Page 2 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)
The girl took no notice of him at all. She could not, Benedict realized with slow horror, be a servant, regardless of how unfashionable her gown was.
No servant, not even Dalton's valet Worthington, who ranked among the most unflappable men Benedict had ever encountered, could remain so arrogantly collected in the face of three gentlemen and their horses.
He was not surprised, then, when the girl placed a gentle hand on the horse's nose and murmured to it in cultured, dulcet tones, "What utterly appalling creatures you travel with, my beauty.
I don't suppose you would care to dump the one astride you into the garden pond?
Well, yes, I'm certain you would, but you are far too well-mannered a beast to do such a thing, aren't you? What a shame."
She lifted her gaze then, to look through Hewitt as if he were not there at all, to disregard Benedict as if he were something too unpleasant to acknowledge, and to lance Charles with disgust. "Cousin Charles.
I'm sure you are welcome to my father's house.
I expect you remember where the stables are.
Perhaps you and your companions could take yourselves there, tend to your horses, and before dinner is announced, do something about the dreadful smell of horse embedded in your clothes and skin.
Good afternoon." With another gentle touch to the horse's nose, showing clearly that it stood highest in her estimation of the gathering before her, the girl turned, walked away, and did not look back.
All three men gazed after her, mesmerized, Benedict with the heat of bad manners scalding his cheeks. He had not yet scraped together an apology to Charles, much less attempted to form one to offer to the young woman, when Hewitt barked, "Well! Good thing we're not here for the society, isn't it?"
"That was badly done, Evander," Charles said quietly.
Dalton never spoke loudly, not anymore, Benedict thought.
He'd been hotter of head in their school days, but not since his return from the front.
Now he was always reserved, even in his sensibility, and yet his mild tone caved even Hewitt's stiff posture.
Sullen, he muttered, "Thought she was a servant. and I'd put a scare into her, that's all."
"It is almost worse to terrorize a serving girl than a gentlewoman," Dalton said in the same softly chiding voice.
"A lady might have the education, self-possession and wit to stand her ground, as my cousin did, whereas a servant could only quake and tremble for fear of losing her position if she dared defend herself.
Fear is no way to live a life, Evan. Come.
We have horses and, if Miss Dalton is to believed—and I dare say she is—bathing to attend to. "
With the faintest uncomfortable suspicion that the smooth waters of Dalton's tones could turn suddenly dangerous and rough, and that Miss Claire Dalton might well be a topic that could set those rough waters a-boil, Benedict followed after his host and tried not to think too long on the green-eyed girl.
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His cousin had not, it seemed, grown much in stature, though she had retained the boldness he recalled from her girlhood.
Dalton smiled as he led the Lads toward the stables, where, despite Claire's pointed suggestion, they handed the beasts over to the stable-boys rather than tend to the animals themselves.
He was, indeed, smiling still when he met the other two at the stable doors, and Fairburn blushed to see Dalton's humor still engaged.
"I'm ashamed of myself, Dalton, I truly am. I'll apologize to Miss Dalton?—"
"If she'll let you," Charles said with an upward flick of his eyebrows.
"I remember Claire as a proper little thing, Benny, but deuced if she didn't hold her ground once she'd made a decision.
She may go through the forms, but whether she'll forgive you, that's something else entirely!
" Still with uplifted eyebrows, he added, for clarity's sake, " You, Evan, will apologize. "
Hewitt's lip curled. "You've just said she wouldn't accept it."
"And yet." Charles offered one of his gentlest smiles and watched with a trace of sorrow as Evander Hewitt's shoulders bowed slightly, as if the smile had the weight of a blow.
Evander had been generous in boyhood, a generosity made easy by an income guaranteed to him as both only child and beloved son, and by good looks that artists loved to paint.
Things had changed since their school days, though, many things, and where generosity had once flowed, meanness now too often ran in its stead.
Several of the other lads—not just lads, but the Lads, half a dozen of them in all who were closest to Dalton's heart in friendship—didn't care for Hewitt, but thus far they were all willing to tolerate him for Dalton's sake.
Dalton himself had lost too much to give up on this Lad, and so Hewitt remained.
He also nodded, muttering an agreement to apologize, and to Dalton's way of thinking, all was once again right with the world.
He fell into step between the Lads, momentarily aware that he stood—if they were to measure men as they did horses—a full hand shorter than the other two.
Claire's diminutive size was something of a family trait, although Dalton considered his friends tall, rather than thinking of himself as short.
The three of them passed through the stable doors together before Dalton took the lead, though anyone could see the pathway to the main house.
It was a fine-looking manor, not ostentatiously large and set into well-kept lawns and gardens that had not yet lost the jeweled colors of summer.
A chicken yard and vegetable garden, attended by a white-capped girl who dipped a curtsy as the Lads passed by, lay between stables and house.
The whole of it made a pretty picture, the very essence of a quiet, comfortable country life.
There were lands enough to hunt on—indeed, that had been much of the appeal in agreeing to his uncle's invitation—and there were, aside from Claire, no young women to confuse a lads' holiday with the never-ending Society nonsense of matchmaking.
Charles had returned from the Peninsular War some weeks ago only to be accosted by his parents' hopes of a swift and suitable marriage, a barrage as ceaseless as the guns of war.
He consequently spent as many waking hours as possible in the Lads' company, avoiding not only his mother's unsubtle hints but what few parties and socials that nice society held in the autumn.
His Uncle George's offer of a country visit had been a respite Charles both desperately desired and felt was ideal for the time of year; London was dull in September.
All this reflection took him in companionable silence around the chicken yard and toward the front doors.
Just before they swept open, Benedict seized Charles's arm and spoke in a tone of nervous concern.
"Cease your musing, Charles, and tell me what to do if Miss Dalton refuses my apology. I'm unaccustomed to insulting young ladies."
"Brave it out, man," Dalton said in surprise.
"She won't be rude, and aside from meals, there's no call to speak to the girl.
We're here for a bit of sport, not to fuss over whether a country miss has had her nose put out of joint.
Besides, it's Hewitt who tried to intimidate her and from whom a proper apology is necessary. You only made an unfortunate remark."
"But one that needs redressing." Fairburn straightened his shoulders, earning an eye-roll from Hewitt before the doors opened and all three Lads were ushered in.
Dalton was drawn directly into an embrace by his short, sweet-faced aunt, whose dress, he noted, was no more fashionable than that of her daughter's.
The house, at a glance, gleamed and was well-kept, suggesting their lack was in a sartorial sense, not funds, though it was possible a commission for their son had set them back farther than they might care to admit.
But, no: in thinking about it, it seemed to Charles that even when he was young, his aunt's fashion sense had been some years behind the times.
Having a daughter of marriageable age had not, it seemed, improved the matter.
George Dalton, a man of middling height and little hair, was not badly out of fashion, but men's styles changed less rapidly than did women's.
"Charles Edward," his aunt, oblivious to his thoughts, said with real pleasure. "What a delight to see you again."
"Aunt Sylvia. You look well. Uncle George.
" Dalton shook the latter's hand, then, smiling, allowed himself to be drawn into an embrace there as well.
The elder Dalton gentleman rumbled a greeting, surprising Charles, as always, with the unexpected depth of his voice from such an unprepossessing man. "And George Arnold?"
"In Spain." Sylvia Dalton put visible effort into not allowing a shadow to cross her smiling face. "Not at the front, or not last that we heard. And these are your friends?"
"Yes, of course. May I present you to Mr and Mrs Dalton, my beloved uncle and aunt. Aunt, Uncle, these are Benedict Fairburn and Evander Hewitt. You will recall me speaking of them, perhaps, from my school days."
Hands were kissed and shaken with polite murmurings as Aunt Sylvia said, "You would be Benny and Evan," with a smile.
"How splendid to finally meet you. Claire mentioned you were all in dire hope of a bath before supper, so I've had hot water sent up.
I hope Worthington won't be too put out.
" Her light blue eyes sparkled, bringing a laugh to Dalton's lips.