Page 27 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)

B enedict had, as was suitable and proper, escorted Miss Hurst home the evening before, but even as he had done so, Miss Dalton's emerald eyes haunted him.

Miss Hurst had offered no explanation for her behavior at the party; Benedict had not pressed for one, his natural curiosity consumed by thoughts of Miss Dalton's grace and her smile as they danced together.

She had forgiven him. That was a prize beyond measure.

He arrived home late, having completely forgotten about his blackened eye, and withstood his mother's questions on the matter with unusual good will, proposing increasingly unlikely scenarios as to how he had gained the bruise—one of which was even the truth!

—before confessing with apologetic solemnity the story that Cringlewood had put about at the party.

She chose to be satisfied with that, not only because she preferred it to the more likely truth, but because upon confession, Benedict also sat and asked with due intent whether she had learned anything of interest regarding Miss Priscilla Hurst.

Hurst was not, his mother informed him, an especially sociable creature.

This, he had the impression, suited his mother nicely, as it would help to divorce him from the Lads.

Neither were her parents particularly sociable either, but that, Mrs Fairburn felt, was directly because they felt the sting of the Hurst fortune having been made in trade so recently.

Another generation or two and they would be comfortably removed from the inglorious working men who were their predecessors.

In the meantime, Mrs Fairburn had laid eyes upon Miss Hurst and deemed her beautiful, which was a pleasant addition to the fortune she was expected to inherit.

Benedict listened with half an ear, feeling it was all interminably dull when there were dances and laughter to be had with Miss Dalton, but to Mrs Fairburn's eye he seemed attentive and thoughtful.

She went to bed satisfied and was even more so when he arrived at breakfast the next day alert and engaging, neither of which were typical morning postures for her eldest son.

When, in early afternoon, he announced his intention of dropping in on Dalton, she supposed that he intended to get Dalton's approval—not that it was needed, save for Dalton's group of friends did seem to lean heavily upon his opinion—for marriage to Miss Hurst, and from thence he would have few dealings with the so-called Lads.

It would have come as considerable surprise to her to learn that her son had not thought of Miss Hurst once since the evening before, and that it was not, in fact, Charles Dalton whom he hoped to see, but rather Miss Claire Dalton.

Even Benedict was not entirely certain what his purpose in seeing Miss Dalton was, save that he very much wanted to, and that he hoped the afternoon would be a fine one so he might take her for a drive in the park.

Perhaps the southern end of the park, as the northern was somewhat laden with the memory of recent disaster, and he had no interest in reminding her of Jack Graham.

It was therefore a shock to him when, just as he was disembarking from his carriage, he saw in front of him an open carriage door from which first Graham, then Miss Dalton, were disgorged.

They stood together hand in hand, with Miss Dalton's gaze sweet and gentle on Graham's.

Heart pounding, Benedict saw that the carriage wheels and base were marked with signs of travel, as if they had been gone for some time and even more distance.

He couldn't spur his legs into action and instead stood suspended, half out of his carriage, as he waited for a chaperone to step free of their carriage.

None emerged. As the footman closed their carriage door, Benedict threw himself into his own carriage and barked, "Drive!"

The carriage lurched forward. Benedict sank into his seat, making certain he couldn't be seen by anyone at the Dalton household as he glared in futile rage at the carriage wall.

It was no business of his if Miss Dalton wished to continue carrying on with the cad who had so deeply insulted Miss Hurst that she felt obliged to strike him.

It was no concern of his if she was so brazen as to ride out all day with a man of questionable character.

It was outrageous, appalling and distressing behavior, but she was Charles's cousin, not his own; his own family would be in no way besmirched by her terrible choices.

It would be an embarrassment for the entire Dalton family, of course, likely bringing them to ruin, and it probably was best to break with both Charles in particular and the Lads in general before the Daltons' taint could spread.

Thank heavens he had singled out Miss Hurst!

Benedict thought. Thank heavens his mother's attention had been set upon her and not a hussy like Claire Dalton!

He would have shamed his entire family and ruined Amelia's chances, had he been seduced by emerald eyes!

"Take me to see Miss Priscilla Hurst," he commanded the driver, and stared furiously out the window all the way.

Miss Priscilla Hurst no more expected to see Benedict Fairburn in her parlor than Miss Claire Dalton had expected to find Jack Graham embroiled in a sticky matter of avuncular responsibility.

Indeed, she had no notion he was at her home at all until a maid arrived in her room, pink of cheek and breathless, to whisper, "Mr Benedict Fairburn has asked if he might see you alone, Miss Hurst! "

There was only one reason a gentleman asked for such leave, but rather than the thrill of excitement she supposed she might be expected to feel, a terrible chill filled Miss Hurst's breast. She rose, thanked the maid politely, and went to her mirror as if to make certain she was presentably attired to receive a gentleman caller.

She was, of course. She always was. Appearance was everything in a family that had come so recently from trade, and Priscilla was not one to be caught unprepared.

Nor was she unaware of her reputation as cold, though her childhood friends would have been surprised to hear her described so.

She had chosen years ago—after Jack Graham's disappearance—to play to it, embracing her coloring where other young women might have despaired of it.

She never wore warm colors, although the truth was that they suited her as well as the icy blues and greens she favored.

It was too early for those solid shades, though, so for now she wore white trimmed with lace that enhanced her excellent bosom, and her hair up in a simple but fetching design that drew the eye to her height.

The woman in the mirror regarded her so expressionlessly she could not even be said to seem determined or grim.

She was not pretty: Miss Dalton was pretty and approachable and, Priscilla thought, far more lovable than she.

She was beautiful, which she knew without taking particular pleasure in it.

The square but delicate jaw; the thin but well-shaped lips; the straight nose, the strong cheekbones; the light eyes, not large or darkly lashed but well-proportioned to her face.

Her forehead was neither too broad nor too high, and her strawberry blonde hair did not require a hot iron to tease it into curls.

Twenty-four years had not yet etched lines around her eyes or mouth, and her porcelain skin was as flawless as it had been in childhood.

There ought, Priscilla thought, to be color in her cheeks, knowing Mr Fairburn was in the drawing room waiting to propose.

Color of either dread or delight, but there was neither.

Mr Fairburn was a pleasant young man of good standing and, as everyone knew, set to inherit his aunt's enormous estate.

It was a highly suitable match, especially under the circumstances.

Her grandfather, Priscilla thought, would be disappointed in her, and with that troubling idea, went to see Mr Fairburn.

Miss Hurst was perfection, Benedict told himself firmly as she entered the drawing room. She was as flawless as a sculpture hewn out of ice, and ice, he reminded himself, thawed. He would no doubt find her warm and accommodating once they were married.

For a moment, though, his courage quavered.

The Hursts' drawing room had, it seemed, been decorated to suit Miss Hurst particularly.

It was papered with green above the chair rail; green that had the cant of marble to it, and the darkness of which lent an especial bright radiance to Miss Hurst's pale gown and complexion.

Benedict, in perfectly suitable black and a highly starched collar, felt rather like a dark hole burned into the walls, as if he was a misplaced element soon to be repaired.

But that was nonsense, and the lady was waiting.

"Miss Hurst," he began, and then, daring, approached her to take both hands and say, "Priscilla," as if testing it out. It felt strange on his tongue.

"Mr Fairburn," she said, and then, obligingly, "Benedict."

Confidence bloomed in Benedict's chest. She was pleasant and accommodating after all. "Priscilla, I would—that is to say—we have spent—I have grown—oh, forgive me, Miss Hurst, it seems I'm not very good at this. I've never done it before."

Amusement suddenly lit Miss Hurst's face. "I should hope you weren't in the habit of it, at least, Mr Fa—Benedict."

"We get on well, don't we?" Benedict blurted, and then, although desperately aware that he was making a mess of it, went on in the same vein.

"Despite it all, we get on well enough? And I've become quite fond of you, as I hope you've become of me.

I'd be honored, Miss Hurst, if you would do me the, er, honor, of becoming my wife. "