Where the Duke was tall and broad-shouldered, his cousin was lean and elegantly formed. Where Benjamin’s face bore the marks of violence and endurance, Reginald’s was smooth and conventionally handsome in the manner society rewarded. Where Benjamin moved with the measured deliberation of a man conscious of his own injuries, Reginald moved with the effortless ease of one who had never known physical discomfort.
He was, Eleanor recognised at once, the sort of man who had always obtained whatever he desired simply by smiling and expecting the world to oblige.
She rose with the composed dignity she had learnt to maintain in the face of unexpected visitors and inclined her head politely.
“Lord Reginald,” she said. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”
“And whose fault is that?” He crossed the room toward her, taking her hand before she had decided whether to offer it, and pressing a kiss to her knuckles that lingered a fraction too long. “My wretched cousin neglected to invite me to the wedding. I was forced to learn of his nuptials through common gossip. Common gossip! As though I were some distant acquaintance rather than his closest living relation.”
“I was not aware His Grace hadclose relations.”
The words emerged sharper than she intended. Reginald’s brows lifted slightly, though his smile remained undisturbed.
“Oh, I like you,” he said lightly. “Benjamin has always possessed unexpected taste. Though I must say—” His gaze travelled over her with frank appraisal. “You are considerably prettier than I expected. The rumours suggested he had married a spinster of advanced years and limited attractions. I see the rumours were, as usual, unreliable.”
Eleanor withdrew her hand. “I am twenty-nine, Lord Reginald. Some might consider that advanced.”
“Some would be fools.” His smile widened. “And pray call me Reginald. We are family now, after all.”
Family. The word sat uneasily in Eleanor’s thoughts. When she agreed to marry the Duke of Thornwood, she had not considered that she might acquire relations along with a title. The prospect was not wholly welcome.
“I shall personally inform His Grace of your arrival,” she said coolly. “I am certain he shall be… pleased to see you.”
“Oh, I doubt that exceedingly.” Reginald settled upon the settee without invitation, arranging himself with the casual assurance of a man who expected furniture to conform to his comfort. “Benjamin has never been pleased to see me. We are not, I fear, the sort of cousins who exchange affectionate letters and reminisce over childhood summers. But blood is blood, and I was in the neighbourhood, and I could not resist meeting the lady who has finally persuaded him to rejoin humanity.”
“I fear you credit me with more influence than I possess.”
“Do I? I have heard that flowers have reappeared in the rooms. That meals are once again taken in the dining room rather than his study. Even the grounds show signs of renewed attention—I noticed the roses had been pruned as I arrived.”
His pale eyes—so unlike Benjamin’s dark ones—rested upon her with an interest that felt closer to assessment than admiration.
“My cousin has been a ghost in this house for years, Your Grace. If he is beginning to inhabit it in living form again, I suspect you are the cause.
Eleanor did not know how to answer. She was spared the necessity by the sound of uneven footsteps in the corridor—Benjamin’s distinctive gait, approaching with what sounded very much like haste.
He appeared in the doorway a moment later, and the expression upon his face confirmed that pleased was indeed not the proper description of his feelings regarding his cousin’s arrival.
“Reginald,” he said flatly.
“Benjamin!” The cousin rose, arms spread in welcome that the Duke did not return. “How delightful to see you. You look… well, much the same as ever, I suppose. Still cultivating that air of brooding menace?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting family. Is that now a crime?” Reginald’s smile remained perfectly composed, though something sharpened behind it. “I was passing through on my way to a shooting party and thought I might stop to offer my congratulations in person. Your bride is charming, by the way. Far more so than I expected, considering your well-known preference for solitude.”
Benjamin’s jaw tightened. “You should have written in advance.”
“And given you opportunity to contrive an excuse? Certainly not.” Reginald glanced between them, expression calculating. “Come, cousin. Surely you can extend a single night’s hospitality to your only living male relation. Unless you fear I shall corrupt your new duchess with tales of your misspent youth?”
“I was not aware His Grace possessed a misspent youth,” Eleanor said mildly.
“Oh, he did not. That was always his difficulty—all duty, no dissipation. It made the rest of us appear rather disreputable by comparison.” Reginald’s tone remained light, though something bitter edged it. “Perfect son, perfect soldier, perfect heir. Until he ceased to be perfect, of course.”
The silence that followed was glacial.
Eleanor watched Benjamin’s face—saw the barriers slam into place, the brief flash of pain that preceded the familiar emptiness. His cousin had located the wound and pressed it deliberately, with the ease of long practice.
“You may stay the night,” Benjamin said, his voice stripped of all inflection. “I shall have a room prepared. Dinner is at seven.”
