Dying For A Duke

by Emma V. Leech

  Phoebe sent Miss Pinchbeck a furious glance but before she could open her mouth, to her surprise Lizzie stepped in.

  “Isn’t it good to see a boy enjoying his food, Phoebe?” she said, looking squarely at the woman opposite her.

  “Indeed, Lizzie,” Phoebe replied, enjoying herself enormously as she handed the bowl to Jessamy.

  Unfortunately this defence of his character and the attentions of his rather unconventional great uncle had given the boy a little too much spirit. Jessamy, with all the aplomb of a boy of eleven, stuck his tongue out at Miss Pinchbeck.

  The wretched woman gasped as though she had been struck and Phoebe’s heart sank.

  “Jessamy,” Benedict said, his tone severe. “You will apologise to Miss Pinchbeck and you will go to your room.”

  For just a moment Jessamy’s face fell as he realised he wouldn’t be able to eat his coveted dessert. But with eyes the same shade as both his great uncle’s and his big brother’s flashing with indignation he decided to stand his ground.

  “I shan’t,” he said, with perfect calm. “I’ll go to my room and I beg your pardon for being rude, Benedict. But she’s an interfering, miserable old pinch penny and I’m not the least bit sorry.”

  Benedict’s face darkened with fury. “Jessamy, you will apologise or I swear I’ll thrash you so can’t sit for a week.”

  Jessamy folded his arms, his face white with anger. “Go ahead,” he yelled. “I’ll never apologise. She makes everyone miserable, and if you marry her I’ll come and live with Uncle Sylvester and never see you again.”

  Phoebe sucked in a breath. As much as she was proud of Jessamy by not being cowed by the awful woman he had been dreadfully rude and he was giving Benedict no option but to punish him. Of course Benedict’s wretched temper had flared and he’d reacted too strongly and now things could only escalate. She had to intervene before things got out of hand.

  “Oh dear,” she said, laughing a little. “You know this reminds me of that story I heard about you, Benedict.” She gave him a hard look, willing him to remember how he had been as a lad, which according to his mother was devilish to the core. “In fact you behaved far worse than Jessamy here and got nothing more than a scolding. Isn’t that right, Lady Rothay?”

  Benedict’s mother’s eyes flashed with gratitude as she nodded. “Yes, indeed. I was never so mortified. Do you remember, Ben dear? We were having the Archdeacon to dinner and a number of dignified guests. A shocking dull affair to be sure, but Ben enlivened it by stealing into the kitchens and eating most of the deserts and then being violently ill in the Archdeacon’s lap before we’d even finished the first course. He refused point blank to apologise and ran from the room.”

  Phoebe bit her lip as Ben flushed, though she wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or anger this time.

  “The Archdeacon never came again,” Lady Rothay mused with a considering expression. “I was never more glad of anything,” she added with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I sent Ben to bed with some mint tea and told him not to eat the desserts before they’d appeared at the table in future.”

  “No thrashing then?” Phoebe asked, holding back her laughter with difficulty.

  “No indeed,” Lady Rothay said in disgust. “No one has ever laid a finger on my darling boys,” she said with some heat. “And nor shall they,” she added with a dangerous note to her voice as she looked over at her eldest son.

  “Perhaps therein lies the problem,” Miss Pinchbeck said, her voice cold and she laid her perfectly folded napkin on the table.

  “Oh, Ben!” Phoebe cried in undisguised delight. “Did you hear? Your fiancée thinks you badly brought up.”

  Benedict glared at her, his eyes narrowed, though she was certain she saw his lips twitch a little. Oliver and his uncle were less restrained, however, and roared with laughter.

  “By Jove, Phoebe, I shouldn’t like to pull caps with you, what a rejoinder!” Sylvester said, chortling with undisguised delight. “Now, now, Miss Pinchbeck, do you retire or shall you come about?”

  Miss Pinchbeck’s face was taut and furious, her mouth pulled into a tight little moue of displeasure. “I’m afraid, I have not been brought up with the kind of manners that would allow me to cross swords with Miss Skeffington-Fox, sir, and I feel I have been made mock of enough for one evening so I shall retire gracefully.” She turned to Benedict, her expression devoid of emotion. “My Lord, forgive me if my manners have offended you but I pray no child of ours will ever behave in such a fashion. I was never more offended. Good evening.”

  Once she’d left the room, Jessamy burst out laughing and threw his arms around Phoebe. “Oh I knew from the start you were a right one!” he exclaimed.

  Phoebe laughed and shook her head and put her desert bowl in his hands. “Oh do be quiet, Jessamy. You were monstrously rude as you well know.”

  He looked a little crestfallen at this and nodded. “I know and I do beg pardon to everyone else. I will try and behave I promise. But she looks at me like ... like ...”

  “Yes I know,” Phoebe said with a soothing pat on his arm. “But now do go and sit down and finish my dessert and try to behave like a young gentleman.”

  Benedict cuffed him round the ear as he passed his big brother’s chair and Jessamy grinned at him. “Wretch,” Benedict said before glancing back at Phoebe. “Both of you,” he added under his breath.

  ***

  Later that evening Benedict retired to the library and poured himself a drink. Sitting with the crystal glass in his hand, legs stretched out in comfort, he sighed. He’d got himself in the most damnable fix and he could see no way out of it. By God but he’d been a fool. The worst of it was that even young Jessamy had seen it before he had. He realised now that the whole family had tried to warn him, some more forcibly than others, but only now was he beginning to see Theodora in her true colours. The thought of spending the rest of his days married to the woman made his blood run cold.

  He remembered Jessamy’s defiant words at the table with a mixture of chagrin and amusement. He also felt more than a little guilty. Phoebe had been right to remind him of his own appalling behaviour as a boy. He’d been far more badly behaved than Jessamy had ever been and yet he’d always been so hard on the boy. Perhaps because he saw some of his own spirit there and was afraid he too could follow in their father’s footsteps if he wasn’t held in check. But he had been holding him back too hard and that was far more likely to make the boy rebel. He knew that his little brother had become rather afraid of him over the past year or so - since Miss Pinchbeck had arrived in fact - and the guilt he felt grew as he realised he’d been more influenced by her than he had realised.

  He gritted his teeth and wondered what kind of weak-willed fellow he was to have been so taken in. Well no more. He could not cry off their marriage, perhaps, but he was damned if he’d let Theodora run roughshod over his family. He would have to take her to task, and if she disliked it ... Well he was only too willing to release her from their betrothal.

  The pretty clock on the mantel chimed midnight but still Benedict didn’t move. The old house stilled and grew quiet now all the servants had retired and he told himself he just didn’t feel like going to bed. He closed his eyes with a sigh and laid his head back. That was indeed the only reason.

  It was twenty past the hour when the door slowly opened and he looked up to see a vision of such beauty in the doorway that he was certain his heart stopped in his chest. It restarted with a crash and beat with a furious rhythm as he realised the recklessness of her actions.

  “Phoebe!” he exclaimed as she stole into the room and closed the door behind her with care. Once again that diaphanous dressing gown taunted him with the idea of what lay beneath its gauzy layers as she set down the candle she carried. “What the devil are you playing at?”

  She smiled at him, her eyes alight with expectation. “I rather thought that was obvious, Ben, dear.”

  He cursed under his breath as desire burned
under his skin, making his flesh prickle with the need to touch her, to reach out and pull her into his arms ... to make her his.

  “Did you listen to nothing I said yesterday?” he demanded, his voice rough as he got to his feet and put some distance between them. He reminded himself in the strongest terms that he was a gentleman and despite her provocative and provoking nature, Phoebe was an innocent.

  “Why yes, of course I did,” she said, laughing at him. “Why do you think I’m here?” she added, sounding so utterly reasonable he ground his teeth in frustration.

  “Phoebe I’m going to be married to Theodora, like it or not.”

  Phoebe sighed and toyed with the fragile layers of her gown in a most distracting manner. “Yes, Ben, I know,” she said, her voice low. “But now I know that you dislike it excessively, and so ... here I am.”

  She walked towards him, her expression bold and unafraid and he swallowed hard, willing her to stop and turn around for he didn’t think he could deny her.

  “Phoebe,” he said, trying to convey a warning in his voice and unsure if she was simply too innocent to hear it or too committed to her action to take note. “Phoebe, please ... go back to bed ...” His voice seemed to crack a little on that last word and he cleared his throat but suddenly she was right in front of him, staring up at him with such trust in her blue eyes that he was quite undone. He reached out a hand and traced the contours of her beautiful face. “Love, you’re killing me here. Have pity.”

  Her mouth curved into a wide smile and his breath caught in his throat. “I’m afraid I can give no quarter, my Lord,” she said, reaching up and winding her arms about his neck. “I love you, you see.” She tugged at his head and before he had fully comprehended her words he found himself bending to close the space between them.

  Her lips were warm and soft and so enchantingly sweet that he was utterly lost. His arms slipped around her curvaceous form and pulled her tight as he savoured the taste of her. She softened in his arms, becoming pliant and melting into his embrace, perfectly secure in her trust of him. The idea filtered through the haze of lust that was demanding he lay her down on the floor and show her just how things could be between them and pierced him with guilt.

  She loved him.

  She loved him and she trusted him to do the right thing.

  Currently he was committed to marry another and was prime suspect in a murder case. If there was ever a worse object for her affections he’d be hard pressed to think of one. He had to put an end to this, for good. He had no right to kiss her, to feel the way he did. None at all. He could take everything she was offering him and ruin her so very easily ... but he’d never forgive himself.

  He pushed her away from him with such force that she stumbled a little.

  “Ben?” she demanded, her voice a little tremulous. “W-what’s the matter?”

  “Everything,” he said, his voice dark with anger, though she didn’t realise that fury was entirely for his own revolting behaviour. “This is totally inappropriate. You must leave this room, now.”

  “I won’t!” she exclaimed. “I don’t want to. You don’t want me to!” she added, her eyes full of the bold surety he so admired.

  Benedict faltered, there was such hurt in her eyes and he wanted so much to explain but ... she would always find a way to get around him, to tempt him with that lovely smile and that daring heart of hers. He would never be able to keep refusing her. He had to make it so that she no longer wanted him.

  “Of course I don’t want to,” he said, his voice harsh though he kept his tone low. “To be sought out alone by a beautiful woman, what man in his right mind would want to refuse? But I am not such a low creature as John, nor Harold and I hope I have enough dignity not to be tempted into such careless conduct by any shameless petticoat who casts her lures my way.”

  Phoebe gasped and Benedict felt he may as well have struck her, the pain of his words was so obviously visible. For a moment she just stared at him. The force of her hand striking his cheek was almost welcome, the sting of her displeasure momentarily distracting him from the regret that appeared to be crushing his heart with more force than he’d thought possible.

  But before he could give into the weakness that was begging him to explain his words, she had turned and run from the room and left him very much alone.

  Chapter 13

  O rose, thou art sick!

  The invisible worm,

  That flies in the night,

  In the howling storm,

  Has found out thy bed

  Of crimson joy,

  And his dark secret love

  Does thy life destroy. - William Blake

  Benedict could hardly be surprised that Phoebe ignored him at breakfast but it still made him heart sick. He reminded himself he was doing it for her sake but even such noble intentions couldn’t stop his mind wandering back to that soul-searing kiss. He wondered if he’d ever be the same again, now that he knew what such things could feel like if love entered the equation.

  Phoebe, though still as beautiful as ever, looked pale and tired and very fragile as she left the room after eating nothing at all and sipping at a cup of tea with little enthusiasm. Benedict didn’t think it was just her coming interview with the punctilious Mr Formby that was making her look so very worn. She clearly hadn’t slept and he well knew why.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, willing God to help him and make it all come right. But God hadn’t answered him when his father had died and left a frightened young man in charge of a young family with debts up to his neck. Only his own actions had saved them and so they would now. He would do the right thing as he had vowed to himself in the days after that fateful time in his youth. He would protect those he loved. Even if they hated him for it.

  Swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth he turned to Miss Pinchbeck. Her severe countenance was dark as she frowned at Honesty and Patience who were giggling together over some silly joke they’d shared. The twins looked happy and innocent to his eyes and careless of the worries and hardships of the world. As far as he was concerned the longer he could keep that look in their eyes the more successful he would count himself as their guardian. How could Theodora look upon such unaffected pleasure and find herself displeased?

  Perhaps he could change her, he reasoned. She had changed him after all, without even noticing it he had found himself becoming every bit as severe and joyless as she was. If that was possible, surely the reverse could be true?

  “Would you like to walk in the gardens this morning, Theodora,” he asked, forcing himself to smile as though the idea pleased him.

  To his relief there was pleasure in her eyes as she turned to him and nodded.

  “A lovely idea, my Lord,” she replied, returning his smile though he felt he was speaking with an acquaintance rather than his future wife. “If you would give me a moment.”

  “Of course,” he said, hearing the politeness between them now as something to be saddened by. Such a short time ago he would have believed it quite right and proper but ... Phoebe had changed that. She had changed everything.

  They had taken a turn around the gardens with Benedict racking his brain for a topic of conversation when Theodora saved him the trouble.

  “You were quite right to tell Jessamy you would cane him last night,” she said, her voice full of conviction that her ideas were the righteous and correct way of going about things. “You know what they say, spare the rod and spoil the child. He’s becoming wild I’m afraid. Quite out of control.”

  “I think that is something of an exaggeration,” Benedict replied, doing his best to hold his temper in check.

  “Nonsense. You saw as well as I did and your instincts told you to follow the exact same course of action that I would subscribe to. It just shows how likeminded we are,” she added, sublimely ignorant to the torrent of feelings that were crashing about in his heart. “Our children will never behave with such an obvious lack of decorum. Any child of ours will be po
lite to his betters and know just what to say or how to act in any circumstance. I shall see to that,” she added, with a tone that made a jolt of fear prickle down his spine.

  “They sound like very dull dogs,” he replied, an edge to his voice he could not disguise.

  “Oh,” Theodora said, laughing at him. “I know you are only funning, Benedict. You abhor bad manners just as much as I do. You know we have spoken of it often, so you can’t pretend that you don’t.”

  Benedict frowned knowing this much was true. “In adults for sure,” he said, as he tried to take the first steps to gentling the brittle creature by his side. “And indeed I should hate for any child of ours to be downright rude of course. But ... isn’t a certain liveliness of spirit, a vivacity that that seeks out adventure and acts with daring, isn’t that something to be admired, applauded even? I should indeed hope any child I fathered to be full of the same reckless spirit that I had as a boy. Of course it must be tempered and guided over time, but ... not erased, Theodora.”

  The look that she favoured him with chilled the blood in his veins. “Of course you will have ideas upon the subject,” she said, as though she was indulging a particularly slow child. “But men never really understand the necessities of bringing up a child in the same way as a woman. Of course the children will be in my care, so you need not have any concern about their upbringing. You may rest assured that they will be well mannered and never give you cause for embarrassment. Further than that please do not trouble yourself with what are, after all, female concerns.”

  Benedict looked down into grey eyes that seemed to hold no shred of warmth or empathy and knew that he would never succeed. She was incapable of the gentler emotions, more than that she did not want to acknowledge that there was even a need for them.

  “Theodora,” he said, his heart thudding a little too hard. “Do you not think perhaps that our ideas are not so similar as we had once thought? In truth the way you describe our children fills me with horror,” he admitted, knowing he must be candid. “My childhood was an idyllic, golden time that I look back at with great affection and nostalgia. In truth I was far from a well-behaved child. I assure you that Jessamy is an angel compared to the scrapes I got into. But I was not a wicked child either and I flatter myself that I did not turn out so very badly. I would want any son of mine to have that kind of freedom and I would not allow you to take it from him.”