Page 7

Chapter

Seven

T he following day, and with the help of his brother, Benedict managed to bathe and dress in clothing that was fresh and clean before joining the family for dinner downstairs. Although he’d slept the majority of the afternoon after his exertions, he felt strong enough to join them.

The press of crisp linen against his skin was oddly comforting, though the bandage beneath his breeches itched with every step. His leg throbbed in a dull, persistent beat, but the ache was manageable, far preferable to the searing pain of the bullet wound.

“Are you certain, Lord Benedict? We do not wish you to injure yourself further and put your healing back,” the sweet Lady Angelica said, her voice low and soothing as she walked slowly beside him and Whitmore, who supported most of his weight.

“I feel up to joining everyone. If I did not, I would not attend, I assure you.” He threw her a reassuring smile, and he hoped she would stop fussing over him.

It was dangerous how easily he could grow used to such kindness, such tender care. Perilous, too, how the warmth in her eyes stirred a longing he had thought long denied him. He could not allow it. The path he had chosen, or thought he had chosen, demanded sacrifice.

If only he had managed to arrive at his brother’s county estate, he could have sat in quiet contemplation, read Scripture, prayed for guidance, and dwelled upon the life he was preparing to enter and the one he would be forced to leave behind.

But he had not.

Instead, he had been thrown into the warmth of this family, this home filled with women and light and laughter, and now he was as muddled as he had been when the fever raged through his body.

After what seemed like hours, he stepped onto the ground floor landing of the magnificent ducal estate. His leg ached fiercely, a throb that matched the pulse in his temple, yet it also felt good to be upright, to move under his own power.

His healing was progressing, the wound pink and healthy, the doctor cautiously optimistic. Still, there was no denying the gnawing fatigue in his limbs, the weakness that reminded him he was far from whole.

The family had done so much for him. He owed them this dinner, even if it left him aching and exhausted by night’s end.

“Very well,” Lady Angelica acquiesced, her lips curving into a gentle smile. “But if you feel at any moment that you need to return to your room and rest, please let us know. We shall not be offended.”

Benedict’s heart twisted. She was too good. Far too good for this world, and certainly too good for a man who would belong to the church.

Unless you choose a different path…

“How sweet you are,” Whitmore said, his eyes glinting with a wicked teasing that made Benedict’s teeth clench. “Like a dessert one cannot get enough of.”

“Hartley,” Benedict muttered, shooting his brother a warning glance. What was Whitmore thinking, teasing his angel. No, not his. Never his. The word burned in his mind.

He stumbled slightly, pausing mid-step, and stared ahead. The thought of Angelica as his was dangerous. A temptation that pulled at him with alarming force.

She was not his angel. Yes, she had been an angel in her care, her kindness, but she belonged to no one. She would soon go to London, enter society, and marry a man who could give her a family, a home, a life of love. That was what she deserved.

“I’m teasing,” Whitmore whispered, with a wink that made Benedict’s fists clench.

“Are you well, Lord Benedict?” Lady Angelica’s hand rested lightly on his sleeve, her touch featherlight yet scalding through the fabric. Her eyes, wide and filled with concern, locked with his.

The scent of lavender clung to her skin, subtle and clean, and for a moment, it mixed with the warmth of her gaze and nearly undid him.

“Does your leg pain you? Do you need to return upstairs?”

“No, all is well.” The lie tasted bitter. He forced a smile and resumed his slow steps toward the dining room. “Just pausing, so as not to injure myself before my delightful dinner with you all.”

The dining room was set as one would expect in a ducal household—the scent of beeswax polish lingering in the air, candles flickering in heavy silver sconces, their flames reflected in the polished mahogany table.

Flowers arranged in elegant sprays lined the center of the table, and fine ceramic dishware with delicate floral patterns gleamed beneath the light.

Benedict settled into his chair with a wince as the motion pulled at the scarred muscle of his thigh. The pain was sharp, but manageable—a constant companion now.

The family conversed easily, voices overlapping, laughter bubbling here and there, the sounds of a home at peace. He glanced up and found Lady Angelica’s gaze resting on him, a softness in her eyes that made his breath catch.

“I’m so glad you’re on the mend, Lord Benedict. I do hope you enjoy this evening’s dinner. Your brother, Lord Whitmore, told me your favorite was braised turkey, so that is the second course, followed by rolled jam pudding for dessert.”

Benedict nodded, warmth curling in his chest—an emotion both welcome and unwelcome. She was too good, too pure, too…dangerous to a man in his position.

Indeed, his brother had been right to call her sweet enough to be a treat at dinner.

She was too good for London’s vipers. He had seen the way the ton could strip a woman of her joy, their gossip and cruelty like wolves tearing at flesh. He did not want that for her.

But with the duke and duchess at her back, she would be protected, he told himself, though a part of him wanted to stand as her shield. Wanted it far too much.

“Thank you. That sounds wonderful. You’re all spoiling me, and I shall never wish to leave, I think.”

Her smile was radiant, and Benedict’s breath caught in his chest. He stared, unabashedly so, before Whitmore cleared his throat, and Benedict forced his gaze away, heat prickling along his neck.

Damn.

“I think in a week or so my brother shall be well enough to travel to London. When is it that you intend to leave, Lady Angelica? I understand you’re to have a Season this year?”

Whitmore’s reasonable question caught Benedict off-guard, though he was grateful his brother was behaving himself, at least for the moment, and especially before the duke and duchess.

“We leave in just over two weeks. I hope that we can visit you when we’re in town. I’ll be staying with my second-eldest sister, Lady St. George.”

“Ah, yes, I think I read about St. George’s marriage. The earl is a good man.”

“He is indeed,” the duke added, lifting his glass. “A shame they could not come and stay after Christmas and return to town in the spring, but they are newlyweds…”

Whitmore chuckled, and Benedict smiled faintly, though the tightness in his chest did not ease.

“No need to elaborate, I think we all understand perfectly,” his brother said.

Benedict met Lady Angelica’s gaze, and the faintest blush touched her cheeks. Something flickered between them, a shared understanding, or perhaps just the weight of the unspoken emotions that seemed thick and present whenever they were around each other.

Heat licked along Benedict’s spine. A sensation that had never before stirred in him with such force. He was not a man given to fancies, yet…

What was happening to him? Since the injury, since her care, everything had shifted. He had been so certain, so sure of his path, yet now, the road ahead seemed clouded.

His decision to enter the church, once so clear, now felt like a noose tightening around his throat. Could he truly give up all he had worked for? Could he give up her ?

Or was he foolishly imagining what did not exist, reading into a kindness that was nothing more than gentle compassion?

Dinner progressed well and conversation flowed easily.

The julienne soup, the braised turkey with seasonal vegetables, and a dessert so sweet it seemed a sin to eat.

By the time the ladies left and the men took to enjoying their glasses of port, Benedict felt the weight of the evening drag at him, exhaustion seeping into his bones.

“I do apologize, but I think I’m in need of my bed. Thank you so very much, Your Grace, for the wonderful dinner. Please thank the duchess for me.”

“Of course, it was our pleasure.”

Whitmore rose, but Benedict waved him off. “I shall ask a footman or two to assist me. You stay here and enjoy your port.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course.” A footman approached, and with his help, Benedict made his slow way upstairs. By the time he sat on the edge of his bed, exhaustion felt like a physical weight dragging him down. The act of undressing loomed before him, a hurdle that seemed impossible to clear.

He tugged at his cravat, loosening the knot with fingers that shook. His coat and waistcoat followed, tossed over the chair in a heap. But the shirt, its linen damp against his skin, his breeches, tight against the bandaged wound, remained.

He stared at them, debating whether to sleep in them, but the thought of the tightness over his wound, the slow, creeping ache already building made the decision for him.

A knock sounded at the door, a gentle rap.

“Enter,” he rasped, the word almost a plea.

The soft, familiar voice of Lady Angelica drifted into the room, warm as a balm. “Lord Benedict?”

He turned toward her, his shoulders sagging.

“Help me, please?” The words left him unguarded, raw, the admission more intimate than he’d meant it to be. He was desperate for sleep, desperate for something else he dared not name.

She did not hesitate, the angel that she was.