say, ‘Lady Beverly, may I present Mrs John Prescott and Miss Abigail Prescott.’
Her traitorous mother, who had never been able to resist a title, abandoned the last of her pride and curtsied to the Duke’s woman as if there was nothing the least bit wrong about it. Then she gave Abbey a pointed look, as if she expected her to do the same.
It proved just how little she knew about her own daughter. She had walked away from the most successful match of the Season, to avoid this exact moment. She could feel the entire room watching her, analysing her every move, searching for any clue to her thoughts. As she did when dealing with her father, she forced her face to remain impassive and unreadable.
But her body’s response was much harder to control. She could feel her palms grow clammy and fought the urge to wipe them on her skirt, since the act would only embarrass her more. Though the room was lit by candles, it suddenly seemed impossibly bright. The glare burned into her brain making her head feel both unbearably heavy and dangerously light. If she did not do something, and quickly, she was destined for complete humiliation. She would be sick, right in the middle of Lady Comstock’s ornate Aubusson rug.
So, she did as she had planned to do, months ago, in London when she had spent weeks in dread of the meeting that had now finally occurred. Without another blink of acknowledgement to either Lady Beverly or the Duke, she looked through them as if they did not exist, turned and walked away.
* * *
She had done it again.
Had it been insufficient to making him a laughing stock in London? She had tracked him to the country so he might watch her hunt for a husband before their uneaten wedding cake had had a chance to stale. He had been ready and willing to make peace with her. He had even made a joke out of the comments of her ill-bred mother. But instead of accepting the olive branch he offered, she had cut him dead.
Of course, Lenore was partly responsible for how badly this first meeting had gone. If she had allowed him a few moments to speak with the girl before sailing into the midst of their conversation, things might have gone better. But once she took a mind to meddle in his affairs, Lady Beverly was a force of nature. Avoiding her help would be almost as challenging as forging a truce with Abigail Prescott.
Right now, Miss Prescott was sitting down the table from him, making polite conversation with the lady next to her. The only indication that she remembered the scene she had made in the sitting room was the way she refused to acknowledge Lenore, who was sitting directly across the table from her. All around them, people were trying to pretend that nothing of interest had happened while eavesdropping to see if it might happen again.
It was a pity that Lenore had not decided the same. While she did not speak directly to Abigail, she had no such qualms about talking to Mrs Prescott. She complimented the woman on her lovely daughter and listened with fascination to the dramatic story of their arrival at Comstock Manor. It did not seem to bother her one whit that Miss Prescott had walked away from her offer of friendship. In fact, it seemed to intrigue her. She had turned to Benedict after Abigail had left them and whispered that the girl was indeed perfect for him, insisting that she would fix everything.
Benedict did not want things fixed. If he did not want to make things even worse, the best course of action was to do what he did best and maintain an unruffled demeanour, showing no signs of the anger seething inside.
It did not help that Abigail Prescott was even more beautiful than she had been three months ago. Then, his fleeting feelings of desire at the sight of her had made him feel slightly guilty. To want a woman because of her appearance was not unusual. In some ways, men were still little better than animals. But to be thinking of one’s future wife in such a way seemed somewhat immoral.
So, he had tricked himself into believing that he was attracted to her spirit. The audacity of her response to her father had not been admirable, as he’d first thought. It was probably a symptom of misandry. Pity the man who finally succeeded in marrying her. He would be treated as she had treated Benedict: as the butt of a joke.
But now, even after he had learned the truth, he could not stop thinking about her. When he had seen her in the sitting room before dinner, polite conversation had been the last thing on his mind. Just as it had been in London, he had wanted to see her dark eyes hooded in pleasure, her white throat stretched in yearning and her red lips parted in a gasp as he thrust...
Such thoughts were unseemly. To prevent them, he had seen to it that their contact before the aborted wedding had been minimal. The few meetings they’d had had been well chaperoned to avoid any hint of impropriety. His manners had been impeccable. He’d given her no cause to treat him as she did.
But now, like it or not, here she was. And although the other guests were too polite to speak within earshot, he could feel the gossip in the air like eddies in the water of a pond. Everyone was waiting to see what would happen next.
He felt a certain curiosity about the matter himself. He knew what he wanted to do...had wanted to do since the fateful day at St George’s Church when he had stood, shifting from foot to foot beside the bishop as he had waited in vain. Then he had imagined going to her town house, kicking in the door, throwing her body over his shoulder and hauling her back to the church.
Tonight, a similar fantasy gripped him. It began with spilled wine glasses and shocked guests and ended with her sprawled naked on the wide mattress of the Tudor bedroom, begging him for marriage or anything else he suggested.
But that was not the end. Only the beginning.
Instead, he sipped his wine in silence, staring down the table to where the ladies were seated.
‘Comstock Manor is a very large house.’
Benedict started at the comment, which appeared to be directed at him, then focused his gaze on his host, the Earl of Comstock, and did his best to appear attentive. ‘Indeed.’ He paused for a moment to select the correct compliment for the situation. ‘It is most attractively arranged.’
‘It is a damned nuisance under most circumstances,’ the Earl replied. ‘We spend all our time patching the leaks in the roof. But it is fortunate to have the extra rooms when one has a sudden influx of guests. There is a whole wing beyond the central one that is totally empty, save for the Prescotts.’
Benedict gave the Earl a much sharper glance this time for it sounded almost as if he was giving directions to Miss Prescott’s bedchamber. ‘I am sure they are glad of the privacy,’ he said in a warning tone.
It had no effect on the Earl, who was gazing blandly into the baked apple that had been set before him. ‘Should they wish for even more solitude, they have only to proceed further down the wing. It turns, you see. If one does not get lost, one ends up far out of sight and hearing of even the most inquisitive servants.’
‘How interesting.’
‘Beyond that, there are stairs to the main floor and a plethora of rooms we have not bothered to open for this party.’
When Benedict did not respond, he added, ‘If I wanted to speak to my Countess—or engage in any other activity I did not want the house to know of—I would consider exploring the back of the house.’
‘I assume you are suggesting that I speak with Miss Prescott,’ he said, frowning at the Earl to show him how little his advice was wanted.
‘Speak with her,’ Comstock repeated, with a sigh. ‘If talking is all you wish to do, then I encourage you to do so. But first, I
