Page 69 of Never Dare a Duke
They said nothing, and Christopher imagined them drinking together, looking at each other, conspirators alone in a forbidden house. When he realized his fists were clenched, he forced himself to relax. It was no longer his concern who looked at Abigail—it hadneverbeen his concern, only he’d been too blinded by lust to see that.
“So haveyouexplored this study?” Walton asked Abigail.
“No. I am at Madingley Court to talk, and to listen, and that’s what I’ve been doing.”
There was another long silence, and Christopher imagined them sipping his brandy, loosening their tongues.
“And what have you heard?” Walton continued—without subtlety.
Abigail gave a low laugh. “What haveyouheard?”
“So that is how it is to be? We play this game with each other?”
She giggled. “I am not playing a game, believe me. How I handle this chance to prove my worth to my father will chart the course for the rest of my life.”
“It is unusual for a woman to want to be a journalist.”
She made a little “hmm” sound, and Christopher could imagine just how she’d shrug her shoulders, her head tilted to one side. She should keep up the delaying tactic, give the brandy a chance to loosen Walton’s tongue.
“I loved that what my father wrote affected people, changing the course of their lives. Stories in theMorning Journalwere debated in Parliament, made factory owners change their working conditions out of shame, made women sigh with amusement at the end of a long day. A newspaper matters.”
Though Christopher told himself he could not believe anything she said, part of him felt that he was seeing into her soul, seeing why writing was so important to her. Her love of the craft called to him on some level, even as he regretted it.
Dryly, Walton said, “You have a foolish view of a simple means of employment. I am good at writing, and I am good at getting people to talk about what they don’t wish to.”
“And you came here, thinking you could coerce thedukeinto speaking?” she asked, incredulity in her voice.
Walton chuckled. “More to see what he’d do with my presence. I already have people willing to talk.”
Christopher’s tension increased, even as he held his breath so that he’d miss nothing.
“Who has something bad to say about Madingley?” she said, with an air of bitterness. “You’d think he was a saint, the way his family and friends praise him.”
“You’re talking to the wrong people. More brandy?”
“Please.”
They did not speak although Christopher thought he heard another giggle from Abigail. She could hardly have much experience with brandy—could she?
“I’ve spoken to other people,” Abigail continued. “I am very careful with my research. But even my sources in Parliament have nothing but praise for him.”
“Yet we’re both searching for a story,” Walton mused.
And Walton was trying to get it from Abigail. Didn’t she see that?
“Iam searching,” Abigail said thoughtfully. “But you already know something. Why else would you be provoking the duke?”
“He has a temper. Don’t you know that?”
Walton’s voice had gone soft. Christopher’s fists were clenched again, head bent as if he could will his hearing to sharpen. What was Abigail doing?
“A temper?”
She sounded a bit too relaxed now. The brandy was doinghermore harm than it was doing to Walton. What had she expected?
“I haven’t seen a temper,” she continued as if baffled. “And believe me, with the way these single-minded ladies pursue him, I would have seen signs of it.”
“Then what signs are you looking for?”
