Chapter Eight
The Hendersons’ ballroom teemed with guests, such that it was nigh on impossible to see more than three people deep. The entrance way was obscured, she’d lost Victoria ages ago, and she was not anxiously checking the throng for Benedict every few moments.
Sighing, Eleanor fidgeted with the edge of her glove.
She missed him. They had not seen each other for almost a week now, when she was used to seeing him every other day.
He’d sent her notes, which he always did when they did not see each other in person, but they only made her miss him more.
She’d replied to each one, and even sent her own, small missives on something she’d seen or thought that she couldn’t trust she would remember to tell him the next time she saw him.
They kept a fleet of footmen employed with their correspondence, but it was not the same.
She wanted to see him. She wanted to see the crinkle of his eye as he laughed, the effusive sweep of his hands as he talked. She just wanted to see him.
“The Earl and Countess of Colgrove. Lord George Stapleton. Lady Amanda Stapleton.”
Her gaze snapped toward the entrance. Through the throng, she could make out Benedict’s brother and Lady C, the Earl’s expression firm while Lady C’s was wreathed in a smile. George wore practiced boredom, while Amanda glanced eagerly around the ballroom.
“Lord Benedict Stapleton.”
As if by magic, the crowd parted and she could see him clearly. Benedict scowled, his irate gaze searching the crowd. She frowned. Clearly, something annoyed him. Well, perhaps it was only clear to her—Lady C and the Earl did not seem to pay it any mind.
His eyes found her and their gazes locked.
A thrum began in her blood. From her position, she couldn’t see the detail of his face, but she knew it as well as her own.
High cheekbones she had always envied, wishing her own were as striking.
A straight, bold nose. Thick, long lashes, which she did not envy as that was one feature she possessed that were almost as luxurious as his.
“I shall secure a dance with Lord Benedict.”
Eleanor jerked her gaze from Benedict. Two debutantes—she could not recall their names for the life of her, though both were decidedly young and decidedly pretty—stood together. They had not noticed her behind them, their attention avidly locked on Benedict.
“I have heard this is the season he will finally take a bride,” the debutante continued. “I mean for that bride to be me.”
Her mind froze. Benedict intended to marry?
“Is he truly seeking a bride, Esme? I have heard nothing of such,” her friend replied.
“It is not widely known, but I have my sources. He is quite delicious, and his relation to the Earl of Colgrove cannot be discounted. My mother would be delighted with me when I tell her he has offered for me.”
“He would make an ideal husband, ’tis true. However, you will have to detach him from Lady Eleanor Penhurst first.”
She started, surprised to hear her name mentioned.
“She is so old, and unfashionable besides. It should be no hardship to do so.” Esme tossed her head. “Make no mistake, I will secure a proposal from him by season’s end.”
Stricken, Eleanor stared at debutants. A churn started in her belly, unpleasant and sick.
Why would this girl say Benedict was searching for a bride?
He had mentioned nothing to her. Perhaps it was the simple hope of each girl starting their first season.
Benedict was an eligible gentleman, and any lady would be privileged to earn his regard.
She looked back at him. He still stared at her, his frown deepening.
Ignoring the ill feeling in her belly, she raised her fan and held it in her left hand, signalling he should come to her.
His brow quirked as he interpreted her meaning.
Murmuring something to Amanda and George, he strode past Lady C and the Earl and headed for her.
The debutante, Esme, gasped and clutched her friend’s arm. “Look, he comes our way, Petra! This will be easier than I anticipated.”
Benedict, though, strode straight past them, only halting when he reached Eleanor’s side. He still wore his scowl, his expression thunderous as he took her hand. “Come with me,” he said in a roughened voice.
The deep rasp wound about her. She inhaled sharply. His voice had sounded exactly the same when he’d commanded her kiss him deeper.
Heart racing, she let him lead her away, past Esme and Petra with their mouths agape, past the crush and the crowd, past the Earl who watched them with a narrowed gaze.
Benedict led her from the ballroom to a small drawing room, the door closing with a small click behind them. Dropping her hand, he shoved a hand through his hair and started to pace. Silence stretched between them, tense and tight. He paced and paced, his face like a thundercloud.
Her head cleared. All was not well. Not with him. “Benedict, is something amiss?”
He did not respond, only kept pacing.
Pasting on a smile, she said, “Benedict, did you know you are the object of desire for debutantes? I heard the most interesting discussion about you.”
“What?” he snapped. Halting, he dug his fingers into his eyes. “Apologies, El, I—” He exhaled harshly. “The Earl has informed me I must marry,” he finished unhappily.
A rush began in her head. “I beg your pardon,” she said politely.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I do not know where he got the idea from, but he called me to his study just before we departed and told me I was to announce my betrothal by the end of the season.”
No. Benedict could not marry. He could not. It was not… It was not right. They— He— “What do you mean, Lord Colgrove wishes you to marry?”
Benedict exhaled. “I mean the Earl has told me I must marry.”
“But…why?”
“I do not know. Why does the earl do anything?” He exhaled again, heavier this time. “How do I dissuade him, El?”
A little spark lit inside her. Of course he did not wish to marry. “This has come out of nowhere, Benedict.”
“Not really.”
She blinked. What did he mean? He had not said anything previous to now. Why would he not tell her if the Earl was pressuring him to wed?
Unnoticing of her distress, he rubbed his forehead.
“I do not understand why I am suddenly the focus of his attention. I was quite happy being mostly ignored. And to issue such a decree just before we departed. You know he did it so I had not the opportunity to protest. He is so frustrating. He yet treats me like a child, though I will have thirty years in not more than a few weeks.”
“He did practically raise us, Benedict.”
He threw her a sour look.
“Yes. Quite right. Not the point.” She studied him. “So what are we to do?”
“I do not know. Thwart him? Conjure a plan to make it so he never raises this subject again?” He snorted. “As if that will ever happen.”
The debutantes—Esme and Petra—popped to mind. “Perhaps you could go through the motions of courting. Dance with ladies, make calls, that sort of thing.”
“I fear he would see straight through it, and if he doesn’t, Lady C certainly will.
I don’t want to lead anyone on, either. I have no intention of marrying, and it would not be fair to any lady I used as a distraction.
Besides, I do not think anything less than a betrothal will dissuade him.
” His lips twisted. “Perhaps I should say I am courting you. What do you say, El? Will you marry me?”
Her heart stopped.
He emitted a short laugh. “You at least know I am not in earnest, but I do not know we should convince anyone. We are too well known as friends, and you have never thought of me as such, for all that we are practicing. You have your pursuit of Malvern to consider as well.”
He had proposed and discounted the possibility in the time it had taken her brain to even acknowledge he had asked her to marry him, for all that he jested.
Strange emotion warred in her breast, panic and desperation and something else she did not wish to examine too closely.
“You are correct,” she said. “They would never believe us in earnest.”
He raked his hands through his hair. “I know. It was a thought only. You are to take your lover, and I…Well, it would not work.” He exhaled. “I apologise, El, it is only he told me just before we left tonight. My mind is still a mire.”
She chewed her lip. “Do you wish to marry?”
Jaw working, he stared at her. Forever passed before he said, “I do not wish a marriage dictated by my brother.”
“That does not answer my question.” Heart an ache, she said again, “Do you wish to marry?”
Intense blue eyes burned into hers. Time stretched between them, the gap between her asking the question and him answering it becoming unbearable.
Something flickered in his eyes. “We should return. I have kept you too long already” he said instead.
A sharp pain stabbed her chest. That was not a no, was it?
She allowed him to take her arm, to lead her from the room.
Long practice held it that they knew how to re-enter a ballroom unnoticed, for at nearly every ball they would find a desire to speak alone, to share words they wished no one else to overhear.
They did not often, though, return with such unease between them.
He returned her to her spot on the wall, bowing and advising he would come back with refreshments. She thought it was more he needed time to compose himself, as did she. She watched his wide shoulders as he pushed through the crowd, her thoughts a mess.