Page 41 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

“THE DINNER GONG can’t be too far off,” observed Benedict as he leaned on the railing, looking out across the dim garden.

Blessedly cool now, he was mostly recovered, and his belly rumbled.

Beatrice had stopped rabbiting about the flora and fauna ages ago.

Now that the light had completely gone, there was naught to see but dark, gloomy trees.

He checked his pocket watch. “I should probably get myself back in there, shouldn’t I? There’s nothing more annoying at one of these shindigs than hanging around, famished, because one arrogant duke or marquis decides he’s not quite ready to dine yet.”

He spoke from years of experience. His father had been a past master. On taking up his title, Benedict resolved never to become that person.

“In a few minutes hence, Your Grace,” remarked a totally different voice to the one belonging to the woman he’d escorted out here, “I doubt anyone will be giving their hungry stomachs a second thought.”

Benedict jerked around to find Mrs de Villiers hastily unpinning her hair and doing something fiddly in the region of her bosom, which involved pushing it much farther from the confines of its corset than was decent.

“Who…what? Where’s Beatrice gone? And what on earth are you doing?”

Mrs de Villiers flashed a quick glance inside, and Benedict followed her gaze. Fewer people milled about the dance floor. None, in fact. They all appeared to have gathered at the far end in a bunched-up semicircle as if something, or someone, held their entire collective attention.

“You’ll find out soon enough, Your Grace.

Beatrice is awfully sweet, but she really doesn’t need her reputation totally besmirched.

And I believe you would hate for that to happen too.

” Mrs de Villiers gave each of her cheeks a hard pinch and then rubbed at her lips.

“Only a widow could get away with some scandals in this perfidious town. Now…come here, Your Grace. Stand like this. I need you to place this hand here, put that leg there, and your lips here on my—”

Her last instruction was swallowed by Benedict’s mouth.

And superfluous. Their lips smooshed together as one of Mrs de Villiers gloved hands pressed forcibly around the nape of his neck and the other yanked him into her grasp.

Caught off guard, he staggered backwards, but a thoroughly committed Mrs de Villiers reeled with him.

Wind whipped at her dress. Their feet tangled; she tripped over his.

He flailed madly, and they careened into the railing.

In an instant, Benedict felt himself tipping and overbalancing, tipping and overbalancing.

He hovered in mid-air. Shards of the past flashed before his eyes, tossed like playing cards: Lyndon’s childhood laughter, his first race with Nimbus, a billiard table as a makeshift bed, Francis wrinkling his nose at Isabella.

Last season’s cravat. And Tommy, his dear, dear Tommy, loving him without measure.

With a choked cry, he scrambled for purchase. The tips of his fingers grazed something soft and silky, like peach skin. With both hands, Benedict grabbed at it, clinging on for dear life.

At that precise moment, the doors behind him wrenched open.

“Good heavens, Your Grace!” squawked a voice. “Put her down! Now! Put. Her. Down!”

A thrilling silence echoed around the stunned onlookers. Time slowed to a crawl; Benedict fancied it stopped altogether.

“Put. Her. Down!”

Summoning the shreds of his dignity, Benedict extracted his hands from the twin cushions of Mrs de Villiers pert breasts.

Tenderly, carefully, he put her back on her feet.

His own felt as if they’d been swapped with those of a newborn foal.

His heart had been exchanged for that of a frightened rabbit.

This was the plan, he told himself, over and over.

It was all part of the plan. He was a rake, a rake, a rake.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Mrs de Villiers purred breathily.

Her gaping decolletage heaved in time to his own, yet otherwise, she appeared no more distraught than if he’d rescued her slipper from a muddy puddle.

As if unaware of the ton scrambling over one another to glimpse a better look, she straightened Benedict’s wayward cravat and moved to his waistcoat to refasten it.

Then, most audacious of all, she winked at him.

He took the moment to slow his racing thoughts.

At last, bobbing a small curtsey, Mrs de Villers stepped away. Her luscious mouth twisted into a smile. “As always, Your Grace, that was most…magnificent.”

A ringing slap against his left cheek sent Benedict barrelling back against the railings.

“How jolly dare you, Your Grace!” The Honourable Beatrice Hazard’s familiar, clever countenance was inches from his own and had morphed into a mask of flushed, affronted horror. “You promised! Scoundrel!”

“What? I…ow!” Dazed, Benedict scrabbled to his feet in time for another smart spank to his right cheek. Like a thunderclap, the sound resounded through the crisp night air.

“Rogue!” she wailed in a high-pitched voice. “Philanderer! Lothario! You made a promise!” A third vicious smack followed. “Rakehell!”

“Ow!” Benedict’s cheeks smarted. His eyes watered like garden cans, not that he had a second to notice. Now, both women loomed over him, Mrs de Villiers managing to look awfully indignant whilst Beatrice desperately tried her best not to laugh. He braced against the railing.

“I thought you were my one true love,” Beatrice howled. A little overdramatically, if Benedict was being perfectly honest, though at least no more bodily assaults seemed forthcoming. And judging by the collective gasp of horror circling the crowd of onlookers, no one else noticed or cared.

“Scapegrace! Varlet!” she added for good measure. Yes, he knew that look. His good friend, currently demonstrating her unmatched command of synonyms, was thoroughly enjoying herself.

With a strategically placed dinner napkin, Mrs de Villiers threw him a last, sultry look, then allowed the Countess of Horton to usher her away.

Beatrice, affecting an imminent swoon, rushed from the balcony, too, quickly swallowed up in a swarm of ladies.

Gingerly, Benedict fingered his burning cheeks.

A robust figure barged through the crowd. Benedict swallowed. Oh Lord.

“Your Grace,” Lady Wardholme declared, accompanied by another ringing smack as she put that splendid strong arm to use. Benedict swore; his cheeks would never be the same again. Hands on capable hips, she glared at him. “And to think I believed myself unique!”

“You are, my lady.” Staggering to his full height, Benedict performed a wobbly bow. “Truly, unique. In every single blessed way.”

The Earl of Horton joined her, also glaring. “Dinner is served, Your Grace. Though the entrees will be stone cold. Nonetheless, we should not keep the Dowager Marchioness of Cranborne waiting any longer.”

“Absolutely not,” Benedict managed. “Quite right.”

Fishing out his pocket square, he mopped his brow.

“You and she have my most sincere apologies. Time and—” He floundered.

“—stepping out here to admire the begonias ran away with me. The marchioness and, indeed, your dear wife, the countess, have my sincerest apologies. All ladies everywhere have my sincerest apologies. I shall trouble none of you anymore. And I apologise if your evening has been ruined.”

Could one ever apologise enough? If he repeated the word would everyone forget the scene they had just witnessed?

“Trust me,” he added as fervently as he’d ever spoken. “It shall never happen again. I promise and humbly apologise. You have my word as a duke.”

“Bravo, Your Grace. Bravo. Apology accepted.” Lord Horton gave a brisk nod, then leaned closer. “If I was but ten years younger, my boy, I’d have been duelling you for those two ladies, you mark my words. Fine fillies, the pair of them. Bravo!”

For the briefest of interludes, Benedict imagined that would be the last word on the matter. His relief was short-lived.

“But I haven’t finished with him yet!” declared Lady Wardholme.

“I think, poppet, you’ll find that you have,” contradicted a cool, commanding voice. Considering he cut such a slight figure, Rossingley had a forceful presence. Benedict heaved an enormous sigh. Finally, finally , someone to take charge.

Rossingley patted his arm. “I do believe, Your Grace, that the earl and countess and each of the ladies present this evening accept your fulsome apology.”

He made an expansive gesture, encompassing the assembled throng.

“The night is warm, the punch has flowed freely, and we’ve all had a terribly exciting day.

” His upper lip curled with mischief. “And we’ve all been guilty of overindulging in the delights of the fairer sex, have we not?

Now…” Turning away from Benedict, Rossingley searched for a particular person.

“Ah, yes. Lord Lyndon. There you are, my darling. What is it you were wittering on about earlier? Something about the duke having a dalliance with…with a…a young footman ?”

A few titters broke out while several gentlemen snorted. More notably, a few of Lyndon’s chums edged away from him.

A picture of waspish disapproval, Rossingley addressed Benedict’s bleary, confused twin.

“Do I take it you were referring to this duke?” He pointed to Benedict, that gesture somehow encompassing his creased collar, rumpled waistcoat, flushed, damp face, and askew hair.

Askew, Benedict thought, described exactly how he felt.

“Incidentally, Your Grace,” Rossingley murmured, “you have a touch of rouge on your shirt.”

For the benefit of the folks straining their necks at the back, Rossingley tutted loudly. “No, no, no, Lord Fitzsimmons.” He shook his head. “It can’t be this duke. I fear you have erred greatly.”

“I’ve never heard such a preposterous suggestion in my life!” Francis butted in. “Lyndon, don’t be an ass. Retract at once. If His Grace wasn’t our esteemed brother, for this slight of character, he’d want pistols at dawn! Wouldn’t you, Benedict?”

What Benedict really wanted was a chair to sit on and for everyone to stop looking at him as if he were some exotic bug that had crawled from under a rug. As that wasn’t happening any time soon, he mustered his last reserves of ducal gravitas.

“Quite possibly.” Clasping his trembling hands behind his back, he pushed on.

“But I am your brother. If we duelled, my weapon would not be a pistol. But forgiveness . We are all at the mercy of foolish mistakes when foxed.” He brushed himself down and vainly tried to rearrange his hair.

“A lecture I should be delivering to myself this evening. None of us is immune. Our dear father, rest his soul, used to say there are no mistakes, only lessons.”

With herculean effort, Benedict nodded to his brothers, then stepped away from the balcony.

“I have had an excellent day at the races. You find me in excellent humour. Thus, on that note, I shall forget you ever entertained such nonsense and will put this matter to bed. A lady’s bed,” he added as he caught Rossingley’s amused expression.

Benedict rested his eyes on the Countess of Horton. “My lady, I do believe I have kept your delicious banquet waiting long enough. It would be my greatest pleasure to take your arm and escort you in to supper.”