"Truly you exaggerate."
It was obviously time for a drink; Benedict walked to the sideboard and poured three fingers of brandy. "I hardly exaggerate the story. Need I remind you there were witnesses? The girl followed me home. Hid, Aunt! Hid in the bushes and nearly scared my horse out of its wits, tossing me from its back! I was bedridden for a week!"
"Silly accident." His aunt waved it away.
"On our second meeting," he continued, gaining more courage to argue from the amber liquid swirling in his belly, "she decided to race Lord Rawlings through the fields of the estate and nearly fell of her horse! I had to rescue her, naturally, because Rawlings had so obviously bested her, and when I came upon the fair damsel, she told me to stop, and at that precise moment, I was hit in the face with a tree branch!"
"Again, I'm sure it wasn't on purpose."
Benedict growled low in his throat. "Bedridden, again, three days. Need I go on?"
"Oh, please do." Aunt Agatha sipped her tea. "I do love to hear of your exaggerations. It's as if someone is telling me a bedtime story."
Benedict held up his finger and pointed at his aunt. "The third and final time I was in that girl's presence, and notice I say girl because to call her a woman would be an insult to the sex, I offered to dance with her. Wanted to bury the hatchet and all that. We danced, she was amiable, and then she looked faint. I, being the gentleman that I am…" Aunt Agatha coughed. Saucy wench. "Took her to the outside air. Upon reaching the balcony she leaned over and dropped her reticule. I leaned down to fetch it and managed to topple over onto the ground. Somehow hitting my head a third time. Truly, I'm lucky to be alive."
"Aren't we all so thankful that you are," Aunt Agatha said dryly.
"I won't do it." He poured some more brandy and repeated that same sentiment over and over again.
And when he left, his head ached something fierce. Even the girl was plaguing him from afar. He wouldn't do it. Couldn't do it. He would simply have to find someone else. And fast, for his aunt had something up her sleeve this Christmas, and he wasn't all that sure he wanted to be caught with his drawers down.
Benedict approached the following night's ball with as much enthusiasm as a criminal facing the hangman's noose. At this point, he would have welcomed such an end.
He wore his ducal frown, and managed to get in a few distinct growls at his footman before he made his way up the marble steps into The Duke of Montmouth's townhouse.
It was to be the first ball hosted by the duke and his bride, and although it was a time of merriment, all Benedict could truly think of was the fact that the word merriment began with merry, which of course reminded him of being married, which then made his head hurt, and for some odd reason gave him the distinct impression that he was about to be injured for the fourth time.
Benedict made his way directly to the whiskey and poured himself a healthy glass, not turning to his right or left to make conversation. His sole focus was on the dry liquid as it poured down his throat. It was his job to be scandalous. He knew drinking so early in the evening would be frowned upon, but he didn't give a whit about anything except forgetting he had to participate in the night's festivities.
"That bad?" a male voice said next to him.
"Rawlings?" Benedict could hardly believe his eyes. The once-rakish Lord Rawlings was said to be in the country with his wife. "What the devil are you doing here?"
"Oh, a favor. It seems one of our mutual friends is to be in Town, and my wife hadn't the heart to say no to showing some interest in the girl and showing her about at the parties."
"Ah." Benedict gave a quick smile. "Thus, she is floating around the social circles, and you're next to the whiskey?"
"Did I mention that the girl is naught but sixteen? And has the distinct pitch of a lap dog getting hit by a carriage?"
Benedict let out a hearty laugh. "Then cheers, old friend."
"Old friend?" The Duke of Tempest approached with a cheery smile on his face. "Just what are we toasting to, and who's trying to steal my friends away?"
Benedict gave a short bow. "Benedict Devlyn, Duke of Banbury."
Tempest laughed, his eyes twinkling. "That sounds about right. What brings you into Town, Devil Duke? I haven't seen you about this Season."
"He avoids it," another male voice cut in.
Truly it was as if the entire male sex could sense that Benedict needed support and were now coming to his aid in throngs.
"Lord Renwick, a pleasure," Benedict said.
"You wouldn't be saying that if you knew who my wife was talking to at this very moment."
"Please do not finish telling me that story if it has anything to do with my—"
"Lovely aunt?" Renwick finished. "Perhaps I overdid it when I said 'lovely'. I'm sure we can conjure up a few more words to adequately describe the—"
"Chit?" Tempest offered.