Page 7 of To Defend a Damaged Duke
But best of all, Benedict had reacquainted himself with Rossingley and enjoyed the company of his charming friend Mr Angel.In addition, he’d found himself a discreet somewhere to while away a few hours in an atmosphere far less stuffy than the bay-windowed salon at White’s and far more convivial than his own second study.
“Have you thought any more about marrying, Your Grace?”asked Isabella sweetly from her perch on the sofa, far too close to Francis than was conventional for an unwed young woman.“You aren’t getting any younger.”
“So you and Francis insist on reminding me.”Benedict threw her a stern look.Or attempted to.The young chit had cheeked him since she was old enough to toddle around the walled garden clutching his brother’s chubby hand.“I’ve not yet reached thirty!And the answer is still no.”
She bobbed her tongue at him, and he chuckled.Why her father, currently under the impression the ladies were shopping for new silk stockings, refused to let her be betrothed to her childhood sweetheart was beyond Benedict.The man was simply pig-headed.
From the harpsichord, Beatrice regarded the canoodling couple—and really there was no other word for it—with a sigh.“I’ll marry you, Your Grace, if I must.Seeing as you have such a well-stocked library.”She shook her head.“It would be the most honourable thing.”
Isabella chortled with delight, and Benedict smiled fondly at both ladies, his gaze lingering on Beatrice.Gentlemen weren’t supposed to enjoy the company of bluestockings, known to be too opinionated, too audacious, too frightening to contemplate.Nonetheless, he found Beatrice especially pleasing.
“My laden bookshelves and I shall bear your starry-eyed proposal in mind.”
“Truly perfect, of course, would be the library minus the husband,” Beatrice added with a long-suffering sigh.“But beggars shouldn’t be choosers.”
“You’re far from a beggar, my dear,” scoffed Benedict.
Unlike Isabella, Beatrice had no intention of marriage.Fortunately, her frail but wealthy father liked his spinster daughter’s company well enough that he was perfectly happy if she stayed that way.
“Shh.”Beatrice put her finger to her lips.“Don’t tell everyone, otherwise I’ll have the likes of Mr Bannister coming to call.Gossip regarding my association with you is the only thing keeping them at bay.And goodness knows, I only tolerate you for the books.”
Benedict threw her another smile.“Then, if we had to marry, I would be sure to apologise daily for the inconvenience of my existence.”
He returned his attention toThe Morning Postand tried to block out both Beatrice’s clumsy destruction of Bach’s Fugue in E-flat major and his brother and Isabella’s inane doe-eyed giggling.
“You seemed to be rather enjoying yourself at Squire’s the other evening with Rossingley and his pal,” Francis commented.“Thinking of joining?”
“Yes,” Benedict answered swiftly, surprising himself as well as his brother.“I do believe I might.Is it…ah…a difficult process?”
Francis guffawed.“For you?You’re a duke, Benedict.”Despairingly, he shook his head.“Sometimes, I wonder if you have any idea at all how the world turns outside of your various homes and that damned stable block.”
“At the pace of a snail,” piped up Beatrice, scowling.“That is, if one is expected to spend all of one’s waking hours embroidering cushion covers and perfecting fugues.”
“You are a long way off that, my dear.”Benedict peered over the top of his paper.
Francis continued.“Joining is quite straightforward.One must simply be of good standing and a nominated member of theton.”
“And be in possession of amember, obviously,” added Beatrice.
“Beatrice!”Isabella flung a hand across her mouth.“How can you say such scandalous things!Or even think them!And in the presence of His Grace too!”
Fleetingly, Benedict expected his father to appear at the door.Nearly three-quarters of a year gone, and the absurd grandeur of the thing still caught him out.
“Settle down, ladies.You’ve made your point, Beatrice.”He shook out his paper.“If it’s any consolation to you, I doubt very much you’d enjoy it in there anyhow.Although”—and he gave her a wicked smile—“a veritable cornucopia of books line the shelves.”
“All of them unread, too, I’ll be bound,” interjected Francis.“Their spines just waiting to be cracked open.I’ll nominate you for membership tonight, Benedict.Poaching a duke from Boodle’s and White’s?I daresay Thomas L’Esquire will bite your hand off.”
Benedict frowned.It was not a name he recognised, but then, he wasn’t terribly observant.“Squire’s owner, I presume?”
“Yes,” confirmed his brother.“According to Tuffy, he’s come from abroad.Made his money there.I’ve only met him a couple of times, very briefly.A grim sort, he certainly doesn’t give much away.Watchful and quiet, you know.”
“Squabbling seagulls are quiet compared to you, Francis,” commented Beatrice.
Francis grinned.“But sadly, your harpsichord playing isn’t.”
He turned back to Benedict.“Apparently, when Mr L’Esquire is not being silent and enigmatic, he’s awfully fond of the gee-gees.So I daresay you’d get on splendidly.”
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