The Brooding Duke Of Danforth. Christine Merrill

Chapter Three

      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