Page 5

Chapter

Five

B enedict woke later that night, the low crackle of the fire and the scent of burning wax drawing him from a restless sleep. The room was quiet but for the soft rustle of fabric, and his gaze shifted toward the hearth.

Lady Angelica had fallen asleep in a chair beside the fire, the book she’d been reading now slipping from her lap. Her head lolled to the side, dark hair tumbling in loose waves across her shoulder, the diamond ear bobs catching the firelight and glittering like stars.

She looked utterly at peace, the delicate curve of her throat, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the soft glow of her skin in the candlelight. Benedict sighed, unable to tear his gaze from her.

What a lovely, kind soul she was. She had nursed him through the worst of his injury, and he knew, by the grace of God he knew, that he owed her his life.

Her quick actions upon his arrival at the ducal estate had no doubt saved him, and the debt he owed her was one he would carry for the rest of his days.

He watched her far longer than he ought, a man who had been contemplating a life without such earthly entanglements.

The vows he had considered—celibacy, poverty, obedience to the church—would make a woman like Lady Angelica forever beyond his reach.

A wife, children, the comfort of a family, all of it would be forbidden to him.

A woman like Lady Angelica was forbidden to him…

Benedict swallowed hard, the weight of that truth settling in his chest. His fingers itched to brush the stray curl from her cheek, to feel the softness of her skin beneath his touch.

Desire of the flesh was for weaker men. Men who strayed from their higher calling, and he was not one of those. He must not be.

He pushed the conflicting thoughts aside with effort, drawing in a slow breath. There was much to think upon, and his time at his brother’s country estate had been meant for just that after his obligations at the local parish had been settled. Yet now, with his injury, he would never arrive there.

His brother would insist on London instead.

He knew Whitmore well enough to know he would be dragged to the city, not to take part in the Season, but to recover under his brother’s watchful eye and ensure his healing was complete.

And with the marquess’s resources, that healing would come at no small expense.

Benedict shifted the blankets off his leg and inspected the wound, as much as he could with the wrappings in place. The doctor had changed the dressings earlier, but he needed to see for himself.

The skin, where it peeked through, looked pink and alive, the swelling less than it had been.

His foot was warm, the toes pink, not cold or discolored.

A good sign. The blood flowed still, the limb intact.

He had been so close to death. A matter of inches, of fate’s fickle hand and he may not be here.

A soft mumble broke the quiet, and his gaze snapped to Angelica. She shifted in her chair, her head tilting, exposing the slender column of her throat. The firelight caressed the delicate line of her jaw, the gentle curve where neck met shoulder.

Benedict swallowed. He ought not to look.

His brother’s voice echoed in his mind— A priest? You, a man of God? No wine, no women, no worldly pleasures…

Desires of the flesh were for men who had not yet chosen their path. And Benedict had chosen. Hadn’t he?

Blast. He hadn’t counted on this. On meeting an angel on earth.

The sound of footsteps approached, and Benedict turned his head toward the door just as it opened.

Cold air swept in, and the sight of his brother, the Marquess of Whitmore filled the space.

Commanding as always and looking more suited to the windswept moors than the ballrooms of London.

Whitmore’s greatcoat flared behind him, boots thudding across the floor.

Relief, unspoken but palpable, settled in Benedict’s chest.

“You’re alive. Thank God for that.”

Benedict’s lips twitched at the exclamation. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, Hartley.” His voice was rough, his throat dry, but the words came steady.

Whitmore bent and clasped him in a quick, firm hug. “I’m glad you’re well. You look much better than the duke noted in his letter. I thought I’d find you feverish and half-dead.”

Benedict shook his head, the ghost of a smile flickering across his brother’s lips. “No, I’m on the mend, I’m sure of it. The doctor was happy with my progress today.”

“That’s good to hear. For how else is the family name to continue if you do not sire an heir?”

Benedict stiffened, the familiar refrain grating against his already frayed composure. His brother, the marquess, had no interest in marriage or family, leaving the burden to Benedict as though it were his duty to provide what Whitmore refused to.

But if Benedict took holy orders, if he joined the church, that future would be impossible. No wife, no heir, no family of his own.

“Whitmore, we’ve had this conversation before, and I’m not up for another disagreement about who will be siring an heir. You know what I’m thinking of doing. You said you would be supportive, whatever choice I made.”

Whitmore dragged a chair over to the side of the bed, the legs scraping faintly on the floorboards.

“I did say that,” he allowed, settling in with a shrug, “but that was before I secured Kitty Lane, only London’s most favored courtesan.

She’s delicious, Benedict,” he whispered, grinning wickedly.

“Sweet—so, so sweet. And I don’t mean her character, if you catch my meaning. ” His brother winked.

Benedict closed his eyes briefly, a groan rumbling low in his chest. His brother would never change. “You can still marry and sire a child, even if you have a mistress,” he muttered, the words tasting bitter in his mouth.

“True,” Whitmore said, glancing lazily about the room. His gaze snagged on Angelica, still asleep by the fire. “Well, well, well. Who is this precious morsel sleeping nearby?”

Benedict tensed.

Whitmore’s eyes flared with interest, a gleam in them that made Benedict’s stomach knot. “She’s a beauty, and I don’t even need to see her fully to know that.”

“She’s the late Duke of Ravensmere’s daughter, Lady Angelica.” Benedict’s tone sharpened. “Her elder sister married the new Duke of Ravensmere, and so they all share the same name.” Why he added those details, he couldn’t say, but the possessive note in his voice was unmistakable.

Whitmore leaned back, eyes still fixed on the young woman.

A chill prickled down Benedict’s spine, a flash of something dark and protective rose within him. “Do not even think about touching one hair on her precious head. She saved my life and has been caring for me. You shall not lure her into your seedy type of life. I forbid it.”

Whitmore arched a brow, turning back to him with an amused smirk. “You? Forbid your elder brother?”

Benedict’s gaze was steady, his voice cold steel. “I shall do exactly that. You’re not to touch her or any of her sisters.”

Whitmore’s eyes lit with curiosity. “She has sisters?”

Dear Lord, spare him from his brother’s whoring. “Yes, and none of them are suitable for you. The eldest two are married—at least, from what I’ve overheard while lying here infirm—and the others are younger, not yet out in society. So stop being a rake.”

Whitmore’s grin spread slow and wicked. “But I like being a rake.”

Didn’t Benedict know it.

For years, he’d been the one to clean up his brother’s messes—dragging him from one house of ill repute—half-naked and drunk—to another when he refused to return home.

It was one of the reasons Benedict longed for the quiet calm of the church—to remove himself from the burden of chasing after Whitmore’s disasters.

At least if he took orders, if he became a priest, he could leave this world of scandal behind.

Unfortunately, Lady Angelica stirred, her eyes fluttering open, blinking in confusion. She sat up, startled by the sight of the marquess grinning at her like a wolf spotting prey.

“Good evening, Lady Angelica,” Whitmore purred. “My brother introduced us, but you were asleep when it occurred.”

Benedict groaned, a deep, weary sound, and glared at his brother.

“Lady Angelica, may I present to you my eldest brother, the Marquess of Whitmore.”

She stood, dipping into a curtsy so deep it could have been offered to the king himself. “Lord Whitmore, it is a pleasure to meet you. I’m glad you’ve arrived safely, and I hope you find your brother in much better spirits than he was only days ago.”

“Yes, indeed,” Whitmore said, standing and bowing gallantly.

He moved toward her, taking her hand and pressing a lingering kiss to her fingers. Her ungloved fingers… Benedict’s jaw tensed.

“He’s in very good spirits and seems to be healing well. No doubt because of these marvelous healing hands I now hold,” Whitmore said, dipping his head once more, brushing another kiss over her knuckles.

Benedict’s patience snapped.

“Whitmore.” The single word, sharp as a blade, cut through the moment, but Whitmore only smirked and settled back in his chair with a look of innocent mischief.

“What?” he asked, all wide-eyed charm.

Benedict glared at him, a silent, seething promise that he would not let Whitmore ruin the one good thing that had come from this misfortune—Lady Angelica, who deserved far better than a rake like his brother.