Page 31 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)
“YOU HAVE BEEN quite the twinkletoes this evening, Your Grace,” Beatrice observed as they performed a (thankfully) sedate waltz. Any faster, and Benedict might collapse in a heap. Afternoons sparring at Gentleman Jack’s were much kinder on the feet. And the jaw.
At least with Beatrice, he could give the inane chatter a rest. “And you have been quite the harridan,” he admonished. “Poor Mr L’Esquire is terrified of you.”
Beatrice laughed. “Oh, come, Your Grace, he’s made of sterner stuff than that.
Isabella is already enchanted by him. And by the Earl of Rossingley’s chum, Mr Angel, also.
He is outrageously charming. Between the two of them, Lord Ludham will be greasing Lord Francis’s fist with double Isabella’s allotted portion before the week is out.
I sat beside him at supper, and I swear he had fewer grey hairs at the start of the evening than by the finish of dessert. ”
“Then we must hope Francis’s ridiculous plan is working.” Benedict stepped forward, rising on his right foot as his partner stepped back with her left. “Isabella is perfectly safe with both gentlemen, by the by, in case you were at all concerned.”
“Not a jot.” Beatrice nodded to a passing acquaintance. “I sense that both Mr Angel and Mr L’Esquire prefer their amours to be of a more rugged nature.” As one, they performed a neat spin. Beatrice brought her lips close to Benedict’s ear. “As, I believe, do you.”
Rich claret turned to stone in his belly. How did one respond to that? His face burned as if in fever as, with an ungainly lurch, he stumbled over his next step, nearly sending them both crashing to the floor. A move far too adventurous, even for a newly anointed rake.
“Oh, do not fret, Your Grace,” Lady Beatrice murmured as she righted them both. “I have suspected for some time.”
“I have…” Benedict groped in vain for a sensible riposte. “I hoped…really?”
“Really.” She smiled. “But I am a steadfast keeper of secrets. Especially when they bear considerable weight.”
“It is a secret I planned on taking to the grave. I was…I was not born to stand out in such a way, to be of a different nature. I do not have the nerve for it.”
“I’m afraid one cannot fight it, Your Grace.
” She regarded him so tenderly that tears plucked at his eyes.
“Only dead fish go with the flow. And we have but one life. My dear father has always drummed into me that one must not waste it being a facsimile of what one is not. It is excellent advice, no?”
“Yes.” Benedict blinked rapidly, then swallowed. “And I…I have come to realise that in recent days.” Very gently, he squeezed the small hand clasped in his. “And also, that I have many friends.”
They danced in perfect accord after that, almost like lovers.
Indeed, if the duke had been granted more than one life, then sharing it together as husband and wife would have been a most amicable way to spend it.
As they floated around the dance floor, Benedict became increasingly aware their happiness in each other’s arms was under scrutiny.
Beatrice smiled up at him. “Your situation and our close friendship serve us both excellently, does it not? We can sully my good name with the gossipmongers so that I will not be obliged to attend these blasted cattle markets next season. I can retreat into happy spinsterhood. And you will gain the reputation as a dastardly duke of the lowest morals. Which means you and your delectable Mr L’Esquire may continue your discreet trysts until either one, or both of you, is thoroughly sick of the other. Which I suspect will be never.”
Her beatific smile turned sly. “He’s the person, isn’t he? The one who has held your heart all these years. Whom you once wronged?” She leaned closer conspiratorially. “You don’t have to say yes if it’s too difficult. Simply blink twice.”
Hiding one’s face in one’s hands was not an option with a dance partner in hold.
Benedict groaned, the next best thing. “Even now, Beatrice, as you flail my secret desires wide open, you have the capacity to bring me joy. Will it appease your inquisitive mind if I confess that man sparks something inside me that I have never felt with anyone else?”
“It is mere confirmation of what I already guessed, Your Grace.”
As they performed a tricky closed change, a dense fog of smug satisfaction radiated from Beatrice’s slight form. Every now and again, she caught Benedict’s eye, raising a shapely eyebrow.
“You, too, deserve every bit of happiness you can find, my dear Beatrice,” he said at last.
Twice, they had sashayed past an entire row of matrons pointedly whispering behind fans, and twice, he’d moved his body scandalously closer to his dance partner’s. With the taste of Tommy’s lips still on his, Benedict was tempted to give them all a wave.
“And if it pleases you,” he continued, “finding it between the pages of some ghastly tome harping on about fossil reptile discoveries, then I shall do everything in my power to make it happen. Starting with gazing oh-so-sincerely into your eyes as we sweep past Lady Butterworth and the Countess of Horton, then allowing my hand on your shoulder to drift…ah, just so.”
*
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON , safe in the haven of his second study, Benedict indulged in a serene spot of thumb twirling.
Ignoring his usual mountain of correspondence, he mulled over the previous evening.
Especially the part where he and Tommy admired the begonias.
He then skated over the chapter towards the end, where he had been hounded by Lady Wardholme, three cups of ratafia to the good.
Never had the phrase ‘pushed from pillar to post’ felt so apt.
Until the sublime Mrs Catherine de Villiers heroically rescued him, the woman literally had him backed up against a pillar and searching for a suitable post as a weapon to facilitate fighting his way out.
Interrupting his peace, Francis barged in without knocking and flung himself into a chair. “Joe Jonas stopped by ten minutes ago to inform us that Sam Leonard, the jockey riding Ganymede in the Gold Cup on the Thursday of the Horton ball, has been offered twenty pounds by Lyndon to throw the race.”
Benedict hummed. He continued to twirl his thumbs. “Good. Tell him he must take the money.”
“Tell him what ? Surely not! Lyndon can’t get away with it!”
“And he shan’t,” replied Benedict stoutly. “I have it in hand.”
“ In hand would be marching over to his rooms right this minute and confronting him!”
Benedict huffed, shaking his head. “No. That would be a waste of all our energies. He’ll outright deny it. You and I both know our brother lies as well as an Aubusson rug. Send a message to Jonas that the jockey should take the money.”
“If we let him get away with it this time, he’ll simply carry on!”
“I have it in hand, Francis.” Rarely was Benedict stern, making when he was so much more effective.
“Ugh.” His youngest brother drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I hate this. Why does he have to be such a bloody arse?”
“If we knew the answer to that, none of us would be in this mess. But be reassured that I will embark on a discussion with Lyndon in due course. When he returns to London.”
Benedict had reached that conclusion last night whilst watching Tommy so elegantly leading Isabella through a waltz. They all deserved a shot at happiness; it was high time Benedict stopped being so timid and made sure it happened.
“I’m going to insinuate that we have an idea what is afoot regarding his plan to expose me and then offer him an opportunity to reconsider.”
“But we have a scheme in place to counter his accusations. According to this morning’s Herald , ‘The fashionable world will not be surprised to hear that a young and very rich nobleman of the highest rank danced twice with the blooming and beautiful widow of a late distinguished French general’.”
“ Three times,” Benedict corrected. “I was avoiding Lady W.”
“And the Post describes Mr Angel tripping on the light fantastic with ‘the accomplished and deservedly celebrated beauty, Lady Isabella Knightley’.” Francis frowned. “My Lady Isabella Knightley. Our plan is bearing fruit.”
“So it would appear,” Benedict agreed. “But it is not foolproof, and I prefer we don’t have to use it. And…he’s our brother.” He sighed heavily. “And we were once friends. No one is irredeemable, no matter how far they are prepared to fall.”
Francis made an anguished, groaning noise.
“You’re bloody right, of course. I know that, but…
God, it’s hard.” Shaking his head, he rose to his feet.
“You have a big heart, Benedict. Sometimes, I fear it is both the worst and the best of you.” As he reached the door, he hesitated.
“Though I’m still befuddled as to why you won’t call him out on nobbling our jockey. ”
“Because no one is irredeemable,” Benedict repeated.
“If, and when, he sees the error of his ways, I would prefer society judges him less harshly. Therefore, as it impacts no one but us, the bribery is a matter I wish to keep private. It is enough that, after the race is run, it will be clear to him that I knew of the bribe yet did not expose him. Trust me on this.”
Screwing up his nose, Francis nodded his acceptance.
His astute gaze narrowed as he studied Benedict.
“Something about you has changed, dear brother. Since you…you know, revealed your…um…truth. You are surer of things. Of yourself. Of being the duke.” His face relaxed into a grin.
“That tangerine cravat, for instance, paired with the navy.”
“I think you’ll find the cravat was papaya and the waistcoat Persian indigo. And I’m considering having the same waistcoat made up again, but in a honey-yellow. Perhaps with a few flowers embroidered. What do you think?”
Francis chuckled. “I think, Your Grace , that the fourteenth Duke of Ashington is well on the way to becoming the finest and fairest of all the Ashington dukes. Also, may I say, the feyest.”
With his hand on the door, he paused again. “And a little bird told me he is off for a lengthy hack tomorrow, which may take him away overnight.”
“He is,” admitted Benedict, refusing to meet his brother’s eye. “I have an idea to stop over at…um…the lodge in Hampshire. Even us rakes need a night off from wooing the ladies, Francis.”
Francis replied with a casual shrug, and Benedict relaxed. He’d got away with it. “Then I wish you a safe ride. Not sure much is happening tomorrow night, anyhow.” His brother shrugged again. “No soirées that I’m aware of. I’ll probably just wander over to Squire’s for a jar or two, I expect.”
He had the door open now and was halfway through it. “Mr L’Esquire won’t be there, of course. Hacking . Honestly, Benedict, as if I’d fall for that.”