Page 32 of To Defend a Damaged Duke
Tommy shook his head.Perhaps his poetic raven was not so very changed after all.“I see you are still a foolish romantic.”
“Yes!”The duke laughed hoarsely, sounding incredulous.“I do believe I am.Now the seal of the last decade has been broken, I’m only getting into my stride.”
He plundered Tommy’s mouth once more as if, in the space of a few minutes, he would make up the lost time.His arms came up, crushing Tommy against him, and for the sweetest of moments and on weakened knees, Tommy surrendered to it.To all of it.
“Lord Francis will be wondering what has become of you,” he panted as Benedict finally put him down.“He’ll be imagining you’ve followed your other brother down the back steps.”Somewhere along the way, the duke’s damp hair had separated from its neat part and now stuck up in delightful black clumps like ruffled feathers.“Or I’ve slain you with a blunt cudgel.”
The duke’s reply was a gentle smile.“You’ve slain me, it’s true,” he whispered.A fingertip stroked across Tommy’s lips.“But with this deadly weapon.”
He pressed a tender kiss against Tommy’s temple.His hand cupped Tommy’s face, and like an unloved damned alley cat, Tommy rubbed his cheek against the warm palm.His poor guarded heart had never stood a chance.
Long after the man bid him farewell and long after his footsteps disappeared down the corridor, the taste of the duke’s kisses still lingered on Tommy’s tongue.He still fancied they were there with him when he awoke the next day.
Chapter Fourteen
BENEDICT’S HEAD REELEDthe following morning.He’d hardly slept, the night broken into unrefreshing chunks of oblivion, interrupted by swirling, bolt-upright snatches of wakefulness.The disorienting sort of waking, whereupon one couldn’t be sure what century one had woken in, never mind what time of night.
And then, after a few seconds, the horrors all came flooding back: Lyndon’s slurred, artful insinuations, Tommy brutally cutting them off, Sidney’s heavy boots and bold callused knuckles.A bloodied eyebrow and harsh stone steps.Francis’s fascinated dismay and how Benedict wished his brother had witnessed none of it.Tommy again, his blanched features bristling with white-hot anger.His voice and its preternatural calm in the face of such abrupt violence.Tommy’s wildflower eyes and how they softened when they looked upon Benedict.His sweet mouth.Oh God, Tommy’s lush, sweet mouth.If only that had been the cause of his wakefulness.
“What the dickens went on last night, Benedict?”demanded Francis, disturbing the much-needed peace of the breakfast room.“Mr L’Esquire seems a jolly nice chap and all that.And he runs a very fine establishment.But he can’t have his…his henchman throwing punches at Lyndon simply because he’s excessively trifled.”He gave a humourless laugh.“He’d be black and blue by the end of the week if we allowed that.One minute, Lyndon’s harmlessly bragging about his trips down Petticoat Lane, the next, he’s flat out on the floor!”
Sipping his coffee, Benedict pretended to absorb his brother’s righteous indignation.In truth, it washed through him.Because in the cold light of day, he recognised his nocturnal tossing and turning for what it was: Dread, coiled in his belly like a living thing, chewing his insides apart, engulfing him from the inside out.Cloaking him in a fog of fear that threatened to unman him every time he opened his mouth to speak.
Have any young colts caught your eye recently?
Lyndon knew.Somehow, his twin knew what he was; the bastard had always known.Even as a child, his brother had been a sly bugger, creeping around, listening at doors, earwigging conversations.Perhaps he’d followed Benedict one time he’d slipped off to Vere Street, or watched him fluster around men like Rossingley, or noted the paucity of his unenthusiastic dalliances with the fairer sex and put two and two together.
“I mean,” continued Francis, waving a hunk of sausage around on the end of his fork.“There have been plenty of occasions when I’d have liked to plant Lyndon a few facers myself, but one can’t go around… Goodness me!What on earth is the matter, Benedict?Your hand is shaking.Your cup hasn’t stopped rattling against the saucer since I sat down, and now you’re spilling coffee across the cloth.Are you quite all right?”
Hurriedly, Benedict put his cup down and grasped his napkin instead, tightening his fist around it until his knuckles shone.“No, I’m not.Not really.It’s a pity Mr L’Esquire’s man didn’t give Lyndon much more than a fat shiner.”Hot bile rose in his throat.“I’d say our brother should have had his neck wrung, but it would be too good for him.”
“Steady on, old chap,” answered Francis.“He was a tad bosky, that’s all.We’ve all overcooked things once or twice, even you.”
Benedict couldn’t recall when, but he let it pass and jabbed with the napkin at the spilled coffee.Francis helped himself to another sausage.The rich, savoury scent wafted across the table, making Benedict nauseous.
Taking advantage of the lull in conversation, the first footman approached the duke to offer up a silver salver.Yet another bloody missive, a piece of foolscap folded over once, withHis Grace,Duke of Ashington, handwritten in blood-red ink.Sweat broke out on the back of Benedict’s neck as, gingerly, he accepted it.
“A love note from a secret admirer?”teased Francis.
If only.Barely breathing and trying to stay his fingers from trembling, Benedict shook it out.Then swallowed drily as last night’s kisses came flooding back.
“Um…hardly.”He moistened his lips.“It’s from…ah…Mr L’Esquire.He’s requesting an appointment with me at eleven.Says it’s urgent.”
“Good,” answered Francis briskly.“His ears must have been burning.He needs to know he can’t set his attack dog on folks willy-nilly, Benedict.And most certainly not on an Ashington!You might want to give that upstart a gentle reminder that Lyndon, for all his—let’s just call thempeculiarities—is the twin brother of a damned duke and, as such, should be granted a little respect.”He stabbed at the sausage as if it needed killing first.“I’d be very happy to speak to him myself.”
“I…ah…I’d very much rather you didn’t.”
Most days, Benedict admired and approved his brother’s unwavering sense of justice and his pride in upholding the good Ashington name.But not today.
“Yes, yes.But listen, Benedict.I know you prefer to shy away from pointing out to folks what’s what, and for a man in your esteemed position, that’s highly commendable.But sometimes, one needs to assert one’s authority before a situation gets out of hand.And you can rest assured, I’m perfectly capable of doing it in your stead if that’s what’s troubling—”
“Tom—Mr L’Esquire removed Lyndon from the gaming room in order to protect our good Ashington name.Not to dishonour it.”Benedict’s belly lurched as if someone had stabbed a knife through his entrails.“To protect me.”
Francis responded with a half laugh.“Hate to disagree, old chap, but I rather think he didn’t.Or were you also dipping rather too deep last night and missed the part where his man took a swipe at Lyndon and almost knocked his block off?And what do you mean byprotecting you?What on God’s green earth do you need protecting from?”
Under the table, Benedict’s knee joined his hands in their shaky dance.He swallowed the cooling remains of his coffee, feeling sick as a dog and aware of Francis’s perplexed expression, bordering on alarm.Pulling air into his lungs, Benedict mopped his brow.What was it Rossingley had said?They imagine your shame isolates you.A standard bullying tactic.
“Johnson?”He addressed the footman standing at the door.“Would you be kind enough to leave us a moment, please.”
