Chapter 2

"There's nothing there, you know."

Benedict frowned briefly as his friend Evan, the Marquess of Ockley, and resumed brushing at his jacket. Benedict knew nothing was there, technically speaking. He just merely wanted to…restore himself to order after the interaction with that dreadfully outspoken young lady. Sadly, however, no one had yet invented a manner of brushing off one's mind, so fussing with his jacket would have to do as far as soothing actions went.

"You really missed your calling as a valet," Evan went on, completely ignoring Benedict's scowl. "There's still time to change careers. Perhaps it will bring you joy."

"You propose," Benedict asked dryly, "that I give up being an earl to become a valet? Whose valet would I even be?"

Evan shrugged. "Perhaps you and your actual valet could switch places. Let him be the Earl of Moore, and you can be…what's your valet's name?"

"Well, I think I'd be allowed to keep my own name." Benedict could not believe he was engaging in this absurd conversation. "I suppose I'd just be Hoskins."

"Hm," Evan mused. "Suits you."

With a huff, Benedict reminded himself that he didn't have enough friends to go about alienating any. "I daresay, Ockley," he bit out. "it's my name."

"Just so," Evan agreed affably, but the gleam in his eye gave him away.

Benedict sighed and stopped brushing at his jacket. "You," he accused, "are being purposefully antagonistic."

"I might be," Evan agreed.

"Has anyone ever told you that you are dreadfully annoying?"

The instant the question left his lips, Benedict regretted it. For someone had been constantly complaining, in a good-natured way, that Evan drove her mad—his younger sister, Grace, who had been abducted and killed three years prior. Benedict knew that Evan hated discussing his sister, knew that his friend still harbored guilt over failing to protect her.

The pain Evan felt over his sister's loss had been a wound that was torn open again the previous year, when it had come to light that Grace had not been killed by the late Duke of Hawkins, as had been long assumed. Instead, she'd been killed by a man named Theodore Dowling.

It was Benedict's family's connection, however tenuous, to Dowling that made him cringe the most…

In an effort to distract his friend from his painful memories, Benedict took up a new line of complaint. Evan loved to mock Benedict's complaints.

"I cannot believe you dragged me to this…circus," he lamented, waving an arm out over the crowd. "Remind me again why I agreed to do this?"

The look Evan shot him suggested that his friend knew precisely what Benedict was up to…but that he appreciated it, nonetheless.

"You are here," Evan said, "because you want to marry this Season. Now, why you want to do that is beyond me, man; you're young yet, and you have plenty of time to wed and bed one of Society's darlings and get yourself an heir. But you have proven obstinate on this, as in most things, so here we are."

"My father did not live a long life," Benedict pointed out. "I may not have time to waste."

"Your father was nearly fifty when he died," Evan returned. "You are six and twenty. And unless you think falling off horses runs in families, I'm not sure you're on the right path with that logic."

Benedict shrugged. In truth, he had no real reason to suspect he should live anything but a long life. Even so, his father's sudden death had taught him that things happened beyond one's control. Procrastination was never a wise move.

Therefore, Benedict saw no reason to dally in getting himself a wife and heir. It was something he could check off his list of responsibilities easily enough. He just had to find someone appropriate.

"Don't tell me about logic," he grunted irritably.

When he looked back at his friend, Evan was peering at him curiously.

"Don't bite my head off," he said, "but you seem…slightly more peevish than usual. Might I ask why?"

"I am not peevish," Benedict snapped. Then he held up a hand before Evan could reply. "Yes, fine, I heard it. I just had an unpleasant encounter with a woman is all."

"Oh, yes?" Evan asked, looking intrigued. "Do say more."

With another beleaguered sigh, Benedict recounted his spat with the woman.

"She really was very abominably rude," he concluded.

"Indeed," Evan said with mock sagacity. "It sounds very much like she was being abominably rude."

"Do shut up," Benedict responded irritably which only made Evan laugh aloud. "Stop laughing at me and try to focus on the matter at hand, will you? You know perfectly well that the Season is only slightly less chaotic than the madhouse, so I need to start meeting ladies posthaste, otherwise all the respectable ones will find themselves inundated by suitors."

"Most of those are unlikely to be an earl, though," Evan pointed out.

"That fact has somewhat less impact when coming from someone poised to inherit a dukedom," Benedict observed idly, "but yes, fine, I take your point. Even so, there's no sense in dallying. Help me meet some suitable ladies, so we can depart this absolute circus."

"I don't mind a ball, personally," Evan commented offhandedly though he sighed when he saw Benedict's baleful look. "Oh, yes, all right. Let's get to business." He raised an eyebrow as an idea seemed to occur to him. "Wait, I've got it—why don't you ask the lady who's put you into such a pique if she would like to dance?"

This time, it was Benedict's turn to laugh. "I said suitable, Ockley. Harridans who accost people on the dance floor are not anyone's definition of suitable."

Evan mumbled something under his breath that might have included the phrase "keep you in line." Benedict, the picture of maturity, pretended not to hear this.

"Fine," Evan went on. "We'll find you a lady more to your liking, then."

"Christ, no, not that either," Benedict said, earning himself a look of censure from a passing matron for his blasphemy.

Evan's look was similarly startled though for a different reason.

"You've lost me with that one, I'm afraid, Moore," he said. "I thought you were looking for a wife."

"I am," Benedict said, feeling as though he were really showing more patience than Evan strictly warranted at this moment. "But I am not looking for some love match—" He practically spat the words. "—like seems to be all the rage these days. I don't need to give some woman the power to control my happiness, not like?—"

He cut himself off. The reason wasn't important, anyway. What mattered was the outcome.

"I just need a reasonable young lady to make a suitable Society wife," he said, his tone calmer. "One who will give me an heir and accompany me to the odd event. Then she can spend the rest of her time as she wishes. Needlepoint. Charity. I don't know—whatever it is that women like."

Evan had the oddest look on his face, but his voice was even as he said, "So you're looking for someone who makes you feel entirely indifferent, then?"

Benedict nodded, pleased. Finally, his friend was starting to understand.

"Precisely. And I don't see why such a thing should be difficult; it's the way aristocrats have been marrying for hundreds of years. Why change something that works?"

The words felt slightly flat in Benedict's mouth, but he stopped that thought before it could go any further. Evan, likewise, seemed uninterested in a response.

"Right," he said. He held Benedict's gaze for one more moment before turning to look out over the gathered crowd. "Well, I suppose you're right that there are quite a few potential brides that fit that description here tonight. Do you see any that make you feel absolutely nothing?"

If this last question was a jibe, Benedict ignored it. Instead, he took the question in good faith, scanning his eyes across the collection of expertly coiffed young women.

His gaze caught upon a pair huddled off to one side of the dance floor, heads pressed together, giggling. It was the one on the left that drew his attention, for she was smiling amiably in a way that suggested simple contentment. Her dark hair was neatly swept back, and her gown was fashionable but not ostentatiously so. Women who adored fashion would likely want to go places to show off that fashion and might ask their husbands to accompany them. Benedict was, naturally, far too busy for that sort of thing.

She did look a tad bit young, he allowed, but wasn't that the way of debutantes?

"That one," he said, jerking his chin in the direction of the young lady in question. "The young lady over there in the blue."

Evan followed Benedict's gesture. When his eyes landed on the right woman, there was another quick flicker of something in his expression. But it was gone before Evan turned to face his friend again.

"Right on," he said. "Well, if you've noticed her, surely others have as well. You'd best go ask for a dance before her card is full."

This was sensible. Wise, even.

So why did Benedict still get the sense that he was being mocked?

Again, he chose to ignore whatever nonsense Evan was trying to impart through implication and innuendo.

"So I shall," he declared. With a decisive nod, he started striding towards his desired partner.

As he went, he put firmly from his mind any thoughts of mysterious friends and quarrelsome young ladies and tried to convince himself that finally things were going according to plan.