The Brooding Duke Of Danforth. Christine Merrill

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

      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