Page 71 of An Innocent Bride for the Duke

“That was only a dream,” Louisa answered, raising her hazel-green eyes to his. “You are the only Benedict now.”

“It must have been a wonderful dream though,” he commented, “for you to hold it so close for so long.”

“Yes, it was,” acknowledged Louisa. “Those old stories were everything to me, for a long time. You must think it very silly.”

“No, I do not,” he told her. “I think I understand. I read your book, you know, even some of the old notes you scribbled, still tucked inside…”

“Ah,” Louisa winced, closing her eyes. “How could you think me anything other than silly, if you even read those?”

“I really don’t think that,” Benedict assured her again, squeezing her hand. “You were only a young girl, knowing nothing of real life, of men, of desire. Your dreams were the right and proper dreams for that girl, and strong foundations for adult life. But now, you are a grown woman…”

“Yes, my dreams are different now,” Louisa confessed, looking up at Benedict with such powerful yearning that he felt something like a storm being stirred in his depths.

“I cannot write you any sonnets, Louisa,” he told her. “Nor can I claim to have lived a life as pure and chaste as Sir Benedict Palmer before he met his lady. I hope what I can give you is still worth having.”

“I understand you better than you know, Benedict Hale,” she asserted, apparently unbothered now by either his lack of poetic skill or his shadowy and rakish past.

As he gazed into her eyes, with the music winding down around them, Benedict felt as though he was falling into their gold-flecked depths.

“Come outside with me for a while, Louisa,” he said impulsively as the dance ended and he bowed again over her hand. “I won’t deny that my design is to kiss you, but there are things I must say and do tonight as well.”

Smiling, Louisa nodded her pink-cheeked assent.

Either no one noticed them slipping away from the crowds in the ballroom through the dimly-lit conservatory, or they were being indulged tonight, so close to the wedding. Benedict couldn’t say for sure, and glancing at her face, Louisa seemed supremely unbothered.

In the light of a full moon, her lovely features were calm and radiant and her whole body almost glowed in its white silk and pearl adornment. Waking or sleeping, Benedict knew that he had not thought about another woman for weeks.

“Where can we talk privately, but not face an inquisition if we’re seen?” he asked, not wanting either to run into another congratulatory group conversation nor to create any difficulties for Louisa with her aunt or neighbors.

“We can go to the fountain beside the rose gardens,” Louisa replied after a moment’s thought. “That is only a little way from the path and I don’t see why anyone else would go there. If Aunt Beatrice called me from the house, I would hear her.”

They strolled in silence to the spot she suggested and then stopped on the far side of the fountain. In its shadow, Benedict lost no time in folding Louisa into his arms and kissing her warm and eager lips until they were both breathless, but then he pulled back.

“I did not bring you out here only for the sweetness of your kisses,” he said, reminding himself of this as well as speaking to Louisa. “A serious accusation was leveled against me tonight in your presence, and I owe you an explanation for that.”

“I heard what Lady Huxley said,” Louisa replied, her voice staunch and unwavering. “I don’t believe that you are a murderer.”

“She is likely not the only person to think so, although few would dare to say it to my face,” Benedict warned. “I would rather that you hear the tale from me rather than stumbling some day on old newspapers or old acquaintances who might tell a twisted or inaccurate version of my family’s story.”

“Then tell me,” answered Louisa, leaning back against the fountain with a patient expression. “Tell me how your parents died.”

It took a few breaths of silence and soul-searching before the Duke of Northwick spoke.

How do I begin a story I have barely told anyone, never in detail and never someone whose opinion mattered quite so much to me?

“Five-and-twenty years ago…my father killed my mother, and then I killed him,” blurted Benedict, the words leaping from his mouth unbidden, as though they had been waiting all this time to escape him.

It was almost exactly what his godfather had feared he would say before any kind of court. Now he was facing a different kind of judgment

“You were only ten years old,” Louisa murmured, nothing but compassion in her face on hearing this bald confession that could so easily be misconstrued.

“I felt like I’d already lived a century in those ten years,” Benedict confessed further. “My parents never had a happy marriage…No, that does not do the truth justice. My father was a brute who beat my mother. He did it because he blamed her for all his own faults, and also, I think, because he liked hurting those weaker than himself.”

“Including you?”

“When he could catch me,” Benedict said with a grim nod. “I learned to move very fast, and my mother protected me when she could. When I think of her standing between me and that monster…”

Here, Benedict had to stop and close his eyes, too many old memories and too many long-dammed emotions beating on his mental doors. Stepping forward, Louisa put her arms around his waist and laid her head again on his chest, the warmth and kindness of her anchoring him back into the present and the safety of the Rosemere garden.