She jumped when a pair of squirrels burst from the bushes and darted across her boots, their bushy brown tails swishing as their game of chase took them up a tree and high into the leafy boughs.
“Dear lord,” she breathed, her hands pressed to her pounding heart.
Fortunately, Benedict did not let her tip over but held on as she was practically plastered against his side. “My, my, Miss Alice, are you that willing to jump into my arms already?”
Blushing profusely, she pulled away from him and brushed her skirts down, not entirely enthused about the dryness of his tone. “I apologize.”
“No, no, do not,” Benedict snorted. “I appreciate a lovely woman close to me. Well, Miss Alice, I may have to rethink my ideas about you.”
Wait, what did that mean?
CHAPTER 4
Waking at a late hour was not unusual for Edward—back in his most egregious roaming days, he would not wake before noon. Now, he still held late days, but not as much.
Turning over on his bed, he rubbed his eyes, trying—and failing to remove the eyes ofMadam Mystiquefrom last night.
Why was she bothering him so much? In his life, and most importantly, in his station, women came and went. Few of them stayed in his memory and even less haunted him at night. So why was this lady in the feathered mask resonating in his mind?
He’d met the most beautiful women, the most talented, in the bedchamber and out of it, and even they were footnotes in his memory. Scowling, he sat up and flung the sheets from his person.
The marble was cold under his feet, but that sensation paled in consideration to the upset under his breastbone.
Women did not make him wonder; women did not make him dabble in what-ifs—so why was he wondering what the masked lady’s lips would taste like?
“Probably like a sweet, tart, Pinot Gris,” he murmured while washing his face.
After summoning his valet to prepare his bath and appraising the kitchen staff to have a hot meal ready, he donned a silk robe and took a brief walk to his study to arrange the work he had to do before he headed off to White’s that evening.
At thirty years, he had no interest in finding a wife—indeed, he was staunchly against the idea of getting leg shackled. He treasured his independence and the notion of making sure he had to curfew his activities to tailor to a finicky lady made his skin itch.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” his butler, Charles Ramsay, bowed. “May I get anything for you? Coffee maybe?
The man was veritably young for a butler, barely brushing forty, but Charles had been the previous butler’s understudy and before that, a dedicated footman in the manor. Moreover, the man was a dead shot who did not miss and cooked a mean venison chop.
“Coffee in half an hour while I attend to these,” he yawned while arranging the folios and letters. He came across another letter from his property manager in Italy and held back an aggrieved groan.
What he would give to go back to the idyllic Tuscany countryside, the rolling hills of vineyards to the picturesque towns and villages, the seat of history, art, and such refined culture.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” his valet, Peter Simpson, bowed. “The bathing chamber is ready for you.”
“Good,” Edward nodded, then tapped the letter. “I will be back soon, Ramsay.”
Precisely two hours and forty minutes later, clad in his shirtsleeves, Edward sorted through most of his week, delegating funds to a town ravaged by a storm, petitioned the Earl who governed the township adjacent to his to dually fund the creation of a bridge, and lastly, ordered some workers to fix the town’s orphanage, closed off from doing work.
Rubbing the strain in his neck away, he gazed at the half-finished cup of coffee—the last of five he’d drunk— and moved from the table. White's awaited, and he was more than ready for its distractions.
“Ramsay, has Benedict returned yet?” he asked when the butler came to collect his cup.
“His carriage pulled in the moment I took the stairs, Your Grace,” Ramsay nodded.
Before he went off, he decided to go see his brother, hoping dearly that the young man had listened to him.
How much of a debacle can he get into at a garden party? This is not the Pleasure Gardens of Vauxhall.
He found Benedict peeling off his jacket, a pleased smile on his face, one Edward assumed came from having a genuinely enjoyable time instead of the smug glee from making a conquest.
Leaning on the doorstep, he asked, “Had a good time, I see?”
