Page 44 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

ASHINGTON HOUSE, SET in too many acres of rolling Hampshire countryside to compute, had overseen many a wedding.

None so gay as Francis and Isabella’s, perhaps.

Nor arranged so hurriedly. From the plump, rosy glow of his betrothed cheeks, Benedict suspected his youngest brother’s urges might have been assuaged sometime before the date was set.

For a chap with a sore head, he’d been awfully chirpy the morning after the Horton ball. Then again, so had Benedict.

“Do you think Lyndon will come?” Tommy asked.

They were seated around the fireplace in the Ashington library, a grand old and draughty corner of his vast ancestral home that Benedict didn’t especially care for. Not being much of a reader, he rarely ventured inside. Few did, which meant he and Tommy were blessedly alone.

“One can hope.” Benedict checked his pocket watch. “He’s still only fashionably late. The church ceremony isn’t until three.”

Four weeks had gone by since the Horton ball, during which most of the ton had decamped to the countryside. For Benedict, the visit was fleeting. He would be returning to town after the celebrations, whereupon he’d enjoy a quiet season in town with his lover. He was counting down the hours.

A footman’s scratch at the door announced Lyndon’s arrival. No one spoke until drinks were served and the footman departed. With his back to Benedict, Lyndon inspected the shelves as if totally alone. He looked better, Benedict thought. Less dissipated.

“Why is he here?” Lyndon queried, running his finger across a row of dusty, burgundy spines.

“Because I requested it,” answered Benedict. And because I can hardly bear leave his side . “I hear you have been staying in Norfolk.”

“Yes.” Selecting a volume, Lyndon turned, weighing the book in his hand. It was one of the ancient ones, beautiful to look at but never opened, and trimmed in delicate gold leaf. “I shall return tomorrow.”

“Is the house sufficiently comfortable? I have not visited for many a year.”

“Yes,” Lyndon confirmed. “If one is an enthusiast of flat, bleak wetlands and a social diary rivalling that of a garden slug. Also, it drizzles incessantly.” His eyes flicked to Benedict’s. “A feature of the Norfolk climate not even a grand duke such as yourself can bend to suit his wishes.”

He weighed the book in his hand again, deliberating. For an awful moment, Benedict thought he was limbering up to throw it.

“Though who knows?” Lyndon continued. “You succeeded in bending the minds of the ton , after all. Well played, Your Grace.”

“They saw what they saw,” Benedict replied evenly, “and drew their own conclusions.”

“Did he put you up to it?” Lyndon jerked his chin.

“Tommy Squire?” The corner of his top lip curled as if smelling something rotten.

“Naturally, I know who you are, Mr L’Esquire .

And I know what you do.” His gaze drifted around the vast library, up and across the miles of shelves.

“Since when did a molly boy acquire such a taste for luxury?”

“Around the time I acquired a duke as a lover,” Tommy replied.

“If you refer to Mr L’Esquire’s past in those terms within my earshot one more time,” Benedict cut in, “I shall scratch you off without a penny. He is a gentleman of business, running successful gaming establishments, brothels, and blackleg stands. Nothing more, nothing less. And if I hear you are insinuating anything different, then—”

“Yes, you’ll set me free from your apron strings without a pot to piss in.” Lyndon sighed irritably. “Was there a specific reason you requested my presence, Your Grace, or was it simply to parade your well-used male lover?”

The objective was fast becoming to punch the light from his brother’s eyes if he carried on much longer in this supercilious vein.

Which would serve no purpose whatsoever, except to temporarily soothe Benedict’s temper and give Lyndon the satisfaction of witnessing him loose it. Under his breath, he counted to ten.

“I have a proposition for you, Lyndon, one you may not like, but which is for your own good.”

Lyndon smirked. “Your transformation into our father is complete, brother.”

In some situations, poor behaviour was better ignored. Though damned difficult. Benedict had already spotted Tommy’s fists curled into tight little balls. He knew what was coming. Tommy had listened, expressed his misgivings, then supported Benedict’s decision anyhow.

“I would like you to spend the autumn in Norfolk. The estate manager tells me there is much work to be done, and ideally, a family member needs to oversee it. That member shall be you, and I expect monthly reports. Mr L’Esquire’s man, Sidney”—at this his brother’s eyebrow rose—“will periodically surprise you with a visit to ensure all is well. It transpires he has family that way.”

“I’ll be sure to kill the fatted calf,” murmured Lyndon. “Though I seem to recall he mentioned something about pigs, so perhaps a loin of pork might suit his palate more.”

“If you follow that instruction to my satisfaction—and I have modest expectations—I shall return your full allowance and give you use of the rooms in Portland Street.” Before Lyndon’s next dollop of sarcasm, Benedict added, “There are conditions.”

“Of course, there are.” Lyndon’s eyes rolled. “I must dole out alms to the poor each Wednesday, join the Tuesday ladies’ sewing circle, and pay a visit to the church every morning. Twice on the sabbath.”

“No. Nothing as draconian as that. Though I’m not stopping you.

I’m simply asking that, on your return to London, you restrict your club membership to Squire’s—you must rescind Bootle’s and White’s.

That way, I can keep tabs on your gambling habits.

Furthermore, you must use Squire’s stands to place your wagers for the same reasons. ”

“Must I only fuck his chits too?”

“Actually, they’re the only ones you are prohibited from fucking, my lord,” answered Tommy smoothly. “I’m quite fond of them.”

“Oh, and you must stop using the word ‘fuck’ in my presence,” interrupted Benedict. “Especially when you dine with me and Tommy, which—again on your return to town—shall be every Thursday evening at six. It’s childish and vulgar, and Francis and Isabella will periodically join us.”

“On balance, I think I preferred father’s rules. Less prissy. Anything else?”

Benedict and Tommy exchanged a look. “No,” said Benedict. “I think that’s enough to be getting on with, don’t you?”

Halfway to the door, Lyndon paused, toying with the heavy book as if deliberating. Benedict waited.

“Indulge my curiosity, Ben,” he said at last. “How did you do it? Convince the ton you were a scoundrel of the highest order? Word of your exploits is still reaching my ears all the way up in Norfolk.”

Benedict permitted himself a small smile. He imagined his thwarted nosy brother pacing the wooden floors of his gloomy Norfolk home, his clever brain increasingly frustrated.

“I recently discovered, since finding Tommy again, that I am not alone in my predilections. There are…ah…quite a few of us knocking around.” Unbidden, a picture of his dear Beatrice, strolling through the walled garden only a few hours earlier, arm in arm with Mrs de Villiers filled his mind.

“Some have been under our noses all along, if only one knew where to look,” he added. Rossingley’s slight frame flitted across his vision, but as he’d been when Benedict was a boy—a bright, dazzling bolt of colour in his stuffy, dreary boyhood.

“And the funny thing is,” Benedict continued, his gaze never wavering from his beloved Tommy, “despite our differences, we are allies. Which is a roundabout way of saying that I have more friends than I ever imagined. And they are a strong bunch. I would recommend not taking them on. Only, I think you’ve possibly worked that out for yourself. ”

Even clever Lyndon had no answer to that. As he reached the door, Benedict spoke again.

“The book, Lyndon. It belongs to the Ashington estate, and you appear to still be holding it. Do leave it on the table on your way out. Poppet .”

*

“HE CALLED ME Ben,” Benedict said excitedly. “Did you hear? He never calls me that. Not since we were very young. It gives me hope, Tommy.”

Tommy shook his head, though he was still smiling. “Hope was never lost, my love.”

He rose and sauntered to the door, carefully locked it, then sauntered over to where Benedict lounged on a settee plenty big enough for two. Settling himself, he snaked his arm around the back of Benedict’s neck, drawing him close and kissing his temple.

“I’ve never fucked in a duke’s library,” he observed.

“A hunting lodge, yes, and in a bedchamber, of course. Also, on a drawing room chair, on a spindly study chair, which is sadly no more, and quite recently, across the bench of a duke’s coach and four.

” He kissed Benedict again, no doubt recalling how they whiled away the hours travelling through Hampshire.

“But I’ve never fucked in a duke’s library. ”

Benedict chuckled. Already, he was loosening his cravat and fumbling with the fall of his breeches. “It’s a funny thing, Tommy. I don’t find that coarse word half as unpleasant spilling from your mouth.”

“What else do you like spilling from my mouth, Your Grace?” His fingertips traced slow circles up Benedict’s thigh. Benedict pulled him into his arms.

“The church service is not for another hour. Why don’t we find out?”