Benedict rested his elbows on the desk, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He was trapped. Damned if he kept his secrets, damned if he didn’t.
Her presence is a fire I cannot control,he thought as he looked at the hearth.
He got up and grabbed the nearby poker, stoking the flames. They rose, growing higher, just like the fierce intensity of Isla, whose fire had seared him to the core.
Chapter Nine
“Wait outside,” Benedict told the driver. “I will make sure your compensation is sufficient for the late hour.”
“Tis my duty, Your Grace,” he said with a tip of his hat as he pulled out a book and began reading. “I’ll be right here when you are ready.”
Benedict strode into the dimly lit common room of The Swan’s Sea, a tavern that was a few villages removed from his grand estate, in search of some space.
The place reeked of stale ale, pipe smoke, and wood polish. It was a harsh but comforting scent. It meant that he had escaped.
He looked about the crowded room and spotted him instantly. Kenneth Arnold, the Marquess of Murkwood, his oldest friend and the only man in thetonwhose company he could toleratefor more than five minutes, was nursing a tankard by a stone fireplace.
He grinned as Benedict approached, a spark of amusement in his eyes.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he drawled, pushing a chair out with his boot. “The newlywed Duke deigning to grace us with his presence. I thought you’d beoccupied. A man should be in bed with his wife at this hour, not drowning his sorrows in a provincial pub.”
Benedict growled, the sound a low, rumbling thing in his chest as he sank into the chair with a thud.
“Save your jest for someone else, Kenneth. I am not in the mood.”
“Can I get you anything, Your Grace?” A sweaty barkeep asked, wiping his brow with a rag as he approached them. “Some ale perhaps?”
“Yes,” Benedict replied sharply.
“Thank you, Carlton!” Kenneth said over his shoulder, shaking his head with a laugh at Benedict. “You are most sour, Your Grace.”
Benedict leaned forward, his voice dropping. “Tell me, is thetonsatisfied?”
Kenneth raised an eyebrow and took a long sip of his ale. “Satisfied? Satisfied by what? The state of the world? The weather?”
“You know very well what I mean,” Benedict said as he took a mug from Carlton, drowning half the contents with a single slurp. “I told you not to play with me tonight.”
“Satisfaction is a touch strong,” Kenneth said, shaking his head with mock solemnity. “Thetoncalls her… strikingly unconventional. But a Duke marrying someone who isn’t the usual parlor-perfect choice? That has them all aflutter. And truth be told, I can’t help being a bit curious myself.”
“Good,” he said, a flicker of relief crossing Benedict’s face as he downed the last of his ale. He motioned to the barman for a small whisky. “And now, back to that ancient rumor? Have you found who started the thing to begin with? And why?”
“It’s a tangle of whispers,” Kenneth said, throwing up his hands with exaggerated exasperation. “Very difficult to track down an original source, even for me, and that is saying something. A moot point, is it not? Thetonthrives on conjecture, scandal, and the occasional half-truth. Don’t let it bother you, Ben. Honestly, it’s all smoke and mirrors, and far more entertaining from a safe distance.”
“I know,” Benedict muttered, accepting the new drink and downing half of it in one go. “But it still irks me. You know I do not like unsolved mysteries.”
“Yes, and I can see it certainly does irk you,” Kenneth said with a wink of his eye. “And so doesshe, apparently.”
Benedict stiffened, gripping the glass tightly. “What are you talking about now, Kenneth?”
“Isla,” Kenneth said as if talking to a child. “I ask again… why are you here and not with your wife?”
“I have no wish to discuss my marriage with you.”
Kenneth leaned back, hands draped casually over the chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Ah, come now, Ben. You’re far too… deliberate to be truly unaffected. If you didn’t care in the slightest, you’d dismiss the question with your usual cool composure, as you do my teasing. Instead, here you are, all tension and restraint. Fascinating.”
“I said I do not wish to discuss it,” Benedict gritted out, slamming his glass down on the wooden table. “That should be enough.”
“To quote the old bard, I think the lady doth protest too much…”
