Christine Merrill - The Brooding Duke Of Danforth

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.