Prologue #5
He leaped up the front steps and into the hall.
It was warm and cluttered, eccentric even for Aunt Louisa and her American life, but Benedict liked it.
A faded Persian rug sprawled across polished wooden floors, its intricate patterns softened by time.
Green-papered walls were adorned with an eclectic mix of art, exotic prints, sketches, even a few pressed flowers and feathered fans pinned in delicate arrangements.
‘Ben? Is that you?’ his aunt called from beyond the drawing room door. ‘Where have you been all afternoon?’
He went in and found her writing letters at her desk, clad in a flowing pale-pink tea-gown, her greying dark hair tumbling from its combs.
She was as elegantly ramshackle as her house, as that very room she sat in.
Heavy velvet curtains draped unevenly at the windows, their deep jewel tones contrasting with the chipped, painted woodwork.
Potted ferns spilled from corners and windowsills.
He plopped down on a green velvet settee and reached for a sandwich from the waiting tea tray. He found emotion made him quite hungry.
‘I found a nice bookshop,’ he said. And had found an even more beautiful girl, but he didn’t say that. It was his own wonderful secret. ‘Sorry, I quite lost track of the time.’
Louise shook her head. ‘Oh, Ben! You and your books. You will turn into a dusty tome yourself if you aren’t careful.’
‘Good thing I also go riding and try my hand at archery, too.’
‘Hmm, true. You don’t look as if you’d wither away any time soon—too sun-browned for that. You do show every sign of being as handsome as my father once was.’
Benedict laughed. He thought of his grandfather’s portrait hanging in the gallery at Rollston Court.
He had been a good-looking man, true, with famous beauties flocking around him.
But he’d also been a famous rake, pickling his liver with copious amounts of brandy and getting into multiple duels over those beauties.
It was a life Benedict’s own father sadly tried to emulate.
‘I’d have a long way to go to catch up with Grandfather. ’
‘Perhaps you should start by finding a good match. My father had his faults, heaven knows, but he married King William’s goddaughter…’
Benedict almost choked on his second cake.
‘Aunt Louisa! I’m sixteen. I’m going off to Oxford soon.
I think I have a little time before I have to go looking for royal goddaughters like Grandmother.
’ He thought of the English girls he’d met, young ladies who already tried to flirt with him in their own quiet ways, or catch his eye. They were nothing like Jane at all.
‘I didn’t say you should marry right away, certainly not!
Lots of wild oats out there still, my dear.
But perhaps narrowing down the most eligible girls now might save some time later.
Pick one out, give her the chance to learn being Duchess of Trent.
Long engagements aren’t unheard of, and this is a large task indeed. ’
He thought of his own mother, a famous beauty with a hidden fragility that had cracked under the weight of the Trent title and all it meant. He knew all too well that not everyone could manage the large task. He put down the cake, his appetite suddenly vanished. ‘Any suggestions, Aunt Louisa?’
‘Oh, lots! Though I fear my knowledge of English families and their daughters is rusty, the old names never really change.’ She tilted her head in thought. ‘Or maybe you might like an American.’
Benedict could certainly think of one American he might like, with her green eyes and gentle smile. ‘An American? Really?’
‘It’s becoming rather fashionable, isn’t it?
Jennie Jerome, Minnie Stevens… They say the Prince of Wales quite enjoys their informal and outspoken ways, and it can’t hurt to get on his favourable side.
’ She reached for her teacup and took a thoughtful sip.
‘And American girls so often have lovely, large fortunes to go with their breezy manners…’
‘Aunt Louisa…’ He thought of those endless cold corridors at Rollston Court, of the crumbling stonework and fallow fields; of tenants and servants looking to him.
‘Now, Ben, you know I am right. My brother is no financial manager, and running Rollston is no trifling matter. Who knows what state it will all be in when you inherit? You will need help.’
He should have known it would come to this, no matter how he fought: the world narrowing around him, squeezing out choices.
A burning frustration or silent rebellion was tucked deep inside him.
Yet, beneath it all, maybe there was still a fragile hope.
A secret wish that perhaps, somehow, things might lead to unexpected happiness. Love might still find a way.
But probably not, and he had to accept that. ‘Any suggestions?’ he asked again.
‘Not yet. But leave it to me. We will find you someone lovely when the time is right. I’ve found American girls, and their parents, can always be swayed by a time-honoured title…’