Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Benedict can’t believe he even entertained the conversation about the bet, it’s been almost a week since the conversation with Silas and he just couldn’t get it out of his head.

That is why he started coming into the ballroom at night, hoping to dissuade himself from the crazed idea that he should go ahead with the disastrous scheme.

Maybe he should seduce the woman and get her out of his system. That seemed to be the commonly held solution, and perhaps that would be the only way to purge her from his thoughts. Other men seemed to have an appetite for such affairs, even if Benedict found it a bit distasteful.

If only he had any experience in seduction. Or with the all-encompassing feeling that he had met his match, finally, in a woman.

What was it about Miss Winters that fascinated him beyond all reason?

Unfortunately, over the last few days, she seemed to have taken up residence in the vicinity of his heart as well as inspiring this physical attraction to her.

A distinct feeling in his body, almost like indigestion, came over him whenever she sat herself down to paint.

It was uncanny, Miss Winter’s ability to draw him out of his thoughts while she worked diligently away. Benedict had found himself telling her things he had not thought on for many years, or told to anyone besides Honora and Silas. Like the memories of Christmas with his parents at their house in the country, the way Honora had scared him witless when she went missing, or even the scent of his mother’s perfume and the fact that he kept an old bottle of it locked away for safekeeping.

It was as if Miss Winters looked into his very soul sometimes, the way she cocked her head and observed him in complete stillness now and then. Tracking his movements with her curious dark eyes while his heart beat a little faster in his chest.

It was a traitorous organ, indeed.

Every night he came here, when the servants were finally abed, to inspect the progress of her work. Some days it seemed that she made hardly any headway, merely working on the shadows of his hands or the fine details of his dress. On other days she painted furiously, setting his likeness down with bold sure strokes.

Bending the paint to her will as it took on the appearance of the backdrop and atmosphere. Miss Winters was supremely talented.

Benedict found a hint of jealousy burning in his heart sometimes when he considered that she had painted others in this way. Other powerful men, who had most certainly coveted her just as he did.

He took a sip of his drink, setting the decanter haphazardly down on the lip of the dias and hauling himself up to slump down on the settee. Suddenly too tired to take himself to bed and try to sleep this madness off.

For once he understood Silas’s old habit of taking to the bottle instead of dealing with problems head on. There was no honourable way for Benedict to resolve his infatuation with Miss Winters.

If he approached her in any way while she worked on the painting, he was taking advantage of her. That was the fact of the matter.

Never mind that he had concluded he would have courted her without hesitation, had they met under different circumstances.

Benedict stared absently at the ceiling, the candlelight glinting off the gilded moulding.

When had he last held a ball in this room?

Many years ago, perhaps for Honora’s come out. Benedict pondered his apparent lack of social life with growing perturbation. Why should he waste his time with frivolity when he was engaged in more important work? He had responsibilities to parliament, sometimes even to the Home Office for diplomatic purposes.

His life was rich, in its own way, wasn’t it? Even if he did not have a wife.

A wife. Yes, if he had done the usual thing he would have a young wife waiting for him in bed and he would not be sitting here pining like a fool over the painter’s comely daughter.

It was not as if Benedict had been short of lovers exactly. There was always a willing widow about town ready to fall into a fleeting tryst or two without much effort on his part.

But although he desired Miss Winters in a carnal manner, he also looked upon her as someone who deserved to be treated with care.

Perhaps if he only kissed her?

No, that way led to madness. Miss Winters was a guest staying under his roof, trusted to be safe here by her father.

Where was the doddering old fool anyway? Only a dullard would leave such a jewel unattended and unchaperoned.

Perhaps that was his plan, to dangle his daughter in front of London’s richest men and hope that one took the bait.

Benedict determined that he wanted a word with Mr Winters, even if it was purely to tell him that he took his daughter for granted.

Benedict realised with a snort of self-pity that he really should take himself to bed. He was well into his cups and he needed sleep to clear his mind.