Page 79 of Never Dare a Duke
“Gwen, you cannot know what your father is thinking. You will have to talk to him, too.”
“But surely I would need Mr. Wesley to help with that. And he’s not even talking tomeabout marriage!” She moaned and closed her eyes, then took a deep breath. “But you’re right, I must initiate a discussion. Perhaps I can come at the conversation from a different angle, try to get Mr. Wesley’s thoughts without his realizing I’m talking about the two of us.”
“Maybe that will even make him really think about you as a wife.”
“And scare him off,” she said forlornly.
“Is he coming for dinner? Perhaps you can speak then, or just after.”
Gwen patted her knees. “I will be brave like you, Abby.”
And I will try to be as brave as you think I am,Abigail thought with determination.
While everyone was distracted with the fencing tournament, it was surprisingly easy to sneak into the duke’s bedchamber. Listening to Gwen’s dilemma about marriage to a commoner made Abigail want to reassure Christopher that she had no such thing in mind.
But she could use another demonstration about how to behave with men, she thought, shivering with anticipation. He could refuse her, since they still circled each other so warily, but she thought they had improved things between them this morning. And it had been far too amusing to tell the Ladies May and Theodosia that they needn’t have worried about her after she “accidentally” wandered away from them. When she said that the duke had rescued her, their faces had turned almost green with envy—and frustration.
It was ill of her, she knew. One of those women could very well be the one he chose.
But she didn’t think so. It would be some other woman. Hopefully one she never met, so she wouldn’t have to imagine…
To distract herself from foolish jealousy, she thought of the conversation they’d had, where he’d revealed that he liked to write. It had been strange, yet enjoyable, to hear a man say such a thing. It explained all the quills in his desk—
And the bound sheaf of papers in the bottom drawer?
She focused on the same drawer, and when she saw that it was partially open, her gaze quickly lifted to the desktop itself.
The stack of papers was there. Hesitantly, she came to her feet and moved until she could see Christopher’s bold handwriting lining a sheet, top to bottom. Had he written this? It seemed like his penmanship, from what she’d seen in his study.
Not thinking about right or wrong, heeding only her curiosity, she examined the first page, realizing it was in the format of a play, and began to read. Fearing to be interrupted, she skimmed it quickly, reading in wonder the story of a poor but noble man, taken from his own country, forced to survive, then learning to thrive in a land hostile to him. She couldn’t read all the details, but she grasped that Christopher had a wonderful imagination, that his dialogue sounded so real. But somehow, for some strange reason, the story struck a chord within her that she could not identify.
It ended abruptly—too abruptly, with a half-empty page and the hero fighting for his life. She didn’t know if he would live or die. Maybe Christopher didn’t either.
The kinship she felt for him warmed her inside. Was this one of the secrets he guarded so protectively? He wanted to write, just like she did. And Society had been telling each of them that their dreams were not suitable.
His name wasn’t on the manuscript. Did he plan to do anything with it, or was it just something he felt compelled to write? She put the pages back the way she’d found them. He would think she planned to use this secret against him if she told him of her discovery. It would be just another reason he couldn’t trust her. She didn’t want that; she wanted him to tell her the truth himself.
She might as well be asking for the moon, she thought, leaving his room and creeping down the servants’ stairs to another floor.
Reaching her own room, she realized that she’d come full circle. She wanted to know how he felt about his work, whether he would brave an attempt at publishing it. She knew what it was like to have words that demanded to be written, and the wish that someone would read them and give meaning to one’s dreams.
But would a man who wouldn’t even kiss her during their lovemaking want to share something so intimate?
Christopher was in the drawing room before dinner with their gathering guests, speaking to his mother, when the butler announced the arrival of Miss Madeleine Preston.
His mother gave him a sharp glance and murmured, “Christopher, you would not have invited her here after telling her you would not marry her.”
“No, I would not have,” he replied dryly.
When he’d last seen Madeleine, she’d promised he would pay for not marrying her. Had she come to make a scene? She had to know that she couldn’t change his mind just by embarrassing herself before his mother and friends.
Madeleine approached him, and he met her in the center of the room, knowing they had everyone’s attention. She was a beautiful woman, whose brown hair gleamed like the richest chocolate, whose face possessed strong beauty. But she had never learned to hide the haughtiness in her eyes, the way she always seemed to be looking for more than she deserved. Now those eyes gleamed with satisfaction, and he knew something more was about to happen.
“Your Grace!” she cried, holding out both hands to him, making sure all in the drawing room saw her. “Thank you so much for inviting me to join your little party.”
He bowed over her hands and gave her a brief smile, not surprised by her cleverness. She was getting bolder. Had his search for a duchess finally made her too nervous? He brought her to his mother, where Madeleine curtsied with elegance and humility.
“Miss Preston,” the duchess said civilly. “So you decided to join us.”
