Chapter Eight #2
A club didn’t sound like much of an escape, Benedict thought doubtfully. He thought of his London club, all dark corners and cigar smoke. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
Connor laughed. ‘I see what you’re thinking.
It’s not that kind of club. I can get newspapers and brandy anywhere.
This place has a boxing ring, trainers—good exercise.
May always says I’ll melt away if I lock myself in the office all the time.
’ His eyes narrowed as he studied Benedict.
‘I get the sense you might feel the same.’
Now that did sound enticing. Benedict always sought out such places in London when he could, and he found his worries faded amid the sweat and movement. ‘I may take you up on that.’
They stopped to look at the view of the house, its grand white stone walls and glittering windows: the haven Benedict feared would soon be closed to him.
‘My sister is a very special person,’ Connor said suddenly, quietly.
He watched Benedict steadily. ‘Once she cares about something, she will follow it, take care of it, for ever; she will do anything for it. No one has more love and loyalty in her heart than my Janey. She deserves only the loveliest, finest things in life.’
Benedict thought of Jane, of how her expression changed when she laughed, or when she was lost in thought. The way she was entirely herself. How she cared, how she saw the world, how she made him feel more alive just by being near.
‘I think you are right, Mr O’Neill. I’ve never met anyone quite like her,’ he said quietly, knowing how insufficient those words were when it came to her.
Connor laughed and clapped Benedict on the shoulder. Benedict had never had a true friend, and it felt as if Connor could be one in that instant. ‘Then you see what I mean. Come up to the house; May will want to ply you with scones.’
They turned through the elaborate iron gates and strolled up the drive, past views of the sea and enticing flashes of the house just beyond.
Connor talked more of his club, of sailing, but Benedict could think only of Jane.
He knew that Connor was absolutely right; Jane was special.
She was caring, perceptive and easy to talk to.
She had a tender core. So many ladies would want only the title of duchess, status, and would do anything to have them, would tolerate anything.
Jane seemed more like his mother: sensitive, empathetic.
He could never see another be hurt as his mother had been, never see another life ruined, especially not Jane’s.
Yet he couldn’t seem to make himself do what he knew he must—stay far away from Jane. Find another suitable bride quickly and return to England. He couldn’t do that just yet.
He followed Connor towards the porte cochere entrance to Shore’s Edge.
Outside, the house seemed austere, all pale stone and towering chimneys.
Inside, though, it seemed to open to an enchanted world different from the imposing exterior.
The drawing room he remembered so well was filled with morning light and fresh air, the tall windows open to the sea breezes.
There was life scattered all around, open books, work boxes spilling embroidery, the tea table laden with treats.
Kate barked and the baby gurgled as Jane’s mother played piano.
Everything smelled of flowers and greenery.
Benedict was enchanted, frozen in place for a moment as he took it all in, the noise, fun and life of it all. It was so very unlike his own house, which was no home at all. Rollston was only an echoing expanse of emptiness, with painted ancestors to watch him walk by from their gilded frames.
Jane played cards with her sister-in-law at a little table by the windows.
She was laughing merrily, unaware that he watched her as she tossed down a card and crowed in triumph.
Her dark hair fell from its pins into loose waves, bouncing against her creamy neck, tangling with the lace neckline of her pink gown.
He thought of their recent too-brief kiss at the archery day, and wanted only that moment back again.
He felt that quiet, aching pull to taste her.
It was impossible to ignore, that hum of tension between them, that need to close the distance that felt small but somehow vast.
He realised it wasn’t just about attraction or love-making with her, not as with the mistresses he’d had before; there was enough of that to be found back in London.
With Jane, it was different, just as she was different.
He thought of her laughter, the way she’d moved as she’d drawn back her bow on that lawn, the way her pearls had lain against the creamy skin of her throat and the light in her green eyes when she spoke of things that mattered to her.
It was…it was everything about her. He’d never felt such a thing before: the intent; the instant knowing of someone else; this need to be close to her; this sense of seeing and being seen.
It was far more than he’d ever bargained for when he’d come to New York.
She saw him standing there in the doorway, watching her in thunderstruck amazement, and she jumped to her feet. Her chair clattered behind her as she reached up to try and tidy her hair. It was no use, for it just tumbled down again, making her even more beautiful.
‘Your Grace!’ she gasped. Kate bounded up to him, twirling for a greeting.
May glanced back at him, her eyes widening. ‘Your Grace. We weren’t expecting you this morning. I’m sorry you find us so untidy.’
Benedict thought ‘untidy’ was utterly glorious. ‘Oh no, Mrs O’Neill, please don’t concern yourself at all. I know it’s much too early for a call. I just…’
‘It was hardly the man’s fault, May,’ Connor said cheerfully.
He swept a pile of newspapers together and sat in a battered velvet armchair that was clearly his own seat.
His mother’s hands hovered over the piano keys as she watched them uncertainly.
‘I met him out on Bellevue, and insisted he come with me. I lured him with scones.’
‘There may be some left from breakfast,’ May said, and reached for an embroidered bellpull.
‘Oh no, May, I can go check,’ Jane said quickly.
She hurried towards the door, and as she passed him he smelled her lavender perfume, clean and summery.
She peeked over at him—not boldly, but hesitantly, as if she was as caught as he was between wanting to look and wanting to look away. Her cheeks flushed rose-pink.
‘It’s…nice to see you again so soon,’ she said quietly.
Was it really? He did hope so, despite himself.
‘I don’t mean to intrude. I just thought…
’ What had he thought? He watched as Jane scooped up Kate into her arms, both of them watching him.
He knew he had to say something; he couldn’t just stand there staring.
‘I thought maybe Miss Kate could use a walk.’
‘With her adored rescuer? I am quite sure she would love that.’ Jane glanced back at her family, and he saw that everyone watched them avidly. ‘Would you like to go with me in search of scones? I think the cook is making strawberry cakes this morning; if I ask nicely, she sometimes gives me one.’
‘Does your cook let you in the kitchen?’ he asked in astonishment.
Jane laughed. ‘Of course. It’s quite a lovely place when baking is going on, it smells of cinnamon and brown sugar.’ She tilted her head as she studied him. ‘Do you never go to the kitchen in your house?’
‘The staff would be outraged and toss me straight out. They would be appalled!’ The kitchens at Rollston were a world apart from the state rooms, a foreign place.
He always felt he should seek safe passage to go there.
‘I did sometimes sneak down there when I was a child. The cook back then, Mrs Paddington, gave me meringues. I loved the noise down there, the way things were happening. She retired ages ago, though, and my father hired a famous French chef who quite terrorised everyone. He never let me in.’ Until the man hadn’t been paid his exorbitant promised salary and left in a whirlwind.
Jane led him out of the sitting room and along a shadowed corridor. She put Kate down, and the dog scampered ahead of them. ‘But you are the duke! You should get rid of anyone who throws you out of your own kitchen. Get a new Mrs Paddington.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to begin,’ he admitted ruefully. He supposed there were agencies for such things, but he wasn’t sure where they were.
‘Really?’ Jane asked, her face puzzled. ‘But then who runs your household; manages the staff and such?’
‘The housekeeper. Since Aunt Louisa left so long ago, there’s no one else to oversee. Rollston is a huge place, and the housekeeper has been there for ever. I don’t know how she does it. At least there are no grand balls and house parties to worry about now.’
Jane pushed open a door at the end of the corridor and led him down a flight of stairs. ‘But you will have to have them one day soon, surely?’
‘Oh, yes. The Haywards must entertain their peers if they want the estate to prosper. Once the ballroom is restored to the appropriate condition. The floor is rotting away, I fear.’
‘Well, it certainly does sound like you need a duchess very soon. We’ll put “be very organised and experience with a large household” on the list of things to look for in an American lady.’
Benedict laughed. He had quite forgotten he had asked Jane to help him understand American girls, the only excuse he’d been able to think of then to spend more time with her. ‘Do you think Miss Livingston would be organised?’