Eliza gave a determined toss of her head. “Oh, I will be happy.”
And if she felt the smallest twinge of regret, not at the life that lay before her, but at what she must leave behind…well. At least she would be alive.
Chapter Twenty-One
It had not escaped Sebastian’s notice that even now, when Miss Benton was under his very roof, he had a devil of a time finding her. She was never farther away than the next room, and yet he was always chasing her down.
She was not here. Dash it all, where had she gotten to now? He had been fairly certain of finding her here in the library, scribbling letters of correspondence as she was so often wont to do. But instead of Miss Benton, he found Lady Freesia.
She glanced up at the sound of his footfall. “Your Grace.” The book snapped shut.
His gaze went promptly to the title. A Fragment on Government. Well. Wasn’t that interesting? He smiled. “Am I disturbing you?”
She answered his smile with one of her own. “Not at all, Your Grace.”
“Stop that. I’ve known you since you were no more than ten. Must we be so formal?”
“No, indeed.” She shook her head with a little laugh. “Wessex, then. We haven’t spoken much since our arrival at Perivale Hall. My brother tells me you intend to find a wife. Is that why I’m here?”
He gaped at her. “My word, you are a direct little thing, aren’t you?”
“Little?” She huffed. “I’m taller than you!”
“By a quarter of an inch and no more.” He laughed ruefully. Things would be so easy with Lady Freesia as his wife. He liked her. But he did not love her, and Abingdon would accept nothing less for his beloved sister. To say nothing of Eastwood, who would snap his neck with all the glee of a hound taking a fox. “Would you be very sorry if I were to tell you that my plans have nothing to do with you?” Well, almost nothing, anyway.
Her mouth tucked up wryly. “You were once the hero of my girlhood dreams, but that is no longer the case. I hope you aren’t terribly disappointed.”
He searched her face and was relieved to find he believed her. He placed a hand to his heart. “I am devastated, my dear.”
She laughed, long and sweet. “No, you are not. It’s just as well, for I don’t love you, either. And in any case, I would resent being second in my husband’s affections.”
“Second?” His brow wrinkled.
Her gaze was direct. “You have a tendresse for Miss Benton, do you not? Everyone says so.”
Good God. “The gossips are mistaken. I have no such feelings for her.”
“Yet, she is here,” Lady Freesia pointed out.
“But not as my intended bride. I am not in love with her, nor she with me.”
“Ah. Then you will have no trouble giving her up.”
“Giving her up?” Sebastian repeated. “What, pray tell, am I to give up? We are not lovers. There is only the occasional dance, and a drive now and then, and of course we are sometimes together because her friend married mine. What would I give up?”
“All of it. You cannot imagine a wife will let you keep her.”
Something dark pooled in his gut. It felt oddly like panic, which was ludicrous. There was no reason to panic. He was a duke, and as such, he did not have to do anything he didn’t want to.
“You have very silly notions of marriage, Freesia,” he snapped. “A wife could be expected to demand her husband give up his mistress, or a dalliance with a widow, but not a friend. Will I still be allowed to join Abingdon at my club? Or will he, too, be banished?”
Pity flared in her blue eyes. “Oh, Wessex. Do you not see the difference?”
“No, I do not,” he said stubbornly.
“You will prefer her over your wife. If given the choice, you will seek out Miss Benton’s company and leave your wife alone.” Her gaze sharpened. “Unless you are in love with one of the ladies here?”
He slumped into a chair. “No.” He liked them, all of them. Miss Benton had done extremely well with her choices. But he did not love any of them. Truth be told, he was content with that. Respect, mutual kindness, a compatible appetite for sex—these were the harbingers of a happy marriage. Love went beyond merely caring, and that was bad enough. Love was ferocious and needy, and inevitably led to pain when it was lost. He had borne that loss once before; he would be damned before he allowed it to happen again.
But it would not do to tell Lady Freesia all that. “I suppose I could learn to love any one of them, given enough time.”
“Anything is possible,” Lady Freesia agreed. “However, until that day comes, you can be sure your wife, whomever she may be, will not stand idly aside and allow you to while away your hours with the beautiful Miss Benton.”
“Is she beautiful? I hadn’t noticed.” His sarcasm was rewarded with a baleful stare. “Anyhow, I will abandon a wife for Abingdon just as readily, because I am sure I will prefer his company, as well.”
“Poor dear.” She gave his hand a sympathetic pat. “A wife might forgive being second in her husband’s affections if her rival is a mere man. I wouldn’t, to be sure, but some may. However, no wife will ever cede the ground to another woman.”
“Well, she will have to.” He threw out his legs, stretching them to their full length, and crossed his arms over his chest. He did not know if he looked like a petulant child, but neither did he care. “I will not let a wife dictate my life. Nothing shall change.”
“Hmm.” So much doubt she managed to thrust on that one small sound! “And do you think Miss Benton will agree with you?”
The dark pit grew deeper and darker. Miss Benton very rarely agreed with him.
“She would not like to be the object of a woman’s jealousy, I think,” Lady Freesia said. “And even if she did, why would she cross purposes with a powerful duchess? She would be given the cut direct. No more invitations, no more balls, no morning calls.”
“What would you have me do?” He looked about helplessly. “There is nothing sordid here. I do not harbor secret desires to seduce her under the nose of my wife. I like her best, that is all.”
Lady Freesia raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Heaven grant me patience. Have you considered marrying the woman?”
He frowned. He had never truly considered taking Miss Benton as his wife, no. Yes, she was beautiful, and he had been intrigued by her disinterest in him, all the more so when it proved to be genuine and not some perverse flirtation on her part. Then…somehow…they had fallen into friendship.
Marriage was different from friendship. There were thousands of ways a husband might torture his wife, another thousand hurts a wife might inflict on her husband, and the majority of both seemed entirely accidental. How was a man to ward against such things as accidents? A man could no more protect himself from pain than he could protect his wife.
Which was all right, he supposed, so long as his wife was not Eliza Benton. He was not much given to self-reflection, but he instinctively knew that marriage to his Sigrid would be unbearable.
Friendship could not withstand marriage. And he very much needed her friendship.
Besides which, she did not want to marry. Not him, not anyone. With marriage came children, and with children came death—or so she believed. Even if he were to ask for her hand, she would likely refuse him.
Devil take it, why could she not be a man? Why could he not continue on with her as he did with Abingdon? Why must he face this impossible choice of marriage or parting ways?
He took a coin from his pocket. Cross, he would offer. Pile, he would— His mind shied away from the thought. He flipped.
Hmm.
Did it matter? Either way, he lost her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The weather had turned. Gone was the mellow autumn sunshine, replaced with rolling gray clouds and intermittent flashes of lightning. A glorious shock of
thunder rattled the window and Eliza gleefully snuggled herself deeper into the chesterfield. There was little she loved more than a good storm.
Dinner had finished an hour ago, and since then the guests had sought various means of entertainment. Most of the gentlemen had congregated in the billiards room with snifters of brandy and cigars. The ladies were divided between two drawing rooms—one in which they played spirited games of whist, and the other in which they gathered around the pianoforte and sang.
Eliza had chosen neither and instead sidled away to the library.
Another rip of thunder enticed her out of the comfortable chair and toward the window. She parted the curtain and peered out into the dark night.
“Miss Benton,” came a voice at the precise moment a bolt of lightning lit up the sky.
She jumped guiltily and dropped the curtain, then spun around on her toes. “Your Grace.”
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “You called me Sebastian in the greenhouse.”
“I ought not to have taken such liberties.”
“Hmm.” His mouth quirked. “I don’t mind.”
He prowled forward until he was almost right in front of her, then swerved suddenly to contemplate the bookshelves. She watched him, puzzled. There was something strange about him, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He seemed almost to thrum and vibrate like the storm outside.
“Your Grace—”
“Why are you not with the others?” he asked abruptly.
“I have been with the others for much of the last several days. I very much enjoy the company of your other guests, but by evening I want the company of no one but myself. House parties have a way of making one crave solitude, don’t you think?”
“I never feel that way. I hate being alone.”
He did not look at her as he spoke, and instead leaned closer to the books, as though they consumed his attention and his words were unimportant. Small wonder that the Sensitive Plant had captured his imagination. They were similarly made.
“You must have been very lonely after your parents died, with no other family in England,” she remarked quietly. “Did your American relatives visit?”
His head swiveled slowly, and he regarded her with narrow eyes. “Why do you ask?”
She blinked in surprise. “Because I think you were. Lonely, I mean. And I thought you might want to discuss it.”
“I do not wish to discuss it.” He paused. “They did not come to visit. I was often forgotten by my relatives. A child would have been sent to live with a guardian, but I was a man, you see, and expected to act as such. I received an occasional letter or card, but no more. Fortunately, Abingdon took pity on me and invited me to stay with him when school was not in session.” He removed a book, examined the cover, and then returned it to its place. “You are not the only one to form theories, Miss Benton. I have a theory about you. Would you like to hear it?”
There was nothing she wanted less, especially when he was in such a strange mood, but she squared her shoulders. “I would be delighted.”
“You are trying to make me into a better man. Well, I won’t have it.”
Surprise caused her to stutter. “I-I— I beg your pardon?”
“These…these discussions you are constantly goading me into. Your insistence that I examine my motives and feelings.” He spat the word as though it tasted foul. “Why do you do that, if not to make me into something other than the man who stands before you? Someone more tenderhearted, with substance and compassion?”
There he went, folding himself in at the first sign of discomfort, like the Sensitive Plant disturbed by a faint breeze. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his indignant expression.
“I’ve never wanted to make you someone else. I want you to be happy.”
“Happy! I’ll have you know I am enormously happy, never so much as when I am not plagued by hungry widows and lame orphans. Why is it not enough that I give them my money? Why must you demand I give my peace of mind, as well? All was lovely before you began your ridiculous campaign to make me feel, and now—” He said no more, merely frowned and pressed one hand to his waistcoat pocket.
She frowned, too, studying him closely. What devil tormented him this evening? “Your mood is very black, Your Grace. You are not at all like yourself. Let us join our friends and speak no more of this, since it makes you so unhappy.”
His hand shot out, stopping her with a brief touch. “A moment longer, please, if you will. Just a moment.”
She waited, perplexed.
“I recall one of my requirements for my future duchess is that you like her. Do you like the women here?”
The question made her brow furrow. “Yes,” she said truthfully.
“And do they like you in return?” He had once again turned to face the books, obscuring his expression.
She hesitated. “I think so.” Even Lady Louisa seemed not to dislike her, exactly, and may even like her a good deal more once she was certain Eliza was not a threat to the duke’s affection.
He nodded and said nothing, which was so unlike him that her curiosity got the better of her. “Why do you ask?”
“I received unpleasant advice, and I’m trying to determine whether it is worth heeding. Marriage changes things, I was told. A wife will not approve of certain friendships. I will have to spend fewer evenings at White’s, for example. And you, Miss Benton, I would have to give you up entirely.” He turned to her with a false-sounding laugh. “As you know, I rarely follow any advice except yours, Sigrid. So tell me what you think. Is it not absurd?”
There was a strange hardness in his dark eyes, and her own gaze faltered. She looked down at the Turkish carpet.
“Eliza.” He lifted her chin with a single fingertip. “Will you give me up?”
She swallowed and licked her lips nervously. “It cannot be a surprise to you that marriage will change a great many things in your life. You will no longer belong wholly to yourself. Would you allow your wife to spend countless hours with another man? Even if you knew it to be entirely innocent, you would not enjoy the whispers of the ton. I daresay your future duchess would feel the same way. And I… I wouldn’t like it, either.”
Their gazes clashed and held as they stood there, locked in a battle of wills, his finger still on her chin, their breaths matching each other in furious rhythm.
And then he released her and stepped back.
“How dare you,” he said softly. “How dare you stand there and tell me our friendship is worth so very little that you would toss me aside at a hint of gossip. How is it I am nothing to you when you are—” He stopped himself. “Well, no matter. Do you remember when we first met?”
There was a shadowy movement in the periphery of her vision, but she could not tear her gaze from his to investigate. “Yes,” she said.
They had struck a bargain that night—a game of wits. He would find the thing she wanted most at the ball and deliver it in exchange for a forfeit.
“You thought the forfeit would be a kiss. And what did I say to that?”
“You would never take a kiss, but if you wanted one, I would give it willingly, not as payment for a bargain.” Her throat was too dry, her voice little more than a whisper.
“Yes. And you did kiss me.” He smiled slightly at the memory. “Willingly, and not as payment.”
Her pulse pounded in her breast, the hinge of her throat, and the crease of her wrists. They were on the brink of something dark and dangerous. She ought to leave now, at once, before it was too late. Yet she could not look away, and remained rooted to the spot.
“It was the beginning of our friendship, that kiss. And now here we are at the end of it. Come here, Eliza. Kiss me again and tell me goodbye.”
She went. Recklessly, hopelessly, she went.
She reached up, clasped his dear, dear face betw
een her hands—how had she not known how dear he was?—holding him still for her kiss. His expression registered surprise for a brief moment as she drew his head closer. He meant a kiss on the cheek, she realized somewhat wildly, but it was too late to change course; her lips had touched his, a spark ignited, and she could not, would not, let go.
He made a sound almost of pain, and she retreated slightly, uncertain.
“No,” he said fiercely, and then his mouth came down on hers, hot and demanding.
His arms bounded around her waist, one snaking up her back to clamp her shoulder, pulling her ever closer. Her lips parted, allowing him to enter, and she tasted sweet brandy on his tongue. Her heart raged like a wild thing, her whole body thrummed like a struck gong.
And then came the sound of shattered crystal.
She turned cold as she slowly pulled back from the kiss. Wessex had gone very, very still. She peered around his shoulder to see that several of their friends had apparently decided to join them in the library.
Alice, who had dropped a glass of wine in dismayed surprise. Riya, regarding her with dark, horrified fear. Lady Louisa, her hand on Lady Abigail’s arm, her expression carefully blank. Lady Chester—Abigail’s mother—fairly seething with indignation.
And Aunt Mabel, who said sadly, “Oh, my dear. What will your brother say?”
Eliza closed her eyes and prayed for oblivion. Alas, she was not the fainting kind. She opened them again, only to find them all still staring at her in shock and horror. Being caught in the embrace of the Duke of Wessex, one of the most notorious rakes in London, was no small scandal.
She was ruined.
Chapter Twenty-Three
What the hell had he done?
The question arose from the depths of Sebastian’s soul, not as an accusation, but as a statement of profound relief. The matter was settled now, irrevocably so. The coin he flipped after his conversation with Lady Freesia had landed on pile, and in that moment he had never hated anything with as much force as he had hated that silver coin.
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