Christine Merrill - The Brooding Duke Of Danforth

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.

Abigail Prescott stood in the entry hall of Comstock Manor, staring down at the puddle of muddy water that had dripped from her skirts onto the immaculate marble floor. It was an excellent metaphor for her interactions with the peerage thus far. She could not seem to stop making a mess of them.

And her mother could not seem to stop apologising on her behalf. ‘We cannot tell you how grateful we are for your assistance.’ Mrs Prescott’s hands fluttered nervously as she spoke and drops of rain water splashed from lace cuffs to baptise the little dog that sat at the Countess of Comstock’s feet. ‘If there had been any other choice...’

‘One cannot predict the weather,’ the Countess said with a shrug. She was a plain woman with a matter-of-fact manner. Though she was even younger than Abby, she had the serene composure of a woman twice her age and did not seem the least bit bothered to have a carriage full of wet strangers imposing on her hospitality.

‘But to arrive in your home with no introduction...’ her mother added, still pretending to be horrified that they had wandered into an earldom without an invitation.

‘Do not discompose yourself. Even if your carriage was undamaged, I would not have expected you to return to the village in this storm when my home was in sight.’

The exaggeration was another example of the Countess’s generosity. The Manor was almost a mile from the spot on the main road where they had abandoned the brougham, leaning drunkenly on its broken springs. Since she and her mother had got thoroughly soaked during the trudge up the muddy drive to the house, it could have been no worse to walk back down the road to the nearest farm. But her mother had turned towards the luxury of the Manor like a needle to a lodestone and here they were.

‘We have interrupted your house party,’ her mama said, throwing a wistful glance towards the back of the house and the sound of laughter and conversation.

‘You cannot possibly continue your journey until your carriage has been repaired and the road cleared of fallen branches. That will not be possible until the storm has ended,’ the Countess replied. ‘In the meantime, there is ample space here for a few more guests.’

It was probably true. Abby had got little more than a glimpse of the Manor as they had run towards it, bonnets dipped to the ground to protect against the driving rain. But it had seemed almost ridiculously large, with more wings and ells than could be filled by even the largest party.

‘If it is truly no bother...’ her mother said, all too eager to be persuaded.

‘I will send a servant to retrieve your luggage and a maid will show you to your rooms. However...’ The Countess paused. There was a faint smile playing about her lips as though what she was about to say would pay them back for any inconvenience they might have caused. ‘I feel it necessary to warn you that the Duke of Danforth is currently among my guests.’

At this announcement, her mother’s composure failed and her lip trembled, signalling the beginning of a response that might be far too sincere and more embarrassing than her dripping apologies.

Abby grabbed her hand and tugged sharply, pulling her away from the Countess before she could speak. She felt worse than her mother did about seeing the Duke again, but she was not about to break down in the entrance hall and display her emotions to the whole house. ‘Thank you for informing us. I will do my best to prevent any awkwardness.’