Page 21 of Enchanting the Duke

He turned on his heel, shoes tapping on marble, and strode away without a backward glance.A door slammed somewhere down the hall, rattling the sconces.

Dinah sagged, the fight gone out of her.She put an arm around Chrissy’s shoulders, pulling her close despite the difference in their heights.

“You did nothing wrong,” Dinah murmured, stroking Chrissy’s hair.“He’ll see it in the morning, once the rage has burned out.”

Chrissy shook in her sister’s arms, equal parts relief and devastation.“What if he’s right?What if I was only… a game?”

Dinah pressed a kiss to her temple.“Then you’ll survive it, because you’re a Westfall.”

They stood together at the foot of the staircase, two women against a world that measured their worth by the delicacy of their virtue and the weight of their dowry.Around them, the staff whispered and tiptoed.

Dinah’s hand squeezed hers, a lifeline in the darkness.“Come.Let’s wash the night off and go to sleep.”

Chrissy nodded, letting herself be led down the corridor.A bit of doubt was creeping into her thoughts, and she fought to push it away.Was Nomansland such a skilled actor to make her believe he cared for her?Was she truly that naive?

She prayed for morning to come with a note from him declaring his eternal love.Please, let his feelings be true.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Nomansland’s study had always struck him as the sort of room where a man could drink himself to death with style.Even tonight, with just the light from a single candle, it was a place perfectly suited to melodrama.Mahogany paneling, the reek of cigar smoke lingering from a previous night, and the solitary company of a bottle of brandy half-emptied and sulking on his desk.

He leaned back in the chair, filled with visions of the spectacle he’d made of himself at the Munsterley ball, or, more accurately, the spectacle he and Chrissy had made of each other.London’s gossips would feast for months.

The clock in the corner—an absurdly grand thing with a face like a bishop and chimes that struck the hour as if announcing the coming of the Lord—ticked with the gravity of fate.Nomansland counted each second as it slipped away, waiting for the inevitable, the visit that would settle everything or nothing.

He tipped the decanter and poured another glass.His hand shook—just a little, just enough to move the liquor in the glass.He watched the brandy swirl, amber and viscous, and considered his options.

He’d rehearsed the conversation a hundred times since he’d left the Munsterley’s home, each version more disastrous than the last.Abingdon would demand satisfaction.He would make threats, some empty and some not.There would be talk of honor and families and the lifelong wreckage of a girl’s reputation, all of which was entirely justified.Nomansland knew himself well enough to accept the full catalogue of his crimes.He had, after all, written most of it himself.

But what he didn’t know—what terrified him, if he were being honest, which he rarely was—was whether he could say the right thing.Whether he could give Abingdon, and Chrissy, and the entire damned world, the assurance they needed.That he would do the right thing, marry the girl, make a model husband, and put the ghosts of his past to rest.

He doubted it.But he would try, and that had to count for something.

A gust of wind shook the windows, and somewhere below, the sound of a carriage door slamming echoed up through the house.The front door opened and closed, not gently.Nomansland didn’t bother to move from his seat.The next act was inevitable, and he would not give Abingdon the satisfaction of seeing him so much as blink.

He counted the footsteps on the stairs—fourteen, each heavier than the last.The corridor outside the study was silent for a moment, then the knob twisted and the door banged open so hard it rattled the glass in the decanters.

Abingdon strode in, all champion of innocence and coiled violence.His hair was wild, his cheeks slashed red with rage, and his eyes, usually so calculating, were feral.

Nomansland set the glass down, but didn’t rise.“Shall we dispense with the pleasantries?”he said, voice low and, he hoped, calm.

Abingdon didn’t answer.He crossed the room in three steps, balled his right hand into a fist, and drove it into Nomansland’s left eye with the precision of a man who had once boxed at Oxford and never quite outgrown the taste for it.

Stars exploded and blocked out the rest of the room for a good two seconds.Nomansland tasted blood where he’d bitten his tongue and then remembered to breathe.He slumped back in the chair, clutching the armrests.

When he could open his eye, he blinked up at Abingdon, the world fuzzy and doubled at the edges.“I suppose I deserved that,” he said, trying and failing to sound wry.

Abingdon’s chest heaved, but he stood over Nomansland, fists still clenched, eyes still wild.

“If you’d like another go,” Nomansland continued, “I can stand up this time.Make myself a better target.”

Abingdon shook his head, but the motion was more animal than human, as if trying to clear the taste of violence from his tongue.He stalked away, paced to the window, then spun on his heel and glared at Nomansland with such pure fury that he almost expected the glass to shatter from the force of it.

“You arrogant, reckless—” Abingdon could not finish the thought.He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, then let his hand drop.“You were seen.You were both seen,” he spat.

Nomansland nodded, accepting the truth of it.

Abingdon closed the distance between them in a flash, leaning down until they were nose to nose.