Page 1 of The Earl’s Tempting Ward (Dukes Gone Dirty #2)

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B ang!

Benedict winced as sounds of the ruined wing’s reconstruction reached his study.

He could not say for sure which of his ancestors who’d preceded him as the Earl of Foster had been so very fond of gothic architecture, but he cursed that fellow now.

It was impossible to find a moment’s peace in this drafty old manor.

Head bent over the stack of legal documents before him, he tried to ignore the workers’ voices that echoed off the vaulted ceilings outside his study door. His mother’s voice stood out in stark contrast. High and sharp, her commands were staccato chirps amidst the low, booming bass tones of the workers she was ordering about.

Doing what, exactly?

He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. He should probably find out.

Not that his input was required. He and his mother had come to a sort of silent truce these past weeks since he’d returned from his failed trip to London. She left him in peace, and he stayed out of her way as she went about her business.

Her business seemed to be the Sisyphean task of keeping this old manor up to snuff with all the current trends and new-fashioned trappings.

Staying out of one another’s way had been working well for them—far better than the taut silences and tense conversations they’d suffered through for months after the tragedy.

It had been those encounters, fraught with unspoken accusations and riddled with guilt, that had driven him to London in the first place. Well, that and his friends’ persistence. His former schoolmates had harassed him into joining them in town to seek out a wife.

His friend the Duke of Raffian had declared this the season that their band of rogues finally leave behind their carousing to assume the mantle and sire some heirs.

It shouldn’t have been difficult—indeed, Raff had not only found himself a bride, he’d gone and fallen in love with the girl. But even with the title of earl attached to his person, Benedict hadn’t been able to shake the whispers and the stares. It was enough to drive a man mad.

Or back to his family estate, at least.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the marble floors carried to him so clearly, it was as if he were attempting to peruse these documents right smack in the midst of the entrance hall.

What were they doing out there?

Something clattered. A shout carried.

Benedict fell back in his seat with a sigh. Perhaps he ought to have stayed in London.

He dismissed the thought as quickly as it arrived. The townhouse in Mayfair might have been quieter, with its thick oriental rugs, small rooms, and heavy curtains, but that hardly made up for the stares.

Out of habit he ran a hand over the uneven and unnaturally smooth skin of his left jaw.

No, he did not wish to be back there where the hushed whispers of the ton were far louder than these echoes and shouts could ever be.

Eventually, mercifully, the sounds grew distant. The workers were heading upstairs, thank God. He narrowed his eyes and focused on the words before him with renewed focus. For approximately two seconds. That was how much of a reprieve he was allotted before a sharp knock on his study door interrupted him.

Before he could reply, the door was thrown open. His mother stood there, dark and dour, and for a moment he was shocked at the sight of her. Not only because she’d been keeping her distance this past week, not setting foot in this room which had once been his father’s private domain, but also because he still wasn’t quite used to the change in her appearance.

The fire that had claimed his father and older brother’s lives hadn’t left her with the sort of visible scars that he carried, but it had changed her just as drastically. Overnight, it seemed, she’d gone from a vibrant lady and proud matron to…well, this.

A pale imitation of her former self. A sad one. A bitter one. One filled with hatred…for him.

“Mother,” he said evenly, quickly hiding his surprise at her sudden appearance.

She pinched her lips as if the word ‘Mother’ were an insult.

A muscle worked in his jaw as a familiar heavy tension settled between them.

She’d never been the sort one would call cheerful. The lady was a countess, after all, and she’d embodied that. She’d been gracious, if not warm, with a steady disposition not prone to extreme emotions one way or the other.

But now as the dowager countess, she seemed a hollow version of her former vivacious, charismatic self. Gray strands had begun to cobweb their way through her ink black hair, aging her overnight, and deep creases had etched into the sharp features that resembled his own.

She’d been attractive once.

But then again, so had he.

Now she bore remnants of grief. A constant reminder that her life had been devastated. By him. Her youngest son. The one who was meant to be the spare.

The tight skin around his scars itched, reminding him of their presence. As if he could ever forget.

She regarded him with a sour expression from where she still hesitated in the doorway, and that was it, he realized. This hesitation was what was so different about her now, even more than the physical signs of aging.

His mother had never been one to hesitate before. Certainly not around him. She might not have been an affectionate mother, but she’d been comfortable with both Benedict and his brother Robert.

More so with Robert, but that was to be expected. He’d been the eldest, and the heir—not to mention the dutiful, obedient son.

And now the dead son.

She seemed to overcome whatever it was that had been holding her prisoner in the doorway, and he waited with quiet unease for her to speak.

“You’ve been in here all morning,” she said.

It came out as an accusation.

“So I have,” he agreed.

Her gaze drifted away from his as if against her will. Her lips rolled inwards, her mouth pinching at the edges. This room had been her husband’s solace. His domain. The room where he’d spent most of his day and where he’d gone about his business.

Benedict hadn’t seen his mother enter this room once since the accident.

“Did you need something, Mother?”

Her gaze snapped back to his. And before she could hide her anger, he saw it. Truthfully, it was always there just under the surface. The blame. The anger.

She straightened, her chin coming up in a stubborn set. “Will you be joining us for dinner this evening?”

He frowned. Us?

This was the first time in many months that his mother had made any attempt to dine with him. A fact that might have been heartening if only his mind hadn’t snagged on that one word.

“Us?” he repeated.

She huffed. “I told you about our guest.”

Guest. The word alone made his gut tighten and wariness slither through his veins. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch his scars. He’d left London to avoid strangers and their morbid curiosity.

“I assure you, Mother, you did not.” The words came out through gritted teeth.

“Of course I did,” she said, her gaze flicking away from him dismissively to eye the pile of documents on his desk. “You were probably too deep in your cups to remember, that’s all.”

If she’d been looking she might have seen his flinch, slight as it was.

Protests scratched at his throat, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing how much her words had affected him.

His mother took any chance you could get to remind him what a useless wastrel he was. No, had been . He’d been anything but a reckless drunkard since the fire, but his mother didn’t care about that.

All that mattered was that his carelessness had cost her the ones she loved.

Now she was stuck with him.

And a guest, apparently.

“Who is it?” His tone was harsher than intended. But really, it could not have escaped her notice that he’d been avoiding society here in the country.

This house might have become a drafty, ornate mausoleum, but at least here he was free from the pitying looks and the rumors guessing at what had occurred that night.

He’d discovered that society’s suspicions weren’t nearly as bad as the actual fact. More evidence to prove his friend Hayden correct that good society was utterly lacking in imagination.

“Really, Benedict,” his mother said with a weary sigh. “You must remember me telling you about my dear friend Gabriella.”

He stared at her. The name sounded familiar, but…

Curse it. He probably had been in his cups because he had only a fuzzy memory of hearing something about some childhood friend who had died.

In his defense, that had been before the fire. He’d been inebriated most of the time back then.

“She and her husband died in a tragic carriage accident,” she said, ending with a hint of a question.

“Of course, of course.” He fiddled with the pen in his hand. Clearly they weren’t entertaining a deceased childhood friend, and impatience had him shifting in his seat. “Mother, if you please, I have a mountain of work to get through and?—”

“Do not lecture me on the obligations that come with being an earl, Benedict.” Her voice was sharp and shrill, and he inwardly cringed to think what the servants must think if they overheard his mother speaking to him as if he were still a child. “I helped your father build this estate into what it is today?—”

“I know, Mother.”

“Do you?” she shot back. “Then stop acting as though you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. As if taking over the earldom is some tedious obligation.”

“I never said?—”

“It was never supposed to be yours.” The words were not loud, but they rang in the air and echoed off those bloody vaulted ceilings.

Rage flickered in his gut, but recoiled just as quickly in the face of her hatred. She buried it quickly, but not quick enough. Her words were filled with the venom she so often tried to hide.

He sank back in his seat as a familiar guilt settled into his limbs and made his insides frigid. In a way it was a relief that she’d said it aloud. More often than not she kept her feelings hidden, but it was better this way.

His mother’s rebukes were nothing compared to what he said to himself in the wee hours of the morning when he begged for sleep to claim him. And at least in her speaking the words, maybe she could find some relief for the anger that was eating her alive.

“Thank you for the reminder,” he said, his voice calm and even.

His mother turned her head. She couldn’t even look at him.

The scars burned as if he was still fighting his way through the flames of the west wing. The family’s private quarters.

He watched her recover her calm, her hands clasped together before her so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Anyway, as I’ve told you several times, I am Philippa’s godmother, and she will be coming here to stay with us?—”

“Who the hell is Philippa?” he interrupted.

Her eyes narrowed at his blasphemy and her nostrils flared with a deep inhale. “Gabriella’s daughter,” she said slowly, over enunciating as if she were speaking to a simpleton.

Or a drunkard.

“As I’ve already explained, the poor girl is an orphan now, and with no close relations?—”

“You’re her godmother?” His surprise was not subtle.

He’d never considered his mother the religious type, and this was the first he was hearing of a goddaughter. At least…that he could recall.

She ignored that and continued on. “She’s arriving today. Really, Benedict, I told you all of this. I’ve had a room made up for her in the east wing while renovations are completed…”

She kept talking, but he was distracted by the fact that his skin was on fire. Not literally, obviously, but the mention of reconstruction was enough to send his mind back to that night and just like in his nightmares, the memory was so vivid he was sure he could feel the lick of the flames, hear the screams amidst the crackle and roar of the fire. The bed empty beside him…

He drew in a sharp breath, trying to calm his racing heart. His mother’s voice, insistent and nagging in the background, only added to his agitation until he was itching to crawl out of his skin. He gripped the edge of the desk and tried to focus.

“She’s a sweet young thing, from what I’ve been told…an only child…her father had quite the fortune. Born and raised in Italy, can you imagine? She’s never even set foot on English soil, poor babe…”

Poor babe. He stared at his mother in horror. How old was this child? Was there going to be some little creature toddling about? Would he need to hire a wet nurse?

Bloody hell. Where did one even find a wet nurse?

“...coddled and spoiled, I’m afraid,” his mother continued. “Even Gabriella said so in her letters…”

A spoiled child. Here? At this musty old mausoleum, half of which was being rebuilt after the fire?

He ran a hand through his thick black hair. She couldn’t be serious.

“As the master of this home you are her guardian, of course, so I expect?—”

“I’m her guardian?” His insides withered with the blow. Had he not already been dealt more responsibility than he could handle? And now this. He winced at the image of a little girl in long braids and a pinafore prancing around expecting them all to wait on her hand and foot.

He groaned. “Mother, isn’t there somewhere else she could go?”

“No,” she shot back. “She’s our responsibility now.”

His responsibility, she meant. Everything and everyone in this household was now his responsibility.

He hardly heard the rest of her speech, his mind once more racing to figure out where he might stash this child. A boarding school, perhaps. Off with some other children her own age somewhere.

“Mother, I want nothing to do with this orphan?—”

“And I don’t want to sit by and watch you destroy everything your father created, but we all have our lot to bear.” Her voice oozed venom, and her eyes flashed with anger.

Silence fell between them, the sort of silence that had been eating him alive for nearly a year. Surely London hadn’t been worse than this.

He took a deep breath and met her withering glare. There was a challenge in her eyes. One she didn’t think he’d be able to meet.

He leaned forward, anger flaring up beneath the guilt and the shame. “Fine,” he snapped. “So now I have a spoiled little brat on my hands. Wonderful.” He rose from his seat. “Know this. I will not tolerate tantrums or misbehaving, is that clear?”

She arched a brow, unimpressed. “And you think you are one to discipline her?”

The derisive mockery in her gaze stung. She didn’t think him fit to keep a single child in line let alone manage an earldom.

“If this Philippa so much as speaks out of turn, I will do as I must,” he said. “Orphan child or not, I will take that girl over my knee.”

“Oh dear.” A soft voice filled the air and a stunning young lady with dark auburn hair and sparkling green eyes stepped into the doorway just behind his mother. Her gaze landed on him, as long lashes batted against high cheekbones and lush red lips curved up in a smile that somehow managed to be both sweet and wicked.

His mother gasped with surprise at her sudden arrival, but Benedict stood silent, speechless in the face of the beauty before him.

“You must be Lord Foster,” she said with the slightest twinge of an accent, her voice wrapping around him, low and smooth like velvet.

Heat speared through him like a knife, the shock of it sudden and savage. Her eyes glinted with mischief and her lips curled up at the corners at his shocked silence.

Wicked. Definitely wicked.

“I am Miss Philippa Lorezon…” She took a step forward, her eyes narrowing slightly on him. “And I promise I’ll do my very best to behave.” Her lips parted and her eyes widened in exaggerated innocence. “I certainly wouldn’t wish for a spanking, my lord.”