Chapter Eight
As Benedict set out on his morning walk along the cliffs, he told himself he had no real destination in mind.
He was merely going to enjoy the cool breeze, the sound of the waves rushing onto the rocks below and the heady scent of honeysuckle before too many people had ventured out; before his every movement was watched.
He’d be able to hear himself think there alone with the sea and sky, and he had much to think about.
But he knew, deep down, that his steps would turn towards Shore’s Edge.
It drew him like the tug of an invisible cord.
It was a grand house, yes, but he’d found so much more there when he’d been welcomed in by the O’Neills.
There was a sense of familiarity in the way the light flooded through the windows, in the way the rose garden smelled so sweet and in the laughter and easy conversation.
It was like no other house he’d known. Would it be the same today, laughter waiting and quiet understanding?
Would he be let into that family world, allowed to be part of it for a while?
He stopped at the turn of the path towards Bellevue Avenue and studied the blue-green water that stretched away, all the way back to England.
It was like looking back from a fairyland.
He watched the yachts moored nearby and thought of what everyone wanted from him back at home.
He had to be the duke there, never just Benedict.
His duty still hovered around him like a cloud, always there, like a winged creature that enfolded him in suffocating feathers, waiting and waiting. Everyone expected him to go back to Rollston with a new duchess, someone who could restore the estate, restore their futures.
Many ladies he’d met there in Newport could do that.
Jane had said they were accomplished and brought up to run grand homes.
They were pretty, fresh and vivacious, charming girls whose fortunes could see his roof sound again, and put his agricultural schemes into place.
Yet only Jane touched him, moved him, in ways he’d never expected, never really wanted.
After the pain and misery he’d seen with his parents, he’d known a marriage built on passion would never last. A love marriage would just end badly, for everyone around them.
But then he’d found Shore’s Edge. He’d found Jane again. He hadn’t meant to kiss her again. Oh, he had dreamed about it too many times. He’d lain awake in the night remembering how it had once felt. But actually to have it happen once more…
It had been far better than any memory. Her lips had been so soft, so warm, her body trembling against his.
She’d tasted of peppermint and something sweet.
Something only of herself. He had felt her uncertainty, but also the spark, the heat, that had risen to meet his own.
That flame between them that always flickered and teased had suddenly burst into a fire.
He touched his shoulder now, where her hand had rested, had curled into his sleeve, and felt her there all over again.
What had he done? He’d gone against every duty he’d always lived by, had given in to emotion and need.
Yet…yet he could not bring himself to regret an instant of it.
Jane’s kiss had been too real. More real than anything he had ever known.
And that tiny spark of hope was more dangerous than anything else.
He saw her image in his mind, which she’d haunted over the last few days.
He thought of her laughing at Kate’s antics in the rose garden, so warm and bright, and how it had lingered long after the moment had passed, that effortless, radiant light in her expression.
It had made him feel lighter than he ever had before, as if the world had softened for just a second.
When she spoke of her work, of things she cared about, her passion to help people, she glowed like the sun itself.
And he felt privileged just to get to witness it.
When she talked about the things she cared about, it was such an echo of his own thoughts and yearnings, his own hopes for life.
Life is to help others, she’d said. It made him want to be better, kinder, more like her.
Yes, Jane was thoughtful, intriguing and certainly beautiful.
He remembered the graceful, elegant focus of her as she’d shot her arrow at the target, the light shining on her dark hair, as if she were the goddess Diana herself.
Yet she seemed to be the last lady in Newport he should marry.
She had her own life, her own purposes, and he couldn’t ask her to give that up.
How could he ever hope to make such a rare lady happy?
Look at his family, his life—it would kill him to see her end up the way his mother had.
He shook his head, as if he could dislodge Jane’s image, forget about her.
Forget the vision of her smile, push her into the past where he’d believed he’d left her.
He should go back to his aunt’s house and make a list of possible duchesses.
But he couldn’t bring himself to be that sensible, not yet.
He’d spent his whole life watching his father’s wastefulness, his casual cruelty and carelessness, and vowed he would never be like that.
He would do his duty and be responsible.
If he vowed to do no harm, surely he needed to hold onto that in his romantic life, with Jane? He could never bear to hurt her.
Surely, though, being careful didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy just a little more time with her and see her smile, hear her laughter, store that memory up inside himself for the cold years to come?
He turned and made his way towards the gates of Shore’s Edge. A few carriages appeared on the lane as the day truly began, and a few people strolled past. Their heads turned to watch him, as they always did.
‘So, you’re the duke everyone is so enthralled with,’ he heard someone say. It sounded…angry.
Startled out of his thoughts, Benedict turned to see a man glaring at him. ‘I am a duke, yes. I don’t believe we have met,’ he said coldly.
He stepped closer, tension in his every movement which was calculated, deliberate, as if each step was meant to shrink the space between a threat and real contact.
His jaw was set too tightly, his shoulders squared with too much intention, as if he was performing danger.
But underneath Benedict saw something else.
He saw a flicker of insecurity and need.
Benedict had met plenty of men like this, men with something to prove, something small and hard inside them.
He’d seen them at school and in the ballrooms of London.
But being a duke, and having membership to one of London’s most exclusive boxing clubs, was good for a few things, and dispatching bullies was one.
‘I’m Mr Brosnahan,’ the man said. ‘I’ve been friends with Jane O’Neill for a long time. I’ll always protect her; you should know that.’
‘Miss O’Neill doesn’t have the slightest thing to fear from me.
’ So, this man thought he cared about Jane.
But what did she feel about him? Benedict suspected things were not as Mr Brosnahan would wish.
He pictured Jane’s face, her laugh, her kindness.
The thought of her being touched by cruelty or danger was unthinkable, unforgivable.
‘Well, she is my fiancée.’ The man scowled, stepping closer with hands clenched into fists.
Benedict was startled. Maybe Jane actually did care about this man.
‘Oh? Are you engaged to her? I have heard no announcements.’ In fact, her family had been nothing but welcoming and warm.
Was he missing something in this American culture?
Had he overstepped? Was his flash of protectiveness toward her uncalled for?
Doubt flickered through Brosnahan’s eyes. ‘She soon will be. She doesn’t need a fancy Englishman turning her head. She is Irish; she belongs with her own sort. I will take care of her.’
‘If Miss O’Neill, who is a friend of mine, does not wish for my company, she can tell me so.
I will always respect a lady’s wishes.’ Unlike some men, who thought women were there to be their tools, their playthings, he thought.
He suspected this man was one of them. He would always protect Jane however he could.
‘You and I, sir, whoever you are, are not acquaintances. I do not take your word for anything to do with Miss O’Neill.
She surely has the right to speak to whom she wants, be friends with anyone she likes? Now, I must be on my way.’
Benedict walked on down the avenue as if nothing had happened.
He’d had long training in hiding his emotions, his thoughts, presenting nothing but a mask to the world.
But inside doubts cast dark tentacles, creeping in like a shadow at the edge of the bright joy he’d found in Newport days.
Jane shone so brightly and was so kind, quick-witted, beautiful, full of the potential of the world.
Of course his world wouldn’t be enough for a lady like that.
‘Benedict!’ he heard someone call. He turned to see Connor O’Neill walking towards him, swinging a carved walking stick he clearly didn’t need.
The man moved with sheer energy and light, just like his sister.
The sun gleamed on his damp, dark hair, and Benedict noticed his cravat was tied crookedly, as if he was too busy to even notice. ‘On your way to Shore’s Edge?’
‘Yes, for the scones your charming wife promised,’ Benedict said with a laugh. Despite what that Brosnahan fellow had said, the deep gulf between the Irish and an English duke, he liked Connor very much. He liked the warmth of the O’Neills’ world.
‘I’ve just been at the club,’ Connor said, leading the way along the avenue. ‘You should come along some time soon! It’s a nice escape here in Newport.’