A Duke Never Yields

by Juliana Gray

  Abigail lay quite still beneath Wallingford. He looked down at her squashed hat and her chestnut hair, covering her face.

  “Are you all right?” he asked desperately.

  She stirred, and he gave way with an odd reluctance. Even with a few thousand people in attendance, and the threat of further catastrophic engine explosions, he had rather enjoyed the feel of her warm body beneath him once more. “An explosion, you say? Where?”

  “Over there, I suspect,” said Alexandra, pointing. “The one with the blood all over the bonnet. The poor fellow.”

  Wallingford followed Alexandra’s pointing finger. He considered himself a man of strong stomach, of sound British phlegm, but this sight before him—swarming already with doctors and stretchers and bandage rolls—made his belly go strangely sickish. He put his hand on one side of Alexandra’s automobile and studied his fingers as the sweating minutes ticked away. Was it his imagination, or had his skin gone rather green?

  “Oh, right-ho! Jolly lurid,” Abigail was saying. “Is that his arm?”

  “Damned hand cranks on these petrol engines,” Alexandra said, with a knowing shake of her head. “Those petrol automobiles. Nuisances, the lot of them.”

  Burke wandered over, his hair showing in a bright ginger line underneath his cap. “Everyone all right?” He saw Wallingford and started. “What the devil are you doing here, old man?”

  “The same as you, I expect.” Wallingford nodded at the sisters, whose crisp white dresses nearly blinded the eye in the Roman sunshine. “Are you certain this is quite all right?”

  “Wallingford, old fellow,” Burke said, “if you can find a way to stop them, you’re a better man than I am.”

  The doctors arrived with a stretcher, and with surprising efficiency they had bandaged up the compound fracture and the dislocated jaw, and mopped up the blood from the bonnet. Wallingford tried to maneuver himself next to Abigail, but she and Alexandra had their heads together, chattering in that altogether intimidating feminine way, and Burke drew him aside to discuss the cause of the explosion, and the superiority of the electric engine in safety and performance and overall smell.

  Wallingford looked again at the gory scene, at the ten or more automobiles lined up at the start, at Lady Morley in her goggles and her white scarf, and finally at Phineas Burke. “Look here. You’ll be all right, won’t you? It seems to me like a dashed dangerous business.”

  “I’ll be all right.” Burke glanced at Lady Morley. “But I’ll tell you, Wallingford, I rather wish the next hour or so were over with.”

  “Hmm.”

  Burke checked his watch and began to circle around his own machine. “Looks as if they’ve got things cleaned up, anyway. We’ll be starting soon.”

  Wallingford followed him and leaned against the doorframe as he climbed into the seat. “Anything I can do for you, old man?”

  “Just keep an eye out, won’t you? If something happens, if she finds herself in trouble . . .” Burke looked down at the steering tiller, as if checking the mechanism.

  “Done,” said Wallingford. A cheer rippled across the assembled crowd, as the stretcher was hoisted up and the injured man carried off. “You mean to marry her, don’t you?” he asked quietly.

  “If she’ll have me.” Burke gazed forward, both hands on the tiller, leather gloves glowing dully in the sunshine. “And what about you?”

  “If she’ll have me.”

  Burke laughed and shook his head. “By God, that’s the last time I’ll answer a newspaper advertisement.”

  The drivers were once more climbing into their seats, the petrol engines cranking to life. Wallingford stepped away. “Good luck, old man.”

  “And you, by God. And you.”

  Wallingford went around the back of Burke’s machine and grasped Abigail firmly around the arm. She looked up in surprise.

  “You, Miss Harewood,” he said, in the commanding voice he knew she loved, “are coming with me.”

  “Oh! Where?” Her eyes sparkled, as if she expected him to say to my room, or to a nearby bawdy-house.

  “Out of harm’s way,” he growled.

  She stepped back with him willingly enough, into the crowd of spectators. The sultry smell of petrol exhaust drifted through the air. All the hundreds of throats had ceased moving; all eyes were on the starter, who stood at the end of the line, consulting his watch, his pistol raised.

  “That’s a jolly fine pistol,” Abigail whispered in his ear. “Do you suppose it’s actually loaded?”

  The starter looked up and down the line. The very air had gone utterly still. Not a sound, except for the roar of the engines; not a movement, except for the starter swiveling his head, watching the automobiles with his keen eyes. Inches away, Abigail’s body seethed beneath its layers of ladylike white chiffon. Her gloved hand slipped into his.

  A puff of smoke came from the end of the pistol, and an instant later a bang shattered the air.

  Alexandra’s car lunged ahead, matched Burke for a second or two, and then passed him. The ends of her white scarf fluttered in the backdraft, and the last Wallingford saw of her was the wide smile splitting her face in two.

  “She’s ahead!” Abigail squeezed his hand like a nutcracker. “She’s ahead! Oh, hold me up, so I can see!”

  What else could he do? He put his hands around her trim rib cage and hoisted her upward. “There they go! She’s ahead, she’s going around the corner, there’s Mr. Burke chasing her, and oh! Oh!”

  “What is it?” Wallingford could see nothing but white chiffon.

  “Some chap’s lost his tiller! Good God! Oh, watch out!” She gave a delicious shudder and slid down in his arms. “Directly into a fruit stand. Bananas, I believe.”

  Bananas. Wallingford closed his eyes and inhaled her, sweet, living Abigail, just before she stepped away with a laugh.

  “Well, that’s that, I suppose! When are they expected at the finish line?”

  Wallingford consulted his watch, as if that would give him the answer. “Burke said something about an hour.” He felt a little dizzy, not quite himself. The old Abigail had returned, lighthearted and charming, inserting herself willingly between his two hands, as if the night in the boathouse had never occurred. It couldn’t possibly be this easy.

  Could it?

  He took her by the shoulder and turned her toward him. “Abigail, I . . .”

  “There you are, Miss Harewood!” A portly gentleman appeared next to them, standing a good deal too close: the same gentleman who had been hanging about Lady Morley’s automobile before the start. He stuck his thumbs cheerfully into his waistcoat pockets. “Lady Morley asked me to keep a bit of an eye on you, during the race.”

  “Oh, that’s quite unnecessary,” Abigail said, with equal cheer. “A dear friend of mine has turned up, quite unexpectedly.” She patted Wallingford’s arm. “He’s a splendid chaperone, frightfully protective. He often reminds me of a particularly keen bloodhound.”

  The gentleman’s eyebrows rose as he contemplated Wallingford. He tipped back his hat in an indolent way. “A bloodhound, what? I say, old fellow. You look dashed familiar. Have you a handle of some sort?”

  Wallingford stared down his nose. “I am the Duke of Wallingford, old fellow. And who the devil are you?”

  The gentleman went quite pale. He turned to Abigail, as if she might possess better information on the matter than he did.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon! Wallingford, this is William Hartley, my sister’s nephew. By marriage, of course. He’s the owner of the automobile she’s driving.”

  Wallingford did not move his gaze a fraction from Mr. Hartley’s round face. “And why isn’t he driving the machine himself, in that case?”

  “Because it makes him sick, I believe. Isn’t that so, Mr. Hartley?”

  “Quite so.” Hartley dabbed at his pearling forehead with a handkerchief. “Quite so.”

  “I see,” said Wallingford.

  “Mr. Hartley came to see us at the castl
e, on his way down to Rome,” Abigail went on. “I believe he convinced Alexandra to make the trip. Didn’t you, Mr. Hartley?”

  “I . . . I hope I have that honor,” gasped out Hartley.

  A shimmer of activity swept through the milling crowd.

  “Oh, what’s going on?” Abigail craned her neck. “Is it a brawl? Oh, do say it’s a brawl. I’ve been in Italy nearly five months without a brawl.”

  A shout, and a voice raised in jabbering outrage. Wallingford shifted his body next to Abigail, overlapping her, his feet planted a little apart.

  “Have no fear, Miss Harewood,” said Hartley. “My mechanics will protect you from any insult.”

  Abigail clutched Wallingford’s arm and rose up on her toes. “If it is a brawl, you must lift me onto your shoulders at once. I don’t want to miss a single blow.”

  Wallingford was at least half a head taller than any of the spectators nearby. He tilted his chin to avoid a particularly intrusive ostrich feather and peered across the shifting sea of hats.

  “It isn’t a brawl,” he said at last, relaxing his stance. “It’s a chap running about with a steering tiller.”

  Six hours later

  So there I stood, Miss Harewood, everything in the balance, forced to make a split-second choice between the three-and-a-quarter-inch cylinder and the three-and-three-eighths-inch cylinder, and do you know what I did?” Mr. Hartley extended his middle finger and pushed away a greasy lock of hair from the center of his forehead.

  Abigail gasped and put her fingers to her lips. “You chose the three-and-a-quarter!”

  “No, I did not.”

  “The three-and-three-eighths?”

  “No, no, Miss Harewood.” Mr. Hartley’s smile grew wide and smug.

  “Oh, the suspense, Mr. Hartley! Do tell me. I can’t stand another instant.”

  He tapped his temple. “I called for the engineer, of course!”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did. Your true leader, Miss Harewood, always knows when to delegate his duties to others.” He paused and lifted his hair again, which seemed to insist on drooping, like an exhausted worm. “Are you quite well, Miss Harewood? Your eyes have been shifting about these past ten minutes.”

  “Quite all right, I assure you, Mr. Hartley. Scintillated, indeed. But the fact is, I do seem to have lost my sister in the crush.” Abigail nodded her head to indicate the crush in question; namely, the crowd of motor enthusiasts gathered at the Villa Borghese for the winner’s banquet. Or rather, what ought to have been the winner’s banquet, were the winner not currently occupying a private corner of a Roman jail. Still, the celebration had gone on regardless, with Alexandra at the center of things in her usual style, and Abigail—who had risen early that morning—now longed for nothing more than the oblivion of her heavenly hotel bed.

  The fact that the Duke of Wallingford had disappeared at some point during dessert had nothing, she told herself firmly, to do with her longing.

  “Oh, Lady Morley left half an hour ago.” Mr. Hartley patted his waistcoat pockets. “Didn’t she tell you?”

  “No, she did not.” Abigail’s heart drooped.

  “Quite half an hour ago. I hailed her a cab myself.”

  “Well, that’s rather odd,” said Abigail. “I suppose I should make my way back to our own hotel, then.”

  “I shall of course accompany you.”

  “That’s not necessary, I assure you.”

  “Miss Harewood!” Hartley let out a shocked gasp. “A young maiden, alone on the streets of Rome! It wouldn’t do.”

  “I should be in a cab from door to door. It will do very well.”

  “No, no.” He took her by the elbow. “I’m going back myself. Frightfully late, after all. I’m absolutely”—a theatrical half-stifled yawn—“conked.”

  “Mr. Hartley, I’m quite capable . . .”

  But he was already forging a path through the crowd, and there was little else to do but follow him with a sense of settling despair. How could an evening that had started out with such promise end so miserably? She had sat next to Wallingford at the banquet, and he had been exactly like the old springtime Wallingford, with his dry humor and sly innuendos and his large hands grasping his wineglass with enough coiled strength to shatter it to pieces. He had been a sleek-limbed tiger next to Mr. Hartley’s well-fed sloth.

  Now Wallingford was gone, and Alexandra was gone, and even Mr. Burke had long since disappeared to tend to his machine. Which left only William Hartley to see her back to the Majestic Hotel. What a scandal that should be, back in London, but here in this crowd of scientists and engineers, there seemed to be no such notion as impropriety.

  Hartley reached the door and stood aside for her to pass. The attendant gave them a wise look.

  “Look here, Mr. Hartley,” Abigail said, determined to try again, “I’m not at all certain this is quite the thing. Perhaps we can determine where my sister went and . . .”

  “No, no. We’re practically related, Miss Harewood. Taxi!” He lifted his arm as a cab appeared down the drive, trotting along at a brisk pace.

  Abigail rolled her eyes upward. “Mr. Hartley, we are not remotely related, and . . .”

  Hartley stepped forward to intercept the cab. The horse began to arc toward the steps, slowing to a walk. “You see, Miss Harewood? Right and tight. Best of all, along the way we’ll have time for me to finish my story about the cylinders.”

  “Do you mean to say that wasn’t the end?” asked Abigail faintly.

  “Not at all, not at all!” The cab stopped. Hartley stepped back with a flourish. “Miles to go. You haven’t heard what the engineer said to me. Your chariot, my dear.”

  He opened the door of the cab with a little bow, and out sprang the Duke of Wallingford.

  “Wallingford!” Abigail nearly lurched into his arms with relief.

  “Why, Miss Harewood! Mr. Hartley!” Wallingford turned to Hartley and raised his eyebrows in that terror-inducing ducal way. “Were you off somewhere?”

  “Mr. Hartley had very kindly offered to see me to my hotel, though I insisted it wasn’t necessary.” Abigail put a delicate emphasis on the word insisted.

  “Gallant fellow,” said Wallingford. “However, you needn’t bother. Before she left, Lady Morley asked me to see to Miss Harewood’s welfare, and I have just returned with my own vehicle.”

  “Your vehicle?” Hartley asked, looking at the cab.

  “I leased it for the week, cab and driver both. So much more convenient than hailing for one. Shall we be off, Miss Harewood?”

  “See here,” said Hartley, “this is quite improper. I’m one of the family!”

  Abigail shook her head sadly. “It’s true, Wallingford. He is my sister’s late husband’s nephew by marriage. Almost a brother.”

  “All very well, but I, as you see, am in possession of both Lady Morley’s direct order and a waiting cab. Miss Harewood?”

  Wallingford swept her into the cab before Hartley’s swinging jaw. He rapped the roof and said, through the opening, “Majestic Hotel, if you please.”

  * * *

  When she had finished laughing, Abigail found she had not a word to say. Wallingford sat next to her, impossibly large, filling every last cubic inch of the cab’s interior with his black evening suit and his brilliant white shirt and his infinite dignity. Abigail, who had conversed so easily with him in company, went mute in the intimacy of the closed space.

  For his part, Wallingford made no effort at conversation, either. He sat still, staring through the window at an idle angle, moving not a single finger of his broad and endless body.

  The way to the Majestic Hotel was not long. Hardly five awkward minutes had passed before the cab slowed, the lights shone through the window, and Wallingford was swinging through the door to hand her out.

  “I’ll see you to your room,” he said, in a tone that brooked no opposition.

  Up they went, in the Majestic’s modern mechanical lift, the attendant s
tanding between them like a grave red-suited statue. What the fellow must think, Abigail thought, with an inward smile. Really, it was dreadfully careless of Alexandra to leave her in Wallingford’s care for the night. Her rendezvous with Mr. Burke—for of course it could be nothing else—must have been of the most desperate nature.

  The lift came to rest with a clang. The attendant opened the grille. Wallingford stood aside for her and walked by her side down the corridor without a word.

  “Here we are,” she said, taking out her key. She held out her other hand. “Thank you so much for saving me from that fellow Hartley. If only every damsel could be plucked from the jaws of boredom so effectively.”

  “Abigail.” Wallingford looked down at her with liquid eyes. “I must speak with you.”

  Thump-thump, went Abigail’s heart.

  “Oh no. Most improper. I’ve no idea what Alexandra told you, but I’m quite certain your orders don’t go so far as tucking me into bed at the Majestic Hotel.”

  Wallingford placed one hand on the doorjamb, right next to her ear. “And I am equally certain that Miss Abigail Harewood gives not a fig for the opinions of others.”

  Abigail moistened her lips, which had gone quite dry. “Oh, there’s where you’re wrong. I hate being caught out. Most unnerving. I . . .”

  A series of loud thumps came from the direction of the staircase.

  “You’d better make up your mind,” said Wallingford.

  Abigail swallowed, turned, fitted her key into the lock, and thrust the door open.

  The room was dark. Hurriedly Abigail reached for the electric light switch, and a dim yellow glow illuminated the furnishings.

  Wallingford removed his hat and gloves and placed them on the table next to the lamp. “Ah, modern accommodations.”

  “Yes, it was built only last year.” Abigail positioned herself behind a chair. “Running water, such a treat. Have you a room here, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “I expect it’s twice as large. I expect you have the imperial suite.”

  “Something of that sort, yes. Would you like to see it?” He turned to her.

  Abigail gripped the back of the chair. The room was a small one, and the two narrow beds loomed unnaturally close. “Look, Wallingford, I hope you don’t mistake my earlier friendliness for a desire to resume our . . . our . . .”