Page 9 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)
Mrs Fairburn ignored his outburst, as was only to be expected, and turned the same unrelenting eye on her youngest daughter.
"You, on the other hand, have no need of new clothes.
I will expect you to behave decorously in the background, Amelia.
Soon enough it will be your turn, and mothers who remember you as a pleasant and supportive sister will stand you well when your Season comes. "
"Excellent," Amelia said in short tones. "Perhaps if you burnish my hair and put it in a tail you'll be able to sell me at the next horse auction for a fancy price."
"Oh, Amelia," sighed Mrs Fairburn, and although that was the end of the conversation, it was not, Benedict thought, the end of the conversation.
Stiff with discomfort, not all of it on his own behalf—though enough of it was—Benedict stood and with mumbled apologies, took his leave of the female Fairburns.
Charles, he hoped, would know what to do.
Charles did not know what to do.
Charles, indeed, stood within the confines of the Dalton's drawing room and swayed, aghast. Visibly swayed: he might have allowed himself to imagine it was only a heady dismay, save for the fine, large mirror his mother had chosen for the drawing room while he was at war.
In it, he rocked, and in it, he watched hope drain from Benedict's face with every moment that Charles did not speak.
He ought, he knew, to offer his congratulations and voice enthusiasm for Benny's prospects.
He ought to have a good chuckle, clap Fairburn's shoulder, and take him out for an evening of Cyprians and drink.
He ought, amidst all that revelry, to discuss the least probable and most inappropriate choices for a bride, so that when it came to the serious business of actually deciding whom to marry, all of that nonsense was behind them.
He ought to dredge up a name or two, girls Benny had been sweet on in their school days, and suggest them, to see if any of them made Benedict blush and therefore remained likely candidates.
He ought to do all of those things and more, and in the heat of worry flooding him, thought he had said at least one or two of the more polite or jesting articles that had crossed his mind.
Not until a queer ache in his chest burst and faded when he took a breath did he realize he had not said any of those things, and that Fairburn's expression now bordered on panic.
Determined to reassure, even if the marriage meant the end of the Lads and all the rough, gentle protection from Society that they offered, Charles stepped forward, clasped Benedict's shoulders, and proclaimed, "Demme, sir, this is terrible news indeed!"
He became aware that Worthington was nearby, and though the valet was far too discreet to show any outward sign of emotion, Charles recognized the particular brand of indifference Worthington suddenly displayed as being one of utmost disapproval.
Cursing himself, Charles tried again, this time blurting, "That is to say, what a dreadful mess this will make of the Lads!
We cannot do without you, Benny, it will ruin our harmony! Dear God. I need a drink."
The last was not in response to Fairburn's shattering announcement but rather a frantic attempt to silence his own entirely unseemly responses.
Charles turned hastily and found Worthington there, a snifter of brandy already to hand.
The valet offered a second snifter to Benny, who took it purposefully, like a drowning man determined to finish himself before the sea did.
Both men drank before Charles threw himself into an overstuffed sofa and gazed upon his friend in genuine apology and dismay.
"Forgive me, Ben. I have no idea what came over me. "
Benedict sat more gingerly, his smile pained. "Amelia did say you would be heartbroken. No, you only have the courage of your convictions, Charles. I feel each of the things you've voiced, and yet…"
"And yet what choice do you have," Charles finished grimly. " Tomorrow , Benny? She intends to put you on the market tomorrow?"
"Great-Aunt Nancy is poorly and there is no time to waste.
" Fairburn drew a hand over his face. "I feel certain Mother will have decided the date by which I must be married by morning, and have arranged a church by afternoon.
It's November, Charles, and Great-Aunt Nancy isn't expected to last the Season.
Married! In five months' time, unless the old bird hangs on!
I suppose I expected to marry sometime, but so suddenly!
How am I to find someone both rich and beautiful with whom I can share affection in so short a time? "
"Women do it all the time," Charles said with a thoughtful shrug of one shoulder. "Or at least find someone with whom they can bear to share a bed long enough to produce heirs. Perhaps you should ask your sister."
"Amelia is certainly not sharing her bed with anyone!" Benedict looked rather like he might call Dalton out, though the latter stopped his outrage with a laugh and lifted hand.
"Mrs Durrell, Benedict. Your sister Linda, not Amelia. Dear God, what do you take me for, man?"
"A gentleman and a soldier," responded a deep, soft voice from the doorway, though the accolades were lost beneath a host of other, less flattering descriptions as not one, not two, but five young men jostled, elbowed, edged and poured their way through the drawing room door in a manner that implied an unsuccessful attempt at each of them gaining a certain pride of place as the first.
Charles, surprised, said, "Vincent," to the first voice, then stood as the rest of the Lads filled the drawing room almost beyond capacity.
"Are we meant to go out tonight? I had forgotten.
And all of us at once? No, I could not forget!
" Delight chased away his dismay at Benedict Fairburn's news as he gestured for Worthington to pour more drink and greeted each of the Lads individually.
Ronald Vincent, the one to have a kind word as they'd entered, looked faintly uncomfortable, as he always did in the confines of a fine house, but Charles thumped one of his massive shoulders and murmured, "Don't think I didn't notice you were the gentleman among them, Vincent.
Have some brandy and a seat. Take the couch; it's big enough for you. "
"Almost," Vincent agreed, but took Charles's seat and, in settling, reduced the full-sized couch to the appearance of having been made for women, or even children.
He was simply that big, in height and breadth alike.
Charles had never met a man Ronald Vincent couldn't tower over, even after the man had lost most of one arm to cannon fire.
A black haze of fearful memory rose at the thought, recalling too much of the battles that had returned him to England's bonny shores.
Charles closed his eyes, drawing a breath to steady himself, and was almost grateful to receive a punch much like the one Charles had delivered to Vincent, only harder, to his own shoulder.
As Charles opened his eyes, Evander drew his hand back, shaking it as if he'd encountered more resistance than expected.
"Your mother invited us, Charles. Didn't she tell you?
" He snaked past Charles and plucked a snifter from Worthington's hand, deliberately oblivious to Vincent as the intended recipient.
Worthington's light brown gaze flickered from Hewitt to Vincent and back again, but the valet's hesitation was so brief that Charles might have imagined it.
Before he could decide if he had indeed seen the flicker of disapproval in Worthington's gaze, the valet had another drink for Vincent, as if the slight had not happened.
More drinks were handed around: to Ackerman, so fair of hair and face that he might have been a woman; to O'Brien, whose roughshod Irish birthright ought to have had him as uncomfortable as Vincent in this company, but never did, and finally to Cringlewood, who, as the only peer amongst the Lads, should have been served first and who had, as always, waved ceremony away.
Worthington, Charles knew, liked Cringlewood intensely, not only for his lack of affectation but because against all likelihood, the young noble had formed a close bond with Vincent, whose Scottish heritage was nearly as raw as O'Brien's.
For a moment or two, why they had gathered hardly mattered as Charles smiled 'round at them.
These were his friends, his Lads, companions born of battlefields and schoolyards and the chance encounters that made up a life.
They were his buffer against and his connection to a world changed beyond measure by the report of a rifle.
He could not, in truth, imagine his days without them.
His mother, however, could and most fervently did, and so as Hewitt's words settled in, Charles peered at him in surprised curiosity. "My mother invited you? Worthington?"
"Not two hours since," Worthington agreed.
"I was asked to dispatch letters stating the urgency of the matter, and all save Master Fairburn were immediately available.
He, of course, had already made his own way here.
" With this observation Worthington offered Benedict a nod, as if congratulating him for not requiring a summons.
"I stood up my father to respond," said Cringlewood. "I hope it's good, Dalton, or I'll have hell to pay."
"It is impossible that an invitation from Mrs Dalton could be anything less than good.
" Samuel Ackerman's voice was as light as his complexion, a tenor so pure it was a pity he never raised it in song.
"She does not, after all, particularly care for us Lads, whom she sees as interfering with Dalton's duties in marrying and producing grandchildren for her, so she cannot have requested our presence for anything short of thunderous dramatics. "