Page 30 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
Not having the first idea what to do about any of it, Benedict had been sticking his head in the sand—first taking himself off to Weymouth and then back to the cliffs at Osmington. Goodness only knew what she thought about his inviting her here and then disappearing.
“Well, it’s very good of you to be helping—with the water-logging, or whatever.” Miss Burnell looked at him expectantly.
Of course, he needed to make small talk. He’d always found it rather trying, making conversation for its own sake, but it was what people did, wasn’t it?
And he did want her to stay; now that she was here, sitting right in front of him, and looking damnably pretty—in a windswept fashion.
“My uncle used to take an active hand in running the estate when my Aunt Violetta was alive, but he’s been distracted since…” Benedict sighed. He was undoubtedly being a bore again, and Miss Burnell had no interest in hearing the humdrum of family affairs. Nevertheless, he continued.
“The estate manager can’t be left to make every decision, so I’ve been working alongside him when I can. There’s plenty to learn and it’s meaningful. So many families depend upon the efficient running of the land, you see.”
“I do,” Miss Burnell answered solemnly. “It sounds very important work. Your uncle is blessed to have you.”
“Kind of you to say, although it’s me who’s fortunate, to be fair. I’m here by his largesse, and he’s been quite generous in paying for my education and providing me with an allowance. I could live simply elsewhere, but I hope my presence in the house is useful.”
Having begun talking, Benedict found that he rather wanted to carry on. Miss Burnell was a good listener, and there was nothing pitying in the way she looked at him.
“Some of the estate work is quite pleasurable. I’ve been working on returning the lake to its former glory—introducing more trout. The monks used to breed them.”
“Marvellous.” Miss Burnell gave a warm smile. “I’ve been told fishing is a very calming pastime. It does seem cruel to end anything’s life, but one must eat, and I’m sure the trout will be delicious.”
Benedict nodded. “I feel the same, although it’s not an opinion I tend to share. At Oxford, the other fellows would talk for hours about shooting parties, stalking deer, and fox hunting—all of which I find barbarous. There are plenty of livestock on the estate but their slaughter contributes to the coffers that keep everything running. Their deaths aren’t notched up in the pursuit of mindless entertainment, and they’re killed humanely when their time comes.”
Her little dog, Hector, or Pom Pom, or whatever she was calling it, had concluded its sniff-quest and come to lie beside his foot. He reached down to give it an ear rub and the puppy rolled onto its back, presenting its tummy for his attention.
“I’m grateful that my uncle has little interest in bloodsports. I only wish that—” He broke off, aware that he was perhaps saying more than he ought.
“Do go on.” Miss Burnell leaned forward, her eyes— a shade of blue that reminded him of cornflowers—fixing upon his.
“He’s been too much caught up in his study of the abbey’s history—which I understand, feeling the same way about palaeontology—but the amount of time he’s spending in the underground parts of the building isn’t good for him, I’m sure.”
“Oh yes.” Miss Burnell was thoughtful a moment. “He was telling me something of it.”
“I’ve offered to accompany him, to hold an extra lamp at the very least, but he’s reluctant to let anyone else down there.” Benedict shook his head. “He says he’s making plans of the lower levels of the house, cataloguing what might be in need of repair, but I’m fearful it’s a way of him hiding—from his grief, that is. This nonsense with séances is just the same; a refusal to accept what can never again be.”
Miss Burnell gave a small sniff, her eyes glistening. “It is terribly sad, to lose someone we care for deeply. It brings a sort of madness, don’t you think, being in the grip of that emotion. We aren’t ourselves; not rational, in the way we should be.”
She looked at him, across the small space between them, and a wild impulse arose in him to confide in her; to tell her all that was in his heart.
Not just that he was drawn to her in a way he’d never experienced before, but to tell her of his own fears and the grief he carried with him.
He’d tried to keep busy, to be the son his parents would have been proud of. But he couldn’t escape the feeling of none of it being good enough, because they were still dead, no matter what.
His uncle felt the same, Benedict supposed, struggling under that dreadful, clinging weight. A terrible sadness; always there, heavy and dead and dark.
Miss Burnell looked as if she’d be sympathetic, but Benedict couldn’t bring himself to say any of it aloud. He didn’t want her to think him cowardly.
Men were supposed to show a stiff upper lip and get on with life—not wallow. So, he said, “It’s important not to hide, don’t you think? Better to be thankful for living, and to be honest with ourselves—about what can bring us happiness in the present.”
Miss Burnell answered softly. “You’re right; we shouldn’t waste what time we have. I hope, truly, that the duke finds his way back to himself.”
He might,thought Benedict,if he falls in love again. Are you the woman to bring that about?
His reasons for her being under this roof were entirely selfish. He’d thought no further than simply wanting to have her near. But what if his uncle did propose?
Benedict would hardly be in a position to object. Whatever he, himself, might offer a bride, it paled in comparison to being the Duchess of Studborne.
And Miss Burnell’s family was wealthy, by her mother’s admission. Once they were installed in London, her daughter wouldn’t lack suitors. American heiresses were always popular. There would be a line of young bucks calling, and Miss Burnell would have her pick.
