Lord Benjamin returned to Katherine’s side after he was divested of his costume, his charcoal coat now resumed in obvious relief. He lifted a hand in thanks at the “well done, Lord Benjamin” comments that were thrown his way as he took his seat in the audience.
“You did not sing,” Katherine commented over the sounds of the next group of gentlemen—cavaliers, to judge by their motley gathering of oversized hats—assembling.
“You would not care to hear my singing,” he said with a rueful grin. “You could say I sang like a toad, except it would be unkind to the toad.”
Katherine laughed and put her gloveless hand on his arm, half leaning in toward him, in a small silent scold as one does with a friend who has made one laugh when one ought to be whispering. Lord Benjamin looked down at her hand, went very still for a moment, then casually covered it with his own. He turned at once toward the performance, leaving Katherine to wonder rather breathlessly how she must take back her bare hand, but that she did not really want to move it. It would look awkward, unnatural, unaffectionate, she told herself, and left her hand under the warmth that spread from his.
She tried to concentrate on the tableau—yet again an inappropriate term since the gentlemen were staging a singing sword fight filled with swashbuckling and leapings about—but her attention kept focusing on her hand under Lord Benjamin’s—and the fact that Cyril was not present at Sir Oliver’s affair tonight.
Had Cyril not been invited? The First Beau? Or was this too common an affair for his taste? Could he be ill, or simply occupied elsewhere?
Although she had determined she ought not to depend on it so, Katherine had become used to Cyril’s presence, his personality a counterweight to that of Lord Benjamin’s. One was so handsome as to be beautiful; the other was handsome, too, but more quietly so.
To be honest with herself, she knew she was confused as to how both could be attractive, yet so many miles apart in their look and demeanor.
She wanted to hate Lord Benjamin for the situation he had placed her in—but just when she thought she would gladly condemn him to eternal flames, he would say something kind, do something thoughtful, or give her a sheepish grin from underneath a mock-Roman helm, and it became difficult to keep hold of her annoyance. Truth was, the man had a certain measure of charm when he was not being blustery, demanding, or contrary.
For instance, she had learned he had a pleasant laugh, almost as charming as Cyril’s. Cyril laughed a great deal, which was to Katherine’s mind a primary facet of his attractiveness—but she had to admit Lord Benjamin had an infectious laugh of his own. Even his grin was catching, perhaps because it was only offered when something truly struck him as amusing or ironic.
And there was that one thing she could say for Lord Benjamin, over Cyril: Lord Benjamin’s kiss was superior. She had given the matter some thought—more than a little, after Lord Benjamin had kissed her a second time, there in the field beside Epsom Downs. As she’d lain in bed of a night, memories had returned, comparisons had been evaluated.
She’d come, rather against her will, to an honest conclusion: One kiss was not like another. Even though logic said they could not be much different—they could. Cyril’s mouth was . . . wetter, hungrier, less gentle, and yet somehow demanding. Katherine ought to come away from Cyril’s kiss all breathless and shaken ... yet it was Lord Benjamin’s kisses that had made her tremble.
Cyril had kissed her again, just last night, dancing her away
from Lord Benjamin, out of Lady Danielson’s soiree for a quick tryst on their hostess’ balcony. But perhaps it was not fair to look at that quickly exchanged peck, because they’d been forced to flee the balcony when others of seemingly similar inclination had invaded it as well.
“It is not yet time for me to be seen growing away from Lord Benjamin,” Katherine had whispered to Cyril, turning her head and slipping her hand free from his so that what would have been another kiss had gone wide of her cheek, let alone her mouth.
She frowned, remembering that her mouth had not longed for more of his last night—but, in all fairness, she had been concerned at being caught out. Her reluctance had nothing to do with the quality of Cyril’s kisses, or, well, perhaps just the tiniest bit....
Technique, it was all about technique—like learning to ride a horse. Yes! Cyril was a fine horseman, so there was no reason to think that marriage and a word or two suggested by her might not also make of him a fine kisser.
Katherine closed her eyes, then shook her head, forbidding herself to think about kisses, not here, not with Lord Benjamin touching her ungloved hand. She opened her eyes and was surprised to see pirates now filled the tableau area set up at one end of Sir Oliver’s ballroom.
“Would you care for something to drink?” Lord Benjamin asked her, and she suspected it was the second time he had asked, while her thoughts had been busily tumbling.
“Please. Ratafia would be fine.”
He rose to fetch the liqueur, his hand sliding away from hers. For a moment cool air touched her hand’s unprotected skin, making her wish his hand back, but a moment’s further thought had her pulling on her gloves.
When he did not return at once, she cast a glance about, finding him lingering at the table filled with refreshments. Standing before him was Miss Mansell, once again dressed in violet, but this was an evening gown, cut very low over her bosom. Lord Benjamin smiled at the young woman. He must have offered to fill her glass, for Miss Mansell handed it to him as she proceeded to chat quietly with him.
Katherine watched Lord Benjamin out of the comer of her eye. and tried to see him as Miss Mansell might. How would he seem to Katherine if she had met him with nothing between them, no tiresome wagers to cloud her impressions?
He was physically attractive, commanding a second glance by the width of his shoulders, although he was not so striking as Cyril. Lord Benjamin’s pale blue eyes made her search for an adequate word to describe them (“heavenly blue" came to mind), and his hair was the mixed hues of a sunlit wheat field. It had grown, now tending to wave at his temples and over his ears. He was not the Adonis that Cyril was, but Lord Benjamin was a fine-looking man.
Appearance aside, if Katherine had just met Lord Benjamin with no betrothal or complication between them, he would still bear the tattered reputation he possessed. He would still be the mercurial creature who teased one moment and brooded the next.
But for all of that, Katherine thought she might have taken a liking to Lord Benjamin had she met him under different circumstances, for despite his reputation he struck her as a man of principles. His principles and hers may stand on opposite sides of the same fence, but opposing views did not necessarily foes make.
She wondered, as she had fleetingly before, how it was that he’d come to sell naval supplies to smugglers. It was difficult to imagine Lord Benjamin deliberately committing a criminal act— could it be that he had, somehow, not known his acts were wrong? Katherine shook her head, for if she knew nothing else about Lord Benjamin, she had come to know in this past week that he was far from thick-witted. What he had done, he had done knowingly. She wondered if she would ever dare to ask him the whys and wherefores of the deed that had changed his life.
She glanced at him again, observing as he returned Miss Mansell’s full glass to her, seeing the two of them exchange conversation and smiles. Lord Benjamin looked sober in his charcoal ensemble, but that sobriety in his dress suited him as Cyril’s plums and bottle-greens would not. Too, it behooved him to dress with a certain decorum, not flash, because she knew he was seeking employment; he must look reliable, not dashing.
She knew he sought work because on the drive home from Lady Danielson’s soiree last night, they had fallen to talking, and Lord Benjamin had revealed one of his goals in coming to London was to find suitable work.
Once he had that, she assumed he would seek out the obvious next goal: a wife.
So why pretend to be betrothed to her? To elicit sympathy, that prospective emp
loyers must think that a soon-to-be- married man must have an income? Katherine thought it might tend to do the reverse, to convince others that Lord Benjamin had other income if he felt he could afford a bride, but she had not felt it her place to say as much to him. Besides, he surely had other reasons, not least of which was the wager he had formed with someone—Cyril? Papa?—that he could be betrothed before cock’s crow. Not that it mattered. His reasons were his own, and Katherine need know nothing of them nor have anything to do with them in a little more than a fortnight.
Lord Benjamin returned with her glass of ratafia and with Miss Mansell on his arm. Katherine exchanged “how do you dos” with Miss Mansell, but then was quickly left to her own devices as Miss Mansell and Lord Benjamin sat beside one another and fell into a running discussion of the tableaux already completed.
Katherine turned to the lady on her right, but Miss Pontefroy still had her back firmly turned to Katherine, as she had since she’d sat down, clearly indicating a disinclination to pursue a deeper acquaintance—although Miss Pontefroy had spoken to Katherine last night when she had stood at the side of the First Beau. Without Cyril at her side tonight, however, Katherine was clearly not deemed worthy of the lady’s conversation.
Katherine stifled a sigh, and stood. She saw out of the comer of her eye that Lord Benjamin looked up as she rose, hastening to politely stand as well. Still, by the time Katherine had moved a few steps, Miss Mansell had put her hand on his arm and drawn him to sit once more.
Katherine spied a small group of ladies she knew would include her in their discourse, with or without the First Beau at hand. These ladies were less particular of Katherine’s own reputation or at least kinder in their tolerance of it, and she felt a little cheered to be able to cross the room and join them.
Benjamin glanced around the room, as he already had several times, finally spying Miss Oakes standing with a group of ladies who were laughingly helping to organize the puttings on and takings off of costumes and props used by the gentlemen performers. He felt his shoulders relax, and wondered why they had been tense, beyond the obvious fact that Sir Albert would strike his head from his shoulders should any harm come to his daughter, Katherine.
Katherine. It was a beautiful name, suitable for a queen, but, too, soft enough to be whispered in the night.
Too bad the woman does not suit the name, he thought, but then felt a little ashamed, for that was not quite true. Katherine Oakes was fetching enough, with an impish sort of comeliness. Her red hair, curling around her face, made the most of her good cheekbones and excellent mouth ... but it was not of her appearance that he had truly been thinking. It was her temperament, her approach to life, her deportment. Her brothers had done her no favors by allowing her to run free and unfettered. The world was not used to unfettered women. . . . Benjamin frowned at his own thoughts, balking at his own attempts to cast a set of limitations upon the woman.
He did not like limitations, especially ones that derived from nothing more than tradition or one man’s concept of how things should be—his father had been one to impose such limitations. Papa had been harsh with his three sons, so harsh that Gideon had nearly ruined himself by trying with every ounce of his soul to go in exactly the opposite direction their father had set.
Only love, in the end, had saved Gideon, and not even the love of his brothers, but of a stranger come among them, Elizabeth. She had brought tolerance and forgiveness and strength to the house where Gideon resided with her now as his bride, and had pushed aside the old limitations that had bound them all in the past. With her had come hope, and love, and new beginnings, not least of which was the child she now carried.
No, limitations were not to Benjamin’s liking. Besides, putting a limitation on Katherine would be like imposing an order to “stay” upon the wind.
Only look at her now. She did her reputation no good by helping to turn a coat’s sleeve right side out—but Benjamin would not tell her to stop. She would not care one whit if he told her that this was a labor eschewed by the dandy set, that only the “second tier” of ladies were left to sort the props or bits of costuming. There was not a high flyer among the ladies assisting the gentlemen. Miss Granby had a lisp serious enough to make her difficult to understand over the clamor of a ballroom; and Mrs. Watkins was a widow of little beauty and less fortune; Miss Tarkinton was a pleasant conversationalist but otherwise lacked every social grace such as watercoloring, playing an instrument, or even dancing, making her prospects as a wife rather thin; and Miss Peabody, speaking of thin, was so slender she appeared as if a high wind would carry her away.
Not a one of them shone through with enough beauty, style, fortune, or grandness of birth, and so did what they could to promote themselves through offers of service, goodwill, and that less valued but more worthy attribute know as Christian kindness.
Of course. Miss Oakes would not care, for Miss Oakes had not a single thought in her head of promoting herself on the marriage mart. She hoped to marry Mr. Cullman—and even if she did not, she knew she would still be leaving her father’s home, even if it was to live in a swamp. Her swamp, she would say with a proud glitter in her eyes.
Miss Oakes. Benjamin decided as he put back his shoulders, could have done worse than to affiliate herself with these, the second-best ladies of the ton. The cousins who might get invited to Almack’s, but who were not expected to marry from its ranks. The women who actually gave of themselves, through the work of their hands, and so were gazed down upon by those who need never lift a finger, nor think to. These ladies would not promote Miss Oakes’s standing, but neither would they be casually cruel to her, having each of them known at least a touch of fate’s cruelty themselves.
Then there were the women such as Miss Mansell, accepted everywhere, more decorative than their cousins, with richer or better-bom parents. It was from the ranks of the Miss Mansells of this world that Benjamin knew he should marry, had long since determined would bring him and his family name the prestige now lacking, if only he could persuade such a paragon to have him.
He looked again to where Miss Oakes helped an army lieutenant shrug into a patchwork coat perhaps meant to approximate a harlequin figure, saw the two of them exchange a
comment and a laugh, frowned ever so slightly, and slowly turned back to face Miss Mansell.
Her face visibly brightened at the return of his attention, and Benjamin could not help but feel flattered. Cullman flirted with this lady, when he was not engaged in trifling with Katherine Oakes’s affections, and yet she sought out Benjamin’s company whenever they met. Benjamin, preferred to the First Beau?
He acknowledged to himself that a case of infatuation might serve him well here, with this lady whose every attribute outstripped his own. He acknowledged that he should be grateful she gave him two moments of her time despite his empty purse and his tattered name, but all the same he had to suppress a sigh, one that he would have been hard-pressed to explain.
Chapter 14
At least attending all these affairs has not cost me one penny, Benjamin reflected as he crossed yet another ballroom in search of yet another glass of refreshment for a lady. For the third time in as many days he fetched lemonade not for his fiancйe, but for Miss Mansell. Miss Oakes had been again swept away from his side by her circle of ladies he thought of as “the second cousins,” soon after he and she had arrived at yet another ball, the fifth one in the past two weeks. Miss Oakes had become a bit of a favorite among the second-best level of the ton. “The Placers,” as the horse-mad Miss Oakes herself might say.
He supposed he ought to count himself among the “Placers,” as he had yet to achieve an offer of employment.
Perhaps he should not have paid rent at his bachelor apartment, instead moving into the rubble that had once formed the family residence on Seymour Street. He couldn’t help but wonder if he might have had an offer of employment by now if he could have given the superior direction that was Seymour Street. The appearance of wealth
spoke almost as loudly in Town as did the actual existence of it.
In this morning’s search for employment, Benjamin had made the rounds of the colleges he could drive his phaeton to in three hours’ time. The effort had resulted in only one housekeeper’s assertion, “The headmaster’s in Brighton, but expected tomorrow. Come back then, at three.”
He would come back. Then, presuming failure there, he would go back to the docks, to see if—a week later than his last appearance there—anyone had decided they needed to hire a new man. He would keep looking. He must.
Benjamin handed Miss Mansell her glass of lemonade, and
wondered if she had any notion of how poor he was. Or if she realized his brother’s wife was to have a child, so that Benjamin’s chance of ever becoming the Marquess of Greyleigh were almost as thin as was his desire to inherit. Benjamin wished his brother, God willing, would live to see a hundred, and his nephew-to-be as well.
He could not guess what Miss Mansell hoped, but three days of fetching lemonade for the pretty young woman had shown him one thing: No matter that Miss Mansell was “perfect” as a bride for him, he did not want to court her. He did not want to ask her to be his bride, not even when he was free of Miss Oakes.
He was not sure why. Miss Mansell was everything he would have looked for in a helpmeet—but something was lacking. Attraction? She was pretty enough. Intellectual connection? She was bright enough. I do not know what is missing, Benjamin thought. He only knew it was not there.
As the musicians began tuning, the precursor to the first dance, Miss Mansell gave Benjamin a shy smile, clearly hoping he would ask to share it with her.
The Bartered Bridegroom Page 16