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The Brooding Duke Of Danforth
Christine Merrill
Stranded at a house party with the mysterious Duke… When a storm hits, outspoken Abigail Prescott is trapped at a house party with Benedict Moore, the Duke of Danforth—the very man she was once betrothed to! Wishing to know the man she’s to marry, Abigail had called off their sudden engagement. But reunited once more, Benedict seems determined to win her back and make her his Duchess. His method: irresistible seduction…
Stranded at a house party
with the mysterious duke...
When a storm hits, outspoken Abigail Prescott is trapped at a house party with Benedict Moore, the Duke of Danforth—the very man she was once betrothed to! Wishing to know the man she was to marry, Abigail had called off their sudden engagement. But reunited once more, Benedict seems determined to win her back and make her his duchess. His method: irresistible seduction...
CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming and as a librarian. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.
Also by Christine Merrill (#u488f92d8-84df-572f-a4e0-af2a6482bda6)
The Secrets of Wiscombe Chase
The Wedding Game
A Convenient Bride for the Soldier
The de Bryun Sisters miniseries
The Truth About Lady Felkirk
A Ring from a Marquess
Those Scandalous Stricklands miniseries
Regency Christmas Wishes
A Kiss Away from Scandal
How Not to Marry an Earl
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Brooding Duke of Danforth
Christine Merrill
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08904-3
THE BROODING DUKE OF DANFORTH
© 2019 Christine Merrill
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To James. For knocking down doors.
Contents
Cover (#uaa96e700-2316-54f2-8921-65029e82b205)
Back Cover Text (#u5286d3c8-b46a-5e9a-a69e-cc3b8dd19374)
About the Author (#ubac5c29f-eb86-5925-9cc4-0712a26c3bdd)
Booklist (#u4793d137-7b80-50a3-a4f1-9834461f5506)
Title Page (#ue02cd76a-1d0a-5378-a34f-896ad1883630)
Copyright (#ucabcc299-9033-5a83-b874-4b8b7ad7cc58)
Dedication (#u5fadf479-3188-51aa-ae87-9c3a7a3420b0)
Prologue (#u7456c878-5a9c-5fac-99c5-e329380752a6)
Chapter One (#uff1476d0-79be-5632-b075-f9b649938c54)
Chapter Two (#u2cd1cfe9-7c25-5702-9eb7-23ce048abe54)
Chapter Three (#u2e868506-3a86-5689-a85e-66399d5f8038)
Chapter Four (#ua77d789f-e77c-56e9-ab8a-0f0f21942b5f)
Chapter Five (#ub4cff1ce-dec1-56a5-813e-17cedcf5a2ab)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u488f92d8-84df-572f-a4e0-af2a6482bda6)
‘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.
