Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue

by Maggie Fenton

  Oh, the dig was well done.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but I don’t understand your meaning,” he said, his tone so uncharacteristically honeyed that Fawkes gaped at him in disbelief from across the room. “Why wouldn’t I ride?”

  Lady Ambrosia paused, her pretty face going blank for a moment as she realized her error. She glanced to Fawkes, but she’d get no sympathy from that quarter. Fawkes seemed as happy to watch her squirm as Julian was.

  She recovered quickly, however, her expression smoothing out into its usual superciliousness. “I was given to understand that men of your…ah…station rarely have had the opportunity to learn.”

  It was still a dig, but very politely done. He inwardly applauded the effort it must have cost her. Tact was clearly not something that came naturally to Lady Ambrosia. He didn’t intend to make it easy for her, however.

  “Because I am from St. Giles?” he asked bluntly.

  Lady Ambrosia flinched ever so subtly at the reminder of his origins but seemed determined to see the conversation through. Her pleasant expression looked frozen on her face. “Something of that sort, yes.”

  “I suppose it would be rather difficult to ride hell-for-leather through the stews,” he said blithely, “though I saw enough nobs try their best anyway.” And trample whoever might be in their exalted path without a second thought. But he left that last bit out. He was trying to woo her, after all, not initiate a debate on class reform.

  “Quite,” she said briskly, obviously not knowing how to respond to his flippancy—or any other speech he might give containing the word “nob” in it.

  He let the awkward silence hover over them all for a moment, savoring her discomfiture. Lady Ambrosia must have been determined in her purpose to still be enduring such an uncomfortable conversation. He was rather curious to find out what that purpose was.

  “You are in luck, my lady,” he finally said, “for I’ve been riding for years. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by my stables.”

  Ambrosia looked satisfied that he’d finally gotten to the point. “My groom has told me you have some promising stock. I was uncertain whether you made personal use of it or not.”

  “I am not the sort to acquire things that I do not mean to use,” he said, his voice just low and smooth enough to hint at seduction.

  Lady Ambrosia’s eyes grew wide, a flush beginning to form on her cheeks. The innuendo was not lost on her, then. Thank hell for that. Perhaps no special bed sheets would be required after all.

  He risked a quick glance at Fawkes, who was also staring at him, his cheeks similarly flushed, an awed look on his face, as if he too were rather impressed with his performance. Julian was tempted to smirk back, but then he remembered how just a few moments ago he’d been staring at the lad’s arse.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  “Yes, well…excellent. That is…” Lady Ambrosia cleared her throat daintily, hesitating. He’d clearly thrown her. “My groom is still at Kildale House for the moment, so if we intend to ride, I shall need a chaperon.”

  He barely restrained a sigh. A chaperon. How tedious. “Lady Highbottom?”

  “Indisposed,” Lady Ambrosia responded, shocking no one. “And she is hopeless in the saddle anyway.”

  He didn’t even bother suggesting her father. The less Julian saw of that man, the better. He turned to Fawkes, whose expression was already slowly changing to one of horror as he guessed what Julian was intending to make him do. Julian grinned.

  “How about Mr. Fawkes? He’ll surely make an unobjectionable chaperon,” he suggested.

  That was debatable, and Lady Ambrosia knew it. She looked torn between propriety and the urge to ride.

  The urge to ride won out.

  “I shall trust your judgment, sir,” Lady Ambrosia said. She ran a pointed glance over his attire. “Shall I meet you in the stables in half an hour?”

  “That sounds delightful, my lady,” he said, giving her a proper leg as she departed.

  When they were alone again, Fawkes glared daggers at him. “What? Did I not curtsy correctly?” he asked innocently.

  “Men don’t curtsy,” Fawkes said through gritted teeth. “And don’t you think you should have asked me before volunteering my services?”

  “Can you not ride, Fawkes? Surely a gentleman like yourself knows his way around a horse.”

  The flush on Fawkes’ cheeks betrayed him utterly, but the lad made an admirable effort of scrambling back from the cliff’s edge. “Of course I do,” he scoffed. “It is just…it’s hardly proper. We should wait for her groom…”

  Like hell he was going to give up such a prime opportunity to be alone with Ambrosia. “Nonsense. You are mother hen enough for the both of us. I need you there, Fawkes. This is the perfect chance to reel in Lady Ambrosia.”

  “I hardly think you’ve cast your line yet.”

  Julian affected hurt. “Oh, I think the line’s been well and truly cast. You can’t deny she responded to my flirtation beautifully.” And so did you, though he didn’t say this last part. He wasn’t going to think about that anymore. Ever. He smirked. “It seems she is as mortal as any other woman, after all, and susceptible to my usual charms.”

  Fawkes snorted and started reluctantly toward the exit, as if he were on his way to meet his doom. “I wouldn’t wager on it,” he muttered.

  Chapter Ten

  Sidesaddled

  Julian had expected Fawkes to be a shite horseman, but his secretary had outdone himself with the sheer magnitude of his incompetence—and they hadn’t even left the stables yet. He wondered if they ever would.

  He stared in amazement as Fawkes sat awkwardly perched atop Satan, both legs posed daintily beside each other, as if he were on a ladies’ sidesaddle. Fawkes’ eyes popped wide as he glanced down at his legs and realized just how wrong he’d gotten it.

  “Um…” Fawkes began, looking as baffled as Julian had felt from the moment Fawkes had begun to mount the horse—or whatever those anatomically improbable contortions of his body had been. That particularly cringeworthy display had begun several long, painful minutes ago, as Fawkes had tried and failed to pull himself into the saddle from the ground.

  If he found Fawkes’ incompetence endearing, he was certainly not going to admit that to anyone, including himself. He’d learned his lesson in the workshop, and in the intervening time between then and now, he’d castigated his brainbox for becoming so muddled over Fawkes. He’d never let that happen again. Fawkes may have been charming, and his arse may have been delectable, but he was a man—obviously.

  Lady Ambrosia, who had watched the spectacle with a disgusted fascination, finally decided she’d had enough. “I shall be out in the yard, while you…” She waved her crop in Fawkes’ general vicinity, “sort out whatever is happening there.”

  Julian smirked at the lady’s back and turned to Fawkes just in time to see the man slip from his precarious perch, barely avoiding braining himself on the mounting block. Fawkes’ mount shied away from the disturbance, nearly trampling him in the process.

  Julian sighed and dismounted to help. Perhaps putting Fawkes on Satan hadn’t been the safest form of entertainment. He’d wanted to embarrass the peacock, not have him break his neck. He caught Satan by the reins and handed him off to a groom.

  “Can you ride at all, Fawkes?”

  “Of course I can ride!” Fawkes spluttered, gesturing inexplicably toward his impeccably tailored hunter-green habit and smart little riding cap perched atop his curls. Julian rolled his eyes, a rush of something dangerously like affection passing through his breast.

  “You do realize owning riding clothes and knowing how to ride are two different things,” Julian pointed out.

  Fawkes flushed. “Of course I know that. It’s just I’m not used to…” He trailed off, his face heating even more. “That size horse,” he finished, gesturing at Satan.

  “I suppose Satan is a little large for you,” Julian conceded.

  “Sa
tan! You put me on a horse named Satan!” Fawkes hissed indignantly.

  “Good God, Fawkes. Calm down. Satan is as mild mannered as they come.”

  “Satan!” Fawkes reiterated, still in disbelief. “You don’t name a mild-mannered horse Satan!”

  He decided to ignore Fawkes’ tantrum. “Bring me Daisy,” he said to the groom holding Satan’s reins. The groom nodded in grim agreement and led the horse away. “Shall I have him put a sidesaddle on for you, Fawkes?”

  Fawkes clamped his mouth into a tight line and refused to respond to the taunt.

  The groom returned shortly with Daisy, the oldest nag in the stables, and Fawkes attempted to mount her with the same lack of finesse.

  Julian wouldn’t let the fribble try to get away with blaming his inadequacies on Satan again. It was hard to believe Fawkes had ever even seen a horse before today.

  “If you proceed any farther, you’ll be facing Daisy’s backside,” Julian pointed out, shoving the man’s pert little bottom up and into position.

  It felt as plush as he’d suspected.

  Not that he’d ever speculated on what Fawkes’ arse felt like. He’d just ogled it a little bit.

  Damn it. He didn’t even believe himself anymore.

  He willed away his errant thoughts and made sure that Fawkes managed to put all of his limbs in the correct place and that the straps were adjusted on the saddle. There was no need to tempt fate even more. Fawkes allowed the liberties to his person with only a few indignant outbursts.

  “Are you going to break your neck if you attempt to ride this nag?”

  Fawkes’ chagrin became annoyance very quickly. “Of course not! I’m perfectly capable…” He broke off with a yelp as Daisy lurched forward unexpectedly, his jaunty riding hat toppling to the stable floor.

  Julian retrieved the hat and dusted it off before giving it back to its owner. “You’re a rubbish rider. You could have told me as much before.”

  “I’ll be perfectly fine,” Fawkes insisted. “I just needed a moment to adjust to…I really do know how to ride.”

  Julian gave him a doubtful look, and Fawkes studiously ignored him, shoving his hat back into place.

  “Lady Ambrosia is waiting,” Fawkes said, nudging Julian toward his mount with the tip of his crop. The nervy little blighter. “I’ve come this far. Like you said, this is an opportunity to woo her. Far be it from me to hinder your exercise in futility.”

  Julian threw himself back on his mount and glowered at his secretary. “Woo indeed. I wish you wouldn’t call it that,” he muttered. “You make me sound ridiculous.”

  “You are ridiculous,” he heard Fawkes mutter from behind him.

  He pretended he hadn’t heard, but he was smiling as he caught up to Lady Ambrosia in the yard.

  They rode out from Arncliffe Castle, past Hebden, in the general direction of Kildale’s estate. As expected, Fawkes was as abysmal at riding the horse as he was at mounting it, and Julian and Lady Ambrosia had soon broken ahead in the lane, both of their mounts desperate for a chance to stretch their legs.

  Eventually, they came upon a view of Kildale House, a sprawling estate built the previous century by an ancestor with far more means than the current marquess. They didn’t go near the place, for as they waited for Fawkes to catch up, the stink of excrement drifted up to them on the wind, even though they were a mile away.

  Fawkes finally reined in his nag near them, wrinkling his nose at the smell while simultaneously trying to keep his seat. Lady Ambrosia was too polite to glare at the little fribble, but Julian could tell the pace and Fawkes’ general presence was frustrating the lady.

  Ambrosia turned to him, ignoring Fawkes entirely. “Shall we race to the abbey ruins?”

  “What?” Fawkes exclaimed, squirming uncomfortably in his saddle. His cheeks were flushed red with exertion, and he was breathing so hard Julian would have assumed he’d traveled halfway across the country rather than a few miles. It was not an unattractive look…

  “Not up for the challenge, then, Fawkes?”

  Fawkes was not too polite to glare at him.

  “Don’t bother trying to keep up,” he said, undaunted. “Last thing I want to do is have to scrape you off the ground and send you back to your cousin in pieces.”

  He could feel Fawkes’ glare trained on his back as he and Lady Ambrosia spurred their horses into a sprint down the lane, leaving him in the dust.

  After a while, they cut across the countryside toward the ruins. The old Cistercian abbey, the original dwelling place of the Kildales, must have been nearly as old as England itself, violently seized at some point in its history by the Crown and eventually settled on some ancestor of the current marquess.

  The ruins were now no more than a giant maze of slate gray stone and crumbling edifices, with vegetation springing up from the cracks in the flagstone foundation. After the Kildales had abandoned it a century ago, a fire had finished it off. Now the ruins were a mere landmark, a scenic attraction good for an afternoon outing, its original, bloody history mostly forgotten.

  Since the marquess had no son, Julian wondered if Kildale’s current residence would one day become a crumbling ruin too, forgotten by time. He knew he wished as much for the marquisate itself and indeed the entire peerage. The aristocracy’s stronghold on the country had waned, especially with the rise of industry and men like himself, but he doubted he would see its end in his lifetime. He’d not be so lucky. The imbalance of wealth and power in England was still far too weighted in favor of the peerage.

  But he was no reformer. He only truly cared about making sure one particular peer was brought to account for his sins. The rest of that lot could go hang themselves, for all he cared.

  Lady Ambrosia finally slowed her mount in the shadows of the abbey, and Julian did the same, invigorated by the exercise. He searched the hills behind him and spotted Fawkes poking along after them in the far distance. He grinned.

  When he turned back to Lady Ambrosia, she was studying him with an inscrutable expression.

  “Mr. Fawkes is an interesting fellow. I know his cousins, Sir Wesley and Miss Benwick. They look…very much alike,” she said. “Would you keep him on after you marry?”

  “I don’t see why not,” he said, puzzled by the question. “If he lasts that long.”

  She looked surprised at this, but after a moment, she nodded, as if satisfied with the answer.

  Julian could be a right knob end when it came to deciphering what a woman’s words truly meant, but the one thing that seemed obvious to him was Lady Ambrosia’s attempt to steer the conversation toward the subject of matrimony.

  He supposed he’d not exactly been subtle in his maneuverings to bring her and Kildale here, and she was just conceited enough to assume that it was entirely about her—and she was not exactly wrong. Though she thought him more nobly intended than he was.

  He decided to play along.

  “My wife could keep her own servants as well, or hire a dozen more,” he said bluntly and honestly, for if he indeed ever had a wife (doubtful), she could do as she damn well pleased. “She would have leave to fill the entirety of my stables, and build another one twice the size if she so desired.”

  Lady Ambrosia, clearly an avid rider, liked the sound of that. She reined in her horse and gave him an appraising look.

  “You are very poor at subtlety,” she said.

  “That’s because I generally have no use for it.”

  “In this case, neither do I. I have turned down more than thirty offers, all from men with pedigrees far superior to yours.”

  “And yet here you are, having this conversation with me,” he pointed out.

  “Here I am,” she agreed rather grudgingly. “For it has recently come to my attention how dire my father’s situation is. My days of dismissing my suitors have ended, and if I must choose, I think I rather prefer your plain speaking to false declarations. I must confess that you have intrigued me. You are among the richest men in England. Yo
u could have your pick of any titled lady you wanted, and yet you’ve set your eye on me, despite my well-known contempt for cits.”

  “I do like a challenge,” he said. “Perhaps I mean to make you fall madly in love with me.”

  She gave a disdainful sniff. “Unnecessary, and impossible.”

  He’d see about that.

  “I cannot have what I want,” she continued, a brief look of misery passing over her face as she gazed across the hills. He wondered what that was about—who that was about—but it was none of his concern. “But marriage to you is not out of the question. Your fortune suits me very well.”

  “I am flattered,” he murmured drolly, smiling despite himself at her candor.

  “But should we wed,” she continued, “I will expect you to let me conduct my affairs as I please. I will let you do the same. Though I would expect you to be discreet, whatever may be going on between you and your secretary,” she finished dubiously, nodding behind him.

  He turned in his saddle to find Fawkes trotting up, looking as irritated as he was disheveled, his hat fetchingly askew on top of his mop of golden curls. Julian blamed the sudden heat in his cheeks on the gallop to the ruins, not on Lady Ambrosia’s insinuation, which he decided to let pass without comment. He wouldn’t want to give such a ridiculous claim any credence by responding to it. Nothing was going on with Fawkes, nothing sordid anyway. The very thought! He was…not like that.

  He turned back to Lady Ambrosia, who watched him with a far too knowing look.

  He cleared his throat and decided to pretend like the lady’s last few words did not happen. “You are quite certain of my benevolence.”

  Lady Ambrosia laughed. “You are vindictive, not cruel,” she stated unequivocally.

  “You think you know me well,” he said, surprised.

  “You are not the only one with spies. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I thought your character were as low as your birth.”

  “Ouch,” he said mildly.

  She seemed so certain she knew him, but she didn’t, if she thought he intended to wed her. She wasn’t so disillusioned with the world yet to suspect him. By the time she understood just exactly what he meant to do, however, she would hate him just as much as her father did.