Page 10 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

“Has this fellow caught the pox and spread it to his wife?” the duke queried, amusement creeping into his tone.

“Or somebody else’s wife? Is that it? Because—and before you say it—” He held up a finger as Beatrice made to interrupt.

“—I’m failing to understand what is so enthralling.

And yes, I do fully acknowledge the inequity of the situation, given that you are a woman with healthy and strong views, and yes, I fully agree the universe is so terribly tilted in the favour of men. Et cetera. Et cetera.”

Beatrice’s clever gaze flicked to either side of them as she waited to move in close.

When she did so, it was far more intimate than the dance warranted.

Her sweet breath skimmed his ear, and not for the first time, it sadly stirred absolutely nothing within Benedict except genuine warmth towards an exceptionally delightful human being.

“The furore,” she murmured, her voice shaky with barely contained glee, “is that the bawdy house in question used to be one of the other sorts of bawdy houses. And the nobleman on the list was a frequent visitor.”

Other sorts ? Benedict must have looked puzzled.

“You know, one of those bawdy houses that dare not be named, the kind an innocent young lady like me certainly has no knowledge of. Indeed, the very mention of one within thirty yards of my ears would bring me into a fit of vapours.”

Ah, she meant a molly house. That was very a different story altogether.

Benedict blew out a breath. His immediate thought was, There but for the will of God go I .

A bare minute was all that had separated him from an appalling fall from grace all those years ago.

A bare minute in which he could have untied Tommy and…

No, he couldn’t dwell on it. Not here, not now, in the middle of a packed ballroom.

“Did you say there was a list?” he asked in a careless fashion, pushing thoughts of Tommy aside. And then another thought struck him. Rossingley? His heart did a flip, causing him to miss his step entirely. Oh no , he sincerely prayed, not Rossingley.

“My toes, Your Grace.” Beatrice winced. “I’d prefer to return home with all ten intact.”

“My most humble apologies,” he muttered, “to all ten of them.”

“They accept.” Once more, they fell into step. “And yes, there is a list.”

“What is to be done with it?”

As Benedict swept her lithe body around another pair of dancers, Beatrice executed an agile turn. They were very well-matched in so many ways. Which made it such a shame that…

“Rumours abound,” she murmured, thrilled, “that the owner of the list will announce the gentleman’s name in the coming weeks, perhaps at the Earl of Horton’s end-of-season ball. Unless he pays a ransom.”

“A ransom? How very cloak-and-dagger.” Benedict shook his head. “This is starting to sound terribly far-fetched. The sort of mad caper Isabella and Francis might dream up during a sunny picnic. If it wasn’t so indecent, of course,” he added hastily.

The minuet drew to a gentle close, and Beatrice bobbed a rather perfunctory curtsy.

Smiling fondly down at her as he returned a deep bow, Benedict tutted. “I’m surprised at you, my dear. Spreading idle tittle-tattle. Your mother would be dismayed.”

“Only because she hasn’t discovered it first.” Beatrice took Benedict’s proffered arm, and he led them from the dance floor.

“But I daresay you’re right. It won’t amount to anything, and by the end of the week, us ladies will all go back to playing charades and embroidering kittens on cushions whilst the men pretend to have learned opinions regarding Canning’s feud with the new king.

Anyhow, the raid happened years ago. And Francis says this bawdy house—he mentioned it went by the name of the White Hart?

—has long since burned down. So, who cares about something that happened all the way back in 1813? ”

*

DINNER WAS PORK . Or beef. Or straw mattress stuffing.

The claret boasted the consistency of thick sludge, and if Lady Butterworth (seated to his left) had the slightest awareness how nearly the Duke of Ashington almost cast up his accounts into her soup tureen, then she might have ceased torturing his soul with a voice like the scrape of metal on metal for one damned minute.

The identity of the unfortunate bugger seated to his right was lost forever in the mists of time.

Needless to say, Benedict strengthened his reputation as a dullard.

When he finally escaped, the bitter night air closed in around him like a strong hand, tightening his throat and making the skin on his cheeks tingle.

Claret, rage, and raw panic were a heady mix; Benedict fair stumbled down Lady Butterworth’s steps, saved only by a hideous stone bust of the late Lord Arthur Butterworth at the bottom.

A row of a carriages stretched out like a colourful serpent along the dimly lit street.

His own fine landau was at the head, of course, what with him being a damned duke.

As his liveried groom rushed to open the door, a deep primal sound rumbled from the duke’s chest. He experienced a frightening, overwhelming urge to inflict damage on something, to punch through his carriage window, rip out a curtain or two. Kick the damned ugly bust.

Naturally, Benedict did none of those things. Instead, as the first few drops of rain chittered against the shiny carriage roofs, he adjusted his hat, graciously dismissed his groom, and began a brisk walk in the direction of Squire’s.