Page 18 of Never Dare a Duke
Abigail controlled even the impulse to blush. “Yes, it is difficult to ignore the tableau of a man being hunted.”
“And neither of you ladies is on the hunt?” Lord Keane asked, his hand propping up his head.
Gwen and Abigail exchanged a look, then a laugh.
“We are not on a hunt,” Gwen said. “We are here to enjoy ourselves.”
“What about you, Lord Keane?” Abigail asked. “Besides the chance to socialize with Lady Elizabeth—your own hunt, shall we say—do you know the duke well?”
Smiling, Lord Keane folded his hands under his head and looked up at the willow leaning low over them. “Though we were not in the same year at school, I have known Madingley since our youth.”
It took everything in Abigail not to demand answers to all her questions, but she had to show restraint. A good journalist must be a master of the interview. “He is a very dignified man, and I hear quite successful in the House of Lords.”
“Dignified,” Lord Keane said with obvious amusement. “Yes, he is that—now.”
“But not always?”
“Even we peers had our foolish youth to overcome. For someone not on the hunt, you are very curious, Miss Shaw.”
Before Abigail could respond, Gwen cleared her throat and looked abashed. “She is only inquiring for me, my lord. I had no idea that the duke had any interest in me. How can I help but be curious about him?”
“Though he is rather staid now,” Lord Keane said, “he was once considered reckless. They used to call it his ‘wild Spanish blood,’ but since it seems to be a trait of the Cabots, we should not slur his mother’s unusual lineage, at least among us.” He grinned, as if they shared a joke.
Gwen glanced at Abigail, and said in a hushed voice, “What did he do that was wild? I have heard nothing of this.”
“You are too young,” his lordship said. “And he did little more than what any young buck does, fresh from the control of his parents and tutors. It is not fit for feminine ears, of course.”
Abigail barely resisted a groan. She wanted to shake the man and demand answers. But not now, not yet. She could be patient.
When the luncheon was over, the duke strolled toward the ruins, a lady on each arm, and Abigail couldn’t resist following. The remnants of the ancient castle were composed of parts of walls, some still high enough overhead that she avoided walking near them lest they fall. Moss and ivy overran much of the stone, yet there were still areas that were passable, because she saw the duke and his escorts disappear within. She followed.
As she remained near enough to hear their casual conversation about the chance of a ghost in the ruins, Abigail didn’t have to pretend interest in exploring the old castle. She had always had a vivid imagination, and as she entered the round turret, part of the defensive wall, she imagined knights in armor guarding the home of their lord—the home of ancient Cabots. What must it be like to trace one’s family back so far? As far as she knew, her paternal grandfather had been a poor boy hawking newspapers on London streets.
Light grew dim within the castle, only peeping through the occasional hole in the wall. The voices of the two women ahead of her echoed with giggles, and Abigail hesitated, not wanting to alert them of her presence. To her surprise, the duke suddenly appeared in front of her, and as she gaped at him, he put a finger to his lips and pulled her aside, deeper within the gloom. He was far too close, capturing her between him and a wall, so that she was trapped. If she moved, their chests would touch. The air settled around them, with dust glimmering in a beam of light beyond them. And inside her, warmth spread like wildflowers.
“Where did he go?” came Lady May’s plaintive voice.
“He said he saw something in the shadows and went to investigate,” Lady Theodosia said with caution. “He didn’t want us harmed by following him. Surely there are loose stones.”
Abigail could see them now, looking about in desperation. But she said nothing, conscious of the duke’s large hand still holding her upper arm as if she would flee.
“You do not suppose it was the ghost.” Lady May’s voice came out like a squeak. “His Grace wouldn’t want us to remain where we might be in danger.”
Abigail’s nose began to tickle. She stopped breathing, trying desperately not to sneeze. Pressing her free hand beneath her nose, she saw by the duke’s frown that he was aware of her situation. The tickling was becoming unbearable, and her eyes went wide and watered. If she revealed the duke’s location, she would lose a chance at his trust.
“Let us leave,” Lady Theodosia said. “The duke knows his way out.”
“If the ghost lets him go,” Lady May countered.
The absurdity of that, coupled with her need to sneeze, had Abigail shaking. Her shoulders brushed the wall, dislodging even more dust. At last she gasped for air, and the duke stepped back.
“They are gone,” he said with relief.
She started to sneeze and couldn’t stop. She felt a handkerchief pressed into her hands, and she made use of it with only a little embarrassment.
“Thank you,” she finally said, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“No, thank you for not revealing us,” he answered, looking down on her with faint amusement.
