Page 64 of To Defend a Damaged Duke
Benedict jerked around to find Mrs de Villiers hastily unpinning her hair and doing something fiddly in the region of her bosom, which involved pushing it much farther from the confines of its corset than was decent.
“Who…what?Where’s Beatrice gone?And what on earth are you doing?”
Mrs de Villiers flashed a quick glance inside, and Benedict followed her gaze.Fewer people milled about the dance floor.None, in fact.They all appeared to have gathered at the far end in a bunched-up semicircle as if something, or someone, held their entire collective attention.
“You’ll find out soon enough, Your Grace.Beatrice is awfully sweet, but she really doesn’t need her reputation totally besmirched.And I believe you would hate for that to happen too.”Mrs de Villiers gave each of her cheeks a hard pinch and then rubbed at her lips.“Only a widow could get away with some scandals in this perfidious town.Now…come here, Your Grace.Stand like this.I need you to place this hand here, put that leg there, and your lips here on my—”
Her last instruction was swallowed by Benedict’s mouth.And superfluous.Their lips smooshed together as one of Mrs de Villiers gloved hands pressed forcibly around the nape of his neck and the other yanked him into her grasp.Caught off guard, he staggered backwards, but a thoroughly committed Mrs de Villiers reeled with him.Wind whipped at her dress.Their feet tangled; she tripped over his.He flailed madly, and they careened into the railing.In an instant, Benedict felt himself tipping and overbalancing, tipping and overbalancing.He hovered in mid-air.Shards of the past flashed before his eyes, tossed like playing cards: Lyndon’s childhood laughter, his first race with Nimbus, a billiard table as a makeshift bed, Francis wrinkling his nose at Isabella.Last season’s cravat.And Tommy, his dear, dear Tommy, loving him without measure.
With a choked cry, he scrambled for purchase.The tips of his fingers grazed something soft and silky, like peach skin.With both hands, Benedict grabbed at it, clinging on for dear life.
At that precise moment, the doors behind him wrenched open.
“Good heavens, Your Grace!”squawked a voice.“Put her down!Now!Put.Her.Down!”
A thrilling silence echoed around the stunned onlookers.Time slowed to a crawl; Benedict fancied it stopped altogether.
“Put.Her.Down!”
Summoning the shreds of his dignity, Benedict extracted his hands from the twin cushions of Mrs de Villiers pert breasts.Tenderly, carefully, he put her back on her feet.His own felt as if they’d been swapped with those of a newborn foal.His heart had been exchanged for that of a frightened rabbit.This was the plan, he told himself, over and over.It was all part of the plan.He was a rake, a rake, a rake.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Mrs de Villiers purred breathily.Her gaping decolletage heaved in time to his own, yet otherwise, she appeared no more distraught than if he’d rescued her slipper from a muddy puddle.As if unaware of thetonscrambling over one another to glimpse a better look, she straightened Benedict’s wayward cravat and moved to his waistcoat to refasten it.Then, most audacious of all, she winked at him.He took the moment to slow his racing thoughts.
At last, bobbing a small curtsey, Mrs de Villers stepped away.Her luscious mouth twisted into a smile.“As always, Your Grace, that was most…magnificent.”
A ringing slap against his left cheek sent Benedict barrelling back against the railings.
“How jolly dare you, Your Grace!”The Honourable Beatrice Hazard’s familiar, clever countenance was inches from his own and had morphed into a mask of flushed, affronted horror.“You promised!Scoundrel!”
“What?I…ow!”Dazed, Benedict scrabbled to his feet in time for another smart spank to his right cheek.Like a thunderclap, the sound resounded through the crisp night air.
“Rogue!”she wailed in a high-pitched voice.“Philanderer!Lothario!You made a promise!”A third vicious smack followed.“Rakehell!”
“Ow!”Benedict’s cheeks smarted.His eyes watered like garden cans, not that he had a second to notice.Now, both women loomed over him, Mrs de Villiers managing to look awfully indignant whilst Beatrice desperately tried her best not to laugh.He braced against the railing.
“I thought you were my one true love,” Beatrice howled.A little overdramatically, if Benedict was being perfectly honest, though at least no more bodily assaults seemed forthcoming.And judging by the collective gasp of horror circling the crowd of onlookers, no one else noticed or cared.
“Scapegrace!Varlet!”she added for good measure.Yes, he knew that look.His good friend, currently demonstrating her unmatched command of synonyms, was thoroughly enjoying herself.
With a strategically placed dinner napkin, Mrs de Villiers threw him a last, sultry look, then allowed the Countess of Horton to usher her away.Beatrice, affecting an imminent swoon, rushed from the balcony, too, quickly swallowed up in a swarm of ladies.Gingerly, Benedict fingered his burning cheeks.
A robust figure barged through the crowd.Benedict swallowed.Oh Lord.
“Your Grace,” Lady Wardholme declared, accompanied by another ringingsmackas she put that splendid strong arm to use.Benedict swore; his cheeks would never be the same again.Hands on capable hips, she glared at him.“And to think I believed myself unique!”
“You are, my lady.”Staggering to his full height, Benedict performed a wobbly bow.“Truly, unique.In every single blessed way.”
The Earl of Horton joined her, also glaring.“Dinner is served, Your Grace.Though the entrees will be stone cold.Nonetheless, we should not keep the Dowager Marchioness of Cranborne waiting any longer.”
“Absolutely not,” Benedict managed.“Quite right.”
Fishing out his pocket square, he mopped his brow.“You and she have my most sincere apologies.Time and—” He floundered.“—stepping out here to admire the begonias ran away with me.The marchioness and, indeed, your dear wife, the countess, have my sincerest apologies.All ladies everywhere have my sincerest apologies.I shall trouble none of you anymore.And I apologise if your evening has been ruined.”
Could one ever apologise enough?If he repeated the word would everyone forget the scene they had just witnessed?
“Trust me,” he added as fervently as he’d ever spoken.“It shall never happen again.I promise and humbly apologise.You have my word as a duke.”
“Bravo, Your Grace.Bravo.Apology accepted.”Lord Horton gave a brisk nod, then leaned closer.“If I was but ten years younger, my boy, I’d have been duelling you for those two ladies, you mark my words.Fine fillies, the pair of them.Bravo!”
