Page 55 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“I am not the one who lost.”

“No. You are the one who won because the mere mention of a certain Dowager Countess turned your body into a loaded cannon.” Benedict straightened his collar, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Same result, different mechanism. She is under your skin, Brigrock. Admit it and we can go get a drink.”

“Benedict.” Malcolm’s voice was low thunder.

“Done. I am done entirely.” Benedict sat on the bench and stretched his legs out.

The garden behind his Mayfair townhouse was a narrow, well-kept strip of green hemmed in by high brick walls. Plane trees stood like sentinels along the north wall, their leaves beginning to turn the color of old parchment. The London morning sat over it, the light softer and grittier than the country, filtered through coal smoke and low-hanging clouds into something grey and even.

From the street beyond the wall came the constant, rhythmic rumble of the city: the rattle of carriages, the cries of vendors, and the distant percussion of a horse losing its footing on wet cobblestones.

Malcolm pulled on his own coat and sat on the low stone wall opposite his friend.

The heavy oak door to the garden swung open with a sharp bang, and Mrs. Halloway, Benedict’s housekeeper, practically spilled onto the gravel. Her cap was slightly askew, and she was clutching a sheaf of paper as thought they were the only thing keeping her upright.

“Lord Hayworth! I must have a word, it’s the ice!”

Benedict didn’t even look up from his position on the bench. “Unless the ice has achieved sentience and is currently picketing the larder, Mrs. Halloway, I suspect it can wait.”

“It’s the delivery from the confectioner, my lord! The decorative sculptures for the centerpieces have arrived early, and the ice house hasn’t been properly vented. They’re weeping, my lord. The dolphins are losing their fins as we speak!”

Benedict sighed, a long, theatrical sound, and finally looked at the frantic woman.

“Tell the footmen to move the sculptures into the cellar, not the ice house. The temperature there is stable enough to buy us three hours. Then, send a boy to Gunter’s and tell them if they don’t send a repairman for the venting by noon, I shall personally see to it that their next contract is with a fishmonger.”

Mrs. Halloway blinked, the panic receding just enough for her to scribble a note. “The cellar. Yes. I shall see to it at once, my lord.”

She turned and vanished back into the house with the same frantic energy she’d arrived with, the door clicking shut behind her.

Benedict turned back to Malcolm, his expression once again smooth and undisturbed. “As I was saying. No carnations. And definitely no melting dolphins.”

“The ball,” Malcolm said, the word sounding like a sentence.

“Next Friday. Everything is arranged.” Benedict examined his elbow again. “It shall be a good ball. People are looking forward to it. The ton has not had a decent scandal in weeks; they are positively starving for excitement.”

“I am not looking forward to it,” Malcolm muttered.

“You do not look forward to anything; that is a condition of your character, not a commentary on the ball.” Benedict crossed one ankle over the other. “And you are coming.”

“I have returned to London to see you, not to stand in a crowded ballroom and be stared at like a circus bear.”

“Yes, but as you said, you are already in London, Malcolm. You are sitting in my garden. You have been here two days staring at the walls of your own townhouse.” Benedict spread his hands. “The only thing left to decide is whether you’ll put on a decent coat on Friday or whether I’ll be forced to physically dress you. Which I will do. And I’ll win that bout, too, because you’ll be distracted by the thought of your Lady Romwich.”

Malcolm’s jaw set, a muscle leaping in his cheek. “Speak of her one more time, Benedict, and I shall put you back on the ground.”

“Noted.” Benedict studied the brickwork behind Malcolm’s head. “She is coming, though, you know. Lady Romwich.”

Malcolm said nothing. He looked at the trees.

He was going to see Penelope in London. In candlelight. Without the safety of the orchard or the studio.

He imagined her in whatever silk or lace women wore to these things when they weren’t wiping paint off their hands or bracing themselves against a stable gate. He had not let himself think about it directly, and the effort of not-thinking was taking up a staggering amount of his internal space.

At his elongated silence, Benedict spoke on.

“So that’s reason enough, if the ball itself isn’t sufficient.”

Malcolm stood, picking up a towel from the bench and dropping it again, his movements restless. “Fine, there, I have said it, and I agree. I will come to your ball.”