A Duke Never Yields (31 page)

“Oh, that’s quite unnecessary,” Abigail said, with equal cheer. “A dear friend of mine has turned up, quite unexpectedly.” She patted Wallingford’s arm. “He’s a splendid chaperone, frightfully protective. He often reminds me of a particularly keen bloodhound.”

The gentleman’s eyebrows rose as he contemplated Wallingford. He tipped back his hat in an indolent way. “A bloodhound, what? I say, old fellow. You look dashed familiar. Have you a handle of some sort?”

Wallingford stared down his nose. “I am the Duke of Wallingford,
old fellow
. And who the devil are you?”

The gentleman went quite pale. He turned to Abigail, as if she might possess better information on the matter than he did.

“Oh, I beg your pardon! Wallingford, this is William Hartley, my sister’s nephew. By marriage, of course. He’s the owner of the automobile she’s driving.”

Wallingford did not move his gaze a fraction from Mr. Hartley’s round face. “And why isn’t he driving the machine himself, in that case?”

“Because it makes him sick, I believe. Isn’t that so, Mr. Hartley?”

“Quite so.” Hartley dabbed at his pearling forehead with a handkerchief. “Quite so.”

“I see,” said Wallingford.

“Mr. Hartley came to see us at the castle, on his way down to Rome,” Abigail went on. “I believe he convinced Alexandra to make the trip. Didn’t you, Mr. Hartley?”

“I . . . I hope I have that honor,” gasped out Hartley.

A shimmer of activity swept through the milling crowd.

“Oh, what’s going on?” Abigail craned her neck. “Is it a brawl? Oh, do say it’s a brawl. I’ve been in Italy nearly five months without a brawl.”

A shout, and a voice raised in jabbering outrage. Wallingford shifted his body next to Abigail, overlapping her, his feet planted a little apart.

“Have no fear, Miss Harewood,” said Hartley. “My mechanics will protect you from any insult.”

Abigail clutched Wallingford’s arm and rose up on her toes. “If it
is
a brawl, you must lift me onto your shoulders at once. I don’t want to miss a single blow.”

Wallingford was at least half a head taller than any of the spectators nearby. He tilted his chin to avoid a particularly intrusive ostrich feather and peered across the shifting sea of hats.

“It isn’t a brawl,” he said at last, relaxing his stance. “It’s a chap running about with a steering tiller.”

Six hours later

S
o there I stood, Miss Harewood, everything in the balance, forced to make a split-second choice between the three-and-a-quarter-inch cylinder and the three-and-three-eighths-inch cylinder, and do you know what I did?” Mr. Hartley extended his middle finger and pushed away a greasy lock of hair from the center of his forehead.

Abigail gasped and put her fingers to her lips. “You chose the three-and-a-quarter!”

“No, I did not.”

“The three-and-three-eighths?”

“No, no, Miss Harewood.” Mr. Hartley’s smile grew wide and smug.

“Oh, the suspense, Mr. Hartley! Do tell me. I can’t stand another instant.”

He tapped his temple. “I called for the engineer, of course!”

“You didn’t!”

“I did. Your true leader, Miss Harewood, always knows when to delegate his duties to others.” He paused and lifted his hair again, which seemed to insist on drooping, like an exhausted worm. “Are you quite well, Miss Harewood? Your eyes have been shifting about these past ten minutes.”

“Quite all right, I assure you, Mr. Hartley. Scintillated, indeed. But the fact is, I do seem to have lost my sister in the crush.” Abigail nodded her head to indicate the crush in question; namely, the crowd of motor enthusiasts gathered at the Villa Borghese for the winner’s banquet. Or rather, what ought to have been the winner’s banquet, were the winner not currently occupying a private corner of a Roman jail. Still, the celebration had gone on regardless, with Alexandra at the center of things in her usual style, and Abigail—who had risen early that morning—now longed for nothing more than the oblivion of her heavenly hotel bed.

The fact that the Duke of Wallingford had disappeared at some point during dessert had nothing, she told herself firmly, to do with her longing.

“Oh, Lady Morley left half an hour ago.” Mr. Hartley patted his waistcoat pockets. “Didn’t she tell you?”

“No, she did not.” Abigail’s heart drooped.

“Quite half an hour ago. I hailed her a cab myself.”

“Well, that’s rather odd,” said Abigail. “I suppose I should make my way back to our own hotel, then.”

“I shall of course accompany you.”

“That’s not necessary, I assure you.”

“Miss Harewood!” Hartley let out a shocked gasp. “A young maiden, alone on the streets of Rome! It wouldn’t do.”

“I should be in a cab from door to door. It will do very well.”

“No, no.” He took her by the elbow. “I’m going back myself. Frightfully late, after all. I’m absolutely”—a theatrical half-stifled yawn—“conked.”

“Mr. Hartley, I’m quite capable . . .”

But he was already forging a path through the crowd, and there was little else to do but follow him with a sense of settling despair. How could an evening that had started out with such promise end so miserably? She had sat next to Wallingford at the banquet, and he had been exactly like the old springtime Wallingford, with his dry humor and sly innuendos and his large hands grasping his wineglass with enough coiled strength to shatter it to pieces. He had been a sleek-limbed tiger next to Mr. Hartley’s well-fed sloth.

Now Wallingford was gone, and Alexandra was gone, and even Mr. Burke had long since disappeared to tend to his machine. Which left only William Hartley to see her back to the Majestic Hotel. What a scandal that should be, back in London, but here in this crowd of scientists and engineers, there seemed to be no such notion as impropriety.

Hartley reached the door and stood aside for her to pass. The attendant gave them a wise look.

“Look here, Mr. Hartley,” Abigail said, determined to try again, “I’m not at all certain this is quite the thing. Perhaps we can determine where my sister went and . . .”

“No, no. We’re practically related, Miss Harewood. Taxi!” He lifted his arm as a cab appeared down the drive, trotting along at a brisk pace.

Abigail rolled her eyes upward. “Mr. Hartley, we are not remotely related, and . . .”

Hartley stepped forward to intercept the cab. The horse began to arc toward the steps, slowing to a walk. “You see, Miss Harewood? Right and tight. Best of all, along the way we’ll have time for me to finish my story about the cylinders.”

“Do you mean to say that wasn’t the end?” asked Abigail faintly.

“Not at all, not at all!” The cab stopped. Hartley stepped back with a flourish. “Miles to go. You haven’t heard what the engineer said to me. Your chariot, my dear.”

He opened the door of the cab with a little bow, and out sprang the Duke of Wallingford.

“Wallingford!” Abigail nearly lurched into his arms with relief.

“Why, Miss Harewood! Mr. Hartley!” Wallingford turned to Hartley and raised his eyebrows in that terror-inducing ducal way. “Were you off somewhere?”

“Mr. Hartley had very kindly offered to see me to my hotel, though I
insisted
it wasn’t necessary.” Abigail put a delicate emphasis on the word
insisted
.

“Gallant fellow,” said Wallingford. “However, you needn’t bother. Before she left, Lady Morley asked me to see to Miss Harewood’s welfare, and I have just returned with my own vehicle.”

“Your vehicle?” Hartley asked, looking at the cab.

“I leased it for the week, cab and driver both. So much more convenient than hailing for one. Shall we be off, Miss Harewood?”

“See here,” said Hartley, “this is quite improper. I’m one of the family!”

Abigail shook her head sadly. “It’s true, Wallingford. He is my sister’s late husband’s nephew by marriage. Almost a brother.”

“All very well, but I, as you see, am in possession of both Lady Morley’s direct order and a waiting cab. Miss Harewood?”

Wallingford swept her into the cab before Hartley’s swinging jaw. He rapped the roof and said, through the opening, “Majestic Hotel, if you please.”

*   *   *

W
hen she had finished laughing, Abigail found she had not a word to say. Wallingford sat next to her, impossibly large, filling every last cubic inch of the cab’s interior with his black evening suit and his brilliant white shirt and his infinite dignity. Abigail, who had conversed so easily with him in company, went mute in the intimacy of the closed space.

For his part, Wallingford made no effort at conversation, either. He sat still, staring through the window at an idle angle, moving not a single finger of his broad and endless body.

The way to the Majestic Hotel was not long. Hardly five awkward minutes had passed before the cab slowed, the lights shone through the window, and Wallingford was swinging through the door to hand her out.

“I’ll see you to your room,” he said, in a tone that brooked no opposition.

Up they went, in the Majestic’s modern mechanical lift, the attendant standing between them like a grave red-suited statue. What the fellow must think, Abigail thought, with an inward smile. Really, it was dreadfully careless of Alexandra to leave her in Wallingford’s care for the night. Her rendezvous with Mr. Burke—for of course it could be nothing else—must have been of the most desperate nature.

The lift came to rest with a clang. The attendant opened the grille. Wallingford stood aside for her and walked by her side down the corridor without a word.

“Here we are,” she said, taking out her key. She held out her other hand. “Thank you so much for saving me from that fellow Hartley. If only every damsel could be plucked from the jaws of boredom so effectively.”

“Abigail.” Wallingford looked down at her with liquid eyes. “I must speak with you.”

Thump-thump
, went Abigail’s heart.

“Oh no. Most improper. I’ve no idea what Alexandra told you, but I’m quite certain your orders don’t go so far as tucking me into bed at the Majestic Hotel.”

Wallingford placed one hand on the doorjamb, right next to her ear. “And I am equally certain that Miss Abigail Harewood gives not a fig for the opinions of others.”

Abigail moistened her lips, which had gone quite dry. “Oh, there’s where you’re wrong. I hate being caught out. Most unnerving. I . . .”

A series of loud thumps came from the direction of the staircase.

“You’d better make up your mind,” said Wallingford.

Abigail swallowed, turned, fitted her key into the lock, and thrust the door open.

The room was dark. Hurriedly Abigail reached for the electric light switch, and a dim yellow glow illuminated the furnishings.

Wallingford removed his hat and gloves and placed them on the table next to the lamp. “Ah, modern accommodations.”

“Yes, it was built only last year.” Abigail positioned herself behind a chair. “Running water, such a treat. Have you a room here, too?”

“Yes.”

“I expect it’s twice as large. I expect you have the imperial suite.”

“Something of that sort, yes. Would you like to see it?” He turned to her.

Abigail gripped the back of the chair. The room was a small one, and the two narrow beds loomed unnaturally close. “Look, Wallingford, I hope you don’t mistake my earlier friendliness for a desire to resume our . . . our . . .”

“No, I do not.”

Her shoulders heaved, whether with relief or disappointment she couldn’t say. “Well, that’s that, then. I bid you good evening.”

“I don’t
mistake
anything at all, Abigail.” He leaned his shoulder against the wall and watched her patiently. “I know very well how you feel. I feel the same.”

“Which is?”

“That we belong with each other. That this ridiculous estrangement of the past fortnight must end at once, before we both go mad.”

“Well!”

“I will not give you up, Abigail. I will not let your misguided notions of independence and freedom destroy this promise of happiness between us.”

“I say! That’s rather high-handed of you.”

He smiled. “You like my high-handedness.”

“I find it novel and exhilarating, like Mr. Burke’s motor-car. And like Mr. Burke’s motor-car, I should not wish to live with it every day.” Her head was a little light, watching him lean against her wall a few feet away, his face turned to gold by the incandescent light from the modern electric lamp.

“Abigail,” he said softly. “Abigail. What are you afraid of? Do you think I wish to clip your wings? I love your wings. I love everything about you. I would cut off my own arm before I forced you into some London drawing room full of chattering nullities.”

She closed her eyes. “Wallingford, this is all very well, but I believe we established in the boathouse that we don’t suit. We don’t . . . we don’t connect, on a physical level, which I consider . . . I consider essential to . . .” She lost her train of thought. His words kept repeating in her head:
I love your wings. I love everything about you.

She heard the faint brush of his shoes on the plush new carpet, drawing close.

“My dear girl, I will apologize one more time for my boorish behavior that night. It was inexcusable.”

“It was dreadfully disappointing.”

“The next time we meet in bed, I shall endeavor not to disappoint you.”

“There will be no next time.”

“Yes, there will. Open your eyes, Abigail.”

She opened them and gasped. He stood not two feet away, enormous and black-shouldered, his hand next to hers on the back of the chair, his dark blue eyes enclosing her. The warmth of his body irradiated her skin. He moved his hand to cover hers.

“Despite appearances, I have always considered myself a man of open mind, Abigail. One not too proud to learn from his mistakes.”

“I own myself astonished.”

“In that spirit of inquiry, I have taken it upon myself to learn a few things, during the course of our separation.” He bent close to her ear and whispered. “I have learned, for example, where the seat of a woman’s pleasure truly lies.”