Page 89 of Never Dare a Duke
What had he meant? Surely it was only a slip of the tongue, an accident that had no meaning for him. He would never allow himself to love her, not he, the “perfect duke.”
Would they both only hurt each other in the end?
Before she reached the breakfast room, she found Elizabeth in the entrance hall, gaping at the morning’s newspaper with tears running down her face.
Abigail rushed to her. “Elizabeth? What is wrong?”
Absently, she wiped one tear-stained cheek with the back of her hand. “It is a terrible article about my brother.”
Abigail felt cold inside, remembering Mr. Walton and his threats. She came to Elizabeth’s side and read over her shoulder. The headline screamed, “The Scandalous Duke of Madingley,” and the body of the article was worse. Christopher was called a champion of the underprivileged, the voice of reason in the House of Lords, but also someone with a vicious enough temper to paralyze an innocent man.
When she read that part, Abigail gasped aloud and looked into Elizabeth’s weeping face.
The girl nodded. “It’s…true. Oh, Michael Preston wasn’t innocent, but he was terribly injured.”
“Michael Preston? Related to Madeleine?”
“Her brother.”
It all made sense now, why Madeleine thought she should be entitled to wed Christopher. Abigail continued reading the article, which claimed that as a young man Christopher was known for his uncontrollable brawling at Eton. Several witnesses were interviewed as proof. They were all there the day that Christopher savagely beat Preston. The fact that Preston had never recovered the ability to walk had not been revealed until now, because the previous duke had paid to make certain that Preston retired to Scotland permanently.
“Our family knew what had truly happened to Michael, of course,” Elizabeth said forlornly. “But not that my father had…” Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed. “Right after the fight, Michael admitted his own culpability and claimed he did not blame Chris. But Chris blamed himself, of course, and never forgave himself for what befell Michael. He has supported Michael in every way possible, and they are now friends. Chris travels to Scotland several times a year to visit. He’sprovedhimself!” she finally cried. “He’s done everything good and right since then, and now they’re punishing him.”
Abigail thought that it was rather coincidental that Madeleine arrived just before this article—and just after the journalist. She was even quoted, relating how her brother continued to suffer. Had she tried to blackmail Christopher?
She forced herself to finish the article, which talked about Christopher using a front to hide his true nature, that when Mr. Walton tried to question him, the duke had been unable to control his “vicious temper” and had bodily thrown him out.
Abigail winced. Christopher was a man who’d bettered himself, who’d tried to live a good life after a terrible mistake in his youth, who protected his family, yet was sensitive enough to write plays. In his play, he could control the world, unlike real life. She ached for him as if his pain were her own. She wanted to soothe him, to help him survive it—to help him counter it. And then she realized the truth: somehow she’d fallen in love with him, even though she knew common Abigail Shaw could never marry a duke.
And why would she want to lead this sort of repressive life, where the threat of scandal could ruin a person, where one’s life was so rigid? In this Society, she would never be allowed to write anything but letters.
And Christopher already felt that his father’s scandalous marriage caused too much notoriety. Marrying a commoner—a journalist—would be even worse.
“Is this the only newspaper?” Abigail asked.
Elizabeth sniffed loudly as she shook her head. “Because of the party, Mother had ten extra delivered every day. I imagine the men in the breakfast room are devouring it as we speak. Oh dear, they’ll all be talking about this.”
“Do you think your brother has seen it?”
Elizabeth’s wet eyes went wide. “There’s always one on his desk first thing in the morning. Oh, I don’t even know what to say to him!”
“Let me speak with him. I might be able to help.”
Elizabeth nodded, her expression full of confusion, then she looked back at the newspaper again as her lips began to quiver.
Abigail found Christopher in his study, sitting at his desk, looking out the window. TheTimeswas spread before him. She closed the door and leaned against it, and only then did he slowly turn his head and look at her.
He smiled, but it didn’t touch his solemn eyes. “I guess you were right about the interest in me. Front page. I imagine you regret it couldn’t be your article.”
“No, I don’t,” she said, walking forward. “And my article would have been much less sensational in nature.”
“So you like to think.”
She winced but tried not to take offense. He was suffering, and wondering how his life was going to be, and worried about how much this had hurt his family.
“So what are you going to do?” she asked.
“I’ve been giving that much thought this morning,” he said, too calmly. “I’ve got to go to London, of course. Can’t hide out here. I have business investors to calm, politicians and friends to reassure, enemies who need to realize that I won’t flee to the Continent.”
