Page 10 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)

"Mr Ackerman has the right of it," said Mrs Dalton from the door.

As one, the seated Lads came to their feet, arranging themselves into some semblance of order and decorum.

Charles's mother, looking resplendent in a rich blue suitable for a woman her age, examined them all from the doorway, then smiled with satisfaction.

"Splendid. Gentlemen, I require your assistance.

I have a young lady new to London here, and I should hate to see her embarrassed tomorrow evening at her debut.

If it is no hardship, I would ask you to befriend her, offer your solicitous support, and, of course, make her widely regarded as desirable by filling enough of her dance card that the other young gentlemen are forced to fight for the remaining spaces.

"Claire," she said, and withdrew to allow a vision to appear.

There were so many of them. Seven Lads and Worthington; together they entirely filled the drawing room.

Claire, embraced by the doorway, felt small, shy, and in desperate need of a friend.

Were it not for Aunt Elizabeth's fist in her spine she would likely have retreated, but instead, entirely against her will, she stepped forward to perform a small and tentative curtsy.

Somehow she did not expect every man in the room, even Worthington, to bow in return. It gave her a whisper of confidence. With confidence came the ability to draw a breath, and with breath came a clarity that let her look from one man to another.

One was impossible to overlook: he stood head and shoulders taller than the rest and at least half again as wide, though the breadth was predominantly in his shoulders; the cut of his coat, nipping at his waist, told her that.

One sleeve was pinned up neatly, suggesting a grievous injury taken in the war.

He had curling brown hair, light eyes, a long face, and a sense of quietness that pervaded even the boisterous good nature of the gathered Lads.

Charles, following her gaze, had the good sense to offer, "Sergeant Ronald Vincent," as introduction.

Claire nodded once, then looked at the man beside him, who wore a better cut of clothing than Claire had ever laid eyes on.

He was otherwise unremarkable: handsome enough, with brown hair that looked as though he couldn't be troubled to maintain its order, and a mild gaze that turned surprisingly attractive as thin lips twitched in a smile. "Nathaniel Cringlewood."

"Your honor," Claire whispered, appalled.

She knew the Cringlewood name, of course; one did know the names of the peerage, and it horrified her that she had decided one of their ilk was nothing remarkable.

He, though, could not hear her thoughts, and his smile lingered as she wrenched her gaze to the next of the Lads.

This one and the one beside him she knew: Evander Hewitt and Benedict Fairburn, both of whom looked upon her without a shred of recognition. Charles offered their names as well, bent, it seemed, on introducing each of the Lads whether they needed it or not, and said, "Samuel Ackerman," next.

Had it not been for Vincent's extraordinary size, Claire supposed she would have looked first and longest—perhaps forever—at Samuel Ackerman, whose visage might easily have graced one of heaven's angels.

Like Cringlewood, he had thin lips, but unlike the young lord, he barely smiled.

Nor did he need to: his eyes, shockingly green, offered all the warmth of expression necessary.

She did not want him to smile at her: she did not think she could bear the beauty of it, and was relieved when Charles spoke the final name and allowed her to look to the last Lad.

Subaltern Gareth O'Brien was black of hair, black of eye, warmly swarthy of skin, and sported a shadow along a strong square jaw, as if his beard could not be kept back for even a day without multiple interventions by a razor.

Or perhaps the short beard was purposeful: a deadly scar ran down his jaw and throat, visible mostly in the way the hairs grew against the grain there.

He did not smile at her: he grinned, an open expression of charm and invitation.

Claire rather thought he might ask her to dance right there in the drawing room, given less than half an excuse.

She tried not to smile too widely in return, afraid it might offer the excuse he sought, but could not help herself, and responded to the infectious pleasantry of his expression in kind.

Charles did not introduce himself, of course, or Worthington, but Claire couldn't help but look on both of them as well, feeling as though she settled them into their proper place by doing so, as part and parcel, each in their own way, of the Lads.

Charles was shorter than all of them, even Worthington, and where so many of them met her gaze with vivid liveliness, Charles's eyes were half-lidded, almost desultory.

He was one of the least handsome of them, she realized; Charles, whom she had thought so attractive when they were children.

But if Charles was ordinary, and these Lads merely his collection of friends, not even the best of London's best, Claire thought faintly, then it was as well that Aunt Elizabeth had chosen to introduce her to them tonight.

It offered some thin thread upon which to prepare herself for what would no doubt be an overwhelmingly admirable crowd at tomorrow night's ball—and a crowd for which she could not imagine herself suited, despite her new clothes and beautifully coiffed hair.

"Gentlemen," Charles said in a clear and ringing voice, "may I present my cousin, Miss Claire Dalton."

To Claire's immense satisfaction, Benedict Fairburn's jaw fell open in stupefaction.

Benedict had known, he supposed, that Charles's cousin was coming to Town. Had even known, he supposed, that she had arrived. Should, then, have deduced from the moment Mrs Dalton stepped aside that the young woman presented was necessarily Miss Dalton.

It had simply not occurred to him. The lady in the doorway was an altogether different creature than the one he had last seen in the country.

A figure that had been so hidden as to be presumed dowdy in her country dresses was now revealed as delectable.

Her small size was now dainty, not sturdy, and her gown's bodice was scooped enticingly low.

Her face—he wrenched his gaze upward from the lovely swell of bosom to fix it on her face, trying to appear at least moderately gentlemanly through his amazement.

Her face, now that it was no longer hidden in the depths of a bonnet or by hair that overwhelmed delicate features, was fresh and sweet and her full lips deliciously kissable.

There was, he discovered to his delight, the faintest scattering of freckles across her pert nose, and he wondered how he had failed to notice them before.

Her eyes, now the shade of cool jade, flickered over him with disinterest, then warmed considerably to emerald fire as O'Brien—because O'Brien had no expectation of propriety, being from a Dublin gutter—stepped forward to bow over her hand and entirely block her from Benedict's view.

He did not hear what O'Brien said, but he heard Miss Dalton's laughter, and felt a flush of heat wash over his cheeks.

Then it was Nathaniel, and he did hear the Earl-in-waiting ask for the first dance at tomorrow evening's ball, which would set Miss Dalton up enviably for the entirety of her Season.

Cringlewood lingered in his discussion with her long enough that Ackerman, the only other Lad to come anywhere near Nathaniel in riches, was finally obliged to intercede for fear none of the others would have a chance to speak with her.

By then Benedict had retreated to the hearth, where Worthington, all-knowing as usual, had a brandy already awaiting him.

Benedict muttered his thanks and told himself he was only biding his time, though in truth there was an instant before Vincent paid his compliments during which Benedict could easily have brought himself to Miss Dalton's attention.

But the moment was gone, dashed to bits by Vincent and then Hewitt, whose damnable lack of caring what she thought made Miss Dalton laugh again.

She moved amongst them comfortably, smiling, exchanging stories, telling stories on Charles that made them all laugh, while Benny watched from his post of shame, until the hour had grown late enough for a light supper to be taken.

As soup was brought around, Benedict realized, with a start of horror, that his opportunity was about to be lost. He gestured for his soup to be put on a table and set aside his snifter, hoping it had not been refilled as often as he thought.

Gathering courage in both hands, he stepped forward to greet her.

"Miss Dalton. I confess, I did not know it was you when you arrived. "

Claire Dalton looked up at him—quite some distance up; she was of a perfect size to be gathered into his arms and adored, he decided—and offered the most delightful smile he could ever remember being the lucky recipient of.

"A shame, Mr Fairburn," she murmured so sweetly that it only emphasized the meaning of her words, "for I certainly knew it was you. "

Still smiling, she turned to the rest of the Lads.

"Forgive me, gentlemen," she said in suddenly sleepy-sounding contentment, "but I fear that tomorrow will be a long day, and that I must retire.

It has been an utter pleasure to meet so many of Charles's delightful friends, and," she added with carefully chosen precision, "to renew my acquaintance with Misters Hewitt and Fairburn. Good night."

Worthington left a ribald party of Lads later with the teasing laughter that Hewitt and Fairburn were rightfully subject to ringing in his ears.

He was not, certainly, pursuing Miss Dalton.

There were beds to turn down, perhaps several, should any of the Lads decide to stay the night.

It could not, though, be said that he was displeased when, far enough beyond the drawing room to show a shred of discretion, he discovered Miss Dalton pressed against a wall, a hand against her chest as she shook with near-silent laughs of satisfaction.

When she saw him she straightened, trying hard to turn her expression to something more suitable for a young woman, and utterly failing.

Then she gave in and let herself laugh again.

Indeed, she gave in so far as to dart forward and seize Worthington's hands in her own.

"I cut him, didn't I? I cut him as deeply as a mouse might," she said with a sudden flash of anger.

"The other one, Hewitt, is so awful I cannot even remain angry at him because I cannot care that deeply, but Mr Fairburn has the makings of a gentleman beneath his dreadful first presentation, which makes his initial rudeness all the more unforgivable, and from such a handsome man.

But I cut him," she said again, with anger still flushing her cheeks, "and he felt it. Did he not?"

"I believe he did, Miss." Worthington extracted his hands from Miss Dalton's grip so gently that she didn't notice it being done and could therefore be allowed to believe she had released him .

"If you continue with this presentation of indifference and disdain, I believe you will have him quite thoroughly captured before the Season is much started. "

"What?" Startled laughter escaped the young woman, who looked at her hands and seemed relieved that they no longer held Worthington's.

"Heavens, no, Worthington, I have no such interest in or designs upon Mr Fairburn.

I do not wish a husband with only the makings of a gentleman.

He must already be one. A woman's job is to raise her children, not her husband; that is his mother's duty. "

Worthington bowed. "Of course, Miss. My mistake. Forgive me for speaking so openly."

"Not at all. You have already been a fount of great advice to me, and I cannot think that you are inappropriate for having been so." Miss Dalton cast a quick glance at the drawing room door. "I must go before they begin to leave and find me here laughing like a child. Good night, Worthington."

She fled before he had time to speak. Even so, he waited until she was out of sight and her footsteps were fading before he allowed amusement to touch his lips, and a murmured, "Good night, Miss," to follow her up the stairs.