, it opened and closed before he could even give his permission for entrance. He watched in the mirror before him as Lenore crossed the room to sprawl among the pillows on his bed.
‘You should not be here,’ he reminded her with a sigh. ‘Especially not during the day when anyone might notice.’
In response, she laughed in the deep, throaty way that made heads turn and breeches tighten. After twenty-two years of exposure, he had developed some immunity to it. ‘Might notice? Darling, I made sure that they did. I would much rather that people think I am with you than that they realise what I really get up to on these trips. I doubt some of them could stand the shock.’
Despite himself, he laughed. The movement of his head earned an annoyed grunt from Gibbs, who tossed away the spoiled neckcloth and went to the wardrobe for a replacement.
He took advantage of the respite to turn from the mirror and address her directly. ‘You know that I would never deny sanctuary to a lady in distress, especially when she is my best and oldest friend. But some day, it might be interesting to go on a trip where I do not have to be the last bulwark between you and disgrace.’
She answered with a shrug and a smile, and, as usual, no promise to change in the slightest.
‘Do I want to know who you have been visiting when you are pretending to be with me?’
She shook her head. ‘It is better that you do not. But my liaison will pale in comparison with the scandal about to break at supper tonight.’
‘Do tell,’ he said, taking care not to move as Gibbs began the new knot.
‘The weather today is as bad as it was yesterday, which is to say, only a bit better than last night,’ she said. ‘We shall all be trapped inside until the storm breaks and that could take days.’
‘I am aware of the fact. The room has windows.’ He flicked a glance to the panes which were currently rattling in their frames under pea-sized hail.
‘But today, there have been some surprise additions to the party. A fallen tree in the road caused a carriage accident. The travellers are sheltering here until the weather turns and the vehicle can be repaired.’
He turned to glance over his shoulder, receiving a sigh of frustration from the valet, who tossed the second spoiled cloth aside and picked up another.
‘Since this is not my house, I have no say in the matter. I am told there are forty rooms. It should not matter at all if a few more people come here.’
‘The stranded guests are Mrs Prescott and her daughter.’
Now, it felt like the valet was knotting the cloth tight enough to strangle him and Benedict tugged it away, tossing it down to lie with its fellow before turning to face Lenore. ‘Which Prescott?’
‘The only one that matters,’ she replied, eyes flashing with amusement as she waited for his response.
He had no right to be annoyed. If she had not come to give him a warning, he might have ended up facing a dinner table full of people eager to dissect his reaction at the first sight of his former fiancée. And a fine show he would have given them had he come upon her unawares. Even with advance notice, his initial desire was to curse aloud, his second to run screaming into the rain and try to avoid the meeting that awaited him in the dining room.
Instead, he took a deep breath and apologised to Gibbs. Then, he held a finger in the air to warn Lenore of the need for silence. He ignored her expectant expression and stood stock-still until the valet had completed his work.
He was being foolish. He was used to scrutiny. His title was so old that he tended to be the ranking peer at most any gathering and he had come into it when he was still a boy. It was not unusual to feel all eyes in the room upon him, especially when he was travelling with Lenore.
But his friendship with her was old news. Though people tended to suspect the worst about them, they did not dare to voice their theories aloud. A meeting with Abigail Prescott was another matter entirely.
‘It has been long enough since the incident that I doubt anyone will even remember,’ he lied, as Gibbs gave his coat a final brushing.
‘Do not be naive,’ she said with a soft laugh. ‘It has been barely three months since she left you standing alone at the altar in St George’s. I was in the parlour when the other guests learned of her arrival and the room fairly hummed with the desire to gossip.’ She gave a modest bow of her head. ‘I came here so as not to inhibit them.’
He gave her a sour smile. ‘You might have remained and prevented it.’
‘Only delayed it, I am sure.’ She shrugged. ‘If I do not allow them some liberties, they will take to avoiding me so they might talk about you in peace.’
‘You are willing to sacrifice my reputation for the sake of your own popularity.’
‘As I have always done. You have been telling me since we first began going about together that you did not care what people thought of you.’ She touched a hand to her ample bosom and gave a dramatic sigh. ‘My reputation was your main concern. What would the world think of me, that I was so much in your company?’ Her hand dropped to her side and she looked at him, eyebrow raised. ‘It is a surprise to find your chivalry failing just when things are becoming interesting.’
‘I was young and foolish back then,’ he replied. ‘Not that I regret it, of course,’ he added, for in truth he did not.
‘But you did not think through the repercussions,’ she added. ‘Nor did you imagine that you would be trapped at a house party with me and your betrothed.’
‘My former betrothed,’ he said firmly. Then he attempted a joke to change the subject. ‘And I chose to keep company with you because I assumed that, eventually, you would see the error of your ways and accept my proposal.’
‘Silly boy.’ She smiled fondly. ‘My opinion has not changed in all the years we have been together. We did not suit then. We do not suit now.’
‘Not as you did with your first husband,’ he agreed.
‘I did not suit him, either.’ She laughed.
‘But I could not imagine a better union than one between two friends,’ Benedict insisted.
‘You could not?’ She arched her eyebrow again. ‘Having tried it, I can assure you, there is more to marriage than that. You need a woman who will give you a son.’
He frowned. ‘I thought I had found one.’ He could still remember his first glimpse of Abigail Prescott’s flashing dark eyes and serene smile. One meeting was all that had been necessary to decide him. In less than a week, they had been engaged. ‘It was all arranged.’
‘And then she jilted you.’ Lenore did not exactly chortle, but there was a distinct lack of sympathy in her tone.
‘I gave her no reason.’ He was still not sure what had changed her mind.
‘Now that she is here, you must ask her.’
He frowned, wishing she would drop a subject that was embarrassing enough without additional commentary.
‘You have made no effort to speak to her, thus far,’ she reminded him. ‘It is time you did.’
‘Since we are not married, you have no power to nag me into doing things I do not wish to.’ Not even when she was right. His childish infatuation for Abigail Prescott had been accompanied by equally childish anger at her rejection. Perhaps she was in love with another. Perhaps the responsibilities involved in elevation to Duchess were too daunting.
Or perhaps she simply did not like him.
But she could have been polite enough to inform him of the fact in person or in writing before the actual ceremony. He had thought it wonderfully brazen when she’d threated her own father with a public scene. But it had been another thing entirely when she had pulled the same trick on him without the courtesy of a warning. If she did not want to marry him, then he had no intention of chasing after her to beg for a reason. If the girl was a harpy in the making, then their failed wedding had been not so much an embarrassment as a reprieve. If she could treat him thus before the wedding, then their marriage would not have been the peaceful union he sought. It would be misery from start to finish.
As the days turned into months, he had decided the less he thought about her, the happier he was likely to be. Now she had appeared out of nowhere to destroy what small amount of peace he had managed to regain. But that did not mean he would give her the satisfaction of seeing him hurt. Having witnessed the results of unfettered emotion in his family, he would not give her the satisfaction of seeing him lose control.
He stared into the mirror, pretending to admire the beautifully tied cravat to show how little this supposed crisis mattered to him. Then he turned to Lenore. ‘If she wished to ruin her reputation by crying off, it was not my business to ask why. Nor do I mean to offer her any more than I already have. If a dukedom is not enough to get her to the altar, I cannot imagine what she expects.’
‘It could have been nothing more than fear on her part,’ Lenore said in a gentle voice. ‘You can be quite intimidating when you set your mind to it.’
He laughed. ‘Do you think I bullied her into marrying me? She is lucky that I took her on at all. With a philandering drunk for a father and a social-climbing cit for a mother, her family pedigree was not likely to gain her an offer as good as mine.’
‘It did not seem to bother you at the time,’ Lenore replied. After a lifetime’s acquaintance, she could look through him like an empty glass.
‘And it does not bother me now,’ he insisted. His last comment had sounded like the petulant outburst of a man who cared far too much. ‘If you wish to know the truth of her motives, you will have to ask her yourself. When I see the girl, I mean to treat her in a civil manner to prove there are no hard feelings on my part. But I am not going to beg for an answer, nor will I be goaded into a public confrontation for the amusement of the crowd.’
Her lips formed an ‘O’ of astonishment and she looked ready to question him further. He had few secrets from Lenore, but friendship did not entitle her to pick through the remnants of his heart like a rag bin. ‘Gibbs, please see Lady Beverly out. If she spends another minute meddling in affairs which do not concern her, she will not have time to dress for dinner.’
His valet went to the door, opened and stood respectfully to the side and gave Lenore the patient look that servants used when forced to obey commands that were not likely to go well.
Lenore looked between master and servant, then laughed. ‘Putting me out?’ She rose from the bed as gracefully as she had taken to it. ‘You have never done that before.’ Then she swept past him and through the door, turning to leave a parting shot. ‘This will be an interesting—’
At Benedict’s signal, the door closed before she could complete the sentence.

Chapter Three (#u488f92d8-84df-572f-a4e0-af2a6482bda6)
It did not take long for the Comstock servants to prove that there had been no insult intended in the rooms they had been allotted. Before Abby and her mother had finished speaking, a string of footman appeared, carrying their luggage from the carriage, and Lady Comstock’s own maid was hurrying between their two rooms, drawing baths and pulling dinner gowns from their trunks.
* * *
An hour later, with her hair dried, curled and decorated with emerald pins to match her green silk gown, Abby felt more than a match for anything or anyone that might await her on the ground floor. But upon arriving there, it took only a moment to realise that things were not as bad as Mother had expected—they were far worse.
Their appearance in the door of the sitting room brought the action within to a sudden halt. It was as if she was staring at an oil painting of the ton at leisure and not an actual party. All chatter stopped. Glasses paused halfway to lips and, though play had stopped, hands around the card table rose slightly to disguise the curious expressions of the players that held them.
Beside her, she could feel her mother begin to falter. She sympathised, for she could feel her own heart racing wildly and her blood pumping ice through her veins. Before either of them could make things worse by showing their fear, Abby pushed from behind, forcing her mother forward. Once they’d passed the threshold, the Countess bore down on them with the singlemindedness of a dreadnought. ‘Mrs Prescott, Miss Prescott, please, come join us.’ She kissed their cheeks as if they were old friends and not complete strangers, then forced her way between them, linking arms and towing them into the midst of the gathering. ‘Even if it comes from misfortune, I welcome your company. You are not yet acquainted with my husband. We must remedy that immediately. And if there are people in our little group you do not know, point them out and I will be happy to make introductions. I am sure all are as happy to see you as we are.’ Then she swept the room with a steely glare that was in opposition to her honeyed tone, as if daring anyone to go counter to the wishes of the hostess.
With a rustle of satin and a few nervously cleared throats, the other guests offered forced smiles of welcome, turning away as soon as they could find an excuse to return to what they had been doing before the Prescotts arrived.
Before they had a chance to be bothered by it, the Countess had them across the room and standing in front of the Earl of Comstock, who complained about the miserable English weather and assured them that everything would be done to make up for the discomfort it had caused. Though he’d held his title for over a year, his temperament and accent were still somewhat colonial. But at least there was no trace of the reserve Abby sometimes felt when people were confronted with her mother’s unguarded emotions and unpolished manners. It did not seem to bother him in the least that she had not been born to associate with someone of his rank.
Unfortunately, the latitude of their host encouraged her mother to speak her mind in the worst way possible. ‘You are too kind, my lord,’ she said with a giggle. ‘But if you are sincere in saying you will do anything to make us comfortable, there is one small thing...’
‘Anything within reason, Mrs Prescott,’ the Earl said, with a playful glint in his eye.
‘Might you arrange to introduce my daughter to any single gentlemen who are here? She is still husband-hunting, you know, and I shall not truly be at ease until I see her well married.’
Would that the rain had drowned them before they’d made it up the drive. This was a level of embarrassment that Abigail had never imagined as they had forced their way into this house. Only an hour or two ago, her mother had been threatening to hide in her room and insisting that Abby not shame herself by flirting. But now she was all but auctioning her off to the first man who would take her and expecting a peer to be a panderer.
‘She is already acquainted with one of your friends, Comstock. But I doubt I will be of any help.’
On second thought, she did not wish for a watery death outside. She wanted the floor to open beneath her right now and swallow her without a trace. She did not even have to turn around to know that the Duke of Danforth had heard what her mother had said and inserted himself into the conversation.
This was not what she’d expected at all. As she’d dressed for dinner, she had been steeling herself for a cut, direct or indirect. When they finally met, she was sure he would ignore her for as long as he could. If forced to face her, he would look through her, then turn away.
It would be embarrassing, but survivable. She would pretend that she had not noticed. She would speak to everyone else in the room, laugh and talk, and act just as she would if he had not been present. After a few hours of misery, she would be able to go back to her room and gather the strength to do the same thing tomorrow.
Instead, the Duke was standing right behind her and making a direct reference to the embarrassment she had caused him. Though every nerve in her body demanded that she run, she turned slowly to face him.
He was wearing the same distant expression he had worn on the first night she’d seen him. It was not quite a smile, but neither had it been a frown. Though he ate and danced and chatted with the other people in the room, he had seemed to exist apart from them, as if listening to a voice that no one else could hear. In Almack’s she had thought it sad and felt a sudden, deep sympathy with him, wondering what might be required to ease his burden.
It was only later, as the wedding had approached, that she had suspected the truth. Ordinary people bored him. He wore an entirely different expression for those closest to him and she was not included in that number.
Now he seemed to be mocking her. Let him do it. If she was to be extricated from the mess her mother had just made, she could see no other way forward than to throw herself on the Duke’s mercy and hope for the best. So, after giving a nervous smile of recognition, she eased herself free of the Countess’s grasp and dropped in a respectful curtsy. ‘Your Grace.’ As she dipped, she kept her eyes trained on the floor, staring at the toes of his well-polished boots and praying that he would give her some hint as to what she should do when she rose again.
He must have been wondering the same thing, for she could swear she felt the weight of his gaze, like the brush of cat’s tail against her bare skin.
Or perhaps that feeling of heaviness was the attention of the other guests. The silence in the room had returned, as even the Countess waited with bated breath to see how he would respond to her greeting.
And then, the mood was broken by the deep, feminine laugh of someone who was unaware of the excitement occurring on the other side of the room. Abby raised her eyes and watched all heads swivel to find the source.
She did not have to follow them for she was sure who she would see. As she’d feared, if Danforth was here then Lady Beverly would not be far away. And as she had from the first moment she had learned of the woman, she wondered why the Duke had even bothered to propose to her when he already had such a woman at his beck and call.
Lenore, or Lady Beverly, was several years older than the Duke, though her looks gave no indication of the fact. Her hair was gold to complement the copper of his, her eyes a clear ice blue. But there was nothing cool about the smile on her full, pink lips, nor the womanly curves of her body. Though Abby had been more than a little pleased with her own appearance when gazing into the bedroom mirror, the feeling was forgotten when she looked at Lady Beverly. She was nothing compared to such a woman.
Even worse, the relationship between this goddess and Danforth was the worst-kept secret in England. All of London declared the two perfectly suited and wondered why they hadn’t married years ago. The most popular theory held that the Marchioness was barren. Lady Beverly had been married for almost a decade and was now a childless widow. No matter how charming and attractive, a woman who could not conceive would be completely unsuitable for a peer in need of an heir.
But the absence of children made her even more qualified for other, less proper activities. Several of the men in the room were looking at her with more than cursory interest, as if hoping that it might be possible to sway her affections, should the Duke displease her. But a change of loyalty did not seem imminent. As she turned to Danforth, she sparkled like a diamond, overjoyed that he was in the same room.
Then she was moving towards them, still smiling as if equally pleased to see the Prescotts. Abby barely had time to rise from the curtsy before she was enveloped in a cloud of scent and an almost tangible aura of bonhomie.
‘Danforth.’ The name reached them in a husky whisper as she grew close. ‘Is this she?’ Her expression was somewhere between curiosity and avarice, making Abby feel more like an object than a person. ‘She is as lovely as you said.’
It would not have been possible for Lady Beverly to remain ignorant of the engagement, which had been announced in The Times. But the thought that she had been a topic of conversation between the lovers made Abby’s stomach knot in horror. If they had expected her to ignore their extremely public relationship, the least she had been owed from Lady Beverly was a similar feigned ignorance should they ever meet.
Then, insult was added to injury as the woman said, ‘Benedict, you must introduce us.’ She expected the look on Lady Beverly’s face to betray the irony of her request. But there was no trace of mockery in her smile. Its delight seemed genuine, as if she truly had been waiting an age for this meeting.
Even worse, Danforth did not seem the least bit surprised by it. Only a few moments ago, he had been ready to protect her from embarrassment. Now he did not hesitate to say, ‘Lady Beverly, may I present Mrs John Prescott and Miss Abigail Prescott.’
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 (#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.
‘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.’
‘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 (#u488f92d8-84df-572f-a4e0-af2a6482bda6)
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 of 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.’
‘She noticed that it would be easier to pull your teeth than to get conversation out of you?’ Lenore replied.

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