Page 30 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)

C harles, in an admittedly ungentlemanly fashion, did not wait upon the ladies, but instead left for Benedict's the instant Worthington declared him appropriately bedecked for the evening.

Worthington remained at his side, such a constant presence Charles hardly thought anything of it.

The valet was, in his way, as much a point of reassurance as any of the Lads, and Charles had long since forgotten that a gentleman's gentleman didn't always go everywhere the gentleman did.

With Worthington in tow, Charles was the first of the Lads to arrive, and heartily, if somewhat insincerely, shook Benny's hand, pounded his back, and offered his congratulations.

“Erm," Benedict said, flustered. “Thank you, but how did you kn—oh, curse it, I suppose Amy flew straight over to tell you all. I should have preferred to deliver the news in person."

“Amy, nothing. I had a note from you, Benny.

Are you so addlepated as to have forgotten your own correspondence?

" Charles clapped him on the back again.

"Besides, if you'd only sent a missive insisting we all come over for an announcement we'd have caught on anyway.

At least this way we could dress for the occasion. "

Benedict took a breath as if preparing a second protest, but—as if responding to a stage cue—Vincent and O'Brien were announced by the Fairburn butler, who looked particularly dour in his well-fitted black and white when compared to the two former soldiers.

Worthington, at Charles's side, gave the Fairburn butler a short nod, and the elderly man retreated with a glimmer of satisfaction that caused Charles to briefly consider the possibility that he preferred not to deal with the many and boisterous Lads.

Not that there was an air of rowdiness about these Lads tonight, at least. Both had made a particular effort to look well that evening.

Vincent needed no ornamentation to be striking; his height alone assured he could not go unnoticed, but an exceedingly well-made coat of forest green velvet shaped his great size into a downright dashing figure, and his calves, enclosed in finely knitted stockings, were exceedingly well shaped.

Charles encountered the sudden idea that a young lady might easily become quite enamored of such a man.

It was a moderately distressing thought.

Bad enough that Fairburn was engaged. Worse still that his engagement made Charles see the other Lads in a marrying light.

But from another view, if a young woman of sufficient means were to become beguiled by Vincent, then his place in Society could be fixed, and Charles would never lose him entirely to the vagaries of life.

The giant cannon-loader quirked an eyebrow at Charles, who shook off his consideration and smiled. "I was only thinking how well you look, Vincent. The green suits you."

Vincent brushed his hand against his lapel in a combination of pride and embarrassment.

"Still feels unnatural, Maj—" He caught himself at Charles's quelling look, inhaled, and corrected the rank to, "Dalton.

" If a nearly inaudible sir finished the sentence, Charles chose not to hear it, and instead smiled.

"It looks as though you were born to it.

You, on the other hand, O'Brien…." The words were spoken with laughter as O'Brien performed a small and entirely immodest bow, showing off the midnight blue satin of his coat lining before silencing Charles by placing a fingertip against his own lips in a shushing manner.

Charles, obliging and amused, fell quiet, then let go a shout of laughter as O'Brien, in a flawless upper-class drawl, said, "Don't make me reprimand my tailor, old boy; he promised me I had the coloring to carry it off. Said it matched my eyes."

"It does, and you do," Benedict interjected, as amused as Charles. "And elocution lessons too, it seems. By heaven, O'Brien, is this what you've been up to?"

"You've put me in a marrying mind, Fairburn, what can I say?

Best foot forward and all that rot." O'Brien's natural lilt disappeared as though it had never existed, a talent Charles had never suspected the soldier owned.

A trifle more seriously, O'Brien came forward to shake Fairburn's hand in congratulations as Hewitt was ushered in.

He had made no especial effort to look well, though in a long-tailed black coat and with his hair in an attractive muss, he couldn't be said to be poorly dressed.

Charles, though, saw his face contort in disapproval as he took in O'Brien's flash.

To no one in particular—he was not close enough to be speaking to an individual, he said, "If only he had the fortune to go along with it," in a low and nasty voice.

"And what does it matter to you if he did, or does not?

" Charles came to his side, near enough to catch the smell of drink on Hewitt's breath, and sought Worthington's gaze instantly.

The valet was at hand, as always; he was like the air to Charles, so ubiquitous he was rarely noticed.

"Tea, or coffee?" Charles mouthed, and with a nod, Worthington disappeared into the Fairburn household.

"You'll need to sober up, Evan." He received a look as nasty as the earlier words for his warning, but Hewitt didn't actually argue. Satisfied with that, Charles nodded once, then risked the question that needed asking: "Why are you in such straits?"

Hewitt shrugged him off. "Surprised you aren't, mate. Here's one of your own, one of our own," he emphasized, clearly intending to remind Charles that he, Benedict and Hewitt had been friends first and earliest, from boyhood on, "getting married off, and you're content to celebrate it?"

Charles studied his childhood friend without letting a frown tug at the corners of his mouth.

He expected Evander cared no more about Fairburn's nuptials than he might care for the fate of a dog on the street, but if he was determined that should be his excuse, there was little—especially at Fairburn's party—that Charles could do about it.

"Try as I might to keep the world the same around me, Evan, it persists in changing.

It would be ill-mannered of me to not at least pretend to be happy for my friend, and it seems to me that an emotion performed often becomes an emotion embraced.

" Not always; he had too often failed himself in courage to believe that fully, but this was not the time to allow himself, or Hewitt, room for doubt.

"Here's Worthington with some tea for you.

Congratulate Benedict and then drink up and try to behave yourself. "

The other two had arrived while he attended to Hewitt, Cringlewood with a curious eye to their goings-on and Ackerman with the look of a man who'd had other plans: he wore delicious pink over a silken shirt with a cravat so complex it defied imagination, inexpressibles, and boots of preposterous quality, all of it far beyond what he would have been expected to wear at an informal engagement party.

Congratulations and speculations were augmented by libations and soon rose to a dull roar of shared stories, gossip and general good humor.

Charles admired the Fairburns's staff, who had met the influx of young men with unflappable aplomb despite what must have been very little notice.

Benedict himself seemed a little priggish to Charles, but then, he thought he himself would feel the same way upon finding himself engaged, particularly on what amounted to family command.

Hewitt's voice broke out of the din, tone too sharp to be taken lightly. "Seems like an ice queen, Benny, are you sure you can thaw her? Going to be a cold wedding bed if not?—"

Fairburn turned a stiff, insulted look on Hewitt's leer as Charles looked in alarm toward Hewitt's teacup.

He still held it, but Charles was dubious as to whether it still contained tea, or whether Hewitt was simply happy to act more deeply in his cups than he really was.

Before Charles could step between them, Cringlewood was there with the air of casual authority that he hardly seemed to know he commanded.

"Watch yourself, Hewitt. You're dangerously close to impugning a lady's honor.

I'd hate to see any unpleasantry come out of Ben's celebration. "

Hewitt was taller than Cringlewood to begin with, and drew a breath to make himself taller still.

He could not, Charles thought, be fool enough to draw the young lord into a confrontation; it would end too badly for him.

Even in the best of circumstances, he would find things brought to light that he wouldn't wish to have exposed.

In the worst he could easily end up dead.

Before it could be taken any farther, though, Worthington spoke in a clear and ringing voice from the door. "Miss Fairburn and Miss Dalton."

Thank God for Worthington, Charles thought with vivid clarity, and didn't care at all why Worthington, rather than the Fairburn house butler, had announced the young women.

As one with all the other Lads, Charles turned toward the drawing room door, and after precisely enough interval to pique their curiosity, the ladies arrived.

Hewitt's in-drawn breath exhaled on a whispered, "Demme," and though Charles could not condone the language, he was sympathetic to the sentiment.

Cousin Claire could not have looked more magnificent if a royal crown had been set upon her thick dark hair.

She wore a gown of shot silk, green with one breath, blue with the next.

If she was not actually crowned, she did at least wear a curve of peacock feathers nestled in her curls.

It added to her small height, and gave her a regality far beyond that which Charles would have imagined her to possess.