Page 30 of A Marriage of Convenience with a Rake (Love’s Gentle Manners #2)

“I know. I know,” Benedict murmured gently as he scratched the black, furry ears of his wolfhound, Rowan. He breathed out deeply. “It’s my mood that’s making you so worried, old boy.”

There was no reason for Rowan to be distressed—the fire burned brightly in the grate even though it was not particularly cold. Rowan had eaten his usual meal that morning, and he had taken a walk about the estate grounds with Benedict twice—first in the morning and then at teatime. Despite that, the huge black hound could not find rest, standing and walking to the fire and then back to his place by Benedict’s desk every few minutes. There was only one reason for such distress, and that was that he could sense Benedict was showing discomfort.

“And I have reason, old chap,” he told his canine companion with a sigh. The reason was simple—his sister had insisted on attending the coming-out ball of an acquaintance, and that meant that Benedict had to chaperone her.

He hated it.

He shut his dark eyes for a moment, letting his head sink back onto the backrest of the chair. He had not attended any balls the previous Season, and the one before that he had attended only five at his mother’s insistence. His fear of being in society was so great that he would have done the same thing this year, except for Nancy’s need for a chaperone. Mama could chaperone her, but Benedict did not trust her to keep a good watch over Nancy.

He knew he should be getting ready—it was an hour before the ball. He felt his stomach twist uncomfortably.

His thoughts wandered to his last ball. He’d stayed only as long as necessary and spent most of the evening watching the rest of the guests, not talking to anyone. His mother had berated him, saying that he was not doing what he should as a Duke—which seemed strange, since none of his ducal duties seemed to include dancing or polite chats.

It’s not easy, he wanted to shout at his mother. Not when you are like me.

He ran a hand down his face. He could feel his firm jaw, his long nose. His face was chiseled, and his jaw square, his eyes dark. He had never thought that he looked anything less than handsome, but ever since he was a boy his companions at Eton had taunted him mercilessly. More than his appearance, they had mocked his ready temper, which flared with their taunts.

And, he thought sadly, perhaps they were not wrong. The whole of the Ton thinks me a beast.

He let out a long sigh. Eton was many years ago. He was two-and-thirty years old, and he should forget all that. His mother always said that it was just all childish nonsense. But whenever he had to enter society, the cruel mocking words whispered through his mind, and he could not face anyone. Nonsense, she might call it, but it had left an indelible mark.

“Brother? Benedict!”

Nancy’s voice interrupted his thoughts. His hound was already at the door, bounding over to greet his sister as she knocked at the study entrance.

“Brother? Are you there?”

“I am,” he called, already standing to open the door, but Nancy pushed it open, her delicate, heart-shaped face appearing in the doorway. She beamed up at him and he felt his heart melt. There were very few beings in the world who made him smile—Rowan was one, Nancy another. They were the only creatures he trusted, with whom he could share his thoughts even a little.

His younger sister crossed the floor and moved to his desk, her long dark hair swaying where it hung loose about her face. He guessed she had been getting ready for the ball, though she still wore her long cream-colored day dress.

“Benedict,” she asked softly. “Can I stay a while?”

“With gladness.”

She settled into the chair opposite his at his big writing-desk, looking artlessly up at him.

“Will there be a great deal of people there tonight?” she asked, sounding more curious than afraid.

“Mayhap not,” he answered levelly. He hoped not. The ball was to be a private ball at a family house, not a coming-out ball at Almack’s, which was unusual. Nancy’s ball last week had been at Almack’s, which had made it hard since all of the Ton were there. A private ball might be smaller, more exclusive. He hoped so.

“Mama said to guard myself and not speak to simply everyone,” she told him, a frown creasing her brows. Benedict sighed.

“Mama can be a little too careful sometimes,” he told her, but at the same time, he felt himself frown too. His worry had been that his mother would throw Nancy at every eligible man at the ball, and so Nancy reporting on her caution sounded strange. He tilted his head, thoughtful.

“She said that I should be aware of my reputation as a young lady, and the sister of a Duke,” Nancy began, and Benedict felt himself tense.

“It’s not about...” he was about to say, trying to explain that it wasn’t her behavior he was worried about, but the behavior of others, and that she needed not to discipline herself, but simply to take care of herself, when his mother appeared in the doorway. Tall, like Benedict and Nancy, she had a thin, delicate face. Her hair was dark brown, gray strands like silver running through its elaborately styled length. She wore it covered with the briefest of widow’s veils, and her dress, in dark navy blue, was likewise a symbol of mourning, though Benedict’s father had passed away a decade before. Benedict suspected she had maintained the mourning colors because they suited her, but he would never have said so, since she would likely be offended, and her temper was as quick as his was.

“Nancy! There you are,” Mama declared. “I was looking for you everywhere.”

“I just wanted to talk to Benedict about the ball. I’m so glad we’re going,” Nancy gushed. “I can’t wait to wear my gown! And Emilia will be there, and Julia, and everyone I know.” She smiled brightly. Her manner seemed a little tense to Benedict, who was familiar with her usual moods.

“Good. Good, daughter,” Mama said lightly. “I’m pleased. It is right that you should be anticipating the ball. Benedict?” she added, one brow raised as she turned to him.

“What, Mother?” he asked, his back, which was already stiff, stiffening more at her commanding tone.

“It’s six o’ clock. You should be getting dressed.”

“Mother...” Benedict began, about to argue, but he saw her dark eyes harden and decided against it. Nancy would be distressed by it, and he did not wish to upset her. “I need not the time that you ladies need to ready myself,” he said instead, trying to lighten his refusal.

“You need time, though...a cravat does not tie itself. And you need to look impeccable. The impressions of others are like the currency of the Ton ,” she reminded him firmly, one manicured brow raised.

“Mother,” Benedict objected, but Nancy spoke up brightly.

“I can dress in half an hour, Mama! I checked the hour last time I prepared, and all it took was a little over thirty minutes to get ready.”

“A lady needs to take an hour getting ready,” their mother said firmly. “Perhaps you were underdressed.”

“It was for last week’s literary salon!” Nancy said, frowning. “Was I underdressed, Mama?”

“No,” his mother had to admit, just as Benedict cleared his throat, ready to divert his mother’s attention back onto him before she lost her temper. “No, you were well dressed for Lady Atherly's Salon.”

“See? I just dress fast,” she said with some pride in her tone.

Benedict smiled, taking Nancy’s hand in his across the table. Sometimes she seemed like a little girl, still, and sometimes a young lady. “We’re fast dressers,” he said firmly, staring at his mother, daring her to comment. She let out a sigh.

“You need to get ready, Nancy,” she said firmly. “And you too, Benedict. And I insist that you dance with Lady Penelope, and Lady Gracechurch’s daughters, and Lady Hannah.” Her voice was hard. She drew herself to her full height, which was quite tall. All the family were tall, and dark-haired, like Benedict himself.

“Mother!” Benedict objected, pushing back his chair as if to stand. He had tried to contain his annoyance, but this was too hard to ignore. “I will dance with whom I please—or I shall not dance. You cannot compel me to do as you wish. I am no longer a child.” His voice was firm and level.

“No, you are not,” his mother agreed. “And you are the heir of Norendale, which is why I insist that you find a suitable match. It is a matter of the future of Norendale. And you need to take it seriously.” Her voice was hard and flinty, her dark eyes holding his gaze angrily.

“That is how I do take it,” Benedict insisted. “Which is why it seems pointless to have to indulge in hours of chatter at parties.”

“That is how society works, son,” his mother said tightly. “And you had best learn how to partake in our society.”

“Mother...” Benedict was about to argue, but he saw Nancy watching, her eyes frightened, and he took a deep breath. He and his mother had the same temper—one that flared easily and did not cede ground to anybody. If they argued, it would be frightening, and he did not want to scare his young sister. He sighed, distracting himself from his anger with his mother. “I’ll race you,” he said to Nancy instead. “If you can get ready in half an hour, I bet you a pound that I can do half that time.”

“A pound!” Nancy’s eyes shone. Benedict saw his mother glare at him in disapproval, but he pushed back his chair, grinning.

“Why not?” he agreed. It was quite a large amount of money for a silly wager, but they could well afford it. The Norendale estate was extremely prosperous. “And how about another wager? I challenge you to see if you can best half an hour.”

“Benedict!” his mother said angrily, but Nancy was already running to the door, yelling excitedly that she was going to win that shiny pound coin.

Benedict leaned back at the desk, some of his tension draining from him.

“Now she’ll dress too fast and be careless about it,” his mother continued. “You need to think sometimes before acting,” his mother said tightly.

“And you need to consider Nancy sometimes,” Benedict said angrily. “If we argue in front of her, it will ruin her day.”

“You were the one who argued,” she began, but Benedict stood up and went to the door. Rowan got up and followed him to the door.

“I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” he said stiffly, heading into the corridor. “I’ll have the coach readied for us to depart by seven o’ clock.”

His mother began speaking, but Benedict was already in the hallway, striding down to the kitchen where he sought out the butler. His dog, Rowan, padded soundlessly behind him and walked into the kitchen ahead of him. The staff were mostly wary of Rowan for his considerable size—particularly the outdoor staff—but the kitchen staff, most of all the housekeeper, had come to feel safe with him.

“Rowan! There you are. I have a bone for you,” the housekeeper greeted the big dog. “Ah! Your Grace. How may I help you?” she added, seeing Benedict a second later.

Benedict inclined his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Hansford, but I only came to find the butler. Please have the coach ready for seven,” he told the butler firmly, who had been sitting having tea at the kitchen table and who had got up as Benedict arrived.

“Yes, Your Grace” the butler replied.

Benedict thanked him and strode upstairs again, his hound following him. He reached his bedroom and looked around, noting that his manservant had already lit the candle-lamps and that his evening jacket, hose, knee-breeches and a clean shirt were hanging on the back of the chair, waiting for him to dress.

He reached for the jacket and then sat down on the bed with a sigh. Rowan settled down on his rug by the fire where he slept and looked up at him confusedly.

“It’s all well, old boy,” Benedict told him gently. He ran a hand through Rowan’s thick hair and gazed at the black velvet knee-breeches that his manservant had laid out. His shoulders stiffened with nerves at the thought of being in public again.

“Nonsense,” he told himself firmly, as Rowan whined again, clearly feeling his distress. “I can do this. It’s all very simple. It’s one ball. How horrid can it be?”

He reached for the fresh shirt and changed out of his old one, gazing down at his chest. Firm, broad and muscled, it seemed, to his eyes, to be just as it ought to be, if not slightly better than most. Yet he had been taunted mercilessly for his bulky build, for his imposing height, and for his ready temper. The boys had dubbed him a “beast”, and it had stuck. At every gathering he attended, he heard whispers behind his back.

“Dash it,” he growled, and changed into the knee-breeches, knotting them fiercely over the white silk stockings that he wore beneath them. He reached for the velvet jacket, which was black as well, and shrugged into it in a smooth movement. He got away with choosing only black by claiming to be in mourning for his father, though his father had passed away more than a decade ago. Nobody questioned his choice, and that made things simpler. Black suited him, and he felt no need to shift from it. It suited his mood.

He pulled on his boots and strode to the door. Rowan, seeming to understand where Benedict was going, and that he couldn’t come too, lifted his head from where he rested on the mat, but did not attempt to follow him.

“Good boy,” Benedict said gently, bending to ruffle his ears. Rowan licked his hand and Benedict drew a steadying breath, the gentle, supportive gesture of his hound touching his heart. “Good chap,” he said softly, and strode out into the corridor, leaving the door part-open so Rowan could get out if he had to. He had a ball to attend, and, if the sound of light laughter drifting up from the hallway told him anything, he owed his sister a pound.