Page 18 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

“Oh.” Now Benedict was even more perplexed. He barked a laugh, sounding a tad hysterical even to his own ears. “Perhaps I should ask him to perform the same service with my persecutor.”

“Mm.” Tommy’s mouth pressed in a thin line again. Benedict had been fixating on that mouth, the lips neither too plump nor too thin but ever so shapely, once the golden lick of hair was safely back under Tommy’s hat.

“When I reveal your persecutor’s identity, you may not wish for that, Your Grace.”

“I wish the bastard was food for the worms,” cried Benedict. “And, I beg you, don’t stand on ceremony with this Your Grace business. I can’t abide it. I’m not worthy, especially as far as you’re concerned. Ashington or…or Benedict when we are alone is perfectly adequate.”

Colour suffused his cheeks once more. When we’re alone? He might as well have laid down his heart’s deepest desires and delivered them to Tommy in the form of a list himself.

“Your tormentor is Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons,” Tommy announced bluntly. “Your brother.”

A wave of horror swept through Benedict. “L-Lyndon?”

“Yes.”

Time stood still as Benedict stared at Tommy with dismay. He swayed against Ganymede, clutching at the horse’s bridle as if he might tumble to the ground otherwise. The enclosure suddenly felt suffocating, as if all the air had been sucked out of it. “Are you sure?”

Tommy gave a bleak nod. “I’m afraid I am.”

Of course, he was sure. One didn’t toss around vicious accusations against a duke’s twin brother without a modicum of truth stacked up behind them. Sagging like a banked fish, Benedict clawed a deep breath. “Oh, lord.”

“Your Gr—Ashington,” began Tommy. “People will think you are ill. Turn towards Ganymede as though we are discussing his form.” Tommy stroked a hand along the horse’s back as if admiring his fine lines. “In fact, let me quiz you about him. You are distressed. People will notice. Tongues will wag.”

“I…” Burying his forehead against Ganymede’s hot shoulder, Benedict breathed in his dark, rooty scent. That Lyndon, his own dear, tormented brother, would attack him this way. “Does it bring you pleasure telling me this, Tommy? Is that why you have come? To watch me break?”

Benedict hung on to the bridle with all his might. What he would give right now to gallop away. To hoist himself atop Ganymede, grab the reins, and hurtle off, never to return. Bloody Lyndon. Bloody, bloody, bloody Lyndon.

“Absolutely not. If he wasn’t your kin, I would put a switchblade to his throat myself.” Tommy’s cool tones sliced through his misery. “Now, please, people are watching.”

A tearing, guttural sound issued from Benedict’s throat. “Your pity is worse than your spite. So what if I am watched as I crumble? Why wait for Lyndon to choose a time? Why not make a spectacle of myself here and now and be done with it?”

As Benedict’s voice rose, Ganymede pawed restlessly at the ground.

“Because…because I will not allow it, damn you,” Tommy hissed. “That is why.”

Sensing his master’s distress, the horse shifted again and then, with a fretful whinny, tossed his head back. Tommy’s steadying hand shot out at the same time as Benedict’s, and for a fleeting instant, their fingers came together.

“My apologies, Your Grace.” As if burned, Tommy’s hand snatched away. His heated gaze landed anywhere but on Benedict’s. “I should have broken this news in a less public arena. I was not thinking.”

Benedict drew in a deep, silent breath before letting it out slowly. And then another. “The sooner I discovered the truth, the better. Let us talk of normal things—horseflesh, anything—until I am more recovered from this shock.”

With his arms wrapped around himself, hands safely tucked away, Tommy retreated a step.

“Rossingley tells me you ride even better than he,” he began awkwardly.

“I confess, I find it hard to believe. I’ve accompanied him many a time on horseback.

With that great black stallion of his between his legs, the man gallops like the wind. ”

“Uh. Yes.” Once more, Benedict leaned into his horse for support.

Coming so soon after the searing warmth of Tommy’s hand over his and the stunning blow of his brother’s perfidy, a visual of Rossingley’s spread legs, breeches pulled tight over his slender thighs, proved a step too far.

Frankly, Benedict owed himself congratulations on still being vertical.

His own skin, he was sure, radiated even hotter than that of his damp horse.

A group of ladies strolled close by, and he was aware of Tommy doffing his hat in polite acknowledgment. Their bubbly, messy chatter pierced Benedict’s light-headedness, bringing him back to the present.

“I was observing that Rossingley is a superb horseman,” prompted Tommy. “One of the finest. But I have learned that you best even him.”

The ladies were near enough to overhear, and Tommy’s eyes urged Benedict to formulate a sensible rejoinder. He racked his brains.

“I raced Nimbus to victory in both the Derby Stakes and the 2000 Guineas in the same year,” he eventually croaked. “Rossingley came second by a nose on each occasion.”

“So, it is true.” Tommy’s delectable mouth flashed the briefest of taut smiles. “I expected as much as the earl is not one for false modesty. You do not race any longer?”

“I have too many demands on my time.” None of them pleasant .

“But you were a famous winner,” Tommy persevered. The ladies moved away, their shrill chatter fading into the distance. “You also had successes in the St Leger.”

“Multiple times over. I…” Inhaling deeply, feeling a little more like himself again, Benedict dared turn back towards Tommy, giving him a sheepish look.

“Perhaps the time was nigh to give others a chance at glory. And Nimbus was approaching his ninth year, old for a racehorse. You swear it is true? That Lyndon is behind all this?”

“As true as I’m standing here, Your Grace.”

Enjoying the fuss being made of him, Ganymede nosed at Tommy’s chest, and he stretched out a cautious hand, letting the horse nuzzle.

“He is often skittish with strangers,” said Benedict, picking out the only coherent thought jostling his head. “He must have taken a liking to you.”

Tommy’s skin pinked at the compliment; the colour everything Benedict hoped it would be. Ganymede had discerning taste.

“I was much younger when I rode him to all those wins.” Benedict congratulated himself on formulating such a lucid statement. “And freer.”

“Yes.” Now it was Tommy who appeared to be struggling to speak. “We have both grown older since.”

In silent conversation, the two men regarded each other as they contemplated the past. A conversation neither dared speak out loud.

But if not now, when ? Benedict had so much to say to this man.

All the things he’d wanted to tell Tommy all those years ago had never left his mind.

Even now, amid all his other woes, they spun in his head like an incantation.

Another opportunity might never present itself.

Thanks to Lyndon, Benedict would soon be living an ignoble existence on a draughty estate far, far from London.

For all eternity. Why waste this precious moment discussing a damned horse?

Resolutely, he moistened his dry lips. “Nimbus and I both enjoyed the heady glory of…of our youth.” Gathering courage, he bravely plunged on. “And our youth was truly glorious, once, was it not, Mr L’Esquire?”

“Please…I…yes.”

Tommy rushed his gaze away and up towards the sky, desperately searching it, as if seeking out and counting every single one of the thin, wispy clouds.

In the natural daylight, his feral eyes shone a deep blue, like wildflowers.

Back in the simple, dim bedchamber of their past, Benedict fancied they had taken more of a duller, slate-grey tinge. And yet still, he’d been captivated.

Behind them, a groom shouted lustily to another, and an iron gate clanged. Tension crackled in the air, and when Tommy levelled with Benedict again, his voice was soft and low, almost a whisper.

“I have requested before, Your Grace, that you refrain from speaking to me this way. It is too…too much.”

“And I have requested that you do not refer to me as Your Grace.” Benedict fondled Ganymede’s ears. “But it is fair enough. We shall limit our discussion to a dear creature, my dearest male companion , whom, more than a decade ago, I loved so very greatly. Above all others.”

“Loved?” The word appeared to catch Tommy off guard.

“Yes.”

Loved . As if what they had could be consecrated to the past, when it accompanied Benedict in all his endeavours still. When it lived forever in his heart. “I have never loved like it since. Would you…do you care to hear about it?”

“I…I yes, if I must. Though I fear that this current excellent winning horse of yours is the only thing holding both of us up.”

An older man and a woman sauntered by, pausing to admire his champion. Benedict dragged his gaze away from Tommy and back to Ganymede.

He began softly. “I was but a stripling myself, of course. Very young and foolish, I admit, but I knew my own heart. And my love for such a fine creature. So fine in every way. I wrote poetry for him. The earth sings when I touch him. When my body covers his, I soar . Did I ever tell of that, Tommy?”

“Don’t…don’t…you cannot…” Tommy’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Abruptly, he turned to face Ganymede.

Another strolling couple joined the first. One of the ladies pointed to Ganymede’s wrapped legs, posing an enquiring question to the other. Clearing his throat, Tommy tried once more.

“This…this fine creature you loved. Was he fair? Or was he dark, like Rossingley’s beloved Twilight?”

“He was fair.” A lock of Benedict’s hair fell across his forehead.

“Twilight is a fine and bold beast, to be sure, but my love was even more beautiful than that. He was the colour of fresh hay, light of limb, and golden-hued. And when I stroked him, the fiery sun of a late August afternoon burned under my fingertips.”

A light sheen of moisture covered Tommy’s brow. “You have not had other c-creatures so fine since?”

“Not even close. Every other is a mere beast by comparison. When my first love spoke, he called me home.”

The garrulous groom behind them came closer, rattling a metal bucket. The sharp clinking snapped them both out of it.

Tommy took a pace back, checking his fob watch, fussing with his hat. “Please excuse me, Your—Ashington. But I must away. The next race is due presently.”