Page 26 of To Defend a Damaged Duke
“Oh.”Now Benedict was even more perplexed.He barked a laugh, sounding a tad hysterical even to his own ears.“Perhaps I should ask him to perform the same service with my persecutor.”
“Mm.”Tommy’s mouth pressed in a thin line again.Benedict had been fixating on that mouth, the lips neither too plump nor too thin but ever so shapely, once the golden lick of hair was safely back under Tommy’s hat.
“When I reveal your persecutor’s identity, you may not wish for that, Your Grace.”
“I wish the bastard was food for the worms,” cried Benedict.“And, I beg you, don’t stand on ceremony with thisYour Gracebusiness.I can’t abide it.I’m not worthy, especially as far as you’re concerned.Ashington or…or Benedict when we are alone is perfectly adequate.”
Colour suffused his cheeks once more.When we’re alone?He might as well have laid down his heart’s deepest desires and delivered them to Tommy in the form of a list himself.
“Your tormentor is Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons,” Tommy announced bluntly.“Your brother.”
A wave of horror swept through Benedict.“L-Lyndon?”
“Yes.”
Time stood still as Benedict stared at Tommy with dismay.He swayed against Ganymede, clutching at the horse’s bridle as if he might tumble to the ground otherwise.The enclosure suddenly felt suffocating, as if all the air had been sucked out of it.“Are you sure?”
Tommy gave a bleak nod.“I’m afraid I am.”
Of course, he was sure.One didn’t toss around vicious accusations against a duke’s twin brother without a modicum of truth stacked up behind them.Sagging like a banked fish, Benedict clawed a deep breath.“Oh, lord.”
“Your Gr—Ashington,” began Tommy.“People will think you are ill.Turn towards Ganymede as though we are discussing his form.”Tommy stroked a hand along the horse’s back as if admiring his fine lines.“In fact, let me quiz you about him.You are distressed.People will notice.Tongues will wag.”
“I…” Burying his forehead against Ganymede’s hot shoulder, Benedict breathed in his dark, rooty scent.That Lyndon, his own dear, tormented brother, would attack him this way.“Does it bring you pleasure telling me this, Tommy?Is that why you have come?To watch me break?”
Benedict hung on to the bridle with all his might.What he would give right now to gallop away.To hoist himself atop Ganymede, grab the reins, and hurtle off, never to return.Bloody Lyndon.Bloody, bloody,bloodyLyndon.
“Absolutely not.If he wasn’t your kin, I would put a switchblade to his throat myself.”Tommy’s cool tones sliced through his misery.“Now, please, people are watching.”
A tearing, guttural sound issued from Benedict’s throat.“Your pity is worse than your spite.So what if I am watched as I crumble?Why wait for Lyndon to choose a time?Why not make a spectacle of myself here and now and be done with it?”
As Benedict’s voice rose, Ganymede pawed restlessly at the ground.
“Because…because I will not allow it, damn you,” Tommy hissed.“That is why.”
Sensing his master’s distress, the horse shifted again and then, with a fretful whinny, tossed his head back.Tommy’s steadying hand shot out at the same time as Benedict’s, and for a fleeting instant, their fingers came together.
“My apologies, Your Grace.”As if burned, Tommy’s hand snatched away.His heated gaze landed anywhere but on Benedict’s.“I should have broken this news in a less public arena.I was not thinking.”
Benedict drew in a deep, silent breath before letting it out slowly.And then another.“The sooner I discovered the truth, the better.Let us talk of normal things—horseflesh, anything—until I am more recovered from this shock.”
With his arms wrapped around himself, hands safely tucked away, Tommy retreated a step.“Rossingley tells me you ride even better than he,” he began awkwardly.“I confess, I find it hard to believe.I’ve accompanied him many a time on horseback.With that great black stallion of his between his legs, the man gallops like the wind.”
“Uh.Yes.”Once more, Benedict leaned into his horse for support.Coming so soon after the searing warmth of Tommy’s hand over his and the stunning blow of his brother’s perfidy, a visual of Rossingley’s spread legs, breeches pulled tight over his slender thighs, proved a step too far.Frankly, Benedict owed himself congratulations on still being vertical.His own skin, he was sure, radiated even hotter than that of his damp horse.
A group of ladies strolled close by, and he was aware of Tommy doffing his hat in polite acknowledgment.Their bubbly, messy chatter pierced Benedict’s light-headedness, bringing him back to the present.
“I was observing that Rossingley is a superb horseman,” prompted Tommy.“One of the finest.But I have learned that you best even him.”
The ladies were near enough to overhear, and Tommy’s eyes urged Benedict to formulate a sensible rejoinder.He racked his brains.
“I raced Nimbus to victory in both the Derby Stakes and the 2000 Guineas in the same year,” he eventually croaked.“Rossingley came second by a nose on each occasion.”
“So, it is true.”Tommy’s delectable mouth flashed the briefest of taut smiles.“I expected as much as the earl is not one for false modesty.You do not race any longer?”
“I have too many demands on my time.”None of them pleasant.
“But you were a famous winner,” Tommy persevered.The ladies moved away, their shrill chatter fading into the distance.“You also had successes in the St Leger.”
