Читать книгу The Brooding Duke Of Danforth - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 12

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.’