The Brooding Duke Of Danforth. Christine Merrill

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