Page 33 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

“At the risk of imitating every pompous, shallow nobleman that ever lived, it is a monumental headache. Ever since my father passed, I’ve become increasingly of the opinion us Ashington brothers were born in the wrong order.

Francis, for instance, would have made an excellent duke.

He has our father’s quick intelligence, yet he is kinder and fair with it.

And more importantly, he will beget children.

” Benedict looked across at Tommy, his expression sombre.

“I, on the other hand, whilst fair-minded enough, have insufficient wit to manage our affairs without it taking up the lion’s share of my attention.

And”—at this he threw Tommy a small, intimate smile—“I have no intention of producing issue. Of that, since stumbling across you again, I am certain. Dukedom be damned.”

Why did that make Tommy’s heart sing so freely?

Ever since his reacquaintance with Benedict, his mind had whispered their affair was nothing more than fleeting.

Or, at best, an occasional tupping when his future duchess failed to satisfy his urges.

With the weight of Benedict’s responsibilities, not to mention the horror of the title falling into Lyndon’s hands should he never have issue, how could it be anything else?

“But the Ashington title and lands would pass to Lord Lyndon or his future offspring on your death, would they not?” Tommy confirmed. “As the next in line?”

“Yes,” Benedict clarified, not seeming too concerned. “But I plan to rehabilitate him or, if that fails, outlive him.”

“On his current trajectory, the latter is more likely.”

“Sadly, for him,” replied Benedict with a nod, “I concur. With a bit of luck, he’ll not sire any legitimate offspring, and on my death, everything will pass over to Francis. If so, then I should die a happy man knowing our affairs are in safe hands.”

“But not too soon, I hope.”

They exchanged a smile.

“I have recently begun to hope that too,” answered Benedict.

“So, you see, though I have all this—thousands of acres of land, hunting lodges, fine crystal, silks, pots of wealth, priceless art—none of it is mine. Not really. I’m simply a custodian, and a very average one at that, passing through.

In years to come, the fourteenth duke shall be nothing but a brief, dull footnote in the long, distinguished history of Ashington.

” Leaning forward, he patted Nimbus’s withers.

“And, when I’m astride this majestic beast or one of his stablemates, all of whom are truly mine, I understand that.

I see it very clearly. And it brings me both endless comfort and boundless joy. ”

*

“A SMALL HUNTING lodge?” Tommy scoffed, greatly amused. His anxiety had withered around the time his lover had offered him his pocket square and kissed his temple. Again. The sneezing hadn’t ceased, but it seemed a lesser foe.

As they rounded the final corner of a shady, twisting lane, a sprawling redbrick manor house came into view.

Row upon row of paned lead windows twinkled in the rare late afternoon sunshine, as if welcome candles had been lit in each.

A striking stack of chimney pots dominated the rooftop, all four puffing out smoke.

Ivy crept around the doorways and snaked up the walls.

Benedict’s eyes twinkled too. “Forgive me, I was comparing it to the one in the grounds of Ashington House.”

I’m in love with a duke in possession of two hunting lodges, Tommy thought. Lord, just strike me down now.

“This one hardly sees much use outside of the shooting season,” Benedict continued. “Not my thing, really, taking shots at defenceless animals. But, come the winter months, I suppose hunting and billiards are the only goings-on keeping us idle men of leisure occupied.”

The only goings-on? Tommy still tasted Benedict’s hot kisses under the shady bower, not an hour since, and how his fingertips had cupped Tommy’s face as if it were precious.

“Let us stable the horses, and I’ll show you inside.”

Whilst as lavish as Tommy expected, for all its grandeur, the place had the empty, melancholic air of a home barely inhabited.

Hovering in the entrance hall as if trying to ascertain his bearings, Tommy wondered if Benedict felt it too.

While bold and garrulous in the saddle, Benedict seemed to shrink into himself inside the lodge.

As if now he had Tommy here, he wasn’t sure what to do with him.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Tommy said quietly. “Bringing a lover home to seduce.”

“I…um, yes. And only now am I discovering it.” He shot Tommy a curious look. “For the first time, we are entirely alone, you and me. And I haven’t a clue what to do next.”

Tommy could compose an entire list. “One’s education, no matter how grand, doesn’t generally include it.”

Benedict smiled faintly. “I’m going to make a cake of myself, aren’t I?

” He huffed a laugh. “I assumed I would bring you here and, well”—his face coloured—“do what comes naturally. And I do want to do that, of course. But also, I can’t help feeling saddened that this…

this subterfuge and a two-hour horse ride are necessary for us to be alone. ”

“Surely it is better than the alternative.”

“Yes, but…” Benedict made an exasperated sound.

“I don’t want snatches of you, Tommy, where we…

we make love, then hurriedly put ourselves back together.

We’ve waited too long. Although, just to be clear, I do want that too.

But I also want to laze around my bedchamber with you, or my study.

Or your study. Visit parks and friends and my stables and so forth.

As good chums, like Francis and Isabella do. As well as…be lovers.”

“Rossingley manages it,” Tommy ventured.

“He does,” Benedict agreed. “Awfully well. But he’s…

well, he has… He’s beyond reproach, isn’t he?

He has a dead wife, bless her soul, and two sons.

Angel hides in plain sight too. Men regard him askance, convinced he’s out to bed their wives, whilst the wives look at him praying for the same thing.

And with a sly glance here and a flutter of his eyelids there, he is careful not to disabuse them. ”

Benedict made another despairing noise. “Anyhow. Be that as it may. I daresay you’re famished. I…um…if I’m here alone, I fend for myself.”

Goodness knows how Benedict hadn’t expired from starvation, Tommy observed, as he led him downstairs to the kitchen.

An inviting, freshly baked loaf sat in the middle of the rough-hewn table, still warm.

Platters of cold meats, fruits, and cheeses circled it, enough to feed an entire shooting party.

Tommy’s mouth watered; Benedict seemed baffled.

“Cutlery,” he said eventually, gazing about him as if a maidservant might miraculously appear and thrust the correct implements into the correct hands. “And plates. We need plates.”

Such was his bewildered, helpless expression, like a little boy lost, that Tommy took pity on him.

“Sit.” Pushing on his shoulder, Tommy plonked him in a chair. “You can make yourself useful by opening this claret.”

Then, gathering utensils, he fussed around with napkins, dishes, bread knives, and such, passing them to the coddled duke one at a time, tempted to explain their purpose—doing everything but eating the damned food for him.

So, yes. Differences. They had enough to fill a kitchen three times the size of this one. But as they sat opposite each other and exchanged a look, they still had the same beating hearts.

“This is terribly awkward, is it not?” Benedict laughed distractedly; it wasn’t a laugh at all, really. “You must feel as if you are visiting a bedridden maiden aunt or like a child forced to play with another whilst the mamas gossip and drink tea.”

“It’s the most entertainment I’ve had all week. I’ve decided that as payment for my riding lessons, I’ll teach you how to make a pot of tea. And peel potatoes.”

“Potatoes? Really? Do they have skin on them?” With a grin that lit up the room, Benedict poured them both a generous glass of claret. “I have no practical abilities at all outside the stables. I…didn’t exactly think it through, did I? I’m a spoiled, idle Corinthian, and you’re a—”

“An upstart who’s barely set foot outside the borough of St Giles?”

“I was going to say a person with vastly more experience than me in these situations. Boasting many, many more useful skills. And infinitely more desirable.”

“None of those statements carries an ounce of truth, Benedict.” It was funny, but now Tommy had begun using his Christian name, his mouth couldn’t forgo an opportunity to speak it.

“Your physical virtues far outweigh mine, and as you know, this is my first trip to a hunting lodge . I’m making it up as I go along. ”

“My reserve hunting lodge.”

“You are leaving room for my aspirations.”

Tipping back his head, Benedict took a swallow of claret.

Tommy imagined it slipping down his long throat, and he wanted to lick the length of it himself.

“Apart from the obvious,” Benedict said, swirling the drink around in his glass, “there’s very little to occupy one in the countryside out of season. ”

The obvious was perfectly fine with Tommy.

“I suppose we could always get drunk,” he added. “Tends to be the usual fallback for most of my chums.”

Or we could indulge in mind-blowing, glorious fucking?

Perhaps there was an etiquette to staying in a hunting lodge that Tommy was unaware of.

No fucking until nightfall. Or perhaps his virgin lover was simply waiting for Tommy to make the first move.

“Not the worst suggestion I’ve ever heard,” he said neutrally.

The duke pushed away his plate. “Do you play billiards?”

Really? Those games could go on for hours . “Badly,” Tommy admitted. “Rossingley once tried to teach me but gave up. His house rules are unorthodox, to say the least.”

“I imagine he’s sickeningly good.”