Page 24 of Enchanting the Duke

Nomansland blinked in surprise.What charity did she provide at this hour?“What about Miss Westfall?”

A beat of silence, then he said, “Not at home.”

He resisted the urge to seize the woman by her starched apron.“Not at home?Is she with Mrs.Westfall?”

“No, sir.”The housekeeper’s tone, while respectful, left no doubt that she was not impressed with dukes who pounded on doors before the decent hour.“Miss Westfall never came home last night.”

The words caught Nomansland off guard.“Where is she, then?”

“Abingdon House, with her sister.”

Nomansland ground his teeth, feeling the old, familiar spike of irritation.Of course Abingdon had swept in with the ruthless efficiency of a bailiff collecting rent, staking his claim on every possible avenue of controlling the scandal.

The housekeeper was still watching him, her hands folded neatly at her waist.“If there is nothing else, sir?”

He tipped his hat, the gesture perfunctory.“Thank you.You’ve been most helpful.”

She didn’t smile.“Very good, Your Grace.”

Nomansland turned on his heel and stomped back to his waiting carriage.He yanked open the door and flung himself inside, calling out to the coachman, “Abingdon House.Take the long way round.I need to think.”

He spent the first three blocks staring at his reflection in the window, watching the swelling grow more lurid with every jostle.He was sure it was his imagination, but by the time they reached Oxford Street, the bruise had gone from a mere ornament to a full-fledged sideshow.

He tried to imagine how Chrissy would react—would she laugh?Would she pity him?Would she make a joke about his lack of defensive technique?

He imagined her doing all three at once.The thought made his chest ache.

He fidgeted with his cravat, certain his valet had tied it too tightly.He cursed Abingdon with a litany of insults, then cursed himself for being so easily goaded.By the time the carriage turned onto the desired street, he’d rehearsed his proposal a dozen times, each version more abysmal than the last.

He was not good at this.He’d spent a lifetime conquering, never courting, had never needed to ask for anything, much less plead for forgiveness or beg for a second chance.He wondered, not for the first time, why fate had chosen this moment—this girl—to test the limits of his capacity for humility.

He pressed a hand to his eye, felt the throb of the bruise radiate outward, a perfect metaphor for his state of mind.

The coachman brought the carriage to a halt in front of Abingdon House.Nomansland stared up at the façade, grim and forbidding as ever, and drew a breath deep enough to set his ribs creaking.

He reached for the door handle, then paused.“Here goes nothing.”

And, with all the confidence he could muster, Nomansland stepped out to do battle for the only thing in the world he was not sure he could win.

Chrissy’s heart.

When the door opened, he asked, “Is Miss Westfall at home?”

Thomson pulled the door wider and allowed him inside.

The entrance hall of Abingdon House was designed to humble, and it performed its task admirably.Nomansland smothered a laugh as the butler received him with the kind of chill reserved for debtors and fornicators.

“If you’ll follow me, Your Grace,” the man intoned, then led Nomansland past the library and billiard room, to the drawing room at the back of the house.

The room itself was oddly intimate, something he hadn’t felt there before.Early light softened the outlines of everything, throwing gentle shadows over the Chippendale chairs and the silk-covered settee.And there sat Chrissy.

She wore a simple morning dress, pale blue, cinched at the waist with a ribbon the same shade as her eyes.Her hair, usually a riot of curls, was subdued today—a neat braid pinned at the nape, a few wisps escaping to catch the light.She looked younger than he remembered, and infinitely more breakable.

For one paralyzing second, Nomansland stayed just inside the doorway, pinned to the spot by the weight of what he’d come to do.

Chrissy looked up at him, her hands folded tight in front of her, the knuckles white.She stared at him, and the silence stretched, awkward and absolute.

He coughed into his fist.“Miss Westfall,” he managed, the words absurdly formal given the parts of her body he was familiar with.