Page 45 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)
“WHERE IS EVERYBODY? ” demanded Francis.
“I turned around to find only myself and my darling new wife remaining on the dance floor! And now, her mother has pulled her aside to say her goodbyes to the northern side of the family. I’ll be embroiled for hours if I join her; they’ll make me promise all sorts of dreary treks to Yorkshire.
I don’t have the constitution for northern living. ”
He peered over Benedict’s shoulder as if expecting a contingent of elderly aunts armed with cuffs and chains. “I can usually rely on Rossingley to show a half decent leg on the dance floor, but he’s buggered off too. So, I need to appear terribly occupied over here for the next few minutes.”
“Rossingley and Angel retired an hour ago,” Benedict answered. “To their bedchambers in the east wing.”
“Angel was muttering something about soft furnishings, I believe,” added Tommy blandly.
“Oh, right…” Perplexed, Francis scratched his head before noticing Benedict’s mouth twisting into a smirk.
“Listen, you chaps,” Francis blustered. “I know I’m being terribly grown up about this, but honestly, I’ve just gorged on a huge slice of my own wedding cake. As things stand, it’s going to be a devil to digest without that imagery.”
“What imagery would that be?” Full of innocence, Tommy’s grey eyes regarded Benedict’s brother.
Wisely, Francis chose to disregard him. “And Beatrice seems to have sloped off too. More’s the pity.
Old Tuffy danced with her twice this afternoon and found the experience most satisfying.
He’s of a mind to call on her once we’re back in town.
About time both of them settled down. It’s her fourth season, isn’t it? ”
“Third, I believe,” answered Benedict with a pleasant smile. “And last I heard; she and Mrs de Villiers were discussing the advent of liberal Toryism while perusing the cheeseboard.” He paused a beat. “And you know how tempting cheeseboards can be… I’m not sure she’ll have eyes for anything else.”
“Cheeseboa…oh, lord. Really? Our Beatrice and Mrs…” Shaking his head, Francis wiped his brow. “ Really ?”
Benedict gave his shoulder a kindly pat. “’Fraid so, brother. Break the news to young Tuffy gently, won’t you?”
“And in words of one syllable,” added Tommy.
“Right ho.” Francis examined them both. “Seems I’ll have to make do with you two then.
That or track Lyndon down. At least he’ll still be up for another round of something alcohol-related.
” He frowned. “Mind you, he was surprisingly sober last time I spotted him. He’s off to Norfolk again tomorrow.
He was telling me he’s of a mind to turn the often-waterlogged fields to the south of the property to mustard and radish.
Apparently, they suit damp soil. Good for him! ”
A weary footman passed by, proffering the last of the champagne. Accepting a glass, Francis turned to Benedict and Tommy, who had both declined.
“Don’t tell me you’re not imbibing either. It’s my wedding night!”
“And a very warm and happy one,” agreed Benedict, “during which I have drunk, danced, and been merry. And considerably increased your annual allowance in order for you to keep the newly minted Lady Fitzsimmons in the manner to which I expect she will very much want to be accustomed. Thus, I feel my participation in the day’s festivities has been well and truly filled and is now over. ”
Giving him a final embrace, Benedict stepped away from his youngest, most beloved brother. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Tommy and I quite fancy a walk before bed. We’re off to admire the begonias.”
*
WATCHING OVER THEM , the moon was a serene presence, daubing the dewy grass in a pale, white-gold glow.
Ashington’s extensive gardens boasted hidden corners only known to three inquisitive small boys, now all fully grown.
Tugging Tommy by the hand, Benedict led him down towards the boating lake, through the fronds of a willow, across a patch of mossy grass (where the gardeners heaped up twigs and fallen leaves), and then out of sight.
They settled against the trunk of an old beech.
With his arms wrapped around his lover, keeping him warm, Benedict contemplated the stars.
If he were a cleverer man, he’d have come up with something romantic or profound to say about them to share with Tommy, who would laugh and tease and love him, regardless.
And then maybe share something of himself back.
Perhaps next time. He’d work on some ideas in the interim.
“They shine brighter out here than in town,” remarked Tommy. “I noticed when we visited the lodge.”
“They do,” agreed Benedict. “Not all things about the country are bad.” He squeezed Tommy a little tighter. “Especially when everything blooms and the evenings are long, like now during the summer months.”
He stayed quiet for a few minutes. The country was also better than town for quietness, too, in his opinion, not that he’d ever persuade his lover.
“I like the summer months best,” said Tommy, his soft voice fracturing the quiet. “I dislike being caught in the rain, and I detest feeling cold. Too much of my life used to be spent shivering in inadequate clothing. Though I’m not scared of thunderstorms.”
Benedict hardly dared move. Minutes of silence filled the spaces between Tommy’s raw words, a silence so deep, it was a poem in itself. His heart thudded in his throat.
“I like crocuses,” Tommy conceded, “but I prefer dandelions and…and simple daisies. They were the only flowers I knew by name as a child. They grew up with me, between the dry cracks in the streets. Horses trampled them, mud and leather boots crushed them, and still, they never gave up.”
In the circle of Benedict’s arms, his fair head tilted back to rest on Benedict’s broad shoulder. Benedict buried his nose in the fine hair, not trusting himself to speak.
“I…I do not have a favourite dessert,” Tommy continued, “except I often purchase a quart of sherbets or barley sugars. They live in a jar on the corner of my desk. Red ink is an affectation, nothing more, nothing less. Though I find any errors in the calculations in my ledgers are clearer with it.”
He held up his left hand and pulled back the cuff. A faded, jagged crescent disrupted the pale, smooth skin of his slender wrist.
Benedict swallowed. It was the only one of his questions left unanswered. Half of him wished he’d never posed it. “You never need tell me the story about that if you don’t want,” he whispered. “If it is too much.”
“I will, one day,” said Tommy with a smile in his voice.
“But not yet. Perhaps to pass the time during a long ride, when we have exhausted all other activities to occupy us.” He shook down his cuff.
“It is nothing really. Simply the opening sentence of a romantic story about a poor young man who fell in love with a rich, handsome rake.”
Benedict chuckled and hugged Tommy closer, like the rare, precious gift he was. “Does this romantic story of yours have a happy ending?”
A foolish question, one to which he already had the answer.
“Of course, Your Grace. Like all the best stories do.”