Page 21 of Tantalizing the Duke
“It’s of no consequence,” he insisted, moving toward the decanters despite the early hour. His hands shook as he poured himself a generous measure of brandy, and he downed half of it in one swallow, feeling the burn spread through his chest to compete with the heat of his frustration.
Abingdon appeared in the doorway. “You’re a terrible liar. Always have been.”
Something in Dainsfield snapped then—a tether he hadn’t realized was holding him together until it broke. The mask of aristocratic indifference he wore as naturally as his skin cracked and fell away. “Milly is a fool if she thinks she can be happy married to a molly!” The words exploded from him, too loud for the quiet morning, echoing off the wooden panels of his office and spilling into the hallway beyond.
A passing servant gasped, nearly dropping the tray of empty glasses he carried. Dainsfield’s face burned with embarrassment atop his anger, the uncomfortable heat rising from his neck to his cheeks.
Abingdon stepped quickly into the office, closing the door firmly behind him. His face registered surprise, but not shock—the measured reaction of a man who had suspected something was amiss but hadn’t guessed the particular nature of the problem. “I think you’d better sit down before you fall down. And then perhaps you should start from the beginning and explain what’s happening.”
Dainsfield stared at his friend, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. The glass in his hand was empty, though he had no memory of finishing it. He placed it on his desk with a heavy thunk and sank into his chair, the polished leather creaking beneath his weight. His shoulders slumped as though the strings holding him upright had been abruptly cut.
“It’s all gone wrong,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The fire of his anger guttered, leaving behind a cold, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. His hands were numb, but he felt a warmth in his chest, an uncomfortable heat that he recognized not as guilt, but as jealousy—raw and unfamiliar. “It’s all gone terribly wrong.”
Abingdon poured two fresh brandies and placed one before his friend. He settled into the chair across from Dainsfield, his expression open and patient. “Start at the beginning. What’s this about Milly and marriage?”
“Milly is a fool if she thinks she can be happy married to a molly!”
The declaration echoed in the cavernous room, bouncing from the ceiling’s ornate plasterwork to the polished mahogany wainscoting.
Abingdon didn’t flinch at the outburst, but his eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “I see,” he said, though his tone suggested he didn’t see at all. “Perhaps you’d care to elaborate further… at a slightly reduced volume?”
Dainsfield’s cheeks, already flushed from agitation, darkened further. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and lowered his voice to a ragged whisper.
“She’s going to marry Parham. It was in the papers this morning.”
“Lord Parham?” Abingdon clarified, his expression thoughtful. “Tall fellow, excellent horseman, collects Greek antiquities?”
“The very same,” Dainsfield confirmed bitterly. “And who has never kept company with a woman for longer than it takes to dance a quadrille, despite being of an age where most men have already produced half a dozen heirs.”
The implication hung in the air between them, as delicate and volatile as gunpowder. Parham preferred men.
“Ah,” Abingdon said simply. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he asked, “And you know this how?”
“Everyone knows. Everyone who pays attention.”
“Gossip,” Abingdon pointed out mildly. “I’ve seen him upstairs here with various women.”
“Fact,” Dainsfield countered. “I’ve had him investigated.”
“You’ve had him… investigated,” Abingdon repeated slowly. “Hold on a moment. Didn’t I just attend a party at your home with the sole purpose of introducing Parham to Milly?”
Dainsfield’s expression suggested he’d bitten into something unexpectedly sour. He stared at his empty glass as though it might contain an acceptable answer. “It’s complicated,” he finally muttered.
“I imagine it must be,” Abingdon agreed, closing his ledger with a definitive thump. He leaned back in his chair, fingers forming a steeple beneath his chin as he regarded his friend with the patient expression of a man accustomed to waiting out silences. “Perhaps you should start from the beginning and explain what’s happening.”
The suggestion hung between them, an invitation and a challenge combined. Outside, the sounds of London awakening filtered through the windows—the rattle of delivery carts, the calls of vendors, the steady clop of hooves on cobblestones. Inside, the suspended moment stretched, taut as a violin string.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he began, his voice rasping like silk dragged across rough stone. “But I made it with the best of intentions, which I’m discovering is the most dangerous sort of mistake to make.”
Abingdon nodded, his expression carefully neutral. “These things often begin that way. As it appears to me, you introduced Milly and Parham with the hopes of their marrying, and now they’ve set the date to do so. I don’t understand the problem.”
“Parham is a molly. He prefers men.”
Abingdon sat back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “There have been whispers about Parham for years, though nothing definitive. He’s always been very careful.”
Dainsfield’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “You knew?”
“I suspected,” Abingdon corrected. “Which is not the same thing as knowing. And in any case, it wasn’t my place to spread such rumors.”