The Brooding Duke of Danforth
Auteur·e
Christine Merrill
Lectures
15,1K
Chapitres
22
Prologue
‘Was there no other way than to spend an evening here?’ Lady Beverly tapped her foot, fighting against the rhythm of the music. ‘Meagre refreshments, tepid dancing and tiresome company will make for the dullest evening imaginable.’
‘You did not have to accompany me, Lenore,’ replied Benedict Moore, Fourth Duke of Danforth. ‘But as you keep reminding me, it is time I married. One hunts for rabbits in the field and fish in the stream. When one is hunting for a wife, one comes to Almack’s.’
‘You are correct that I have been telling you so for years. But why have you suddenly decided to listen?’
‘Considering the family history, I might not have much longer to make such a decision.’ Or the faculties to do so. He did not add the comment, but remembering his father’s final year, the possibility that he might end his days babbling in a sickbed was never far from his mind.
‘You are of an entirely different sort than your father,’ Lenore said. ‘You are not given to excesses of diet or temper. If anything, Danforth, people say that you are not emotional enough. I doubt you will be prone to apoplexy, even later in life.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed. ‘But when he died, the last Danforth was three years older than I am now. I have held his title for half my life. It is time that I see to securing the succession.’
‘True. But I cannot imagine you making a match with any of the girls here,’ she said, glancing around the room with a critical frown. ‘They are all far too...’ She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘The incessant giggling sets my teeth on edge.’
‘When I first met you, you had a giggle that was perfectly charming,’ he said.
‘I was twelve at the time,’ she reminded him. ‘And you were ten and too easily impressed.’ She made another sweeping gesture with her fan. ‘By the time I made my come out, I had cured myself of such annoying habits.’
‘You were truly terrifying,’ he agreed. ‘And not the least bit impressed by me or my new title.’
‘You wanted seasoning,’ she said with an affectionate smile.
A decade and a half had given it to him, if one counted the first grey hairs appearing at his temples. He glanced around the room at the current crop of debutantes and tried to work up some enthusiasm for them. Lenore was right. They were all unbelievably young.
But unlike Lenore in her prime, these were easily impressed. Too much so, in his opinion. When he spoke to them, he saw avarice rather than desire. They wanted the Danforth jewel case and the lines of credit on Bond Street where the shopkeepers would bow and scrape to ‘Her Grace’. They wanted to sit at the foot of the finest table in England. He was little more than a means to an end.
The knowledge was infinitely depressing.
‘Have you at least made an effort to mingle with them?’ Lenore pressured, assessing the crowd with a critical eye. ‘You cannot be your usual taciturn self. Even if acceptance of your offer is assured, you must make an effort to speak with them.’
He sighed. ‘If gentlemen had dance cards, mine would already be full. I have secured a different partner for each one, with not a single break until dawn.’
‘Dancing is not as good as conversation,’ she allowed. ‘But it is the best that can be hoped for in this crush.’
From across the room, they heard a commotion at the door. A dark-haired man was arguing with the footman that they were still two minutes shy of the strict eleven o’clock deadline for admittance. Beside him, a fussy woman in a gown that was ornate almost to the point of being gaudy was searching pockets and reticules for the precious vouchers that would permit them entry. After much hubbub, they located the cards with seconds to spare and handed them over, stepping inside the doorway and allowing the girl behind them to enter as well.
At the sight of her, Benedict’s breath stopped in his throat. Surely this was the answer to his prayers, for the young lady they chaperoned was a goddess. At two and thirty, he should know better than to choose a wife for looks alone. But was it such a sin to wish for a tall wife with a trim figure, huge dark eyes, alabaster skin and hair as black and glossy as a raven’s wing?
But physical perfection was nothing without proper temperament. The other girls in the room were in awe of their surroundings and excited almost beyond sense. They could not seem to cease giggling and fidgeting, simpering at their parents, their dance partners and each other. They fanned and fluttered about the room like so many brightly coloured birds.
The girl in the doorway was different. The faint smile she wore seemed neither jaded nor frenetic. It was inquisitive without expectation. As her eyes took in the room and the crowd around her, there was the slightest raise of one eyebrow, as if she asked herself, ‘Is this really all there is to the great Almack’s?’ With one glance she had seen her surroundings not as she wanted them to be, but as they were: a poorly kept assembly room that stank of desperation.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the ironic expression disappeared and the polite smile returned. She was too well bred to mock the honour of being here or to spoil the pleasure of others. She leaned forward to comfort her mother, who was near to vapours over the temporarily misplaced invitations and allowed her parents to lead her into the room for an introduction to the patronesses.
‘You have noticed the newcomers?’ Lenore said, nudging his arm.
‘One of them, at least,’ he admitted.
‘Close your mouth, Danforth. You look like a dying trout.’
He obeyed and then asked, ‘Who are they?’
‘Mr John Prescott, his wife and daughter Abigail. The husband is the grandson of an impoverished baronet. The wife is a daughter of a cit, with money so new you can smell the ink.’ She raised her quizzing glass for a better look. ‘The bulk of Mrs Prescott’s inheritance came to them recently, which explains their daughter’s rather late come out.’
Not too late, in his opinion. An additional year or two past twenty had allowed her beauty to mature and given her the poise he sought in a duchess. Or perhaps she had always been perfection. ‘Does Miss Prescott have admirers?’ he asked, trying to pretend that answer did not matter one way or the other to him.
‘Not yet,’ Lenore said, lowering her glass. ‘The family connections are nothing to speak of and the parents are...difficult.’
He ignored the warning and concentrated on the lack of competition. The fact should not excite him as much as it did. There were likely a million reasons he should take his time, beyond Lenore’s warning. He did not really know this girl at all. And he had been informed on many occasions that he was difficult to get along with. They might not suit.
He was staring, as if he had no manners at all. She had felt his interest and suddenly her gaze fixed on him with the same undisguised curiosity he had been showing her. For the first time in ages, he felt his stomach drop inside him, as if he had fallen from a great height and was unsure of his landing. If he did not get control of himself, an ungentlemanly rush of blood would announce his interest to everyone in the room.
He thought himself far too sensible to believe in love at first sight, but those that claimed it must have felt something very like what he was feeling now. There was a sudden mutual interest that had nothing to do with his title or her pedigree. As he looked into her eyes, he felt a bond form between them that, with time, might become unbreakable.
He looked away again, to compose himself. He would get nowhere gawping across the room at her like an idiot. He had but to walk a short distance across the room and request that Lady Jersey make the introductions. But before he could take a step, the band played the opening notes of a Scottish reel and his first partner tugged at his coat sleeve to remind him of his obligation to her.
He smiled in reassurance and silently damned his early arrival and his conscientious plan to interview every girl in the room. Now that someone had arrived who actually interested him, there was no time left to meet her. Much as he wanted to, he could not turn his back on the promises he had made to his other, young partners. A single dance meant nothing to him, but it was another matter entirely to them.
He took the hand of the girl at his side, offered a brief apology for the momentary distraction and led her out on to the floor. But he hoped she did not notice that, as the patterns of the dance allowed, he stole glances at Abigail Prescott.
The Countess of Sefton was parading a stream of men past her that the patronesses had deemed worthy for introduction. It spoke much of Miss Prescott’s estimated value on the marriage mart that they were offering nothing higher than a baron. If and when Benedict expressed interest, he could easily outflank her other suitors.
Or perhaps not. When Miss Prescott had looked at him as she entered, there had been none of the usual rapacity he saw in girls who were trained from birth to grab for the highest title they could get. She had given him one brief glance of assessment, then looked away. She had not given him another thought for the rest of the evening.
The other girls in the room were all desperate to capture his attention for longer than the time he’d allotted to them. As each new dance began and another girl was added to their ranks, his previous partners waved handkerchiefs and smiled, trying to catch his eye as he passed them, complete with the subtle signals from their fans to show their high esteem for him.
But Miss Prescott ignored him. Her utter disregard was more intriguing than any flirtation. He was not accustomed to being ignored.
In turn, she was being passed over by the ton. She danced twice. Her first partner was Lord Blasenby, who was a notorious boor. As they stood out at the bottom of a neighbouring set, Benedict watched her nodding patiently at the inanities her partner was pouring into her ear, making no show of being as bored as she probably was. But when the dance ended, Benedict was sure he observed a brief sigh of relief.
Almost an hour later, she stood up with Andrew Killian, the worst dancer in London, and the partner of last resort for wallflowers and spinsters everywhere. After that, she sat along the wall, her mother at her side, her father pacing nearby. They were ignored by the crowd, but not by Benedict, who continued to observe.
Miss Prescott took two glasses of lemonade, but did not finish her slice of cake. He sympathised. As usual, it was dry and flavourless. After a time, another man approached, but seemed to think the better of it, turning away before he reached her side. Benedict expected it was because of the actions of her father. Mr Prescott’s bellicose behaviour towards his family would frighten all but the most ardent suitor. As the evening passed and it was clear that his daughter was not a success, he made matters even worse by glowering at all and sundry as if their lack of attention was a personal affront.
Her mother had begun to tremble like a mouse before a cat, but Miss Prescott weathered the storm with ladylike stoicism. Her smile was unchanging, her fan moved in time with the music.
Benedict forced himself to continue smiling at his partner, as his jaw tightened in annoyance. If this was how her father behaved in public, he was likely even worse at home. The girl’s admirable control must come from regular practice. It was a skill he wished she’d never had to master. He had always hated bullies. But he truly loathed the sort who would terrorise their own families.
The current set brought him close enough to the velvet ropes separating the dance floor from the seating that he could hear scraps of the family’s conversation, though it did Prescott too much credit to call it that. Diatribe would have been a more accurate description of what was being inflicted on the two ladies.
‘If you had not taken so long in dressing, we could have arrived on time. And then...’
His voice faded as Benedict moved forward, met his partner, circled and returned to his place.
‘Lose the vouchers and leave me stammering at the door...’
He advanced again in an allemande and returned.
‘Those gowns cost a pretty penny.’
He moved forward again to touch palms with his lady, then they executed a promenade down the row and up the outside while he seethed beneath his calm. It was beyond vulgar to complain about the price of a lady’s dress, especially when the money had come from one’s wife. Everyone knew that a lady’s Season was expensive, but a good match made up for the cost.
‘What are the results so far?’
This was outside of enough. His daughter had shown remarkable grace in what must be her first visit to the premiere assembly room in London. But apparently her father expected instantaneous success, though it was clear to a casual observer that Prescott’s bad manners were driving away potential suitors. As Benedict swung past in another turn, he could see Mrs Prescott’s lip trembling in what was probably a prelude to tears.
If she broke down in public, the Prescotts would be the gossip of tomorrow. Today, no one would do a thing to stop it, declaring that it was none of their concern. It made his blood boil, for he hated to see any innocent suffer at the moods of an arrogant man. But how best to intervene without causing more talk?
He smiled. In a minute or two, this dance would end. He would be left in a perfect position to help without having to charge across the room like an idiot. Since he would be standing right in front of her, it would look quite natural to request that a patroness introduce him to a newcomer. He knew from experience that even the most stubborn tyrant would be silent in the presence of a peer. An acquaintance with a duke, even though the meeting was a brief one, would increase Miss Prescott’s worth in the eyes of the ton and assure that she never need be a wallflower again.
Most importantly, she would remember him fondly when he called upon her later in the week.
Another travelling step around the ladies brought him back into position to continue his eavesdropping. And for the first time, he heard her voice, a resonant alto that cut through the tirade like a honey-dipped knife. ‘Father?’
The older man emitted a low growl of warning at the interruption.
‘Mother is about to cry. If you do not stop hectoring her immediately, I shall make a scene that all of London shall remember.’
His partner nudged him until he remembered that one did not stop dead in the middle of a dance floor to listen in on strangers. He rushed the next steps to return for more.
‘A fit, perhaps. Or demonic possession. We shall be banned from more than Almack’s when I am finished. No man in England will want me.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Would you care to try me?’
Benedict grinned as the pattern of the dance moved him away from the group again. She did not need his help after all. Abigail Prescott was better equipped than he had ever imagined to rescue the night and protect herself and her mother.
Across the set, his partner smiled brilliantly back at him, convinced that he was smitten.
Indeed, he was. The Duke of Danforth had found his Duchess.
