Sudbury shook his head in disgust. “Think of how your sister would feel if she heard you say that.”
“She’s heard me say it a dozen times,” Ben let him know and then left his friend to go have break his fast.
Part of the reason he allowed his meddlesome sister to stay was she didn’t want to leave Colchester House. He understood that she loved it here where they grew up, where the memories of their parents lived on no matter how many years passed. He loved it the same way.
Turning to look down the torchlit hall on his left, he saw the ghost of his father,Lieutenant-colonelRichard West of the Royalist Army on one of the rare times he was home. He walked slowly, barely looking up from a pamphlet while his children scurried around him, his mother hurrying after her children to keep them from disturbing their father.
Ben knew his sister had the same memories. He was too compassionate. That was his problem. One of the conditions of him agreeing not to marry her off was that she wouldn’t interfere in his personal life. Well, he scowled, she’d gone back on her word. He growled low in his throat. A ball. A ball with every marriageable woman from Colchester to London attending. All hungry and willing to do or say anything for a nibble.
He hooked his finger under his cravat and pulled. He didn’t want or need a wife, especially not just because she came from a rich and powerful family. Still, he didn’t want to disappoint his father, who had included his wishes in his will.
Ben was also a little insulted that his sister thought he needed someone to take care of him. Had she forgotten that it was him who looked after her, though she was two years older than him, when they were made orphans by radical followers of James Stuart? Ben didn’t need any help. What he needed was to go back to the chaos of the battlefield. It was the only place exactly like him. He missed it. He needed it after being forced to retire after almost losing his arm while saving King George from the rebellious Jacobites three years ago.It was the third and last time he saved the king while fighting for him. Ben still had hopes of returning to the king’s military service once his arm was strong enough to fight again. Being idle had almost cost him his purpose, which he believed was to fight. It had to be to fight. With all the darkness he felt inside himself over his parent’s death, there wasn’t any room for happiness or love.All he felt was hatred since he was eleven years old. It’s what drove him,joining Queen Anne’s army when he was sixteen, training and fighting under the brilliant strategist the Duke of Marlborough for the next eight years, after which time he fought for the new king, George of Hanover. The army had helped relieve the roiling pressure of his anger. He needed to go back.
He headed to the dining Hall for some refreshment. Around him, servants scurried about, but he didn’t stop or pause. He merely nodded an acknowledgement to some and barely that to others.
“Your Grace,” said an older man who appeared at his side when he entered the great Hall. “I trust you beat Lord Sudbury.”
Ben glanced at Stephen, his long-time steward. “I should lose next time just to perplex you.”
Stephen followed him but stood at his side when Ben sat at the largest of three trestle tables and called out for water.
“You look as if you need something stronger,” Stephen remarked, sizing him up.
“The sun just came up an hour ago.”
“And at night, you don’t partake because you say Tories might attack. Sir, if I may say, you are no longer in the military. There’s no need for such rigidity.”
Ben shot his steward a cool look. “I’m not rigid, Stephen. I’m disciplined. There’s a difference.”
“Good morn to you, Your Grace!” called out one of his vassals.
The greeting was repeated six more times by others. Ben had learned long ago how to drown out most voices else he’d never hear the important matters.
“And you have to meet with the earl of Ardleigh, Lord Brambley about escorting his daughter to London next month for the–”
Ben held up his hand to stop him. “Yes, yes, I know.” Ben’s father had desired a union between his family and theBrambleys. Or, according to his will, any high-powered family. His father had given him until the age of nine and twenty to find a well-bred wife. After that half of his inheritance would go to Prudence if he didn’t fulfill the stipulations of his will. Let her have it all he thought to himself. He wanted the battlefield. He didn’t want to take Louisa Brambley for his wife, whether his father wished it or not. She was stuffy and said little, yet somehow she made Ben feel less than enough. He’d agreed to escort her to a new playhouse in London for his father’s sake but this was the last time. After this, he would inform her father that he didn’t wish to see her again.
He raked his gaze over the people occupying his dining Hall. They were his men and the wives of those who were wed. There were troubadours set up in the northeast corner, hired by his sister. They weren’t playing, but eating his food. No matter, they would play during supper or they’d be kicked out on their arses.
He reclined in his seat when the female server brought him a jug of water and two cups to go with it. She leaned over to pour his and let her gaze drift to him. She was pretty, with plump cheeks and blonde braids swinging over each shoulder. Briefly, he wondered what Prudence would think of him wooing a servant.
She smiled into his eyes and let out a little sigh, then knocked the cup over into his lap. He sprang to his feet, wiping a few droplets of water from his lap.
“Oh, forgive me, Your Grace! Forgive me!”
He held up his hand to stop her from crying. It didn’t work. He slipped his gaze to Stephen for help.
“Now there, Miss…” his steward comforted like a father–the way he’d always comforted Ben. They’d met in the early years of Ben’s enlistment. Stephen wasn’t a soldier or a noble, he was the queen’s scribe, who traveled everywhere with the royalarmy. They had become friends. When Ben was injured and had to leave the current king’s army, Stephen went with him. Ben was glad he had, for he was there in Ben’s darkest days of being away from the battlefield.
“Patrice, Sir,” the server informed them while her cheeks filled with blood.
“Yes, of course, Patrice,” Stephen said, a master at putting others at ease.
Well, it seemed his steward was doing what he did best. There was no reason for Ben to linger about. While Stephen convinced the girl that the duke wasn’t angry, Ben slipped out of the Hall without eating, and then strode directly out of the house before anyone stopped him.
It was a warm day without even a breeze to stir the hundreds of flowers when he opened the gate to the garden. He liked it here, where the calls of birds took the place of the mundane duties of an idle duke, where he could be alone deep in the garden, nestled on a bench draped with vines festooned with small peach-colored roses. Pity he didn’t bring a book to read this morning.
His ears picked up the sound of a cat meowing. He liked cats. They weren’t needy animals. He took a step forward, then paused. It was a human voice. He turned to it and the direction of the huge cross memorial he'd built for his parents.
