“You have the smallest dusting of freckles there I find mesmerizing.” He gave her a wink. “There are four of them. I counted.”
She had never taken note of any spots on her nose. She patted it now. “Do I truly?”
“Yes, but I do not love them nearly as much as I adore the mole on your arse.” He flashed her a rascal’s grin.
She flushed more furiously, for they were approaching earshot of the gathering. “You are rotten,” she whispered without heat.
“To the core, my darling.” His grin widened. “And you love it.”
Yes, she did. And she lovedhim.
“Do tell meall about your Ladies’ Typewriting School,” the Duchess of Arden was saying to his wife, excitement in her voice. “Investing in the education and employment of our fellow women is so important.”
The duchess was an American and a former Pinkerton agent whose aid in the work of the Special League both in England and abroad had been tremendous. Something of an enigma, she wore divided skirts, spoke her mind, and seemed to have Arden wrapped around her pinky.
Then again, Benedict knew the feeling.
Isabella had rather the same effect upon him.
“For so many ladies, it is the only way for them to gain their independence and freedom,” Isabella agreed. “We have opened three new offices in the last year.”
“We must visit one of your offices,” said Lady Stanwyck. A striking woman with bold copper hair, she had married Lord Stanwyck in the wake of her former husband’s political assassination. “And the Duchess of Arden’s detective school for ladies as well.”
“I would dearly love to see them both,” added the Duchess of Carlisle, the slight lilt in her words marking her as an Irishwoman. “As would my little Lady Rose.”
The hellion who had used his sleeve as her napkin? Benedict suppressed a grin. In truth, though he acted as if he were appalled by the presence of the broods of all the lords and ladies at the house party, being around so many children and babies at once was making him feel…
Restless.
Despite his best efforts to make love to his wife as thoroughly and often as possible, she had yet to conceive a child. He longed to grow his own little brood. Perhaps a girl with Isabella’s golden curls and stubborn chin, one who would also use his sleeve as her napkin.
“What a curious lot we are,” said the Duchess of Strathmore then. “Little wonder we have all found each other in friendship.”
“I am thankful we have,” the Duchess of Winchelsea added. “If I did not have the support of you all, I am certain I never would have been accepted in society.”
A former actress, the duchess was strikingly lovely, with a heart as pure as gold. Benedict had no doubt she was right about that. Society was notoriously closed-minded and prudish. However, times were changing. They were all signs of just how much.
“We are stronger together,” the Duchess of Bainbridge said.
“Hear, hear,” he said. For it was the truth, not just about this gathering of friends but about life and love.
He was stronger with Isabella than he had ever been without her.
Belatedly, he realized the men of the assemblage had withdrawn to the periphery, and he was the last of them still seated amongst the ladies. What was he doing, sitting here, growing all maudlin over the notion of babies and love? He excused himself and ventured to the husbands.
Strathmore grinned at him. “You have spoiled all our fun, Westmorland. We were just making bets as to how long it would take you to realize you were the only male left on the picnic blankets.”
Benedict raised a brow. “As the most recently wed of you all, I ought to be allowed to be utterly besotted with my wife to the point where I do not realize I have been abandoned by my brethren.”
“Believe me, you will only grow more besotted as time goes on,” warned Stanwyck, casting a glance back at Lady Stanwyck that was thoroughly infatuated.
“It is true,” agreed Carlisle. “All any of them would have to do is crook a finger, and we would each of us rush to their sides like a panting dog eager to please his master.”
“An excellent description,” the Duke of Bainbridge said with a long-suffering sigh as he gazed upon his wife.
“God’s truth,” Arden said with a good-natured laugh.
“Winchelsea!” called the duchess. “Come here for a moment, won’t you? I need your assistance.”
