Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue

by Maggie Fenton

  Hirst handed Mr. Mudge a few guineas he’d somehow managed to find on his person. The glower on the farmer’s face broke for a second as he stared down at the small fortune in his hand. A blink later, the glower was back, and he spat in the dirt. With a small nod at Hirst and one last skeptical squint at Davina, he continued on his way.

  The stink of chicken excrement lingered in the air as they walked toward the castle. They’d been let off at some distance from the main entrance, for even Hirst seemed to have enough sense not to want to attract attention to their unorthodox arrival. By unspoken agreement, they skirted the front lawn and headed toward the rear gardens. She couldn’t help but notice it was the same path he’d taken the morning they’d met.

  Hirst started to whistle as they walked, his suspiciously good mood undaunted by their ride home.

  Davina threw him an irritated glance. “You seem in high spirits for someone who was nearly murdered last night.”

  “I suppose I am. I learned a lot from the experience, if nothing else.”

  “What, that your houseguest wants to kill you?”

  “Oh, I already knew that,” he said blithely.

  “You already knew? Then why…?” She shook her head. “Never mind. What did you learn, then?”

  He grinned down at her, and though he looked as if he’d spent the night before trudging through rain and sleeping in a filthy coaching inn, he was somehow even more appealing than ever. Damn him.

  And just like that, all of the feelings she’d acknowledged to herself the night before came rushing back. She was in so, so, so much trouble. The closest she’d come to this level of infatuation had been during Mr. Xavier’s courtship, but that was like comparing a housecat to a Bengal tiger.

  There was no comparison.

  He reached into a pocket and produced a mangled piece of metal. It took her a moment to recognize the infamous release valve that would have been so helpful last night. “I learned that Sir Wesley’s balloon has some fundamental design flaws.”

  “I could have told you that without leaving the ground,” she muttered, shoving past him. She may have been infatuated, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

  Hirst fell into step next to her, bumping her shoulder companionably, a casual intimacy that would have never been allowed had she not been posing as a man. She tried not to let it show, but such gestures never failed to surprise her.

  From their first day together in his workshop, he’d always touched her in a hundred small, insignificant ways—a pat on the shoulder, a ruffle of her hair, a nudge of his elbow against her arm. He’d constantly invade her orbit, guiding her to places he wanted her by the wrist or the small of her back when he thought she’d not been going fast enough. That had never happened to Davina Benwick—would never happen to Davina Benwick.

  She liked it too much—liked him too much, and she already felt bereft knowing that this was probably one of the last times they’d be together like this.

  She couldn’t help but bring up the one subject that gnawed at her—the one subject she’d rather avoid, since she was afraid she knew exactly what he was going to say.

  “And now, even knowing the lengths Kildale will go, do you still want to marry Ambrosia?” she asked.

  “Of course.” The words were immediate, almost reflexive, and seemed to lack enthusiasm. Though that could have been wishful thinking.

  She dared to look at him then, but when she caught his eye, he averted his glance. “It is what I want,” he said, sounding more certain this time. “What I’ve always wanted. Nothing has changed.”

  Of course he was right. Nothing had changed. Except for her heart. That had changed dramatically in the short time she’d been at Arncliffe Castle. Her heart liked Hirst, liked him too much, and even though she knew he would never be hers, she just couldn’t bring herself to encourage his pursuit of Lady Ambrosia. She’d never claimed she wasn’t petty.

  “You know, she once turned down a Royal Duke’s offer,” she said as casually as she could manage, trailing her hand over a row of daisies as they walked.

  “Have you met a royal duke?” he asked, unmoved. “I did, once. Rudest arsehole I’ve ever encountered. Nearly tempted me to punch all his teeth out.”

  “Was this why you turned down a knighthood, then? A royal was rude to you?”

  “Heard about that, did you? Yes, that’s the reason why,” he said darkly. “It has absolutely nothing to do with silly things like principles.”

  “Not fond of the royals, then.”

  “No fonder than I am of the peerage.”

  “And yet you want to marry a peer’s daughter.”

  He grinned once again, this time without any real humor behind it. “Oh, yes. I’ll have her and no other.”

  She snorted. Loudly. It was either that or cry.

  “What’s that noise for?” he demanded.

  “Nothing at all,” she said.

  He nudged her in the shoulder again. “Go on, then. You clearly have something to say.”

  She shrugged. “I can tell you right now that you will never succeed in wooing Ambrosia in your current state.”

  He looked pained. “Wooing. It is much too early for words like that, Fawkes.”

  She continued, undaunted. “It doesn’t seem as if you would have much trouble wooing a certain type of lady even in your present…dishabille, if Lady Highbottom’s enthusiasm is anything to go by.”

  “Dishabille? Really?”

  “I thought the description more politic than calling you a slovenly philistine,” she countered.

  “For God’s sakes, I don’t need to be coddled by politic words,” he said contemptuously. “Say what you mean, damn it. You’ve seemed more than happy to do so in every other conversation we’ve had. And as for wooing ladies, I have no trouble there,” he continued a moment later, as if he’d not been able to resist. “It may be difficult for a preening little virgin like you to understand, Fawkes, but the female sex generally tends to find me very attractive, despite my slovenly, philistine ways.”

  Davina didn’t know whether to be offended or disgusted by his declaration, though none of what he said was untrue. She was a virgin. The preening was debatable, though she was wearing Leon’s foppish wardrobe, so she conceded it was a fair descriptor at the moment.

  And she could very well understand his allure—obviously. She unfortunately found him quite attractive, despite the beard and bedlamite hair. And she would have found him attractive even if she hadn’t seen him practically in his altogether, what with the muscles and the perfect, Grecian proportions…and did she mention the muscles…?

  She cleared her throat and tried her hardest not to blush at her current line of thought. There was no point denying it, though, since she’d already come to terms with her feelings on the matter last night: no amount of slovenliness could hide the well-formed man he was underneath.

  “Nevertheless,” she gritted out, “Ambrosia puts great stock in appearances. And I know you’re not going to even get a second glance looking like that.”

  “I am perfectly capable of putting myself in a waistcoat and cravat…”

  Davina looked at his soiled and wrinkled lawn shirt and mud-streaked breeches doubtfully. Even before their misadventure last night, they had been entirely unacceptable. She may have secretly liked his rough appearance, but Lady Ambrosia would never appreciate it.

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. Or that you even own any. It is obvious someone needs to take you in hand.”

  “You think you can take me in hand, do you?” he said, a small, enigmatic smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “How would you do that?”

  “Well, I’d start with a shave, a trim, perhaps a flea bath,” she said peevishly, wondering how on earth they’d ended up on this subject. “It is no time to be attempting anything too onerous when you already look a twelvemonth away from Bedlam.”

  “Flea bath.”

  “If you had something else in mind, I’d be m
ore than happy to add that to the list.”

  “A list.”

  “An extensive list,” she confirmed. “Including purchasing you an actual cravat…”

  “I own cravats,” he protested, sounding more amused than offended. “I own a whole bloody closet full of the things. My valet seems to think I need a million of ‘em, which I’ll never understand. Useless fool.”

  Davina thought nothing could top the shock of her wedding day. Or of waking up a hundred feet up in the sky. But the shock that she felt right now topped it all.

  “Did you just say that you have a valet?” she asked, just to make sure she hadn’t been imagining things.

  He looked at her as if she’d said something completely moronic. “Of course I have a valet. Bloody lot of good it does me.”

  “And he…dresses you?”

  Hirst scoffed. “Of course he doesn’t dress me. Does it look like he dresses me?”

  No. No, it did not. It looked like a monkey had dressed him. “But…what does he do, then?” she asked, baffled.

  “Buys me more cravats I never wear? Avoids me?”

  “You do know that’s what valets are for, don’t you? To dress you?”

  “Of course I know that,” he said. “But the bloody little milksop is so afraid of me he practically pisses himself every time he sees me.”

  “Why don’t you get another one, then?”

  His expression turned a bit sheepish. “I just don’t have the heart,” he muttered.

  “But you had no problem sacking me,” she pointed out.

  “That’s because I never hired you to begin with,” he retorted. “Besides, Mr. Coombes has nowhere else to go. He was sacked by his last employer—some arsehole duke or other—and I doubt anyone else would have him.”

  “How charitable of you,” she muttered gloomily. She had nowhere else to go either, and he’d had no qualms trying to chuck her back in the mail coach. There had to be more to the tale of Coombes’ prolonged employment. She waited him out with her hands on her hips.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  “And there might have been an incident or two when Mr. Coombes first arrived that some might consider a bit traumatic…” he admitted rather guiltily, resuming his walk toward the castle in a none-too-subtle bid to avoid further explanation.

  Hah. Now they were getting somewhere. “Something exploded,” she said flatly.

  “Right through the floor of his bedroom while he slept,” he confirmed. “Twice.”

  “Oh, dear lord.”

  “And it wasn’t even the same bedroom. I still don’t quite understand how I managed it, to be honest,” he admitted. “Now all the fellow does is drink Bones’ gin to ‘settle his nerves’.”

  “I don’t think I blame him,” she said. “But he needs to do his job if you’re to have any hope of succeeding with Lady Ambrosia.”

  “Well, good thing I have you to polish me up, isn’t it.” he said.

  “What?”

  He stopped and turned to her, a smirk on his face. “Teach me something, then,” he said. “I must be prepared to impress. And since you seem to know exactly what Lady Ambrosia wants, I could think of no one better to instruct me.”

  Davina blinked, caught off guard. This was hardly in her job description. And the last thing she bloody well wanted to do was help him woo Ambrosia. But it didn’t seem like he was going to let this particular bone go.

  It was almost as if he were daring her to back down. Illogical as it was, this only made her want to do the exact opposite.

  Unfortunately, her mind drew a complete blank. It was probably a testament to how little expertise she had with romance. The only practical experiences she had were the extremely circumscribed drawing room visits paid by her few suitors over the years. If awkwardness were an art form, she would have been considered a virtuoso.

  She stared around the garden, wracking her brain for something to tell him that wouldn’t make him laugh at her any more than he already was. They’d stopped next to the bed of red roses the charlière had ruined the day before. It gave her a terrible idea.

  “Flowers!” she exclaimed.

  Hirst crossed his arms and cocked his brow. “Flowers,” he said flatly.

  She immediately wanted to punch herself in the mouth, but she made herself continue. “Le Langage des Fleurs,” she said, gesturing around them at the brightly colored blooms.

  The arch of his brow increased. “Am I supposed to know what you’re going on about?”

  “Flower meanings,” Davina insisted. “The ton is absolutely mad about them these days. Lady Ambrosia always expects a well-chosen posy from her suitors.”

  Hirst gave her an aggrieved look, and she didn’t blame him at all.

  He pointed at the few remaining red blooms on the rosebush at her back. “A handful of those should do the trick. What woman doesn’t like red roses?”

  She couldn’t help but turn up her nose at this uninspired idea. Perhaps this wasn’t such a ridiculous exercise after all, if he was choosing roses. “A handful of those tells the recipient that you aren’t even trying. Red roses—a cliché at best, an afterthought at worst,” she scoffed.

  “You have surprisingly strong opinions on this subject,” Hirst remarked, looking far too amused. “What about ambrosia? That’s a flower, isn’t it? Wonder if my gardeners have it planted somewhere.”

  She snorted at this…this folly. “I don’t see any, thank god for that. Not only would that be even more predictable than red roses, it would be a terrible choice. Lady Ambrosia would think you horribly presumptuous.”

  “Would she?” he said mildly, and if he seemed as if he were fighting back laughter, she chose to ignore it.

  “Ambrosia means reciprocated love. She hardly knows you, and you certainly don’t love her, despite your obsession with marrying her.”

  “Quite right,” he said, much too agreeably. “Wouldn’t want that sort of misunderstanding. What do you recommend, then?”

  She took off along the garden path, pausing every once in a while to study a particular bloom. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought to herself. She doubted it was possible to make an even bigger fool of herself.

  When she spotted the tiger lilies, she knew she’d found the perfect bloom. She stopped abruptly, and Hirst, who’d started to follow her, bumped into her from behind. When he made no move to back away, she turned and glanced up at him to find him staring down at her from much too close a distance. She could feel herself blushing as red as the roses they’d just left behind.

  “Th-these will do, I think,” she stuttered out, indicating the flowers next to them.

  “They’re…colorful,” he said, not breaking eye contact with her. “What are they?”

  She backed up a step and immediately felt like she could breathe again. “Tiger lilies. They mean wealth and pride. I thought them rather fitting.”

  Hirst looked amused. “You wound me, Fawkes. That’s rather on the nose, isn’t it? I assure you I am capable of pretending to be charming. How about this?” He plucked a yellow bloom next to his hand and held it up in the scant space between them.

  She took a moment to breathe and looked at it skeptically. “You’d want that if it were pink, perhaps. A pink camellia symbolizes longing. I’m sure you can pretend that well enough with Ambrosia.”

  “And this?” He waved the flower at her.

  “Yellow camellias mean that you find someone adorable. I doubt Lady Ambrosia would appreciate the sentiment,” she said dryly.

  “Well, then,” he said, and tucked the bloom through the lapel of her jacket before she could blink.

  Her blush returned in full force. It was suddenly very hot and very quiet in the garden.

  As if finally realizing just how intimate the gesture had been, Hirst cleared his throat and averted his gaze. He looked a bit ruddy in the cheeks as well, though that could have been from the sun.

  “Wouldn’t want it to go to waste,” he murmured.
<
br />   Davina was too dazed to reply. Hirst seemed to take her silence for disapproval and scowled down at her. Though she wasn’t sure why he was so angry. She hadn’t stuck a flower on him.

  “Damn it, you are a bit adorable, and you know it,” he declared. “Lady Highbottom certainly seems to think so.”

  At the mention of the viscountess, Davina’s temperature cooled significantly. “I have the strangest feeling I’m being mocked right now.”

  Hirst’s scowl deepened, and he plucked the camellia out of her lapel.

  She gasped in dismay and reached for it, but Hirst backed away tauntingly.

  “Since you don’t like it, I’ll take it back,” he said, holding it just out of her grasp. He sounded like a petulant child. He was acting like one too.

  She was more than capable of doing the same. She jumped up, determined to reclaim the flower for her own.

  He merely raised his arm higher. “You are far too sensitive, Fawkes,” he said smugly. “All I’m saying is you should have more confidence in your charms. Many women go mad over adorable little peacocks like you. Never mind Lady Highbottom. You have half the house staff panting after you. Why you cling to your virtue like some cloistered nun is quite beyond me.”

  She glared at him. “Perhaps I’m waiting for love.”

  Hirst’s expression conveyed his bewilderment at this concept, but at least that shut him up. He stared down at her for several long minutes before he burst into laughter.

  “Love?” Hirst finally managed. “You see, that’s why you are so endearing, Fawkes. You are a true romantic, as most fine gentlemen your age are. I was never so young or stupid.” He lowered his arm and stared down at the camellia, his momentary good humor vanishing as quickly as it had come.

  “Here,” he said, stepping forward and rethreading the camellia’s stem through her buttonhole.

  Davina reached up to touch the bloom, inadvertently brushing her fingertips over the back of his withdrawing hand. The contact felt like an electric shock, and she sucked in a breath. Hirst sucked in a breath as well, as if he too had felt the shock, and stared down at Davina, eyes wide and stormier than she had ever seen them before.