Page 9

Chapter

Nine

B enedict lay in his bed for what felt like several hours before his brother came upstairs to retire himself, but not before checking in on him.

He'd slept on and off, the linen sheets beneath him warm and slightly damp from the lingering fever, his mind as restless as his body after his earlier interaction with Lady Angelica.

The flickering light of a single candle on the bedside table cast shadows across the walls, reminding him of the confessional booths he had once knelt in—a sharp contrast to the raw temptation he now battled.

What was he going to do? Or a better question—what did he want to do?

His pulse raced, the weight of the decision heavy on his chest. He'd spent years debating what his future would hold. As the second son, a life in the church or His Majesty’s Army were the opportunities for him.

Thankfully, their father had been a man of honor and had not wasted their inheritances over the years, leaving both him and his brother far wealthier than they needed to be.

In fact, he had a manor house not far from the main Whitmore estate in Derbyshire, where, if he wished, he could marry, settle, and have a very good and comfortable life.

But he'd never been a man to idle away his time.

He'd always felt as though his life would be better served helping others, and hence, why the option of the church would have suited him well.

The memory of standing in a candlelit chapel, his breath mingling with incense, returned to him, stirring guilt deep in his soul.

The thought he may have to defend his homeland in the militia had never been an concern, but killing another human had, and so he'd settled on the church, a task that his father had considered and agreed would suit him before his passing.

Your father had not thought you meant the Catholic church...

"How are you feeling, brother?" Whitmore asked, sitting on the chair beside his bed and studying him, his eyes a little bloodshot from the ample wine being served downstairs.

"We need to talk, and you must help me,” he blurted.

His brother frowned and leaned forward, resting on his knees. "Whatever is it? You've only been upstairs two hours or so—whatever has made you distressed in that short time?"

Benedict cringed, not wanting to confide in his brother.

The weight of temptation clung to him like a damp cloak, suffocating and impossible to ignore.

His brother had the character of a tease and could use the information he was about to impart against him at any inappropriate time, yet he needed to speak his truth and have some insight that was not his own.

"Believe me, that was plenty of time for me to almost do something that I cannot. I do not know what is wrong with me…"

His brother held up his hands to halt his words. "Now, stop this babbling and tell me what you did. Surely it cannot be so wicked?" His brother paused and looked around the room. "Did you break something?"

"No," Benedict said, trying to stop the annoyance in his tone.

His pulse thudded heavily in his throat, his hands clammy, the guilt pooling low in his belly.

His problem was not his brother's doing, and he should not take out his frustrations on others.

"Lady Angelica was here earlier, I found myself unable to prepare for bed nor ring for your valet, and, well… "

His brother leaned forward, his eyes growing wide with interest. "And well…what exactly?"

Benedict cringed, remembering what had occurred.

Heat flushed over his skin, a mix of mortification and longing.

"She helped me prepare for bed. I do not know what I was thinking, but if that wasn't bad enough, when she helped me with my shirt I, well, I…

" He swallowed, meeting his brother's gaze.

"Something happened, a shift in the air, a thickening, almost, and for a moment, just a split second, I thought I would kiss her. "

His brother threw himself back into his chair and slapped a hand over his face, clearly holding back expletives.

"You lie." He paused, still clearly shocked.

"You like her, or you would never have even contemplated such a thing, certainly not after all you've done to secure the future you wish.

" His brother stared at him as if he had grown a second head, and Benedict couldn't be sure he had not.

His stomach clenched, the memory of her soft scent—lavender and something purely Angelica—oh how it haunted him.

"I do not know what I was thinking, but she helped me into my nightshirt and before I could think straight, I had clasped her arms, holding her near me, not even a feather's distance between our lips, and an overpowering urge to kiss her overcame me.

" Benedict held up his shaking hands, showing his brother. "Look, even now, talking to you about her, I’m all sixes and sevens. I’m literally trembling with who knows what. "

"Well, I know what you're shaking for," his brother said, a smug look upon his features.

"Well, do not keep it to yourself, tell me, man!

" Not that he truly wished to know, but he'd also never been with a woman.

He'd not only never been intimate with a woman, but he’d never kissed one either.

The sensations, the oddities happening within his body were new and strange, and not to mention, quite wonderful.

The throb low in his belly, the heat pooling beneath his skin—Lord have mercy, what was wrong with his cock twitching as it did when she was near?

He cringed, knowing that in the profession he'd chosen, he could not think like that, could not feel that, and want more of it.

"You want her, sexually," his brother said matter-of-fact. "And I think you ought to consider if these feelings she's evoking in you are a sign from the God you admire so very much, telling you that you're not meant for the church. That you're meant to be in her bed, fucking her."

"Hartley!" Benedict scolded, his cheeks burning, the crude word igniting a shame so fierce he wanted to sink through the floor. "You cannot speak so vile. Do remember yourself."

His brother shrugged. "Your cock twitched, did it not, when she was close to you? When you could feel the kiss of her breath on your lips? When you could smell her sweet scent? Tell me I’m wrong."

Benedict shut his mouth with a snap and refused to tell his brother anything about what his body had been doing.

The memory was there though—sharp, hot, and impossible to banish.

That his elder sibling was correct was not helping the matter at all, and nor would he give his brother the satisfaction of knowing exactly what his bodily functions had been.

"I'm going to be a Catholic priest."

"Perhaps you ought not. What if in the future, another woman, long after Lady Angelica is married and settled, someone else sparks interest in you? A widow perhaps who comes for communion."

"Confession, you mean,” he growled, knowing full well his brother knew what solace people found in the church.

"Ah, yes, confession, and during those times you're in that tight little box, alone and listening to her lilting voice, your cock twitches again, and before you know it, you're tupping her through that speaking hole the confessional has."

Benedict didn't know if to be offended or absolutely terrified of the future his brother was stating for him.

The image—Angelica kneeling in the dark, her soft voice confessing her sins—rose unbidden, dangerous and far too tempting.

His breath hitched. That he could, right at this moment, only think of Angelica telling him of her troubles, what she wished and longed for in the confessional also did not help.

The idea of them being alone in a dark, quiet place where no one was to intrude made him think things he ought not.

Not ever.

"You're not helping, brother." He ran a hand through his hair and realized his scalp itched with sweat, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his back. "I must leave, sooner than we planned."

"Oh no, no, no, we shall not be doing that.

You've been shot, and you need to rest. Two days’ travel in a jostling carriage to London will not do your leg any good, and I shall not have a lame brother.

Could you imagine me, the Marquess Whitmore, with a lame brother who dragged his leg about after him? I would be mortified."

"Do be serious and stop your nonsense," Benedict said, knowing his brother would never, in truth, act so heartless. The worry for his future gnawed at him, relentless and bedevilling like a wolf at the door. "I cannot stay here. I'm being tempted by the flesh."

His brother burst out laughing, and Benedict glared at him. The sound grated in his ears, mocking and maddening, feeding the storm inside him. The man was impossible and, right at this moment, quite easy to curse to the devil himself.

"Maybe, little brother, whom I care for most in the world, your body is telling you something that you ought to listen to.

I know you've always believed the church was your calling, but perhaps it is not.

" He paused, his visage turning serious.

"I know father agreed this was best for you, but you were barely sixteen when he died.

Too young to know for certain. And now, at the age you are… "

"I'm two years younger than you, Whitmore. Do try to remember I'm eight and twenty."

"Yes, yes, at the age you are, that you've not taken your orders yet, maybe a part of your subconscious has been stalling, trying to get you to see that the future you thought for yourself is, in fact, the wrong one.

And the correct one is currently asleep but a few doors down the passageway.

" His brother paused, a smirk curling his lips.

"I should imagine her bed attire is quite fetching. She's a pretty little thing."

"And you'll keep away from that pretty little thing," Benedict warned, his chest tightening, the possessiveness within him making no sense at all. "One week, and no matter my healing progress, we're to leave. Promise me," he demanded, holding his brother's eyes.

His brother sighed. "Very well, one week. Even so, a lot can happen in seven days."

Benedict did not need the reminder. The weight of his choices pressed heavy on his chest, the scent of lavender still clinging in the air, and the ghost of her touch burning across his skin.