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CHAPTER1
Benedict McCarthy, Duke of Keswick, had slept poorly once again.
You would think,he thought bitterly, lying in his luxurious, four-poster bed with the down mattress that had cost a small fortune and made one feel as though one were lying on clouds,that all my money could buy me a decent night’s sleep.
What time was it? His valet, James, was very late. He ought to have been in with the breakfast-tray by now. Benedict was just about to roll out of bed and try to come to life when a hammering on his bedroom door jolted him fully awake.
“Benedict, wake up! At once! It is important.”
Benedict groaned aloud. “Grandmother, please don’t knock like that. Have you seen James? He’s late.”
“Itold that snobby valet of yours that you would be taking breakfast downstairs with me today, so not to prepare a tray.”
Benedict closed his eyes. What on earth had compelled him to agree to stay with his grandmother this Season, instead of just staying in his lovely, peaceful bachelor’s apartments?
“Why did you do that, Grandmother?”
Mary McCarthy, the Dowager Duchess of Keswick, gave no quarter to her grandson. She had been mother and father to him ever since he was a child, and unfortunately did not seem to be afraid of him, unlike almost every other member of theton.
“We have something important to discuss, and I know you, Benedict. You’ll be off right after breakfast, and I shan’t see you for the rest of today. Up you get. I shall be waiting.”
Benedict lay where he was, inspecting the beautifully embroidered canopy above him. The Dowager’s townhouse was much larger than his apartments, of course, and her cook was noticeably better. He wasn’t entirely sure that those benefits outweighed his grandmother’s tendency to pry into his affairs.
There was nothing for it. He would need to get up. He had a feeling that he knew what the Dowager wanted to talk about, and he might as well get it over with.
Benedict pulled himself into a sitting position and reached across to tug on the heavy velvet bell pull. He wasnotpleased with James.
“Ah, there you are. Sit down, dear, please.”
The Dowager looked resplendent even at this early hour of the morning. She wore a black velvet gown, rather outmoded, but still flattering. She regularly scandalized the stricter members of Society by refusing the cave to the latest dictates of Fashion.
That was evidenced by the feathers decorating her iron-gray hair. The Dowager Duchess of Keswick had no place among the placid, dumpy old matrons, and had no intention of joining them.
She arched one thin eyebrow at Benedict as he sat down.
“Goodness. You look terrible. You’ve got bags large enough to pack your things in underneath your eyes. That is a pity, as you have very handsome eyes.”
Benedict grimaced. “Thank you, Grandmother.”
“You ought to take better care of yourself. You’re too pale. You can’t simply rely on fencing and riding and…” she hesitated, pressing her lips together to show her disapproval, “andpugilismto keep yourself healthy. One requires good food, rest, plenty of sleep, and socialization to be truly balanced.”
“If you say so, Grandmother. Could you pass the marmalade, please?”
“It’s what I prefer, Benedict, and it gives the servants time to get on with their work.” The Dowager hesitated, studying him closely. “Was it nightmares again?”
Benedict concentrated on pouring himself a cup of tea before he answered.
“Yes.” he said, as casually as possible.
It was always humiliating for a grown man to admit to being plagued with nightmares, especially a man on the cusp of thirty and a duke. Still, that had meant very little last night, when Benedict had woken in at two in the morning, soaked in sweat and gasping for breath. Sleep had been impossible after that, of course, until a bare twenty minutes before James was due to arrive with breakfast.
The Dowager was silent after that. There really wasn’t much to say. She could hardly reassure him not to pay any heed to the dreams or claim that they weren’t real and wouldn’t come true.
The nightmares had come true a long time ago.
“So,” the Dowager said briskly, in a tone that indicated she intended to change the subject, “I have great plans for you this Season, Benedict.”
“Oh, Grandmother, really. You have plans for me every Season. I am sorry, but I’m simply not going to marry any of your whey-faced proteges.”
