Chapter 3

Benedict leaned against the pillar at the back of the room as he listened to his friend prattle on about the scandal sheet and how he should just remove his mask instead of fuelling all the gossip. It had been ten years since the fire that had scarred the left side of his face; he hadn't wanted to address any of the rumours then, and he wasn't about to start now.

Gibbs had been his friend since their days in university. He had been there for the man when his father had passed, and Gibbs, in turn, had been there for Benedict through the passing of his brother and the loss of the family home during the fire.

"Do you know they are calling you a beast, a literal beast, because you will not remove the mask and show them, Benedict? I'm not saying this to hurt you, but as your friend, I am telling you that wearing that stupid mask all the time isn't doing you any favours." Gibbs sighed heavily and shook his head in defeat.

"I don't care what they call me; what I fail to understand is why you, of all people, insist upon reading such smut?" He turned to his friend with a mocking grin, showing a rare moment of amusement before glaring at another passing guest. He wasn't sure where the tall beauty with her locks of golden hair had got to, but he envied her ability to disappear in a crowd.

"I read it for your sake rather than my own. If I were you, I would read it daily to see what everyone said about me." Gibbs made the statement as if he couldn't understand why anyone would willingly ignore gossip.

Benedict was about to respond when a cool voice spoke behind him, making him turn.

"I don't recall inviting you," Lord Cecil Carew spoke in an icy tone, glaring at Benedict with a clenched jaw. His tall frame allowed him to look Benedict in the eyes.

"I extended the invitation to my friend since the ball was open for attendance." Gibbs instantly came to the Baron's defence, standing up to the earl, who glared down his long nose at him.

Sandy blond hair and matching brown eyes did little to lend to the menacing aura that Cecil was clearly trying to give off. His gangly frame stood in stark contrast to Benedict's bulging muscles. "Let me make myself perfectly clear then." He turned back to Benedict, ignoring Gibbs. "You are not welcome here; we do not wish to mingle with a killer in our midst." The coolness in his voice travelled up his face and reached his eyes.

Benedict instantly stiffened as he held the gaze of the man who had once been his brother's best friend. "We have been through this before. I am not a killer; what happened was a tragic accident."

Cecil's thin lips curled into a nasty sneer that exposed his teeth. "The words of a killer hold no sway."

Sensing that things were about to escalate, Gibbs stepped in and cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, may I suggest that we stop the conversation here? Our hosts, who kindly invited most of the ton, would not care for a scene." Ever the diplomat, Gibbs raised his eyebrows in a warning and gestured to a group of people who had gathered to watch.

Glancing at the other guests, Cecil swallowed and turned back to Benedict, speaking in a hushed tone, "I won't make a scene as it is not my house, but I urge you to leave as soon as possible. I wouldn't want any other accidents to befall any of the unsuspecting guests." He looked past Benedict as if he no longer existed and strode into the throng of onlookers.

Waiting until most of the guests had returned to their conversations, Gibbs placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "That was intense; I wouldn't pay him any heed if I were you, rumour has it that he can't satisfy his wife in bed, let alone any of the women he keeps on the side."

Benedict watched Cecil's tall figure disappear into the crowd before turning to his friend with a frown. "Is that another rumour from one of your beloved gossip sheets?" Benedict found it hard to believe that Cecil Carew couldn't please his wife. At least the man he had known when his brother was alive had been a kind man of great heart. The person who blamed him for the death of his best friend was a far cry from the man he used to know.

Gibbs shrugged. "I have to get the gossip from somewhere, and Lord knows you aren't a reliable source," he jested with his friend. Gibbs had always believed that he was the only person alive who could make his friend laugh; the fact that he failed most of the time never seemed to dissuade him at all.

Benedict sighed and shook his head, not wanting to cause an even bigger scene than he already had. Coming to the ball had been a mistake.

"Where are you going?" Gibbs asked as Benedict pushed past him, making his way into a hall.

"To get some fresh air, I can't stand the stuffiness of this ball any longer," he called back, ignoring the glares from a group of pompous men who scoffed at him."

"The terrace is the other way!" Gibbs called back, but it was too late. Benedict was already on his way down the hall.

He wanted a moment to himself where he could deal with the unwanted thoughts and feelings that Cecil had brought up. Leonardo Stanley's death had been one that still haunted him at night. He'd tried his best to place the whole ordeal behind him, but the insistence of the ton and those around him to bring it up made it a much harder feat.

He hadn't wanted his brother to die, nor had he wanted to carry the scars as a reminder of that fateful night for the rest of his life. Yet fate had dealt him a hand that seemed almost impossible to escape.

***

Henrietta winced as the Earl of Devonshire stepped on her toes for the hundredth time during the waltz. She wasn't sure if a good soak in hot water and herbs could save her feet at this point. She glanced over the man's shoulder at her father, who gave her a pointed look and lifted his eyebrows in warning.

He has to see how ridiculous a match this is.

She had spent a great portion of the evening dancing with strangers who were old enough to be her grandfather. The only young man who had asked for a dance had been the son of a duke with more aspirations to sire children than a rabbit. She cringed inwardly at the memory of the young man glancing at her hips and remarking that she hadn't the good birthing hips he was looking for.

"Do you enjoy dancing, Lady Henrietta?" Lord Devonshire asked her with a scornful glance.

Snapping out of her thoughts, Henrietta smiled up at the man whose moustache was long enough to hang keys on if the need arose. "I do, My Lord. I must confess that I would rather enjoy reading a good comedic play, but dancing occasionally does allow for some much-needed exercise." She faked a smile in the hopes that her father would see the effort she was putting in.

"That does explain why you keep missing steps and wincing. Might I suggest that you get a little more practice before the wedding?" Lord Devonshire twitched his nose with great importance, making his moustache bristle.

"The wedding, My Lord?" Henrietta asked with a frown, hoping he was referring to a different wedding, not one that he assumed would be taking place with her as the bride at his side.

Lord Devonshire looked down at her with what Henrietta assumed was meant to be flirtatious. "You are looking for a husband, are you not? Your father informed me that you are looking for a husband. If I were to put myself forward as a candidate, then I would want you to practice your dancing techniques. I am a very important man you know; I can't be seen with a wife who stumbles about like a newborn calf."

Henrietta felt her life flashing before her eyes. If she were to marry such an ‘important' man as Lord Devonshire hailed himself to be, she would likely end up with no toes. It wasn't that the man wasn't handsome; he was clean-cut and neat in a kind of stick-up-the-backside manner that Henrietta associated with the smell of whisky and stale cigars at White's. He lacked the rugged handsomeness that she found attractive.

Ruggedly handsome like Baron St John.

Her heart skipped a beat at the memory of his strong hands holding her up. He was certainly mysterious but dangerous in a way that made her breath quicken with desire. She quickly shook off the unwelcome thoughts and stepped back when the musicians ended the waltz.

"Thank you so much for a lovely waltz, My Lord." She bowed quickly and attempted to walk away.

"Just a moment, Lady Henrietta, would you care for another dance? While I cannot say that I was impressed by your ability to waltz, I did rather enjoy our banter?" Lord Devonshire lifted his chin proudly as if he were doing her a favour by offering another dance.

Banter?

The man was out of his mind if he thought that the conversation had been pleasant. They had talked of nothing but his many business ventures and the number of horses he owned.

"Thank you, My Lord, but I am afraid that my dance card is rather full this evening. Perhaps another time if fate brings us to the same ball?" She made a mental note to avoid him like the plague if she ever saw him again, for the sake of her toes, if anything else.

Lord Devonshire smirked at her. "I can see that we will be playing hard to get, as it should be, as it should be." He repeated the phrase with an approving nod. "Very well, Lady Henrietta, I shall play your little game and pursue you like one devoted to courting you." He bowed before winking at her and turning to leave.

"The only game I will be playing is one of hiding," she whispered to herself, leaving the dance floor. She had barely reached the punch table when her father stopped her in her tracks.

"Where do you think you are going? I have plenty more gentlemen lined up for this evening unless you have found one you like?" He raised an eyebrow and glanced over her shoulder at Lord Devonshire.

"Please, Papa, I cannot dance anymore this evening; allow the respite of having a rest, if only for a few moments," she pleaded with her father, feeling the dull ache of her mangled toes creeping up her calves.

Derek gave her a sympathetic look before glancing down a hall behind her back. "Very well, you have done what I asked this evening. Most of the guests are preoccupied with something that happened earlier. Why don't you go ahead and catch your breath in the library? It's just down the hall to your left. I will make your excuses to those who have asked for a dance." He nodded to a dark corridor.

Henrietta would have hugged her father if they hadn't been in such a stiff social setting. Perhaps he had seen how unfair his decision to force her into marriage had been.

"Thank you, Papa. You will never know how grateful I am." She breathed a sigh of relief and hurried away from the rest of the guests. At least she'd be able to put her feet up in the library.