‘She noticed that it would be easier to pull your teeth than to get conversation out of you?’ Lenore replied.
‘That is an exaggeration,’ he replied. But the silence that fell between them proved it was the truth.
After what seemed like an eternity, she replied, ‘We converse easily because we have been doing it for years.’
‘I suspect, after some time in her company, I should have grown accustomed to speaking with her, as well.’
His friend sighed in response. ‘And until that time, you expected her to live in silence, with not a hint as to the workings of your mind.’
‘That is the way most wives live,’ he replied. ‘You would not have needed my friendship had you spent your evenings conversing with your husband.’
‘Perfectly true,’ she conceded. ‘You might also remember that many of our early conversations focused on how unhappy I was and how little time I spent in mourning him when he passed.’
‘You were not happy,’ he agreed. ‘But I suspect that your husband was quite content with you. Had he not been, he would have told you so.’
‘So, you have been assuming all this time that I was the problem?’
‘Not a problem,’ he said with a smile. ‘You merely sought something in your marriage that was out of line with the norm. For example, I do not see Comstock sharing every intimate thought with his wife.’
‘Because the pair of them are simpatico. They hardly need to speak at all.’
‘And my own parents...’
‘Are hardly an exemplar. Your father was a bully who made both you and your mother miserable.’
‘I am sorry I told you of it,’ he said, for this made his point perfectly. ‘Now that you have the information, you are using it against me to win an argument.’ That was the risk of sharing too freely. It gave the other person an advantage.
She was staring at him again, probably waiting for him to admit that he had missed the entire point of courtship. He had been seeking a helpmeet. But instead, he had treated Abigail Prescott like an adversary.
‘She said I spent more time talking to her father than I did to her,’ he said, remembering one of her other complaints.
‘And what did you think of that man, when you met him?’
‘I wanted to save her from him.’ He smiled in satisfaction, remembering how quickly John Prescott’s bluster had faded when he had realised the purpose of Benedict’s visit. ‘It was amusing to see how easily cowed he was when speaking to his betters instead of his family.’
‘I am sure he took any perceived slights out on them when he returned home,’ she replied.
‘I asked for her hand and he ordered her to marry me.’ Now that he had discovered it, the truth was so glaringly obvious as to blind him to everything else.
‘And you assumed she would be overjoyed that the man she hated most in the world had found her a husband,’ she concluded, with a huff of disgust.
Since no one would dare refuse a duke, she’d had no choice but to accept him. Once she had, he had thought the matter was settled. He’d given her no chance to discuss their future together, or to withdraw from the engagement. It had forced her to refuse in a way that did not need words. She had made a public spectacle of their wedding, just as she had threatened to do at Almack’s.
‘I handled the offer badly and the engagement even worse,’ he admitted at last.
‘And what do you mean to do about it now?’ Lenore said with another pointed look.
He had no answer. Her rejection of him had been justified. But it was also the sort of scandal that might permanently ruin her chances to make a decent match and earn her a lifetime of recrimination from her parents. An apology on his part was hardly sufficient.
Then he remembered her on the previous evening, so close he could almost taste her. She had been every bit as lovely as she had been in London and even more spirited. He had not been able to resist provoking her, tempting her until she had closed her eyes and swayed towards him, ready to accept his kiss.
Then, like a fool, he had walked away from her. At the time, he’d congratulated himself on resisting her charms. Now, it seemed more like a wasted opportunity. But until the rain stopped, they would be trapped here together. And, as Comstock had pointed out to him at dinner, the house was very large and rife with possibility for clandestine meetings.
‘What am I going to do?’ he said, feeling his face relax into a genuine smile for the first time in ages. ‘I am going to do what I should have done in the first place and pay proper court to Miss Abigail Prescott.’
Chapter Six
That night, as they prepared him for dinner, Benedict instructed Gibbs to take unusual care with his appearance. The comment seemed to surprise the valet, either because his work was never less than his best or because his master rarely expressed his opinion on it.
When they were completed, Benedict offered his thanks and Gibbs responded with a dazed, ‘You are most welcome, Your Grace.’ If his manservant felt undervalued, it was yet another reminder of the need to speak aloud his opinions, to avoid misleading others.
Either way, the result was the same. When he entered the main salon where the guests had gathered before dinner, female heads turned and he heard more than one sigh of admiration. But there was no reaction at all from the corner where Abigail Prescott stood, speaking to her mother. Her back remained turned to him, though she must have known he had entered the room from the expressions of those around her. It annoyed him to note that she was as lovely from the behind as she was from the front. Though her mother’s gown was overloaded with lace and ruffles, Abigail had chosen a simply cut gown of scarlet silk, without so much as a gold chain to spoil the elegant sweep of pale skin from the neckline to the black curls piled on her head. Though some might have thought the gown’s colour too bold for a young lady, the contrast changed her skin from flawless white to luminous opal.
She looked well and, by the faint half smile on her face as she turned to look past him, she knew it. The other men in the room noticed as well. He could see the interest in their eyes and the quick sidelong glances in his direction as they tried to decide if he was still interested in her.
If they continued watching, they would have their answer tonight. The real question was whether her interest in him was stronger than the spark of physical attraction he had seen last night in a darkened hallway. For now, he watched her from across the room, not wanting to give her a reason to retire early and avoid him. When the time came to process to the dining room, he took his place of honour near the head of the line, while she and her mother stayed near the end.
As it had been last night, the table was organised in the rather old-fashioned seating that kept the men and women separated at opposite ends of the table. From his place near the head, he had ample opportunity to watch her try to evade Lenore’s attempts at conversation. She needn’t have bothered. It was nearly impossible to resist the force of Lady Beverly’s personality when she decided to inflict it on one. It would have been an exaggeration to say they talked with the ease of old friends, but by the end of dinner Abigail had answered several of the lady’s questions and smiled at least once.
And rather than pushing her food around the plate as she had at last night’s dinner, he saw her finish both her soup and her fish, and at least half of the sorbet brought for the dessert.
* * *
After dinner, he sat as patiently as possible through the fine port and deadly conversation of the other gentlemen, until Comstock deemed it time to join the ladies in the card room. The ladies had already arranged themselves at various tables and he spotted Mrs Prescott and Abigail seated together near the fire. Then he took advantage of his rank and outstripped the other men in the group to take the chair he desired. A single raise of his eyebrows was all it took to warn off a competitor for the spot opposite his former fiancée. When the fellow ad
justed to take the chair opposite Mrs Prescott, Lenore slipped in ahead of him, favouring him with a smile that would melt glass. ‘I hope you do not mind, sir. But you have interrupted the most interesting conversation with Mrs Prescott, just now.’
‘About the weather,’ Abigail supplied with a deadpan expression. ‘Apparently, it is raining.’
Benedict offered her a sympathetic smile. ‘Indeed.’ He looked to Lenore, offering a silent signal that her help was not needed. But she was suddenly absorbed in shuffling the cards and dealing out a round of casino.
‘A penny a point?’ Mrs Prescott asked. Then, her eyes grew bright and she fumbled in the pocket of her gown and removed a thick fold of banknotes. ‘Or shall we make the game more interesting than that?’
For a moment, Miss Prescott’s expression was one of undisguised embarrassment that her mother felt the need to carry money around with her when visiting a private home. Worse yet, she was looking around her in horror, aware that the other tables were betting with buttons from their sewing baskets or keeping score with pencil and paper. No one was using money at all, much less making sizeable bets. She shot her mother a warning look, badly disguised by a pained smile. ‘I am afraid I have left my reticule in my room, Mama. I have not so much as a penny on me.’
‘That is all right, dear.’ Her mother split the pile of bills in half and offered some to her. ‘I have enough for both of us.’
‘Playing for money. This shall be interesting,’ Lenore agreed, beaming at the three of them as if she had never gambled before. Then her face fell and looked to him with an expression that would move a heart of stone. ‘But I never carry money while in the country.’
He was about to suggest that she find a different table, for, with or without money, she was a terrible card player. But before he could speak, Miss Prescott threw herself on the statement as if it was a life raft after a shipwreck. ‘What a shame,’ she said in a tone far too cheerful to match her words. ‘If one of us has no stake, we cannot possibly play.’ She was halfway out of her chair and reaching for her mother’s hand, ready to drag her away, before she had even finished the sentence.
Benedict reached for her other hand to stop her from going. ‘Do not fear, Miss Prescott. I am sure I can find a few pounds to lend my friend.’ He knew instantly, that the gesture had been a mistake. Other than a brief caress months ago, when he had slipped the betrothal ring on to her finger, he had never held her hand before. Now that he had started, he did not want to stop. It was a lovely hand, not precisely delicate, but just the right size to fit easily, should she choose to turn it over and clasp his.
But she did not choose. The look she was giving him was not quite panicked, but it was clear that his touch had embarrassed her. She sank back into her chair, weak with shame and he felt her hand slide away from him and disappear into her lap.
‘Thank you, Danforth, darling. I can always count on you.’ Lenore was touching his other arm in the casually affectionate way she often did to support their ruse.
But for the first time in ages he was tired of pretending. He shrugged away from her touch and searched his coat pockets and found a handful of crumpled pound notes tucked into the tail. He flattened them against the edge of the table, then pressed half of them into the hand that had been caressing his sleeve. ‘When you lose this, which you most certainly shall, you are done for the evening.’
Lenore accepted the money, kissing it for luck before setting it back on the table, and picked up her cards so that play could begin.
Miss Prescott was a surprisingly astute player. At first, she seemed to ignore Benedict, just as she had over dinner. She collected spades, built and discarded, and made sure that there was nothing left on the table for her mother. The older woman was consistently left with the lowest number of points in the round and a rapidly vanishing stack of notes.
She did not need to bother treating Lenore in a similar manner, for that lady was quite able to lose on her own without other players having to strategise against her. In only a few hands, the two weakest players at the table had run out of blunt and Mrs Prescott was looking wistfully at the money her daughter was holding. ‘I have more in my room, if you would be willing to wait but a moment.’
Before Abigail could censure her, Lenore spoke. ‘Must we really play another hand? This game grows quite tiresome after a while. And I do have the latest issue of Ackermann’s fine magazine waiting for me in my room.’
‘I have not seen that, as yet,’ her mother said with a sigh.
‘You shall see it now, if you wish. And you must admire the new ballgown I had made from it. The fabric is straight from Paris. And the lace...’ Lenore raised her eyes heavenwards.
It took no further temptation to make Mrs Prescott forget her cards and the two ladies left the table and strolled arm in arm out of the room.
Now that they were alone, an awkward silence fell between them. Miss Prescott gathered the cards, shuffled and stared across the table. ‘Another hand, Your Grace?’ But her unsmiling face and the impatient snap of the cards as she shuffled announced that she had no desire to play with him.
‘Still angry with me?’ he said quietly.
Surprised, she lost control of the cards and half the deck scattered on the table between them.
‘I do not blame you,’ he said, gathering them up and handing them back to her. ‘When we spoke last night, I behaved abominably.’
She looked up from the cards, eyes wide with confusion, then glanced around her to be sure no one had heard him speak.
‘I was not much of a fiancé, was I?’ he said, still smiling.
‘You were a duke,’ she whispered, so softly that he could barely hear it.
‘I still am,’ he replied.
She was staring down at the cards instead of looking at him, as if she was using them to see the past instead of the future.
‘I know you would prefer it if I simply leave you alone. But if I do, the others will think it a snub. It will create even more talk than continuing to play with you. We have been having such a delightful time together, thus far.’
She raised her eyes from the cards and gave him a look of such scepticism that he had to laugh.
‘Come, Miss Prescott, it has not been as bad as all that. You have been winning. Let us see if you can take the last of my money.’
A smile flickered on her lips for a moment, then she looked down and shuffled the cards again. ‘If we are deep in play, it might stop you from making polite conversation with me.’
‘It is worth trying,’ he said, smiling back at her. ‘Your deal, Miss Prescott?’
She passed the deck to him. ‘I yield to you, Your Grace.’
Had she chosen those words to distract him? The thought of her, yielding...willing... His mind clouded and he lost the next hand. And the one after that. She had been a smart player before. But now that it was just the two of them, she was merciless. Her face gave nothing away to tell him what she held in her hand. In less than half an hour, the sum total of his pocket money was stacked neatly in front of her.
He tossed his remaining cards on the table, then gathered the rest and reformed the deck. ‘You have done well for yourself, Miss Prescott.’
‘Perhaps I should make my living as a gambler,’ she replied, counting out the bills in front of her without looking at him.
‘I doubt your next fiancé will approve,’ he said.
She glanced up. ‘You speak as if you know his likes and dislikes. Do you know his name, perhaps? Because I am as yet unaware of it.’
Apparently, her mother had been in earnest when mentioning the search for a husband. If she had prospects, she could have mentioned them now, but did not. He shrugged, pretending to be indifferent about her future. ‘All men think much alike, Miss Prescott. They do not wish their wives to enjoy cards too much.’
‘Even if they win, Your Grace
?’
‘Even the best gamblers cannot win every game,’ he reminded her. ‘To assume otherwise suggests the kind of overconfidence that is the reason for prohibition.’
She waved a hand as if to clear away his objections. ‘Then it is likely good that we did not marry for I doubt we’d have suited. I do not like to be dictated to.’ She shuffled the cards. ‘Would you like to play another hand?’ Then she gave a moue of sympathy. ‘Wait. You cannot, for I have taken all your money.’
He smiled back and patted his pockets. ‘So you have. But do not let that stop you. My credit is good, as is my word. Will you accept my marker, Miss Prescott?’
‘You do not approve of women who gamble and I do not approve of men who continue to do so when they have no money,’ she said, setting the deck aside and preparing to rise from the table.
‘Wait.’ He had no intention of letting her go, just as things were getting interesting. On a whim, he stripped the ring from his finger and dropped it on the table. ‘I suspect this should more than cover the contents of your purse.’
She stared at it for a moment in disbelief, then whispered, ‘That is your signet.’
‘I am aware of the fact,’ he replied.
‘That is a symbol of your dukedom. You cannot risk that in a card game with a stranger,’ she said, staring down at the ring as if he had dropped a poisonous spider on to the green baize between them.
‘I would hardly call us strangers, Miss Prescott. As you reminded me last night, we very nearly shared a bed.’
She glanced around her to be sure none had heard before speaking softly. ‘I would prefer you not speak of such things in a common room.’
‘I will not be quiet until you acknowledge that this is a trinket compared to what I have already offered you when I gave you my mother’s betrothal ring.’ If he didn’t want the whole room to hear their conversation, it was good that he could not manage to sound as angry as he felt. The memory of that ring, delivered to his town house in the afternoon post without a single word of explanation, was just as sharp and painful as the day it had happened.
The Brooding Duke of Danforth Page 6
