Page 37 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

A PERSISTENT AND delicious image of Benedict mooching around his stables in his shirt sleeves, between pretending to woo two very agreeable ladies, convinced Tommy he had the raw end of the deal.

He was a busy man, juggling several business interests.

He needed to while away four afternoons trotting around Regent’s Park in a phaeton with Lady Isabella Knightley like he needed a new aperture in his cranium.

Nonetheless, he fell on his sword and, by the end of the week, was rewarded with rumours of his amour detailed in the Mirror of Fashion column, alongside a puff piece about the enigmatic, brooding Mr Angel and his competing pursuits of the delightful Lady Isabella.

The point being, he barely saw Benedict.

Of course, he could have paid him a call at his imposing, lavish home on Park Lane, but even if he did, Tommy couldn’t exactly lunge at him on the drawing room settee and cart the man off to bed.

A friendly ride through the park would prove equally frustrating.

And whilst a brief liaison in Tommy’s rooms above the club was entirely feasible, anyone spotting the duke tripping up and down the staircase would find it most odd.

Of course, all that assumed Benedict found a spare moment to visit Squire’s in the first place.

So far, since their return from the hunting lodge, the broadsheets reported his evenings had been taken up with soirées, musicales, and an expedition accompanying his harem to the bloody opera.

Rossingley bore the brunt of Tommy’s ill temper. With one knee neatly crossed over the other, he sat in the spindly chair (which didn’t as much as whimper) across from Tommy’s desk, picking through a jar of sherbet twists.

“Since falling in love, darling, you’ve become a terrible bore.” Rossingley licked at a sherbet. “Benedict this, the duke that. Honestly, Tommy, I’m beginning to question why I still endure your company.”

“Says the man who not so long ago sat in that very seat and treated me to a detailed account of precisely how Angel’s double-jointed tongue succeeds in pleasuring you so thoroughly. As I recall, it’s a similar technique to how you’re making love to that blasted sherbet.”

Rossingley pouted, then attacked the sherbet with even more gusto.

Restlessly, Tommy threw down his quill. “Oh, Lordy,” he sighed, swiping a sherbet for himself. “I’m heartsick is all. Is it too much to ask that one might spend a few nights under the same sheets as one’s lover without having to skulk about?”

Rossingley regarded him with a thoughtful look as he demolished the sweet. “No, I daresay not.”

“I can’t just drop everything and hare off to one of his bloody hunting lodges every time the urge takes me. I have too many obligations in town. As does Benedict. And I like town. I don’t sneeze in town.”

Rossingley procured another sweet. “My brother, Robert, a first-rate countryman, would advise you at this juncture that the answer is at the tip of your nose.”

“My runny nose,” Tommy interrupted. “When I’m in the country.”

“Quite,” said Rossingley. “And then, after boring you with an unsolicited diversion into the joys of animal husbandry, he’d pronounce that successful shepherds persuade their sheep so their interests might align with their own.”

“Then thank heavens bloody Robert is not here,” replied Tommy testily. “Really, Lordy, I can’t see the relevance. If you’re simply tolerating my brown study to scoff my sherbets, you can bugger—”

“You’re the shepherd,” cut in Rossingley, his silvery eyes glittering with amusement.

“And our club patrons are your sheep. Now—” He paused whilst he unwrapped his sweet.

“—ask yourself this. How could my nightly craving for a tumble with my handsome duke possibly align with their needs?” He licked his lips.

“Their needs for a nearby bed when foxed, for instance.”

He gazed around Tommy’s cosy study, then drifted his eyes lazily up to the ceiling. “If I’m not mistaken, there are quite a lot of rooms above here, aren’t there? For a single man? Imagine, all those empty bedchambers. Going to waste.”

“Baa,” bleated Tommy irritably. “You really can be bloody smug sometimes, Lordy.”

*

“I’M MISSING YOU ,” he murmured close to Benedict’s ear.

For a minute or so, a small twitch of Benedict’s lips was the only indication he’d heard. To all and sundry, the duke appeared to be studying the procession of horses being led slowly into the parade ring in readiness to race for the Gold Cup.

“I miss you too,” he answered, his dark gaze fixed on the handsome creatures lining up to be inspected. “But only when I’m breathing. And I would like nothing more than to shout that from the Royal Stand.”

It was Ladies Day at Ascot. And the day of the dreaded Horton ball.

The typical, dry June afternoon held the power to change the course of Benedict’s future forever and, with it, the path of Francis, Isabella, and Tommy.

For a man bearing such a heavy load, the duke appeared remarkably calm.

But then, he was surrounded by his beloved horseflesh.

“Sidney informs me Lord Lyndon is betting heavily on Tuppence Tilly, Bannister’s piebald mare,” Tommy informed him. “She’s running against Ganymede. He’s spreading his bets across several blacklegs, not only mine.”

“Is he now?”

Scant rain had fallen during the week and the fair weather set to continue. With the completion of the new Royal Stand, a crowd of thousands had gathered to watch the main event.

Benedict hummed, lifting his shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “She’s a decent runner and most definitely suits this hard ground. I’d put fifty pounds on her myself if I thought she had a hell’s chance of besting Ganymede.”

Tommy was taken aback. “Has your jockey not accepted Lord Lyndon’s bribe?”

“Goodness, yes. I advised Sam to accept the money two days ago.”

Benedict raised a polite hand to a group of acquaintances. The ladies in the party giggled behind their fans. “I also instructed him to treat Mrs Sam and the children to something special with it.”

“I see.”

He didn’t see at all, but his lover seemed utterly unbothered.

Whilst Tommy digested this snippet of information, hoping for more, another group passed.

The ladies bobbed blushing curtsies in the direction of his companion.

Benedict had become a far more interesting object of late.

Acknowledging them with an elegant bow, he groaned.

“I’ll be glad when this blasted ball tonight is over, and I can go back to being nothing but a dull part of the ton furniture.”

Tommy wished fervently for that, too, being much preferable to the alternative. A sick feeling gnawed at him every time he thought of it. “I have prayed every night and most mornings for that satisfactory outcome.”

“Does He listen to prayers from men such as us?”

“Probably not.” Tommy chuckled. “I’m hedging my bets, regardless.”

Tipping his head up to the clear skies, Benedict filled his lungs with a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

“Strangely, I find myself at peace with the world. I’m feeling…

lucky.” Again, he tilted at more well-wishers gathering for the race.

“This excellent clear weather is an omen for things to come.”

Tommy fervently hoped he was right. As Benedict surveyed the scene laid out below, Tommy snatched a glance at him. Tall and proud, he wore a new navy greatcoat, and his bejewelled signet ring flashed in the watery sunshine. He stood every inch an untouchable, commanding duke.

Sensing Tommy’s eyes on him, Benedict turned, his own crinkling. “Don’t worry, my love. I have a feeling everything will turn out just fine. Starting with this race.”

Tommy shook his head, wishing he had half the confidence and wondering from where his timid duke had gleaned his. Perhaps it came from the knowledge he was much-loved, from being unashamedly his true self, at least amongst those who cared for him.

“You’re loving being mysterious, aren’t you?” said Tommy, unable to tear his eyes away.

“Mmm.” Benedict smiled crookedly. “Rossingley and Francis are pestering me at all hours of the day and night. Rest assured, none of you will have to wait much longer. Ah, there’s Sam, leading Ganymede into the ring now. He’s looking in excellent form, don’t you think?”

Tommy couldn’t help but agree. All sinews and sleek chestnut coat, the beast restlessly pawed the ground. Its bunched muscles rippled with barely contained power, like stacks of musket balls, ready to explode. “He’s in the form of his life.”

Leaving Ganymede to his admiring audience, Tommy’s gaze flitted over the onlookers, vaguely searching for people he knew, then lurched to a sudden halt.

On the opposite side of the parade ground, utterly still and alone, stood the unmistakeable tall, broad, redhaired figure of Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons.

Tommy was too far away to see his expression, though he sensed his tension, coiled up, a furious, living thing.

He hoped Benedict, still studying the horses, had not seen him.

A hush descended on the crowd as the master steward invited the stable owners into the parade ring for the traditional inspection. Belonging to some of the ton ’s wealthiest families, they were as much a spectacle as the racehorses themselves.

Benedict turned to Tommy, not as unhappily as Tommy would have expected. “That’s my cue,” he announced cheerfully. “Wish me luck.”

Before Tommy could question why, his lover strode away.

He watched, inordinately proud, as Benedict slipped into the weighty role of dutiful duke, waving at some folks and nodding at others as if nothing gave him more pleasure.

God, how Tommy, longed, prayed, begged , that tonight would give them cause to celebrate tomorrow.