The Match of the Century

by Cathy Maxwell

  Someone whose touch would be soft.

  Even with his mother, there were expectations. He had enemies, men who wanted power more than seeing to the good of the country. Gavin wasn’t afraid of responsibility. He was also certain of his capability to solve all problems. He’d been groomed to do so.

  But there hadn’t been time for female companionship, not in the way he wanted it. Oh, he could have gone to brothels. Most of his peers did. Many had mistresses.

  But Gavin longed for something deeper, and he’d been willing to wait for it. His friends would have mocked him mercilessly if they knew he’d not yet bedded a woman at his age. He thought it only fair that if he expected his wife to be a virgin, he should be unsullied as well. He wanted that moment of joining to be memorable and carry the full weight of its meaning.

  In truth, he’d always admired what Fyclan and his wife seemed to share, and he prayed Elin was of the same mind.

  They would marry soon. The plans were already in motion. The attack on her coach was unfortunate, and Gavin was deeply grateful to the Almighty that Elin had survived. He needed her. He wanted her.

  Gavin marched into Menheim. He was ready for a good meal, a bath, and perhaps a quick nap. He didn’t know exactly what was on his schedule, but he was certain Talbert, his secretary, would tell him.

  Sawyer, his butler, took his hat and nodded in greeting. Talbert had heard the coach and came running down the hall from the library where his small office was located.

  “Your Grace, how good to have you back. Whitehall has been sending messages—”

  “I’m not discussing anything yet. Sawyer, have the cook prepare a beefsteak, rare but hot, the way I like it. Have it sent to my room. Oh, and those potatoes. Cook knows what I want.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  With Sawyer’s help, Gavin shrugged out of his greatcoat. He marched up the stairs to his suite of rooms. His valet, Michael, met him in the hall.

  “A bath, Michael,” Gavin ordered, moving toward his bedroom door at the end of the hall. His rooms consisted of a sitting room between two bedrooms—one was his and one was for the wife he would soon have.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Michael answered, and would have gone hurrying off to heat water except a new thought struck Gavin.

  He went back to the stairs. “Talbert.”

  His man came running and with good cause. Gavin rarely raised his voice with the people who worked for him.

  “Yes, Your Grace?” Talbert said from the foot of the steps.

  “I wish to have flowers sent to Miss Morris. I want a huge bouquet of the most exotic, glorious flowers imaginable.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Do you want anything addressed on the card.”

  Gavin laughed with delight at the thought of Elin’s receiving an incredible bouquet . . . but he was no poet. “Just my card. Sign it. You know how.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Pleased with himself, Gavin turned back toward his door, his booted heels heavy on the hall’s polished wood. Michael gave him a nod as he hurried down the back stairs. Gavin reached his door handle and gave it a turn. He walked into his room.

  His bedroom was the one place Gavin was allowed his personal tastes. Everyplace else in the house was filled with ancestral furnishings that had been handed down from one generation to another—except for this room.

  He preferred simple, masculine lines. The bed was oversized and the headboard polished ebony. The floors were bare and the walls white. The drapes were a heavy burgundy color that could shut out the light and allow him to catch a nap to meet the needs of his demanding schedule. A merry fire burned in the hearth, warming the room against the October chill. Two huge, high-backed leather chairs were turned toward it, with tables and reading lamps beside them.

  He began pulling at the knot in his neckcloth, anxious to have it undone and to pull off his boots. In a few weeks, he and Elin would be sitting in front of the fire. He and Elin would be in the bed together.

  The thought stopped him in his tracks. All of a sudden he stared at the white, clean coverlet and imagined her glorious curls across his pillow.

  God help him, he didn’t know if he could wait until the wedding—

  “It is about time you returned,” a male voice said. Ben rose from one of the chairs in front of the fire. The high back had blocked him from Gavin’s view. “Hello, Brother,” he said amiably. The spark of anger in his eye belied any pleasantry as did the silk in his tone. “Surprised to see me? It is time we have a little discussion.”

  Gavin could step back out into the hall. He could call for help.

  Instead, he shut the door behind him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  You look like a rat catcher,” Gavin observed as if he was leveling the worst sort of insult against Ben.

  Ben could have laughed. “Displeased that Perkins couldn’t keep me at bay?”

  Gavin pulled off his neckcloth that he had untied. “He did well enough.”

  A knock sounded on the door. Since he was standing right there, Gavin opened it.

  “I have your bath, Your Grace.” Ben recognized the valet’s voice.

  “He’s not ready to bathe, Michael,” Ben called, earning another scowl from his brother.

  However, Gavin echoed his words, adding, “I shall let you know when I wish to be disturbed.”

  “Is that Lord Ben, Your Grace? Should I tell Mrs. McAuliffe that a room needs to be prepared?”

  “You should not,” Ben answered as bold as one pleased. He’d not spend another night in this house.

  “There is your answer,” Gavin said in his well-modulated voice. “And see that we are not disturbed.”

  “No matter what,” Ben agreed, moving away from the chair.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Gavin shut the door. He spread his arms. “Well?” he challenged. “We are alone—”

  “As alone as anyone can be in a house with fifty servants.”

  “Would you like to go out into the street? Would that be more private?”

  Ben shook his head. “This is fine.”

  “Then say what you’ve been waiting to say,” Gavin answered, as if certain of what was on Ben’s mind—and perhaps he was. The fact that Gavin had suggested Perkins and his men keep Ben from following his coach suggested as much.

  So, Ben spoke his truth. “I love Elin.”

  Gavin did not act surprised, which surprised Ben. After a moment’s consideration, he replied simply, “She’s mine.

  “Are you certain? She has her own will, her own desires. We live in a different world than our parents did, Gavin. Women can and do make their own choices.”

  “Not in our class.”

  “Yes, things change even here, Brother.”

  Gavin frowned as if that was the most preposterous idea he’d ever heard, and perhaps it was. His will ruled in this house and just about everywhere else he went.

  But he didn’t rule Ben . . . or Elin.

  And his brother must have realized some of this because he moderated his approach. “What do you have to offer her? Do you even own a horse? Have a living?”

  That was the wrong approach, even though Ben had thought it himself. His temper ignited. “I did have a living until you took it from me.”

  Gavin held up a hand. “Don’t go on about the military again. That topic is done.”

  Ben almost shot across the room. “That topic is never done.”

  “It is with me.” He spoke with finality, with superiority, with bloody condescension.

  And then Gavin did something that was of even greater insult. He turned his back on Ben, a sign that in his mind the conversation was finished.

  The tenuous hold Ben had over his temper, the one he’d struggled with since he and Perkins had begun their cat-and-mouse chase all the way to London, snapped.

  In three steps, he was able to grab his older brother’s shoulder, whip him around, and plant his fist in Gavin’s mouth. He’d used enough force tha
t Gavin stumbled backward. His legs hit the side of the bed, forcing him off balance, and he sat on the mattress, dazed for a second.

  Ben shook his hand. His brother had a hard jaw. “That felt good.”

  And it did.

  “For years,” Ben said, practically through clenched teeth, “I’ve been wanting to do that. I’ve kept it pent up inside. The military relieved a good amount of that pressure, but you had to take that away from me.”

  Gavin shrugged off his jacket and bought his hand to his lips, which had been cut open from the blow. He looked at the blood on it.

  Ben smiled, pleased.

  He also thought they were done. He’d shown his “mighty” older brother what he thought of him. He’d let Gavin know that he wasn’t going to be shoved around to his ducal will.

  What he wasn’t expecting was for his brother to launch himself from the bed, right at Ben.

  In truth, if he’d thought of Gavin fighting at all, Ben would have assumed that his brother would be a student of those boxing academies favored by gentlemen. The sort of place a man learned to use his fists by rules.

  The force of Gavin’s body propelled Ben across the room, where he ran into one of the upholstered chairs. Then Gavin made a mistake.

  He let go.

  Ben swung hard, aiming for his brother’s jaw.

  Gavin blocked him with his arm and took his swing. It connected with Ben’s jaw.

  For a second, Ben’s ears rang.

  Who would have thought Gavin had it in him?

  As if reading Ben’s mind, Gavin explained, “I was a twin. Jack and I went at each other more than a few times.”

  “I’m impressed,” Ben said, before bringing his fist up and into Gavin’s stomach. His hand bounced off hard muscles, and it became a set-to.

  Brother against brother. Fists flew. Furniture was knocked over. There was nothing pretty or well behaved about this fight. They were angry and each determined the other wouldn’t win.

  They both landed on the bed and wrestled across the mattress. Ben would land a good blow, then Gavin would, then back and forth again.

  Gavin was the one who fell off the bed. Ben dove on top of him, the weight of his body forcing the breath out of his older brother. Ben struck out for the kill, ready to give better than he received—

  Strong hands grabbed his arms and shoulders. Ben was yanked up and off and dragged away. Not only were the servants in the room, but so was his mother. She was shouting at them to stop.

  Apparently, she had been issuing this order repeatedly for some time, but Ben had not heard her.

  Gavin, either.

  Indeed, he still hadn’t registered that they were no longer alone but leaped to his feet and went after Ben who, being held by three stalwart footmen, was in no position to protect himself.

  Fortunately, there were an equal number of footmen to grab Gavin. He pressed against them, the bloodlust still upon him, as it still was with Ben.

  In fact, this was the most human Ben had ever seen his brother. He rather liked him for it.

  Their mother stepped between them. “Stop this, both of you. Now.”

  Gavin stared at her as if she were a rare bird and began to recover himself.

  She knew she had him. “You forget yourself, Baynton.”

  With those cutting words, his brother changed. The emotion that had driven him vanished. His face became impassive, somber even, his bearing erect. He actually appeared to age and become the very semblance of their father.

  Ben was stunned—not only by the transition in his brother but also by how he had misjudged him. Ben had assumed that the duke was his brother. It wasn’t. It was a role, a mantle he cast over himself day in and day out.

  “Don’t,” Ben heard himself say, surprised he spoke his thoughts aloud. And once spoken, he must explain. “Gavin, don’t back away from me. Let us fight it out.”

  Gavin shook his head. The footmen immediately released their hold. He walked to the window and stood, his back to the room, his silence a statement.

  But Ben was not giving up. This glimpse of his brother, the one that at one time had wrestled with his twin, fascinated him. “No, I’m not letting you hide behind the title. Speak to me, Gavin. Shout at me, rail at me—throw another fist at me. Live, man. Live.”

  In response, his brother looked at him, his eyes hard shards. “She’s mine.”

  Those were fighting words. Ben’s hand curled into fists, but he couldn’t shake the hands that held him back. “It doesn’t work that way,” he threw at his brother. “You are not ‘duke of everything.’ ”

  Gavin stared at him, the mask carefully in place.

  Marcella took charge. “That is quite enough. Take Lord Benedict to my room.”

  Ben dug in his heels. “I’m not ready to go. Gavin and I have unfinished business.”

  But what he wanted to do or didn’t want to do held little weight. The footmen bodily lifted him. He was swept out of the room, marched to his mother’s suite at the other end of the hall, and unceremoniously dumped onto the floor.

  In this way, Menheim’s servants let him know whom they favored.

  The footmen did not wait for orders but silently tromped out the door. Ben sat on the carpet, his legs in front of him, a bit nonplussed by what had just happened.

  In truth, he’d always thought of himself as the rebel, the hero in the household. He didn’t expect his mother or brother to see him in such a role, but the servants, who had always acted as if they liked him, should have appreciated him. Or perhaps their view of his brother was not as negative?

  The door behind him opened and closed. He heard the swish of skirts and caught the scent of his mother’s violet perfume before she came to stand beside him. Ben looked up. Marcella was an attractive woman who had always worn her title well, especially in these later years.

  She was also a distant figure in his life, especially after Jack disappeared and his parents had left him at Trenton, the family’s country estate next to the Morris property. One would think that a mother would hold on to her remaining sons as tightly as she could.

  His mother was more complicated.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Benedict. You and your brother are grown men. Why are you behaving like louts?”

  Ben frowned, studied the pattern on the India carpet, and then shrugged. “My argument is with Gavin, and it is personal.”

  “He said the same. What do you believe you are doing?”

  “Standing up for myself.” His jaw tensed just at the thought.

  He was surprised when she stooped down and took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “My youngest son, what has happened to you?”

  “In what sense, Mother? Am I a disappointment? Not following the family dictates?”

  She leaned back as if he had struck out at her. He didn’t care but forged on, “I will not be forced to do my brother’s bidding.” Especially when it came to Elin. “He thinks he has an iron will? Well, mine is stronger. I am not his lackey.”

  “Why do you believe you are?” Her confusion sounded genuine, almost hesitant.

  “He has taken everything that meant something to me away. Well, he won’t have Elin. I won’t give her up.”

  The dowager sank to the floor beside him. “Elin?”

  He met his mother’s eye. “She’s mine. I love her. I’ve always loved her.” There, he’d gone against his own good intention of only seconds ago. If she wanted to interfere, then let her chew on this.

  Instead of the recriminations he anticipated, she reached for his hand, her brows gathering in concern. “You and Elin.” She shook her head.

  “What?”

  She released a shaky breath. “It was always there, wasn’t it?” Her hand around his felt warm. There was no anger in her touch.

  “Always,” he answered.

  “I knew she was at the heart of your argument when Baynton said, ‘She’s mine.’ I knew. She’s always been a wedge between you as brothers, hasn
’t she? I didn’t wish to believe it true. Your father warned me, but I knew how lonely you were. Holding you back, keeping you at Trenton was unnatural. I didn’t realize it until the night you and Elin disappeared.”

  “There was a storm,” he offered . . . the old story, the one that appeased.

  Her look told him she was wiser than that.

  He shut up.

  For a moment, they sat silent. Time to think. To consider.

  It was needed.

  She spoke, “I was not happy when your father sent you to the military.”

  “I wasn’t either—at first.”

  “You have a forceful personality, my son. You remind me very much of my own father. You’ve never been able to pretend.” She pulled her hand away from his and stretched out her legs, heedless of her skirts around her ankles. She was facing him as if they were two children clambering around in play. His amazement at her uncharacteristic and decidedly undignified way of sitting made her laugh. “I’ve surprised you.”

  “You have.”

  “Well, the time has come to clear the air. Perhaps that is what is needed in this family. Actually, it was needed long ago. Maybe then, I wouldn’t have lost Jack.”

  Ben had rarely heard his mother speak of Jack since his disappearance. Even his father had stopped talking of him. But now, in the space of an hour, Gavin had referenced his twin, and their mother had said his name out loud—and he realized, in truth, his missing brother presumed dead was never far from anyone’s mind . . . and never would be until they’d learned what happened.

  “Is Jack involved in this?” Ben wondered.

  “In some ways.” The confidence she had been showing wavered, giving him a glimpse of a mother’s grief.

  But she had aroused Ben’s curiosity. “Why did he leave?”

  “Ah, there is the question. I shall ask him when I see once more.” She paused. “If I see him again. I pray I do.”

  She drew a breath and released it before saying, “His disappearance kept the gossips and papers busy. It was a trying time for all of us, but especially your father. He was a proud man. He didn’t appreciate the world’s wondering why his son would run away, if that is what happened.”