Chapter 7

There was always another bloody ball.

Christ, but Benedict hated the Season.

He would have found the whole thing intolerable (instead of, as it was, barely tolerable) if not for his purpose: Miss Amanda Rutley would be here tonight. He would dance with her again this evening, avoid offending her sister (or at least minimally offend her as not offending Miss Emily Rutley was perhaps too Herculean a task for even him), and call upon her the next morning. He would repeat this pattern several more times, whereupon he would set up a meeting with Lord Drowton, gain his permission to ask for Miss Amanda's hand, then summarily marry her.

Neat. Easy.

Benedict loved it when things were neat and easy.

He had to focus on things that were neat and easy to distract himself from the undoubtedly messy and complicated thing that was brewing inside of his home, the evidence of which he presently had secreted in his breast pocket.

"You look even more sullen than usual." Evan's voice at his shoulder practically made Benedict jump out of his skin. His friend frowned. "And a bit more nervous, too."

Evan was, honestly, the last person he wanted to talk to about this whole business with his mother and Dowling…at least not until he had more information.

The more information in question was practically burning a hole in his pocket.

"Sorry," he told his friend with a wry, self-deprecating grimace. "I'm just…planning."

Evan's sharp bark of laughter was teasing but not unkind. "You? Never."

That made Benedict's grimace intensify. Because the thing was, he had planned rather poorly when it came to stealing the letters. He'd been walking to his mother's parlor this evening when the opportunity had presented itself. His mother wasn't in the room…but the letters had been, still laid out on the table.

Almost like she wanted them to be found.

In reality, Benedict didn't much care what his mother did or didn't want. What he wanted was to make sure she wasn't about to bring some other hideous scandal down on his head. He was goddamned sick and tired of seeing their name dragged through the papers because his mother was up to her unceasing antics.

After all, if he intended to make a respectable bride of Miss Amanda Rutley—and he did, ideally soon, so he could stop coming to these wretched events—he needed to not be hip deep in yet another scandal.

So he'd taken the letters without feeling a prick of remorse. Though he did feel a great deal of irritation at himself for grabbing them too close to their departure to secret them in his study or bedchamber before departing.

If one was working to avoid a scandal, one should not bring the evidence of potential scandal into a room with half the ton present. Not that he knew what the letters said; he hadn't had a chance to read them yet, which was both torment and relief because he feared what those letters would reveal.

Feared they would show that his mother had known Dowling to have been a criminal and instead of turning him in to the proper authorities, had blackmailed him over it.

He tried not to let his thoughts show on his face as he addressed his friend.

"Yes, yes, have your laughs. A courtship is important business, though."

Evan looked skeptical. "You aren't flustered by serious business, Moore." His mouth twitched. "Are you perhaps less ambivalent to Miss Rutley than you initially believed?"

And damn Benedict's traitorous mind because the image this evoked was of unruly black curls that heralded their owner's penchant for sass. It evoked a pouty bottom lip that deserved to be nipped.

It took him far too long to realize that Evan had been, of course, speaking of Miss Amanda Rutley.

"No," he said more gruffly than was perhaps necessary, given the innocent teasing of Evan's comment. But he was off kilter, not only because of the letters but also because he was not a man who was commonly plagued by unwanted thoughts.

"No," he repeated more calmly. The last thing he needed was Evan probing into what was wrong. He didn't know what was worse, that his friend would uncover that Benedict had been having…thoughts about Miss Rutley the elder or that Benedict suspected that his mother had knowingly protected a criminal.

Well, no—the latter was certainly worse.

But…

Even if his mother had known Dowling to be not a gentleman as he had claimed but rather a scoundrel of the worst kind, surely, she hadn't known him to be complicit in Lady Grace Miller's murder. He'd known his mother to do desperate, foolish things in order to gain the attention of men which she seemed to crave like some men craved the drink.

But she wouldn't do something that foolish. He couldn't believe it. He refused to believe it.

He tried not to dwell on the difference between those two statements.

Either way, he would figure out what had happened and deal with it accordingly. Most likely, he'd have to have an uncomfortable conversation with his mother about the idiocy of blackmail, since if someone had done something that merited being blackmailed, they might very well be capable of worse crimes as well.

Like murdering an innocent young lady in cold blood.

Evan was still looking at him, so Benedict drew his mind back to the present, lest his friend probe further into the direction of his thoughts.

"I am merely calculating my next move," he said, turning his face to look out over the crowded ballroom. Why was it always so deucedly crowded, too? Why did no hostess ever think of how many bodies could reasonably fit into her ballroom and then invite fewer people than that? Surely a favorable mention in the gossip papers couldn't be worth the stuffiness and the stepped-upon toes.

"I'd calculate quickly," Evan said, tipping his chin to an area to Benedict's left. "Your lady awaits."

Benedict followed Evan's gesture. The crop of curls caught his eye first—damn him, truly—but then he saw, just beyond their elder sister, Amanda and Rose Rutley stood, facing in his direction. He caught Amanda's eye, and she brightened.

Benedict did not feel the same enthusiasm, thank goodness.

"Right," he said to Evan. "Duty calls."

As he left his friend behind, he heard the other man laughingly echo the word duty.

Well, hell. What did Evan know? He wasn't looking to marry anytime soon. His father was a legend in the political sphere; the Duke of Graham would likely remain in his title for decades to come if from no other force than sheer determination.

Benedict put these thoughts behind him as he approached the three Rutley sisters, who were talking and laughing together. As he grew close, Rose indicated to her sister; Emily turned, a smile still lighting her face.

That smile, Benedict could not fail to notice, was uncommonly pretty.

It vanished the second she registered him.

Her shift into the scowl stopped him like a physical force. Had he never seen her smile before? She looked rather lovely when she smiled. She should do it more often.

Then he mentally shook himself. What did he care if Emily Rutley smiled or not?

"Oh," she said flatly as he reached their small group. "It's you."

He chose to ignore this. He was, he reminded himself, a grown man. He did not have to be drawn into childish banter with a cantankerous miss who fashioned herself her sister's guard dog. He could rise above. He could simply refuse to engage. She would eventually grow bored, no doubt.

The thought was less reassuring than it ought to have been.

"Miss Amanda," he said with a polite bow to Amanda. "You are looking well tonight." He spared a fleeting glance to the other two. His eyes did not linger on Miss Rutley's skeptical expression. "As are your sisters, of course."

Polite conversation, as approved by whatever sadist had written Society's rules, might be a tad boring, but it was, Benedict allowed, easy. He gave an impersonal compliment, Miss Amanda accepted it with a demure nod. He asked her for a dance, she made a show of glancing over her dance card before graciously accepting him for the upcoming waltz which she'd no doubt reserved for him, given that he'd sent a bouquet to her home this morning to remind her of his attentions.

Easy. Nobody had to be bothered by anything.

Nobody except perhaps Miss Emily Rutley, but she wasn't Benedict's problem.

Except perhaps she was slightly his problem, he amended as he and Miss Amanda worked their way through the steps of the waltz, an entirely proper distance between them.

Miss Amanda was telling him a charming story about her childhood fascination with the menagerie at the Tower of London.

"I was forever after Emily to take me," she admitted with a trilling laugh. "I was certain that the tiger cubs would make good house pets, like overgrown kittens, if only given the chance. She wouldn't let me try to pet them—which I suppose I can admit was sensible of her if not terribly sporting—but she was very patient about letting me sit and watch them as long as I liked."

Benedict imagined that this idyllic childhood scene should make him think of how Miss Amanda would be a loving, attentive mother to their children, one who would keep their offspring from any genuine harm without crushing their young imaginations.

What it made him realize, however, was that Miss Amanda Rutley loved her quarrelsome sister.

This was idiotic, naturally; he should have realized it before. But the relationships between siblings had always seemed faintly mysterious to him, likely because he was an only child himself. Some siblings seemed inextricably bound to one another while some acted like people who merely happened to share parents and a house.

Since he had considered Miss Rutley to be a persistent disruption to his equilibrium, one best kept at a distance, he'd assumed that Miss Amanda felt similarly.

He cursed his error.

"That sounds very pleasant," he said politely as his mind weighed the implications of this new discovery.

"Oh, it really was," Miss Amanda agreed, smiling. "And I do know Emily can be a bit…fixed in her ideas, sometimes, but she isn't always like that."

He knew his return smile probably looked more like a grimace, but it was better than the wince he wanted to give her.

Blast. If Miss Amanda had noticed the animosity between himself and her elder sister and thought enough of it to make a comment… well, he would have to fix it. Otherwise, he'd end up alienating his potential bride. And then he would have to start this whole courtship mess over with some other unobjectionable young lady. And he really didn't know how many more balls he could attend without the sheer inanity doing some sort of permanent damage.

Better to make nice with the harridan than to risk the entire courtship.

Probably.

He tried to focus on the pragmatism of his plan as he finished the dance with Miss Amanda and retreated to the corner where Miss Rose and Miss Rutley stood with a gentleman who appeared to be making them both laugh.

Benedict tried not to focus on the instinctive stab of dislike he felt when he saw this or on the flutter of relief he felt when the gentleman left for the dance floor with Miss Rose on his arm.

Miss Amanda also had a partner for the next dance—confirming Benedict's suspicion that she'd been saving the waltz for him which should have made him more pleased than it did—which left him, in short order, standing alone with the eldest Miss Rutley.

Who was clearly ignoring him.

He cleared his throat.

She continued gazing placidly out at the dance floor where couples were arranging themselves for a quadrille.

"Miss Rutley?"

She still wasn't facing him, but he could practically see her consider continuing to ignore him. Those wild curls of hers, particularly one that had sprung loose from its pin, seemed to tremble in anticipation of this potential mischief.

But with a heavy breath that was not quite a sigh, she turned to him. The expression on her face was also not quite welcoming.

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Do you not have a partner for the next dance?"

Her brow furrowed briefly, the corners of her mouth tipping down into a frown in turn, and he felt a foolish pang of regret for phrasing himself so bluntly.

"You're not asking me to dance, are you?" she inquired, sounding faintly horrified by the idea.

He no longer felt bad for his bluntness.

He scowled, too. "I am not," he confirmed. "I was merely hoping that we might have a word." He glanced towards a nearby older gentleman who was clearly eavesdropping. "Privately, if you don't mind."

This was likely foolish, too. He wanted to make amends with the young lady, not make it seem like he was some sort of wastrel who lured young women out of ballrooms. When Miss Rutley narrowed her eyes, he assumed she was considering all the ways to tell him no, she would not, and he was also never to see her sister again as he was an appalling rake who had no place in polite society.

To his utter shock, however, her expression evened out, and she gave a lazy shrug with one shoulder.

"Oh, all right," she said. "Let's go, then."

Emily was curious. That was the only reason she'd agreed to this foolishness.

And yes, she had better sense than this. She did! She had spent years following every last rule of propriety so that she could stand in as a respectable chaperone for her sisters—even as an unmarried spinster. People who followed every rule of propriety did not go skulking about with tall, broody gentlemen who were very clearly up to no good.

Yes, she thought triumphantly to herself as she followed the Earl away from the noisy throng of the ballroom. It wasn't merely her curiosity that led her to follow him down a dimly lit hallway; it was her duty. It was her duty as a chaperone and elder sister to find out what devilment the Earl of Moore was up to…

…and then use it against him to make him drop his suit of Amanda.

Indeed, her actions were practically sensible if she thought about it that way.

As a result, Emily was feeling rather smug when the Earl beckoned her into a quiet corner, apparently his destination of choice.

"This is where you wanted to go?" she asked doubtfully.

That ferocious scowl took over the Earl's face. "And what's wrong with it?" he snapped. "I said I wanted to speak with you privately, and this is private. Without," he added with a note of triumph that Emily felt was entirely unwarranted, "putting us behind scandalously closed doors."

She made a great show of looking around. "You really think this does not count as scandalous?" She made an incredulous sound in the back of her throat. "It is a good thing you were not born a lady, Sir. You'd have been ruined in an instant."

A look of horror passed over his face. "Good Lord. You don't think?—"

She rolled her eyes as he broke off. She might have been less irritated if she believed for an instant that he was worried about her reputation instead of his own.

"It's fine," she said, waving him off. "I'm a spinster. Nobody cares what a spinster does. Now, would you stop being so precious and tell me what you wanted to say?"

"Precious? I'm not being prec—" the Earl cut himself off, looking as though it took physical effort to do so. He took in a deep, slow breath and rearranged his features into neutrality. When he spoke again, his voice was calm. "Miss Rutley, I would like it very much if we could put our differences behind us."

She narrowed her eyes. "Why?" she asked suspiciously.

"Wh—." His placid expression flickered but remained in place. He took another breath, this one slower than the last. "Because…" he said, and there was a definite note of strain in his voice. Emily tried not to find this amusing. "…I would like to court a lady in a peaceful, civilized manner without having to constantly fight her guard dog. Which I mean with the utmost respect," he added hastily—and unconvincingly.

Emily looked him up and down. He really was so tall. It was unseemly to be that tall. She'd heard a thousand barbs about her own height—had those people never seen the Earl of Moore? He was so tall it seemed inhuman. Perhaps his ancestors were part bear. It would explain his surly attitude at least.

"I take it," she said carefully, "that the lady in question is my sister, Amanda?"

"Yes," he said on a sigh, looking relieved.

"Oh," she said. "No."

The relief vanished in an instant. "No?" he demanded incredulously. "What do you mean no?"

It would be improper for Emily to admit that she was enjoying baiting the Earl, so she decided not to admit it, not even to herself.

"I mean no," she explained patiently. "It's a very simple word. It means that I do not agree to your terms."

"But—" he sputtered, and the baffled look on his face almost softened him enough to make him endearing. "But—but why? All I am asking is for a modicum of civility so that I might peacefully court your sister—which is, I might add, the whole reason we all submit ourselves to the circus that is the marriage mart!"

Emily watched, intrigued, as the Earl lost himself in what could only truly be termed a snit.

"And," he went on, apparently warming to his topic, "not to put too fine a point on things, but I am an earl, Miss Rutley. I am not a fortune hunter. Your sister would be a countess with a fine allowance. I truly, truly cannot fathom why you would not want that for her."

"Well, that's very simple," Emily said plainly. "It's because I don't like you."

The Earl of Moore stared at her as if she'd said it's because you have four heads and cannot play the hurdy-gurdy.

"Don't like me?" he echoed. "What on earth does that have to do with anything? I'm not marrying you."

This last bit was said with just enough emphasis that Emily decided it was insulting.

"I suppose," she said archly, not letting on that his words had stung, "it has to do with whatever reason you had for dragging me over here and asking for a truce. I decline. If you would like peaceful interactions with the family of a lady you're courting, I suggest you find another lady. My sister is not the woman for you."

"Oh, no," he said, shaking his head decisively. The confusion was gone, and he no longer looked even the slightest bit amusing. No, he was glowering again. And that left him looking…

Well, not handsome. That was obviously ridiculous, and Emily didn't even know why it had popped into her head.

"No," he repeated. "I cannot find another woman. Absolutely not."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. You scarcely know her. You cannot mean to argue that you're already in love with her or some such nonsense."

"No, certainly not," the Earl said, almost offhandedly. "That's the point."

There was a tense moment where her eyes narrowed, and he froze, seeming to realize his mistake.

"What," she asked, tone dripping acid, "do you mean that's the point."

He went for haughtiness again. "That's not your concern. What matters is that I am a suitable match, as is your sister. I intend to marry her."

Oh, he couldn't possibly think that was going to work, could he?

"Marry her but not love her," she demanded, taking a furious step towards him. "Is that what you mean to say?" His silence spoke volumes. "Perhaps you think you can get her to give you an heir and a spare and then ship her off to molder in some dusty country estate?"

"Of course not!" the Earl exclaimed, and for two heartbeats Emily wondered if she'd slightly misjudged him. Then he kept speaking. "She can stay in London, of course. I'm not the villain from a gothic novel."

Emily felt rage set upon her like a haze.

She'd been angry before. She'd been angry when she'd been twelve and the twins seven, and they'd ‘borrowed' her best pair of stockings to stitch together a kite. She'd been angry at her father during the countless incidents where she'd begged him to pay more attention to his younger daughters to absolutely no avail. She'd been angry with the man standing in front of her, even, numerous times before.

It was nothing like the anger she felt now.

"How dare you!" she cried. "You awful, awful, awful man! My sister deserves someone a thousand times better than you—a million! She deserves someone who will love her and care for her just as she is, not some horrible Earl who thinks he's impressive because he has some money and a title. She deserves someone who would die for her. And I will die before I let you marry her, just see if I won't!"

At some point in this diatribe, Emily's voice had become—it had to be said—a true shriek. She hadn't noticed how loud she'd gotten though, in truth, she was unlikely to have cared, anyway.

What she did notice, however, was the Earl of Moore's hand coming down over her mouth.

She blinked at him in utter shock. If the hand hadn't already been stopping her speech, the shock that the man was touching her mouth would have done it.

"Would you please," he hissed furiously—but quietly, "shut up? You are going to attract attention, and I do not want to be the subject of gossip."

Emily reached up and grabbed his hand in hers, yanking it away from her face. When she retorted, however, she did make sure to remain quiet.

"Perhaps," she suggested in an irate whisper, "you wouldn't be the subject of gossip if you didn't go around accosting people?"

"Accosting." His eyes flashed. "Isn't that just so typical—you are overreacting. Again. Tell me, Miss Rutley, why must you persist in making a fuss over matters that do not affect you in the least?"

He was trying to intimidate her with his looming and his closeness and his low, irritated voice. She would not stand for it.

"My sisters do affect me?—"

She had not been quiet; in a flash, his hand was out of her grasp and back upon her mouth. This time, when she tugged, he was not so easily moved.

"You test my patience," he whispered angrily. He had to bend down to keep his hold over her mouth. Good, Emily thought. All the better for him to see the fire in her glare. Her back was against the wall, so she couldn't tilt her head back, but with him bending, she found she didn't have to move at all in order to meet his eye. It was perhaps the first time she'd ever been grateful for her height.

The Earl, wretched man that he was, pressed his advantage and kept talking.

"All I wanted was to make peace with you. Is that so hard? It is simple. Just peace, nothing more. But no, you could not manage it. You insist on pushing and pushing and pushing?—"

With each repetition of the word, the Earl's chest heaved with breath, and on the third utterance, the very front of his waistcoat brushed against the very front of Emily's bodice.

She stopped glaring and her hands, as if of their own accord, stopped trying to remove the Earl's grasp, instead fluttering down to wait placidly at her side.

His closeness was making her feel…something.

It had to be anger. Surely it had to be anger. He had manhandled her! He was behaving in an exceedingly ungentlemanly fashion!

It did not feel like anger.

And maybe whatever the Earl was experiencing did not quite feel like anger, either, because he let his hand drop. She was almost sorry to lose the contact. She didn't move, barely breathed, as she looked up at him, looked at the tortured expression that flitted across his face.

"I cannot stand," he whispered, "the way you make me feel."

The words were like a sigh of air. They clearly signaled the end of his speech, but he did not move back.

She did not tell him to move back, not by word or by deed.

Her heart raced too quickly to mark any normal passage of time.

And then they were kissing.

Emily didn't know if she'd kissed the Earl or if he'd kissed her, but she couldn't dwell on it overmuch because she was being kissed for the very first time in her life.

It was, she was astonished to report, extremely nice.

Unlike her friends, Emily had, from her debut, sought a husband. This was for practical reasons, rather than romantic ones though she'd long understood that this would mean submitting to the indignities of her husband's marital attentions. Lovemaking was, after all, necessary to beget an heir which was why most gentlemen deigned to marry in the first place.

She'd never given much thought to kissing.

She was thinking about it now. Or, no—she was scarcely thinking at all, was merely feeling the softness of the Earl's lips against hers and the contrast of that softness with the bruising intensity with which he pressed against her. She felt the warmth of his body, the rasp of his face where his whiskers were just starting to grow in again.

She felt the heat of his tongue, probing at her bottom lip. With a gasp, she granted it entrance, and then she felt the lazy, warm caress as it moved against her own tongue.

Her hand clutched in the collar of his jacket, tugging him closer. Her other hand found his, their fingers intertwining as he pressed her wrist back against the wall. The pressure felt curiously good—so good that her knees went weak.

But the Earl was there, the long, hard plane of him; he pressed harder against her, pinning her body between his and the wall behind her so firmly that she could not have fallen even if she'd tried. And that felt so curiously good that it tore a moan—a needy, humiliating sound—from Emily's throat.

The Earl didn't seem to mind it, however, not if the way he pressed harder against her and kissed her with renewed vigor was any indication.

Or, rather, he did not mind it for the scant few seconds between when Emily moaned and when there was a soft, shocked "Oh my" from far too close behind them.

The Earl could not have leapt away from her any more quickly if she'd burst into flame. He staggered away from her, putting two long paces between them in an instant, an appalled look on his face.

His movement was not quick enough, however; the damage was already done. For when Emily's eyes blinked open, she saw the worst thing she could possibly have conjured in that moment: half a dozen members of the ton, staring at them with expressions ranging from shock to horror to the delight of someone who knows they have just witnessed the greatest gossip of the Season.