Page 9 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

SOME MEN, OR so he’d been told, adored parties and balls.

Benedict had a suspicion Francis was firmly among their number.

He almost cracked a smile as his youngest brother, with a giggling debutante attached to each arm, galloped laps around Lady Butterworth’s ballroom.

Benedict could still take pleasure in it, despite having caught sight of himself in the glass opposite and mistaken himself for the personification of winter—and not the merry, frosty sort either, with ice crackling underfoot or Regent’s Park Lake turned into a skating rink.

Oh no. No hot chestnuts peeked out from between his glowing embers or, in fact, glowing embers.

Benedict’s reflection was a heavy charcoal cloud blanketing ponds of slush, a gust of foul weather with nowhere to go.

“May I suggest Lady Butterworth’s twin upper balconies might be more to your liking, my dear Ashington,” a cool voice murmured in his ear. “Over the years, I have always found them to be reliably comfortable, capacious, and, best of all, tucked well out of sight.”

With a start, Benedict turned to find an amused Rossingley at his shoulder.

He blushed furiously. Had his drifting mind left him staring at a young lady’s decolletage?

Was Rossingley making an improper joke? Goodness, he should force himself to venture out more and explore the company of other men.

Just because Squire’s was now out of bounds didn’t mean Benedict couldn’t find a club suited to him.

He felt like a dry old stick in White’s, already lumped in within the elders. He should give Boodle’s another try.

Rossingley patted his arm. “Follow me.”

Lady Butterworth’s twin upper balconies weren’t scandalous at all.

Ever since a foxed reveller fell to his death three years earlier, few opened their top galleries for guests—leaving the dancers stiflingly hot.

But Lady Butterworth was bucking the trend.

Benedict soon found himself with other like-minded gentlemen, sipping at something stronger than tame fruit punch whilst enjoying an excellent view of the more strenuous activities below.

Fighting off the competition, Isabella had regained the adoring arms of his brother. Rossingley’s chum, Mr Angel, waltzed most elegantly with Mrs Catherine de Villiers, a terribly exotic and, therefore, intimidating woman to whom Benedict had never dared speak.

“You must battle for the merry widow’s attentions, Rossingley,” a voice hooted from the adjacent balcony.

Benedict recognised it as belonging to Bannister, one of the cheerful young bucks he’d been introduced to at Squire’s.

“He might not be as plump in the pocket as you,” Bannister teased, “but he shows good leg on the dance floor. See? The lady is entranced!”

“My mistress,” explained Rossingley in a mild tone, utterly unperturbed, “the handsome Mrs de Villiers, not Bannister, thank heavens. Though he’s quite correct. They do look awfully good together, don’t they?”

“Ah,” responded Benedict, unsure whether one acknowledged a man’s mistress or not. During his childhood, overlooking the existence of his father’s had suited the entire family admirably.

As the couple trotted, light as air, across the dance floor, a half-smile played on the earl’s lips.

Though Benedict favoured Rossingley’s company above that of the more boisterous members of the ton , the man had an uncanny gift for making him feel a little off balance.

Shrugging it off, Benedict endeavoured to loosen the tension cramping his jaw, neck, and shoulders and, as they watched the couple float around the room, attempted to mimic the earl’s easy, relaxed pose.

Presently, the waltz drew to a close, and the quartet fell silent, though no one had told Francis.

He and Isabella were still very much in hold.

Benedict sighed. Somebody—preferably Isabella’s father—needed to put that boy out of his misery and let him pledge his troth.

At the near edge of the dance floor, Mr Angel performed an extravagant bow before planting a flamboyant kiss on Mrs De Villiers gloved hand.

Rossingley leaned forward at the exact moment Mr Angel’s eyes looked up, searching him out.

Benedict experienced a peculiar sensation.

Mrs De Villiers had wandered off, already snapped up by her next eager dance partner.

And yet, as if frozen in time, Rossingley and Mr Angel continued to stare intently at each other, the latter’s fierce dark gaze locked onto Rossingley’s with an intensity that seemed to ignite the very air surrounding them.

As for Rossingley, if Benedict didn’t know better from his misty-eyed expression, he’d think the earl was swigging laudanum, not port.

“If you’ll excuse me, Ashington, I may take a stroll around the gardens,” announced Rossingley after an eternity.

His lips curled into a small smile. “I’ve heard that Lady Butterworth’s begonias are not to be missed.

And I am of the opinion, after all that jigging around, Mr Angel might benefit from the fresher air too. ”

Though no horticulturalist, even Benedict knew begonias only flowered from mid-June. The January night was pitch black.

“Of c-course,” stammered Benedict as parts of an awfully complicated puzzle—a puzzle he’d been trying to solve since his inexplicable boyhood crush on Rossingley—fell into place. “I…I must away too. I promised the Honourable Beatrice Hazard the dance before dinner.”

*

RELUCTANT WOULD BE the best descriptor for Benedict’s excursions across a dance floor.

And though he was a member of that increasingly rare breed—an eligible duke—and a more than passable dancer, Benedict’s small talk was notoriously painful.

Several ladies were no doubt as grateful as he when Rossingley had dragged him away to safety.

The earl’s overt display of affection for another man left Benedict nudging at the boundaries of his imagination.

He wasn’t totally daft; he knew men of his nature generally gave in to their urges when needs must. Indeed, he had once done so himself with Tommy Squire.

But that they dared live alongside one another—and in plain sight if one knew where to look—tilted the very fabric of his being off centre.

Benedict could be no more discombobulated than if Rossingley had declared the world a triangular pyramid.

Partnering even-tempered, no-nonsense Beatrice was the perfect antidote, even if for the minuet, a dance not designed for a larger man. Nonetheless, with a bit of luck, she’d have him back on a sufficiently even keel to navigate dinner.

“Emerald-green taffeta is very fetching on you, Beatrice,” he began as she dipped in a curtsy. He bowed in response. Indeed, it was the truth. The colour complemented her auburn hair and fair, freckled skin.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I chose it to clash with my mother’s scarlet organza. She is refusing to speak to me this evening because of it, which is a veritable bonus.”

Already, as Benedict took her small, gloved hand in his own, holding it lightly, he felt more at peace.

“Francis and Isabella have had three dances in succession,” he observed, catching sight of his brother’s dark head closer to Isabella’s than the minuet warranted.

“I fear it is my duty to have strong words with them both. The gossipmongers at The Morning Herald will be sharpening their quills.”

“Oh, you do not need to concern yourself,” Beatrice answered gaily. “Trust me, they’ll hardly warrant a mention in dispatches tomorrow.”

They each took a dainty step towards the other, in perfect accord with the music.

“A scandal brewing this evening will finally give them some other excitement to scribble about rather than rehashing Lord Gartside’s old crimes.

Lord Lyndon’s thieving antics will seem positively childish by comparison and tittle-tattle about Francis and Isabella, nothing but crumbs for the birds. ”

Benedict and gossip weren’t natural bedfellows, yet Beatrice’s heightened colour piqued his interest. “Oh, yes?”

Irritatingly, they had to step away from each other and to the side, obliging Beatrice to execute a delicate turn.

“Most certainly,” she responded when she became close enough once more. “Though the scandal is not a topic suitable for a na?ve young lady.” At this, she demurely lowered her eyelashes.

Benedict laughed, pretending to look this way and that. “Well, we’re in luck, Beatrice, as none will overhear.”

“It concerns a bawdy house,” she mouthed as they drew even closer.

Her own gaze darted theatrically from left to right too.

He’d never seen her so missish; the performance was delightful.

“A bawdy house that was raided,” she added sotto voce.

“A list of gentlemen who used to frequent the place has fallen into the hands of a person of nefarious means.” She embellished her revelation with a little twirl and a raised eyebrow.

“One of the gentlemen on the list is, supposedly, very high ton indeed.”

Benedict pondered this tidbit of gossip during the next sequence of steps.

Unsure what all the fuss was about, he wondered if his plodding brain had missed something.

Raids on bawdy houses were hardly news, and Beatrice wasn’t usually one to get caught up in such a trivial matter.

Nor was it noteworthy that high society gentlemen made up the clientele.

Indeed, plenty of chaps of his acquaintance—decent fellows, too—paraded their exploits as a badge of honour.

Truth be told, rather than finding them discomforting, he experienced a pang of envy that they could brag about their carnal urges so openly.

The dance was reaching its conclusion. Beatrice stepped gracefully towards him once more and then to his left.