Page 48 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
On impulse, Benedict reached for her, cupping one side of her face.
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she dipped her cheek to rest in his palm. A silken lock of hair, flaxen gold, brushed his wrist. He was aware of her warmth and the fragrance of her skin; no perfume, but her own sweetness. Closing his eyes, he leaned closer—until their noses touched.
“Benedict.” She sighed his name, brushing her mouth to his.
They met, lips upon lips, gently pressing and tugging.
He brought his arms around her as best he could and she twined about his neck, holding him to the kiss like a siren calling across the sea.
So lost was he that he didn’t notice the snuffling by his ear; not until he felt something wet and warm on his face. With a jolt, Benedict hit the top of his head on the underside of the desk.
“Oh! Stop that!” Rosamund rubbed at her cheek as the Great Dane turned his attention to her.
The slobbering tongue, attached to an enormous head, belonged to Cerberus of course.
Reluctantly,Rosamund went in search of her mother, finding her by the fountain in the orangery. Kindly, someone had carried a chaise there for her, and she was relaxing in the greatest comfort, with Pom Pom at her side.
“Such a wonderful aroma. Do the Mediterranean countries all smell like this, do you think, with their groves of lemon trees?” Her mother edged over her feet to allow Rosamund to sit. “You might suggest to His Grace a honeymoon to Italy, my darling—and I could come too. I could keep you company while he tours the antiquities.”
“Perhaps…” Rosamund scratched Pom Pom’s ears as he came to rest his head in her lap.
How could she tell her mother she was having second thoughts? It wasn’t just the scene she’d witnessed in the library, and it wasn’t purely because Benedict had kissed her.
Lovely as that had been, he might have only been carried away by the moment. Being stuffed under the desk together might have ignited a rash indulgence of passion. Men weren’t like women, who knew the importance of a steady head.
But the kiss had shown her something for sure.
When she chose the man with whom she’d spend her life, she wanted to capture some of that tenderness.
Deep down, she’d always known the match with Lord Studborne wasn’t right.
Coming to the abbey, she’d only thought to be introduced to men of a suitable station. The duke himself had never truly been in her sights. It had been merely a game she was playing along with, never expecting the outcome her mother was eager for.
What were her options now?
Go along with the duke’s desire to marry her, and hope for the best?
She could hardly tell him she’d changed her mind, and ask if he might introduce her to someone from his acquaintance more suitable.
Resume their original plan of selling the jewels to pay for a London Season?
She'd have just one shot to find a husband—and who knew how easy it would be to secure a match she’d find amenable.
The third option curled quietly around her heart.
He’d been under her nose all this time.
Mr. Benedict Studborne.
He was the duke’s nephew after all: of noble blood, and probably his heir, until such time as His Grace remarried and sired a child of his own.
He’d admitted he hadn’t a great fortune, being reliant on his uncle. She guessed he resided at the abbey not purely from a sense of duty. Presumably, he lacked the means to provide an elegant home for himself.
Did it matter?
They could live in a cottage—like the one she and her mother had rented by the beach. Her mother would be disappointed, but she’d surely come round. Rosamund would do her best to reassure her that all would be well.
Of course, she was assuming Benedict felt sufficiently fond to want to make her his wife.
