Page 66 of To Defend a Damaged Duke
Hoots of laughter followed this declaration amidst shouts ofhear, hear, the majority from Lord Ludham’s wife.As the merriment died down, he carried on.
“So, it is with utmost pleasure that I announce her impending nuptials to Lord Francis Oswaldo Edward John Fitzsimmons, third son of the late thirteenth Duke of Ashington.Welcome, Lord Fitzsimmons, to the family!”
At this, he offered up his glass, all following suit.“Over the years, dear Francis, I’ve come to think of you as the dear son we never asked for.A toast to the both of you!Hip, hip, hooray!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
BENEDICT’S TIREDNESS SEEPEDthrough to his bones.He was foot sore.Head sore.Back sore.His thighs burned too; it had been some years since he’d crouched up in the saddle.God, that race seemed a lifetime ago now.Rich food, late in the evening, had his belly aching.Even his nerves were frayed from being flattered by ladies and from flattering them in return.Far from becoming a social pariah after being caught on the balcony with Mrs de Villiers, his currency had increased tenfold.
Finally, Benedict heaved himself into his waiting carriage.His eyelids drooped.With a grateful sigh and a very ungentlemanly, loud belch, he sank back into the plush seat.
“Is there space in there for another?”
Benedict’s skin couldn’t even summon the reserves to blush.“I…ah…didn’t anticipate anyone would hear that.”
“Hear what, Your Grace?”
Benedict’s lips, sore from ceaseless talk, would never be too sore to break into a smile upon hearing that dear, amused voice.
“So,” the voice asked again, its wild honey timbre coursing through him like a balm.“Is there room?”
“In my heart?”Benedict prised his eyelids open.The effort was worth it.“No.You already occupy every square inch.”
The carriage door closed as Tommy took the seat beside him.Like a seamless puzzle, his smaller fingers slotted neatly between Benedict’s.His warm thigh rested loosely alongside.
“I’m so sorry,” Tommy whispered, squeezing his hand, “that you had to endure all of that.”
“Yes,” agreed Benedict, the one word encapsulating his thoughts.“But it is done.I am free from scrutiny, and Francis is set to marry.”He heaved a sigh.“And yet…Lyndon…his happiness, his mind, his sanity… He is a constant worry to me.”
A cushion of stillness settled around them as they jolted over the quiet cobbled streets.How marvellous it would be if Tommy could accompany him home, lead him to bed, and wrap Benedict up in his arms.To wake him early and make love.Soon, he would ask Tommy to join him on another trip to the lodge so they could do just that.For now, though, he would make do with the pad of Tommy’s thumb gently soothing across his knuckles, curing his aching head.Savouring it, sinking into the lull of his horses’ hooves, Benedict’s eyes drifted closed.
*
“THIS IS NOTmy house,” he observed thickly, roused by the sudden quiet.Benedict wiped a hand across his gritty jaw, blinking into the night.“Nor is it your club.”
“No.”Tommy untangled their hands.“We are outside Rossingley’s town house.”
More company?Benedict needed his bed, not drinks and conversation, no matter how comforting.Instead of climbing down, Tommy shifted in his seat, turning towards him.
“There is something I must tell you, Benedict.I have…I have a few empty rooms above Squire’s.Four, to be precise.As we speak, three are being furnished and turned into bedchambers, which will be available to my patrons should they require an overnight stay.”
Benedict nodded.On the vanishingly rare occasions he’d overindulged, he’d done the same himself, at White’s.Though he didn’t know what this had to do with Rossingley.Or himself.“And the fourth?”
Tommy hesitated.In the dim light, Benedict fancied his skin took on a rosier hue.“It is being furnished as a bedchamber also.But, should it please you, reserved for your use and mine.The presence of the other bedchambers means you may come and go as you please, at night and in the morning, and nobody will think anything of it.”
Benedict sagged back in the seat.A bedchamber, here in London.To share with Tommy.Night after night.Year after year after year.Such a glorious thing, squeezed in amongst his fatigue and despair.More wonderful than any Gold Cup, more wonderful than a dukedom.A small, tired smile crept across his face.
“As a single man without wife and issue,” he ventured, “it would not be so unusual for me to spend several nights a week at my club.”
“Not unusual at all,” agreed Tommy.“Nobody would think anything of it.”He brought Benedict’s hand to his lips.“I believe we are employing a strategy referred to in the magical trade asmisdirection.”
“Misdirection.”As a declaration of love, Benedict’s romantic, poetic mind couldn’t find fault.“How I wish I could kiss you properly right this minute.”
Tommy’s kissable lips widened into a grin.He opened the carriage door.“If you wait another few minutes, you can.And more, if His Grace wishes it.Our own bedchamber is not yet ready, but I believe I can offer you the next best thing.”
Benedict faltered.“You’ve lost me.”
“Rossingley runs an unusual household.”Tommy glanced up at the solid, austere property.“His staff is… ‘Specially curated’ is how he describes them.Put more simply, they comprise the biggest bunch of fruits in the whole of London town, this side of a molly house.”Lest Benedict’s groom overhear, he pressed his mouth to Benedict’s ear.“Frankly,poppet, you and I could fornicate on the stairs, and no one would take a blind bit of notice.”
