Dying For A Duke

by Emma V. Leech

  “He’s betrothed.”

  Sarah dropped the dress in horror. “Now, Phoebe,” she began with a warning note in her voice. “Don’t you dare!”

  Phoebe looked back at her with wide eyes. “Sarah, whatever can you be thinking?”

  “Don’t you dare go flirting and making up to a man who’s already engaged to be married, my girl!”

  Phoebe laughed and crossed the room to give Sarah a hug. “Oh as if? You know I never would! In any case I’m not going to do any such thing. In fact I’m going to make his life perfectly unbearable,” she said with a grin. “Though if he happens to discover that his betrothed is joyless, miserly and unfeeling in the process I really can’t be blamed for it.”

  Sarah covered her eyes with one hand. “Oh, Lordy,” she said with a despairing edge to the words. “And here I was thinking I’d finally persuaded your father to send you out of danger.”

  Phoebe took her hand and towed her to the bed, patting the mattress to get her to sit down.

  “Do stop fretting, Sarah, you know my schemes always work out famously in the end.”

  Sarah turned and looked at her, clasping her hand tightly. “But even if your wretched scheme works, my lamb. What would you be wanting with a man who’s rude and unkind to you?”

  Phoebe smiled and pictured the earl’s glowering countenance in her mind’s eye. “Oh, papa told me all about the family. The poor man became earl at nineteen when his father died and found the family was all but bankrupt. He was barely more than a boy, Sarah, and he had to take on a young family and try and save them from ruin. Can you imagine?”

  Sarah made a tsking noise of sympathy and shook her head.

  “Is it any wonder that he’s forgotten how to have fun and ... and looks for safety and ... and a dull and boring life over facing all that uncertainty again?”

  She looked up to find Sarah giving her an old-fashioned look. “And so?” she demanded. “How exactly is this scheme going to change all of that?”

  Phoebe wrapped her arms about herself. “I’m going to teach him to be brave,” she said with a smile.

  ***

  The next morning Benedict found his mood had not improved from the previous evening. Despite Theodora’s conviction that he had been entirely in the right and that Miss Skeffington-Fox was dreadfully outspoken and hadn’t the slightest delicacy of mind, he could not help but feel a sense of guilt.

  A hoyden she may be, but he had gone out of his way to provoke her for reasons that he simply couldn’t fathom. There was something about Cousin Phoebe that made him out of reason cross. Nevertheless he hadn’t stopped to consider that she might have been excited to be in London and to soon be attending parties and balls in the manner that any young woman would enjoy. He hadn’t really considered what kind of life she must have led up until now at all, despite his mother’s words on the subject.

  At all accounts it would appear that her rakish father had not set her a good example and had given her a deal too much freedom and a free tongue. Those things would need to be checked, he decided. She was obviously spoilt and wilfully independent and that was something he would not tolerate. But a guiding hand should bring her to heel soon enough. He believed himself more than equal to the task, though he would no doubt have to be extremely patient over the coming weeks. However he was a fair man and he realised that he did owe her an apology. So with this in mind and the intention of being generous and charitable, he went down to breakfast.

  Benedict paused half way down the stairs as his uncle’s booming laughter filtered out from the breakfast parlour. Breakfast was generally a quiet affair. Benedict did not like noise or chatter first thing and most of the family trod carefully around him until he had left the breakfast parlour. Though as he was generally the first up this wasn’t too much of a hardship. His uncle too was generally an early riser when he was on form, which he clearly was today. He had not expected to see Miss Skeffington-Fox at such an hour. Standing in the doorway, however, he looked upon a very jovial scene as his Uncle Sylvester waved a hand at him.

  “Ben! Ben, my boy, I’ve just been speaking to your charming cousin. Where on earth have you been hiding her?” He beamed at Phoebe, his green eyes full of the dash and sparkle of a man half his age.

  “Nowhere, Sir,” Benedict replied, silently thanking God that this was the case. Though if he’d had a hand in her upbringing she’d not be such a blasted nuisance. “Miss Skeffington-Fox has been with her father following Bonaparte’s trail of destruction.” Privately he wondered if Miss Skeffington-Fox had left a trail of her own.

  “So she’s been telling me,” Sylvester replied nodding. “Thought you was something out of the ordinary first moment I set eyes on you, my girl. Not like those insipid misses we generally see round here. Bore you to tears they would.”

  Benedict bit back a retort, knowing damn well that his uncle did not approve of Miss Pinchbeck. As the man was a confirmed womaniser in his youth, Benedict had always been able to shrug off his comments. Unlike most of the men of his family Ben was not made in that mould and only wanted a woman who would be a stable and steadfast companion. Someone who knew how to behave and would never make him blush for them or gamble away their fortune, or whistle on the doorstep. Benedict glanced at Phoebe to see her biting her lip. With annoyance he realised she was trying not to laugh. Damn the chit, and he still had to apologise to her. Sylvester, who was totally oblivious to Benedict’s chagrin, returned his attention to the diabolical blonde at his side.

  “Now tell me, child,” the old man demanded. “Did you really hold up a Bandito or are you bamming me?”

  Benedict choked on his coffee.

  “Oh no, your Grace,” Phoebe replied, with her cornflower blue eyes wide and guileless. “I wouldn’t do that. It’s perfectly true.”

  “No, Phoebe,” the duke replied with reproach. “If I have to tell you again to call me Sylvester I shall be affronted you know.”

  Phoebe laughed and Benedict frowned as the sound seemed to wrap around him. It was warm and inviting, inviting him to join the fun.

  “Very well, Sir ... I beg your pardon, Sylvester. But yes I did, though sadly the gun was empty. I had to bluff though you see - he was a most unsavoury character.”

  She shuddered and Benedict felt a strange jolt of concern. She was making light of it, turning it in to a delightful story to amuse his uncle. But what must she have felt if it was true? He felt a sudden and unwelcome desire to shield the wretch from any such dangers in the future. Though as she was unlikely to fall among Bandits in Grosvenor square, he wasn’t sure why he should be concerned at all.

  “But how did you hold him off if the gun was empty?” Sylvester demanded, watching as she picked up a second slice of plum cake.

  “Well he didn’t know that,” she said with a grin before popping a piece of cake into her mouth. She swallowed and looked back at the duke. “And besides, I’d hidden in the cellars where they’d stored the explosives and had the forethought to grab a box of matches before I went down. He’d have been very foolish to believe I wouldn’t have struck that match, don’t you think?”

  “Good God!” Sylvester exclaimed, looking at Phoebe with a cross between astonishment and pure delight.

  Benedict fought the need to put his head in his hands and groan. He could well believe the wretch set off explosions wherever her feet touched the ground.

  “That settles it,” Sylvester said, with the air of a man who was used to getting his own way. “You’re all coming to Grizedale Court for the summer. Lady Rothay and the children and most certainly you, my girl! By Jove we shall have some larks!”

  To Benedict’s dismay Phoebe’s eyes lit with excitement. “Oh, Sylvester, that would be perfectly wonderful!” She clapped her hands together and leapt out of her seat to kiss Sylvester’s bristly cheek.

  Clamping his teeth together with frustration, Benedict was almost certain the old man blushed.

  “Oh thank you so much!” she exclaimed before s
he turned and met Benedict’s dark gaze. “Only ...” she faltered, her joyous expression falling away so suddenly it would have been comical if he hadn’t realised it was simply part of her evil genius. “Only ...” she said again, with the wistful tone of a child dreaming of a longed for treat.

  “Only?” Sylvester barked in annoyance. He was not a man who likes to see his plans thwarted. “Only what?”

  Phoebe stared unblinkingly back at Benedict before she turned her big blue eyes on the old man. “Perhaps Cousin Benedict wouldn’t like it?”

  If Sylvester missed the glimmer of devilry in her eyes as she delivered this performance, Benedict did not. The manipulative baggage! There was no possible way he could wriggle out of it without upsetting the old man who had clearly set his heart on the notion.

  “Ben?” Sylvester repeated in astonishment. “Nonsense. Why should he? Ben loves Grizedale more than anyone, don’t you, my boy?”

  “Of course, Sir,” Benedict replied through his teeth, glaring at the blonde harpy opposite him with loathing.

  “There you are then,” Sylvester replied, grinning broadly and stroking his bushy moustache with satisfaction. “All settled. Ben, get everyone packing up will you. We’ll leave in the morning.”

  Benedict opened his mouth to say that this was impossible at such short notice but had enough experience of his uncle in this mood to know it would be useless. If the duke said the household was to be packed up, the household would be packed up.

  “Pass me that stick will you, my dear?” Sylvester asked, though Phoebe had already run to fetch it for him as the old man hauled himself to his feet. Benedict stood too but the old man shook off his helping hand. “Blasted gout!” he grumbled as Phoebe returned with the stick. “Still you’re lucky I’m not a man half my age, Miss,” he added, giving her a roguish smile.

  Benedict watched as Phoebe’s cheeks dimpled in an alarmingly endearing manner when she smiled at him. “Frankly I think I’ve been born far too late,” she replied with a mournful expression.

  “Ha!” the old man barked, clearly delighted that she would flirt with him. “Baggage,” he muttered, but with such affection it was clear that no malice was intended. Phoebe then escorted him to the door and to Benedict’s chagrin did not come back to the table.

  Damn the woman. Now he would have to seek her out for the sole purpose of apologising when all he wanted to do was avoid her. Suddenly deciding he’d lost his appetite he pushed his plate away and decided to get it over with.

  Chapter 4

  Beneath her clear discerning eye the visionary shadows fly of folly’s painted show:

  She sees thro’ ev’ry fair disguise, that all but VIRTUE’S solid joys are vanity and woe. - Elizabeth Carter.

  To his intense frustration Phoebe managed to evade him for the rest of the day. As leaving at such short notice meant that he had much to keep him occupied, he had little time to dwell on the fact. To his frustration the woman seemed to invade his thoughts at the most annoying intervals and he spent most of the day feeling unaccountably cross. At least he had already made arrangements to dine at his club so dinner would be avoided. There wouldn’t be the slightest chance of getting her alone and apologising in private in any case. He blamed his simmering frustration on the fact that he did not enjoy being in the wrong.

  Thanks to the unflagging work of his staff, Benedict found that the whole family was indeed ready to leave the next morning. A row of gleaming carriages waited outside the elegant town house, though they wasted more than a little time discussing who would travel with whom. Sylvester, whose own comfort always came first, was adamant that Lady Rothay, Phoebe and Benedict would travel with him. He seemed frankly disinterested in how the rest of them organised themselves.

  Though it was June the day was overcast with a chill north wind blowing that made it feel rather more like March. Once certain that arrangements had been made to his satisfaction, Benedict was rather glad to get into the carriage and out of the cold. He found himself seated beside his uncle and opposite his mother and Miss Skeffington-Fox.

  As uncharitable as his thoughts towards his new step cousin might be, Benedict had to concede that she looked ravishing. She wore a bright carmine red velvet pelisse, the tops of the sleeves caught up with rich silk military chain work. A charming velvet lined bonnet of the same shade framed her lovely face and cast her blonde locks an almost burnished gold. Limerick gloves and kid half boots completed the elegant picture and Benedict wished he was sitting beside her. At least then he wouldn’t have to pay attention to ensure his gaze didn’t steal back to take another look.

  Despite his mother’s attempts to draw him into polite conversation he managed to avoid being anything more than superficially entertaining for the first half of the journey. This didn’t seem to be a problem, however, as the rest of the company were in fine spirits. Their convivial mood only seemed to blacken his own further, and it was with considerable relief that they drew up outside The Bull in Maidstone for some refreshment.

  As Sylvester was only too eager to return to the comforts of his own home, this was a blessedly brief affair but did afford Benedict a moment alone with Phoebe.

  She was walking outside of the inn as they waited for his mother and uncle to appear, apparently enjoying the weak sunshine that had begun to filter through the clouds.

  “Miss Skeffington-Fox?” he called, drawing her attention to him and he strode towards her, determined that he should not be thwarted again. “May I have a moment of your time?”

  “Of course, Cousin Benedict,” she said, smiling at him, though that ever present challenge lurked in her eyes. And he knew damn well she only called him Cousin Benedict to rile him. Which it did.

  “I would prefer that you simply call me Benedict, rather than insist on this ridiculous charade that we are cousins when you know full well we’re no such thing.” The words shot out in irritation and he remembered with a stab of annoyance that he was supposed to be apologising.

  “Oh, are you disinheriting me?” she replied, blinking up at him with those big blue eyes.

  He scowled at her and wondered just how many men had capitulated to whatever it was she demanded of them under the weight of that beautiful countenance. Well he would not be one of them. He ignored her question and ploughed on.

  “I would like to apologise for my behaviour to you, Miss Skeffington-Fox,” he began but she shook her head, stopping him in his tracks. Reaching out she tugged at his sleeve and then wagged her finger at him.

  “Phoebe,” she said with a reproving expression. “If you are Benedict then I must be Phoebe.”

  “Very well,” he said, taking a breath. “Phoebe, I would like to apologise for my rudeness.”

  “Why certainly,” she replied, beaming at him, but then her lovely expression puckered a little, her blonde brows drawing together. “Only ... which particular rudeness were you referring to?”

  Why the little ... Benedict clenched his jaw and his eyes fell as she bit her full lower lip between white, even teeth. He knew she was laughing at him. The problem was she had a point, but he was damned if he’d apologise for the fact she made him furious every time she opened her perfectly lush mouth. He drew his eyes away from that distracting article with a shake of his head.

  “I am apologising for making assumptions about how you spend your allowance. I hadn’t considered the kind of life you must have led until now and that, perhaps such expenditure would be a novelty to you after such restrictions. It was ... unjust of me and I’m sorry for it.”

  There, damn her. He’d said it and she could find whatever she liked within the words to throw back in his face. She’d not hear another apology from him. But to his surprise her face softened and she smiled at him.

  “Thank you,” she said simply. “I confess you put me quite out of countenance for papa was forever demanding I should spend more money on my appearance. But what is the point when you are forever covered in dust or mud and surrounded by soldiers who spe
nd their days fighting for their lives? It seemed obscene to be so taken up with such fripperies in the circumstances.”

  He frowned, looking at her with a dawning respect. He hadn’t expected such an answer as that. “Yes,” he replied, and discovered himself sounding almost approving. “I think you were quite right.”

  To his surprise she availed herself of his arm, though he hadn’t volunteered it, and he found himself strolling along the lane with her.

  “But I’m not going to pretend I didn’t enjoy spending every penny on the contents of those cases,” she added, with a more familiar twinkle in her eyes.

  Benedict snorted. “I never doubted it for a moment.” He glanced down at her to find she was staring up at him with a warm expression. “I think you enjoy most everything you do,” he added. Damn, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but he’d found himself staring down into eyes of such blue that he felt he might drown in them if he wasn’t very careful.

  “I think perhaps I do,” she replied, her voice soft. She didn’t blink, her head raised up as it barely reached his shoulder, though she was tall for a woman. He looked away from her and noticed with relief that Sylvester and his mother were returning to the carriage.

  “Time to go.” He hurried her back to the carriage and handed her in, making a mental note to keep out of her company as much as was possible.

  ***

  Phoebe’s eyes widened as the imposing structure of Grizedale Court came into view.

  “Knew you’d like it,” Sylvester said with satisfaction, though she’d not said a word. Apparently her face was expressive enough though as she glanced back to find his bright green eyes trained on her.

  “It’s lovely,” she said with complete honesty. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”