Page 8 of To Defend a Damaged Duke
BENEDICT TRIPPED UPthe steps of Squire’s with much more confidence than a few days earlier.His long-suffering valet had even teased him into a more form-fitting waistcoat with a black silk stripe running through the charcoal and a matching pocket square.The austere set to his countenance, his valet could do nothing about, although Benedict had practised smiling in the glass a few times as he’d powdered his teeth.For a moment, he almost glimpsed the blithe, carefree youth he’d once been.Before that dreadful, dreadful afternoon.
He wouldn’t dwell on that tonight, not now he was trialling this new, emboldened version of himself.At some point, for all his fobbing off of his brother and Isabella, Benedict would have to consider marriage.Perhaps bluestocking Beatrice and her witty tongue might suit him well.She was comely enough, he supposed.If only he could somehow stir his errant body into…performing with a woman.
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
The same colossus as before rose from the front desk.He bowed, somehow managing to make it both subservient and intimidating.Benedict couldn’t help thinking he must be an excellent deterrent of poor behaviour.The colossus proffered an elegant swan feather quill pen.
“If one could simply sign one’s name here in the ledger, Your Grace, then I shall add you to the member’s list.The Earl of Rossingley has already proposed you.I shall take the liberty of addressing all correspondence from here on to your man of business so as not to concern you further.”
Another little bow accompanied the last, no less off-putting than the first.“I believe Squire’s owner, Mr Thomas L’Esquire, is upstairs this evening, Your Grace.It would give him great pleasure to offer you a tour.Would it trouble you too much to ask if you would spare him a moment of your time later?”
“Not at all,” said Benedict expansively.“I should be delighted.”He scribbled his name in a rather fetching blood-red ink before allowing the man to lead the way.Really, the whole thing had been as terribly straightforward as Francis promised.
Rossingley was absent this evening, but Benedict’s favourite brother and his chums, already settled and in full flow, greeted him with much more enthusiasm than he generally warranted.Waving them away, Benedict perused the bookshelves awhile.To give him something to occupy his hands other than brandy, he selected a mercifully slim tome with a decent-sized font about the life and achievements of somebody called Major General James Wolfe.Soon, he was ensconced in Rossingley’s preferred corner with the book, brandy, and a warm glow of contentment.
A shadow crossed his field of vision.Expecting a footman, hell bent on pandering to his every whim, Benedict schooled his features into polite neutrality, only for them to fall flat when his twin, Lyndon, slid into the chair opposite.His ruddy cheeks proved he’d also been at the brandy, but without a bloodthirsty description of the besting of the Frenchies at Quebec to distract him.A less agreeable man than Benedict would question the exclusivity of the place, yet even now, after all his twin’s degeneracy, a masochistic part of Benedict remained pleased to see him.Was it idiocy to still hope his once biddable brother had developed a semblance of decent behaviour and returned to the fold?
“Your Grace,” Lyndon acknowledged.
Never had those two words been uttered in such a sardonic tone.
“Lyndon.I am still your brother.This damned title has not altered me.”
A sly smile crept across Lyndon’s ruddy face.“No, I suspect not.”Cocking his head, he peered bleary-eyed at Benedict.“Our innate selves, our inner desires and our passions, have an annoying tendency to persist, do they not?Regardless of external pressures placed upon them.”He spread his hands wide.“Such as a dukedom, for instance.They are the very devil to quash.Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Um…I daresay, yes?”Benedict floundered.Lyndon had always been a much cleverer bugger than himself—even half-foxed, such as now.“I’m still closely invested in my thoroughbreds, if that’s what you mean.”
His brother’s peculiar smile grew wider.“I imagine you are.Have any…young colts caught your eye recently?”
“No,” Benedict admitted, a little uncomfortable.Lyndon didn’t usually demonstrate this degree of interest in any of his pursuits.“Not currently.Papa never warned me quite how much ducal affairs eat into one’s leisure time.Though I think I’m finally getting to grips with it all.I hope to acquire one or two in the spring.”
“Still not the marrying type, then.”
Marriage and investing in young colts weren’t mutually exclusive projects, as far as Benedict knew.Puzzled, he shook his head.“All in good time.You?”
“The aspirational fathers of thetondon’t find me an enticing prospect for their virginal daughters.Can’t imagine why,” he added drily.“Can you?”
Benedict sensed an imminent outpouring of bitterness.In the main, it tended to focus on their deceased father but invariably swung in his direction, too, leaving him conflicted between his need to protect the wealth and reputation of the Ashington name and his dislike at seeing this man, whom he once loved dearly, ruin himself.Of course, Lyndon never considered pointing the needle of his hostile compass at himself.
“You could always try harder to endear yourself to them.”Benedict gestured to his brother’s freshly topped up glass.“Imbibing a little less of this and spending less time and money at the card tables might be a start.”
“How very dull,” observed Lyndon.
“But excellent for your purse,” countered Benedict.Nine months into the dukedom and already he sounded exactly like their pompous father.“And for your standing with the aforementioned wealthy papas.”
Should he offer to channel more funds in Lyndon’s direction?Or would it simply increase the speed at which his brother’s ruination would be complete?As much as Benedict hated being cast in the role of stolid, conscientious older sibling (although, to be fair, it came to him naturally), his current course of action was still best.And sensible, smart Francis agreed.Benedict braced for an unpleasant ending to their rare interaction.
“My purse,” Lyndon groused, “is not empty through excess liqueur.It’s empty because someone saw fit to follow our dear father’s—God rest his virtuous, pious soul—orders to the letter.”
How did this damned brother’s snide comments always succeed in wheedling under Benedict’s skin?“And someone saw fit to steal the family silver, Lyndon.The remainder of us Ashington’s are quite fond of it and would wish it to remain in the family.Have you ever considered…”
A footman approached, and Benedict snapped his mouth shut.Bickering with members of one’s close family in a public space was never a good look, even for a duke.
“I am terribly sorry to interrupt, Your Grace,” the footman said.“But if I may be so bold, Mr L’Esquire is awaiting the honour of your acquaintance in the upstairs library.”
Benedict blew out a breath.Thank heavens for Mr L’Esquire.“Certainly.The pleasure would be all mine.”
Bidding Lyndon a curt adieu, he fair leaped out of his seat.Not only would he thank Mr L’Esquire for allowing him to join this excellent establishment, but he’d also thank him for an excuse to escape his damned difficult brother.
