Chapter Three #2
Shock froze every part of her. She stared at her friend, her brain completely blank. “Because we are… It is not…” she stammered. “We are friends.”
Victoria’s expression remained serene. “Which makes him ideal. He is a man who cares for you, who can give you want you want without any of the risk of a person whom you do not know. I should have thought he would have been your first option.”
Completely astounded, she stared at Victoria.
She did not know what to make of her pronouncement, that she and Benedict…
Perhaps when they had been younger and growing to adulthood, she had noticed how his shoulders had broadened and his hands were larger, and his jaw had firmed and roughened, making his lips appear soft and sulky, and maybe she had wondered how his wider shoulders would feel beneath her fingers, and what his mouth would feel like against her own.
But that was in the past and could be placed at the feet of curiosity.
She never thought of him such now. Never.
Victoria’s gaze slid past her. “Do not comment. He comes our way.”
Benedict strode toward them determinedly, not even stopping when others greeted him. Upon reaching them, he bowed to Victoria. “Lady Kiloughlan, a pleasure.” His gaze shifted. “Lady Eleanor.”
Still flummoxed, she met his eyes. Her breath caught.
Benedict was handsome, she’d always known that, but she’d never noticed it.
Blue-black hair waved back from his high forehead, curling around his neck and ears.
Slight sideburns rode his high cheekbones, while a strong jaw led to a stubborn chin.
Her gaze wandered to his mouth. His upper lip was sharp and well-defined, but his lower was plump and soft-looking—if she reached out, would it be soft?
Those lips moved. “I need to speak with you,” he said.
Her gaze flew to his. Jaw set, his eyes burned into hers. A pulse started within her, low and heavy.
“I find I require refreshment. I will return, Eleanor.”
Victoria. Victoria was still here. “Yes, of course,” she said absently.
Her friend looked between them, her face unreadable. Giving a curtsey, she departed.
Benedict watched her go, then returned his gaze to Eleanor. He held out his hand. “Come with me.”
She slid her hand into his. Over the years, she didn’t know how many times she had taken his hand.
When they were children. On her debut. When they went to cricket matches and horse races and when he helped her from carriages.
But now, somehow, it was like the first time.
She was overwhelmingly aware of how large his hand was, the strength in the fingers curling so gently around hers as he led her from the ballroom.
Others loitered on the balcony, enjoying the air and softer conversation. He escorted her to a more secluded spot still well in view and, dropping her hand, he gave her an unreadable look before he started to pace.
Placing the same hand on her stomach, she watched as he prowled back and forth. The odd feeling his appearance had caused subsided, and he was Benedict again. Her dearest friend. “You are acting strange.”
He shot her a look she again could not read. “I could not wait until Thursday, and you said you would attend this ball.” Halting, he turned to face her. “There is no need for you to engage the services of Mrs Morcom.”
It took a moment before she realised what he had said. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mrs Morcom. You do not need her.” Determination set his jaw. “I can tutor you.”
He’d robbed her of her speech. She was speechless.
“I come to Penhurst House twice a week anyway,” he continued. “No need to risk your reputation by engaging the services of a, uh—” He lowered his voice. “A house of ill repute.”
There was a buzzing noise in her ears and she could not reconcile what he had said. What Victoria had also said. Her pulse thundered in her veins. “What do you mean, you can tutor me?”
Colour high, he said, “I can help you determine how to attract the attention you wish, and then show you as well if you prefer. You are my friend, El, my dearest one. I want you to have what you want and if I can help, I will.”
Nervously, she worried her lip. She didn’t know what to think, what to say. “I will have to think upon it.”
His eyes had flicked to her mouth, where her teeth bit her lip. Gaze jerking to hers, he scowled. “What is there to think upon?”
“Well, it will be strange, will it not?”
“It will only be as strange as we make it,” he declared.
The arrogance of his statement made her lips twitch. “Do you often offer seduction lessons to your friends?”
“Not often, no. So far, you are the only one.” He worked his jaw. “El, who else is better to help you with this? I know you.”
He was right. There was no one in the world who knew her better than he did.
It did make sense for Benedict to help her with this.
He was her dearest friend and he was an attractive man of experience.
Perhaps that was why she had not yet contacted Mrs Morcom—trusting this to a stranger, even one in the business of pleasure—was a daunting prospect.
“If we were to do this, how do you propose we proceed?”
“Perhaps we can start with what you were going to ask Mrs Morcom,” he said.
She had no idea what she would have asked the madam of a brothel. “Well, I was rather reliant on her leading me, Benedict. I have little experience. I do not wish the earl to reject me because of it.”
His jaw tightened. “What precisely were you hoping Mrs Morcom would help you with?” he bit off, eyes glittering.
“I thought perhaps she could—” Of a sudden, she realised how it had sounded. “Oh. Oh, no, Benedict. Not that. I thought a discussion would help me. Not…not practical demonstration.”
His jaw ticked. “So you did not think Mrs Morcom could help you with your lack of experience?”
“I have chosen the earl, Benedict,” she said urgently. “It would not do to experience this with one of Mrs Morcom’s…employees instead.”
His expression darkened.
“I thought she could explain what gestures would attract a man, how to draw him to your side. And then, when he was at your side, how you would suggest discretely that you wished to start a liaison. She would know, would she not? After all, her livelihood depends upon it. But you are a man, Benedict.”
His lips twitched, though he quickly recovered his scowl. “I am,” he agreed.
“So perhaps … perhaps then you can tell me what you find alluring?”
His gaze flicked down before jerking back up. His cheeks ruddied. “I cannot tell you that.”
“If you cannot tell me that, then what hope does this have?” A spark of the devil flared. “It is breasts, isn’t it?”
“El.”
She glanced down. “I have breasts. I mean, they are not as large as Lady Fyfe’s, but they are not small either.”
“We are not going to start with breasts.” Again, his gaze dipped briefly. “I cannot look at your breasts, El.”
“Why not? They are just breasts.”
Looking at the sky, he gestured wildly. “Let us talk of something—anything—else.”
Taking pity on him, she sobered. “Do you truly wish to tutor me?”
His expression softened. “Yes. I would help you with anything, El.”
Oh. He was the very best of men. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she said, “What shall we start with?”
His gaze darted before settling at her wrist. “Fans,” he announced.
She blinked. That was not at all what she had expected. “Pardon?”
“I have seen ladies use their fans to communicate, and Amanda has practiced on me for months in preparation for her debut. Let me tell you, you do not know true torture until you have had a seventeen-year-old flap a fan at you for hours at a time. We are at a ball, El. You have a fan.” The corner of his lips tilted up. “Charm me.”