Page 4 of To Defend a Damaged Duke
The horse softly pawed the ground.From a liquid brown eye, Benedict’s own image reflected back at him.Tall, dark, forbidding.Diffident.But nothing seemed amiss.
“Check over his teeth and hooves,” he said, “and encourage him to drink plenty.He’s in the four thirty at Epsom a week Wednesday.Tipped to place.”
With yet another niggling anxiety to add to his roster, Benedict walked on alone.Francis accompanied him occasionally.Though a decent horseman and kind master, when his brother swung his foot into the stirrups, it was merely for the purpose of suitable transport fromAtoB.Whereas Benedict would ride all day long in circles just for the hell of it.His thoroughbreds were his best friends, his equals, a means of escape.He rode swiftly, respecting every inch of the muscle, raw power, and sweat between his thighs.With the heart and dedication of a carefree lover.
And God knew those were in very short supply.
Chapter Two
SOME HOURS LATER, ensconced in the second study, the fourteenth duke was absorbed in the solitary sport of thumb twirling.Documents relating to estate matters awaited his attention, but he didn’t have the inclination to unseal them.
His father had been a thumb twirler; he’d frequently practised while waiting for Benedict’s mother to grace them with her presence at dinner.Since she was habitually tardy, his father became one of those rare folks who could twirl them in contrarotation; whenever Benedict attempted it, his thumbs inexplicably reverted to their former direction.
Outside his window, a carriage splashed noisily through the puddles, drawing his attention away from his wretched ennui.Though mastering his newly inherited title was a struggle, Benedict wasn’t necessarilysad—he had nothing to feel sad about.He was a healthy and wealthy young duke, for goodness’ sake!Put simply, he was empty, his enthusiasm for anything, except for his thoroughbreds, spread as thinly as butter.It was as though he waited, twirling his blessed thumbs, on something that might never happen.
The carriage momentarily paused, its occupants shrieking with laughter as water sploshed across the windows.He pictured the group of young, happy souls stuffed inside, taking part in a world full of people Benedict had never met, a world crammed with experiences he’d never experienced and potential lovers he’d never discover.Not if he spent every bloody evening thumb twirling.
Where was it his brother had muttered that he was off to?Squire’s.That new club on St James.Could he?Should he?Reticence and the fourteenth duke lived side by side.Reflexively, he dismissed the idea.He should send for his paperknife.And get on with unsealing his papers.On the cusp of Benedict ringing for a footman, another shriek invaded the calm of his study.Francis would be there, Tuffy would be there, and no doubt a few other chaps too.He could go for an hour, he supposed.An hour wouldn’t hurt.
And how bad could it be?
*
ON FIRST IMPRESSIONS, the place looked every bit as if it had occupied the four-storey building on the corner of St James and Charles Street for as long as White’s had been plying the same trade at the other end of St James.The carriages lined up outside were equally as smart, as were the raucous young gentlemen of thetonexiting them, none of whom Benedict recognised.Feeling old and staid and wondering if it wasn’t too late to turn back home, he waited behind three jolly chums divesting themselves of coats and hats and signing themselves in.
And then it was his turn.
Benedict considered himself tall, but the craggy-faced man behind the desk was taller still.He dwarfed the desk, his brawny shoulders seemingly reaching from one edge of it to the other.If he banged his fist down in anger, it might splinter.Benedict had no intention of finding out.
“Good evening, sir.”The man’s blunt gaze roamed Benedict’s features as if committing them to memory.“May I enquire if you are member?”
Unused to being scrutinised, especially when the scrutiny ended with a curiously knowing smile, Benedict found it rather disconcerting.
“No,” he admitted.“My…um…brother invited me.”
“His name, sir?”
“Lord Francis Fitzsimmons.”
Dampening his meaty thumb, the man flicked through a thick ledger, his expression blank.A large, rectangular gilt mirror adorned the wall behind him and, unaccountably nervous, Benedict examined himself in it.God, he looked severe.A study in black and white, as if newly risen from the dead.And so stiff; his charcoal coat and matching waistcoat could stand up by themselves.What on earth possessed him to choose such a dull waistcoat?There was once a time when he made a beeline for the most outlandish.
Hating all he saw reflected back, he dropped his gaze.
“Found him,” said the man.“He’s in tonight.”
“Good.”Benedict breathed a sigh of relief.
“And your name, sir?”
“I’m…uh…it’sduke, I’m afraid.”He always felt peculiar telling someone who he was; people tended to already know.On the necessary rare occasion, it usually elicited a change in behaviour; fawning was the best word to describe it.“I’m…um…the Duke of Ashington.”
For all the effect it had on the man behind the desk, he could have declared himself to be his youngest brother’s valet delivering a mislaid snuff box.
“This way, Your Grace,” the giant declared.
*
PERCHED AWKWARDLY ONthe edge of Francis’s rambunctious gaggle of friends, Benedict sipped at his very good quality sherry.He tried not to behave like a spectre at the feast, except he didn’t quite think he was pulling it off.Three of his brother’s pals turned out to be the high-spirited chaps he’d followed in.Oh, they made him feel welcome, and two of them he even vaguely knew something about, through Tattersall’s and the racetracks.Except, once he exhausted their enthusiasm for horseflesh (his own was inexhaustible), and their eyes began to glaze over, he realised the only reason they’d stuck with the polite conversation was due to his superior rank.
