He could tell by the way her stance stiffened.
“Can the Duke of Silkridge be heading straight for Miss Pratchett?” came a loud whisper.
“Fret not,” Noelle assured her friend. “My gaze cannot be turned by London gentlemen.”
But her eyes had not left Benjamin.
“What’s so wonderful about Cressmouth lads?” he asked as he reached her side.
She narrowed her eyes as if mentally preparing for battle. “They can be counted upon to be here every day, not to give a girl bad dreams at night.”
“You dreamt about me,” he said with pleasure. At least he was not alone.
“Baddreams,” she reminded him. “Ghastly.”
His smile faded. He deserved that. She knew as well as he did that if he could be trusted to do one thing, anything, that thing would be to leave.
At least there was honesty between them.
He wished there were also about a hundred fewer spectators. He wished a lot of things.
But he was a man of reason and practicality, not poetry and love. Benjamin’s priorities had been predetermined. A duke served his country, not himself. Noelle was not part of the equation. He absolutely shouldn’t be fascinated by the wrinkle of her nose or the way her lips pursed to one side when she was thinking.
If the two of them were too different before, the chasm was now impossible. ShewasCressmouth. She was not for him at all.
He forced himself to tear his gaze from Noelle and focus instead on Grandfather’s clerk, Mr. Fawkes. Old Fuzzy Wig still wore that oversized worsted cap, every bit as white and fuzzy as the shock of hair it attempted to corral beneath.
His beard was longer than Benjamin recalled, his cheeks ruddier, his eyes just as sparkly. Seeing him was as if no time had passed at all.
Mr. Fawkes caught a glimpse of Benjamin and broke off the discussion of gout at once.
Benjamin grinned despite himself. It was good to see the old man. “Fuzzy Wig! You haven’t aged a day.”
“Who’s this lad?” Mr. Fawkes demanded to Noelle. “He looks familiar.”
Benjamin froze in shock and hurt. Perhaps the years hadn’t been so kind after all.
“The Duke of Silkridge,” Noelle replied loudly.
Mr. Fawkes furrowed his brow. “Scrooge, you say?”
Benjamin gaped at him. “What the devil is a ‘scrooge?’”
“Silkridge,” she shouted into his ear. “Where’s your ear trumpet?”
“You must be mistaken.” Mr. Fawkes lifted an ivory-and-silver horn to the side of his head. “The Duke of Silkridge passed away years ago.”
“His son,” Noelle said into the ear trumpet. “Benjamin.”
“Ebenezer?” Mr. Fawkes asked in confusion.
“Benjamin,” Noelle shouted into the horn. “The heir.”
Mr. Fawkes’s face lit up. “Oh, of course. Why didn’t you say?”
Noelle gave a quick curtsey in apology.
Benjamin stepped forward, relieved to have been recognized at last.
