by Cecilia Gray
“I’ve never found words to be harmless.” She watched his approach with growing unease. When he hauled her to her feet, she put her hands between them.
“This is someone’s life—many people’s lives. You can’t control the outcome of that journal the way an author controls the characters within a book.”
“I never thought to,” she insisted. “I just wanted to see. I wanted a taste—”
“You wanted a taste?” he interrupted, tilting his head to the side.
Her pulse pounded as his gaze strayed to her lips. The journal’s images appeared in her mind’s eye. The lines of his lips making her breath short.
He lowered his head, their mouths a hairbreadth apart, and then his lips captured hers. His arms encircled her waist as the force of his kiss sent the backs of her knees into the sofa. She gripped the lapels of his coat and angled her head, kissing him deeper. The very action of his pushing against her made her want to press closer.
Then he was gone, having moved to the other side of the room. One hand lay on a shelf, one on his hip, and his back was to her.
She chanced a glance at the doorway to see if anyone had seen them from the hall. With relief, she found no one there and set her fingers to her still-tingling lips.
Her first kiss. Not chastely stolen or respectfully given by a knight or husband, but formed in anger and resentment and frustration.
And yet she craved more.
Benjamin half turned, his face a mask of shame. “Miss Bridget … I failed to comport myself like a gentleman and behaved in an inexcusable fashion. We may speak to our fathers at once. I will, of course, do the honorable thing.”
“The honorable thing?” she interrupted. “Do you mean … ? No. You cannot mean to propose marriage for something so …” She didn’t know what to call it. It wasn’t insignificant—no, not that. But she could see he did not want to marry her and that irked her to no end because she was just beginning to realize that perhaps being married to him might not be the worst idea in the world. Even if he was not her knight-errant or gothic hero.
“Pray, continue,” he said, his voice like a knife-edge. “Knowing that you believe words are not harmless.”
“I won’t marry you out of some stupid sense of duty,” she said.
“Why not? Is that not what someone in a novel would do? Did I not just play the villainous gothic hero? Should I have played a chaste knight instead? Do you really know what you want, Miss Bridget?”
His words struck harmfully indeed. “I know I no longer care for this conversation,” she said. “You’re trying to punish me for finding the book.”
He laughed. “The book is the last thing on my mind at the moment.” He stalked past her. “If you’re so determined to play the heroine, then I leave it to you to determine what comes next.”
For the third time in his life, Benjamin Abernathy was well on his way to becoming drunk. The first time had been after victory was declared in Salamanca and he and his friends toasted their fallen friends. The second had been the day before Tom’s wedding to Sera. And now the third, at the third annual Belle birthday crush.
He had already tipsy enough that he had taken to dancing, although he was not a great dancer. He must have twirled dozens of young ladies across the room—making sure none of them was a Belle. His partners weren’t likely even readers with high-and-mighty and confusing ideals and morals about what they should read or not read and how they should live their lives accordingly.
In short, they were simple creatures, which was a blessing, since the more and more Benjamin drank, the more difficult it was to manage anything but simple conversation.
After spinning about the ballroom for a while, he needed to stand still for a moment, and when standing became too much, he sat—terrible manners when there were enough older people and women about to merit abandoning his seat, but the only other option was to fall on his face.
He had kissed her.
Bridget Belle.
And not in the way that he should have. Worse yet, upon kissing her he had realized it had not been the way he wanted to kiss her, which meant he wanted to kiss her in the first place. In many ways, if he was honest. In many places. When had he decided he wanted to kiss her?
The answer to that was, unfortunately, a very long time ago. Definitely since she had arrived at the gaming hell to meet Damon. Possibly even longer. Which meant he had wanted to kiss her back when he’d thought he had not wanted her.
Which meant he was a man who did not know his own mind—the very thing of which he had accused her. He was an imbecile.
Being an idiot was also probably why he did not notice his father making his way toward him in enough time to run away.
The Duke of Rivington came upon Benjamin while he was deep in his cups. Judging by His Grace’s disapproving sneer and the bony clench of his fists, he was deeply aware of his son’s state.
“I insist that you take your behavior in hand,” his father said.
“I have done nothing but dance with eligible ladies all night in the hopes of fulfilling your wish to see me married.” Luckily, he did not have a headache—that would come tomorrow.
“These women would be fools to want to marry someone so sloppy. Your breath alone … I may have expected this from one of your friends. But you?”
“Yes, why expect anything from me?” Indignation sent him to his feet. “I’m not worth expecting anything from. Who would want to marry me?”
Bridget didn’t.
She truly didn’t. He was second in line for one of the oldest titles in England and she was a little hoyden, and she didn’t want to marry him.
The irony.
“You’ve been exceptionally well behaved,” his father said with a glower, “so I will excuse you this one outburst, and you will excuse yourself from this party. Mr. Belle has taken note of you already, and I doubt he wants a drunkard as a suitor to one of his precious daughters.”
“I don’t want any of his precious daughters,’” Benjamin sneered.
“If you’re not going to talk sense, then you may retire for the night as promised.”
“I’ll do better than that.” Benjamin went to his room and told his valet to ready his bags to return home. It was too dark to make a coach journey all the way to London, but he could stay at the inn in the nearby village until he sobered up.
By the time he had reached the inn, fortified himself with a hearty bowl of soup, and readied himself for bed, his headache had begun. It was a relentless pounding that cut through all his thoughts to expose an essential truth: he wanted to marry Bridget, but she had said no and he would have to marry another.
But for now he did not want the truth. He wanted an escape.
Bridget wasn’t the only one who could run away to the Continent.
Lord B.,
I hope this letter finds you well and enjoying your travels. Your whereabouts are largely unknown, and my understanding is that you move from city to city so there is no guarantee of correspondence reaching you.
I hope that you might confirm receipt of this it does, in fact, find you.
I regret that our last words to each other were spoken in anger, and I hope for the sakes of our families that we might move forward more amicably.
B.B.
Lord B.,
I don’t know whether to take your lack of response as deliberate silence or confirmation that you have not received my missives. Graham mentioned hearing from you and our letters were posted the same day, so I fear the former.
B.B.
Lord B.,
I offer my condolences. The events of the past must seem meaningless and petty now with the deaths of Tom and your father. Our family grieves with you. If there is anything I can do, please do not hesitate to notify me.
B.B.
Chapter Six
A funeral
March 12, 1820
London, England
After the bodies of the late Duke of Rivington and his son Tom ha
d been laid to rest, all of London congregated in the Rivington parlor. Bridget had wanted to help, but with Sera in deep mourning for her husband, their eldest sister, Alice, had sprung into action. She had seen the curtains and tapestries replaced with somber black. She had ensured there were enough food and beverages on hand. She had managed everything quite well, but in doing so, she had made Bridget’s help obsolete.
Bridget stood in the back corner of the room by the picture window. This vantage point afforded her a view of the parlor that was teeming with guests, as well as the receiving line of Benjamin, Graham, and Sera. Behind them stood Gray Abernathy, the youngest brother, who was estranged from the rest of the family but had returned for the funeral. They made a forlorn group, all in black.
She could hear the murmurs of the guests. How both Tom and the duke had died as gentlemen—nay, heroes—as if that would provide comfort. Beneath those whispers were the darker ones. Sera had confirmed that she was not expecting, and Benjamin was now the Duke of Rivington.
To the casual observer he might appear as he always did, but Bridget could tell he was hollowed out by the news, his cheeks just shy of gaunt, his dark eyes too stunned to betray emotion.
Sera was but a shadow of her former self, too. Alice had roused her this morning and dressed her as if she were a child. She’d yet to speak a word. Her lips were cracked, her nose red, her cheeks streaked with tears.
In a single moment their lives had become something else, something cold and dark and incomprehensible. With their father across the sea attending to business in Boston, they were also without his guidance and support. Alice had more than risen to the occasion as the eldest, but Bridget knew the strain it must be to bear the burden of their collective weight.
She wasn’t sure whether she mourned the two men who had died or the effect their deaths were having on her loved ones. She had never liked the old duke. He’d been mercenary and cruel in many ways, and while she wasn’t one to favor delicate manners, for a peer of his station, he’d also been quite gauche. As for Tom, she loved that he had been kind to her sister and he seemed a good man, but she didn’t know him very well.
It was the people they had left behind, the devastation in their faces, that pained Bridget.
She’d once been so close to her littlest sister, but since Sera’s marriage, she’d allowed a distance to come between them. And Benjamin … She had considered him a friend, however unorthodox, but their last interaction had confused everything. How could they share such an intimacy as a kiss—one she thought of constantly—and drift so far apart in each other’s regard?
If the funeral today was to teach her anything, it was that life could be tragically short. A drowning accident in the Thames? One would never have guessed two such powerful men would come to such an end.
After an interminable wait, the receiving line reached its conclusion, and Benjamin, Graham, and Sera were free to join their guests in the parlor. Bridget watched from the sidelines as the trio was separated by well-meaning guests. Sera allowed herself to be swept aside as Graham strode out of the parlor mid-conversation.
Benjamin stood alone, standing erect and looking unflappable. Now was her chance. Her feet felt like heavy clubs in her black slippers as she considered moving them.
She gazed across the parlor, willing Benjamin to look up at her. Willing him to meet her eyes and give her some indication of where they stood. But was that fair? He’d lost his father, his brother. He had just inherited a dukedom. He had greater concerns than her feelings. How she wished she knew how to act around him. Would he even welcome her sympathies?
Only, he did not look up at her. He did not look up at all. He stared, stone-faced, at whomever was speaking to him, and when nobody spoke with him, he looked down at his shoes.
She dug deep to find the courage to inch closer, traveling along the wall. There were interruptions, of course. Someone offered her a mourning biscuit. Another remarked on how pale Sera seemed, and how significant that was for someone who was so fair when she was well. Bridget did not mind the distractions; they gave her time to gather her strength and consider what to say to Benjamin.
She went through the conversation in her mind. She would offer her condolences, ask after his well-being. Simple enough. That was the mantra as she approached him. Simple, simple, simple, simple. She repeated the word over and over until she reached him.
His gaze swept over her face, barely lighting on her eyes, then skimmed past her to the crowd behind. She’d opened her mouth, her condolences on the tip of her tongue, when he brushed by her to speak to another guest.
Bridget stood stock-still, her mouth half-open. She’d felt his coat graze against her bare arm, then nothing. She began to tremble.
With great effort, she closed her mouth and swallowed. She turned to see Benjamin’s back as he skirted the crowd, plunging down a half-empty hall.
How dare he?
She wasn’t just some guest to be ignored! She was his family. She was hurting, too. With fisted hands, she followed down the hall which led to a single door, closed. She briefly wondered what she would do if the door was locked, but a single turn of the handle proved it was not.
Benjamin stood in the center of the Turkish rug that lay in front of the marble desk in his father’s study. He turned as she entered and crossed the room in quick strides. She planted her feet, certain he meant to throw her out, but she wasn’t going anywhere. She was here, and he was going to speak with her.
He closed the distance between them and reached out. She was preparing to give him a piece of her mind when his arms wrapped around her waist and he hauled her up against his chest. She froze, shocked, as he buried his face in her neck and locked his hands behind her back. Heat branded her where their bodies touched. Then she felt his tears, wet against her skin. She soothed him automatically, running her fingers through his dark locks.
“I’m sorry,” he said in gasps, his lips slipping against her skin. “I couldn’t … not out there … I couldn’t.”
Bridget hushed him and held him as her own tears began to fall. He couldn’t have been comfortable, hunched over her as he was, but he was holding on tight.
A duke.
He was the Duke of Rivington.
If there was a situation in life that merited total drunken oblivion, this was it. Unfortunately, he’d been shaken sober.
Benjamin dismissed his valet and headed straight for the comfort of his study.
No, that wasn’t quite right. His study was now across town at the Duke of Rivington’s town house. His current residence was but one of many townhomes and buildings he now owned. In addition to the lands he also suddenly owned. Occupied by tenants for whom he was now responsible. Families whose livelihoods depended on him.
Tom would have known what to do. Tom would have taken it all on his giant shoulders. He would even have managed to smile and make everyone feel cheerful, at least. A talent that Benjamin had never possessed.
Instead, he poured a finger of whiskey and collapsed into the nearest chair.
His thoughts were a jumble of memories—of his father, of Tom. For some reason, he kept remembering when he and Graham had first tried to teach Tom to ride a horse. Tom had always been big, even then, and his size had seemed to spook the gelding, who in turn, spooked Tom. He had tried to laugh it off with a jolly shake of his shoulders, even after their father had called him a “beef-witted bastard,” saying the likes of Tom couldn’t have come from his line. Benjamin remembered wanting to lay his father out for the insult to their mother. Graham had tried to persuade his father to go inside, to keep the peace, while their youngest brother, Gray, had nearly done the job Benjamin had been too timid to do. But Tom had just laughed and called their father clever for such an alliterative insult, and then the duke had laughed. They had tried to put Tom back on the horse after that, but it was hopeless.
Benjamin took a slow, deep breath. If Tom had to be gone, it almost made sense that their father had been taken, too
. Reports of the accident were hazy, but some said Tom had dived into the Thames first and drowned, and their father had followed trying to save him. Yes, at the end of it all, his father had become a hero.
Perhaps a world without Tom didn’t make sense for their father. It barely made sense for Benjamin. He had thought he was holding himself together until he’d seen Bridget, and then the dam had opened and the feelings that had been slowly simmering finally boiled over.
Duke.
His home, his properties, his responsibilities.
He was not surprised by the knock on the front door. He’d left the funeral abruptly after the incident with Bridget. He hadn’t exactly departed as he should have. This was becoming a trend.
Graham was announced a few moments later. His hair was a disheveled mess, as was his face. He slumped into the chair across from Benjamin, stared at the decanter of spirits, then seemed to decide they were too far away because he slumped even further in his seat. “What are we to do?”
“Our duty,” Benjamin said.
“I’m sure my only duty is to mourn. But you, Benjamin …” Graham shook his head.
“My first responsibility is to Sera. Especially since her father’s ship has not yet arrived from Boston.”
“You have to take your seat in the House of Lords,” Graham said. “Attend to the lands and tenants. Ensure the solvency—”
“Yes, I’ve already been contacted by the estate managers and Father’s man of affairs,” Benjamin said.
Graham looked at him pointedly. “You have to marry.”
And there was the true specter in the room—feminine, slender, and terrifying. He needed to marry.
“Alice is the obvious choice,” Graham said.
“Bridget will do just as well,” Benjamin countered.
A lengthy pause followed, during which Benjamin refused to meet his brother’s gaze. Finally, Benjamin tilted his head. Graham studied him with a cocked brow, a probing look. “As you say,” Graham said. “Bridge will do just as well.”