Page 33 of To Defend a Damaged Duke
Benedict could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times an Ashington had cleared a room of staff.Once, when his mother and father had a blazing row over a damned ugly painting of a spaniel (why that almost spiralled into the Second War of Jenkins’ Ear, Benedict was still none the wiser eight years later).And, secondly, when Lyndon, in a fit of pique, lobbed a steak knife across the room, sending it whistling past their father’s head by less than six inches to spear the wall behind him.To this day, the flock wallpaper and Lyndon’s arse still bore deep scars.
Benedict stared down into his empty cup, searching for inspiration amongst the dregs until the door closed firmly behind Johnson.None was forthcoming.
“I’m afraid to inform you, Francis, that our brother has recently learned some truths about me.He’s prepared to use them for personal gain and, in so doing, may downright ruin my reputation.And, by proxy, your chances of persuading Lord Ludham to allow you to marry his daughter.”
He dared a glance up at Francis, whose boyish features bore a baffled expression that under any other circumstance would be amusing.
Benedict plunged on.“I can only assume this is an act of retaliation by Lyndon against our deceased father and his final wishes, which I follow out of a sense of duty and, broadly speaking, can see very little alternative to.”
Again, he wiped his damp forehead, feeling utterly spent and dreading Francis’s inevitable questions.Perhaps he wouldn’t pose any.Stranger things had happened.Tommy kissing Benedict back, for instance.
Yet Francis did respond, of course, though his tone was much softer than the one he’d used to berate Tommy.
“Whatever Lyndon thinks he knows, he must be very much mistaken, Benedict.On every occasion, you behave impeccably.You put the rest of us to shame and have done so for the entirety of my existence.Whatevertonprattling Lyndon believes he has dug up, I would not believe a single word of it.Nor, I’d wager, would anyone else.”
Benedict could weep.“I’m afraid, my dear Francis, you have me raised on a pedestal supported by feet of clay.”
“Poppycock.”Francis laid down his cutlery and leaned back in his chair.He folded his arms.“What is this thing, then?Tell me, that I may judge for myself.”
They imagine your shame isolates you.A standard bullying tactic.
“If Lyndon had been allowed to complete his sentence yesterday evening, then…then he would have intimated, none too subtly, that…that I do not, and have never, frequented Petticoat Lane.”
Even in the depths of his misery, Benedict squirmed at the stupid, coy euphemism.“He has discovered that I…I have, on occasion, preferred to seek…um…carnal refreshments elsewhere.”
“You…you…” Francis’s brow creased, and he screwed up his nose as if trying hard to make sense of things and failing.Benedict could have added that nowadays he sought his pleasure not at all, not since that fateful night, but he really preferred not to allude to his prevarications more times than absolutely necessary.Once was enough, and the damage was done.
As comprehension slotted into place on his dear brother’s face, Francis’s confidence a few seconds earlier vanished like a candle snuffed out.
“Oh Lord,” Francis eventually uttered.And again a few seconds later, more quietly, “Oh Lord.”And then, compounding the issue and demonstrating that his mind wasn’t half as nonthreatening as he led everyone to believe, he cried, “How the blazes did Mr L’Esquire find out?”
“I…I’d rather not say.”Benedict blew out a long breath.“But he demonstrated last night that he has no interest in sharing his knowledge.”
Francis made a begrudging noise.“We should count our small blessings, shouldn’t we?”
“Yes.”
Strangely, the shocking news didn’t diminish Francis’s appetite.Cogitating on it, he polished off another sausage, then mopped up the juice with two fried eggs.Benedict’s stomach performed a few more miserable somersaults.
“Personally speaking, Benedict,” Francis finally pronounced through an eggy mouthful.“I cannot possibly imagine anything remotely beguiling about ferreting about with another gentleman’s block and tackle.Especially when, as a bloody duke, you have literally 99 percent of England’s fairer sex at your disposal.”
He gave a slight shudder.“Be that as it may, what I suppose I’m trying to say is that whatever you choose to do in the privacy of your own bedchamber with other likeminded gentlemen is not the business of blasted Lyndon.Nor of the lawmakers, Lord Ludham, or anyone else in theton, for that matter.”
A prickly heat stung at the back of Benedict’s eyes.He blinked a few times.“Thank you,” he managed.
“Don’t worry about thanking me.I haven’t done anything.Yet.”Francis poured himself another coffee and stirred in a generous helping of sugar.“What we really need to be focusing on is this.Now our dear Lyndon is determined to spite you and, more importantly as far as I’m concerned, create yet another bloody spurious reason as to why Lord Ludham refuses to let me marry Isabella, what are we going to do about it?”
We.Twice, in the space of a day and a night.Maybe Benedict wasn’t as isolated as he’d always believed.
Francis pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth, and then refolded his arms with a defiant look.A tiny weight lifted from the duke’s shoulders at the same time as Benedict’s love for his kind, generous brother overflowed, sufficient to fill a ballroom.And, if he hadn’t inexplicably burst into tears, he might have told him so.
*
BENEDICT GREETED TOMMYin the library.Francis insisted on tagging along, and they entered together to find their visitor standing at the tall shelves with a book open, leafing through the pages.In a light grey tailcoat paired with a cornflower silk cravat, Tommy was one of the most welcome and prettiest sights Benedict could recall.Devastatingly at ease, one would never have guessed he hadn’t been born into the gentrified classes.And if he was surprised or disappointed to see Francis bounding in after Benedict, he was careful not to show it.
“What a pleasure it is to see you again so soon, Mr L’Esquire,” said Benedict, feeling as lumpish and socially inadequate as ever.“Johnson is bringing tea.”
“I’m sure we’d all prefer a much stiffer drink,” added Francis disarmingly.“Except boring Benedict here insists on keeping a clear head.”
