Carole Mortimer - Some Like to Shock

Benedict gave a self-derisive smile. ‘Not for my own edification, you understand.’

‘Ah.’ The older man nodded in obvious relief, before then giving a slow shake of his head. ‘No, I am afraid I do not understand in the least?’

‘No reason why you should,’ Benedict dismissed briskly, having no intention of confiding that the reason for his own interest was currently dancing in the other man’s arms!

The earl eyed him piercingly for several minutes before obviously dismissing the subject as being unimportant. ‘If I had known you were to be here this evening, then I would not have bothered to come myself.’ He grimaced. He had served as a colonel in the army for many years, and was now spymaster for the Crown under the guise of a minor ministerial post, but was no more a lover of society balls than Benedict.

‘And in doing so you would have also have deprived my Aunt Cynthia the pleasure of attending, too,’ he drawled mockingly. The earl and countess had become his aunt and uncle by long association, the couple having adopted him as their own since the death of his parents, their own long marriage sadly childless.

‘There is that to consider.’ The earl chuckled, brown eyes twinkling merrily. ‘But, much as I intend to enjoy her expression of gratitude later this evening, I am not sure even that is worth the tedious hours I have already suffered tonight in the line of duty!’ His eyes narrowed as he turned to look at the couples still dancing. ‘Who is the beautiful young woman currently dancing with Sandhurst?’

‘I believe it to be the Duchess of Woollerton.’ Benedict had no need to turn and look across the room to know the identity of that ‘beautiful young woman’.

Eric Cargill gave him a cursory glance. ‘I was not aware that Forster had taken a wife?’

‘Perhaps I should have said the widowed Duchess,’ Benedict corrected lightly.

The earl’s brows rose again. ‘That young beauty is the child-bride Josiah Forster’s kept shut away in the country from the moment he had married and bedded her?’

Benedict winced at the crudeness of his uncle’s statement. ‘So it would appear.’

‘I had no idea …’ the older man murmured appreciatively.

‘You really should try and get out and about in society more, Dartmouth,’ Benedict drawled.

His godfather grimaced at the thought of it. ‘I have deliberately engaged the services of people such as yourself so that I have no need to do so.’

Benedict had joined the army not long after his parents were murdered, venting his anger and frustration upon Napoleon’s armies for seven years, only resigning his commission after the Corsican had been safely incarcerated on the Isle of Elba—at least, all of England had believed him to be safely incarcerated! Benedict had returned to the army only briefly after Napoleon’s escape, before the tyrant was once again defeated and this time placed on the more isolated island of St Helena.

Benedict had then found the tedium of civilian life did not suit his inner restlessness in the least. His godfather’s offer of a position, working for him as one of his agents for the Crown, had helped to ease that restlessness, if not completely alleviate it, this past two years.

It could not be completely erased until Benedict had learnt the identity of the person who had slain his parents and dealt with them accordingly. Something his position as one of the Earl of Dartmouth’s agents allowed him to continue to pursue privately, and without anyone suspecting he was doing so.

Except when it came to attending evenings such as this one, which was when Benedict usually used a show of interest in a particular woman to act as a shield to the real reason for his presence. Much as Benedict abhorred the crush of such events as this one, he appreciated that they were the perfect opportunity in which to receive or give information.

It still rankled with him that Genevieve had firmly refused any intention of becoming that current interest earlier today. Even more so, when, having arrived an hour or so ago, he had thereafter been forced to observe Sandhurst’s more-than-obvious pursuit of her, as well as Genevieve’s laughing responses to the other man’s no doubt heavy-handed flattery.

Genevieve herself was a vision in cream silk and lace, with pearl droplets adorning her fiery-red curls, her eyes a deep blue and her lips a rosy peach against the creaminess of her complexion. More pearls encircled the delicacy of her throat and her creamy shoulders were left bare by the style of her gown.

‘—have not seen any sign as yet of the Count de Sevanne—Benedict, are you even listening to me?’

Benedict turned from once again observing Genevieve as she danced elegantly around the ballroom with Sandhurst, to find the earl frowning up at him for his inattentiveness. He determinedly shook off that complete awareness of Genevieve Forster’s beauty, as he instead gave the appearance of concentrating on discussing the French count, who was the reason for his own and Dartmouth’s presence here this evening. Napoleon might have been subdued, but there was no reason to suppose he would remain that way. Nor was he England’s only enemy.

Benedict gave the appearance of concentrating on his uncle’s conversation, because, even as he and Eric Cargill continued to talk softly together, his own attention wandered time and time again to Genevieve Forster, especially when she and Sandhurst left the dance floor together some minutes later in search of refreshment.

Or, knowing Sandhurst, the privacy in which to deepen their dalliance, in one of Lady Hammond’s more secluded parlours …

Genevieve, having earlier today sent word to Charles Brooks that she had decided to attend Lady Hammond’s ball rather than join him for a private dinner, had been fully aware of having Lucifer’s dark gaze upon her since his arrival at the ball an hour or so earlier. Reason enough, she had considered, to encourage and accept Charles Brooks’s attentions when he had arrived immediately after Lucifer and instantly made his way to her side before commencing to flirt with her outrageously.

A flirtatiousness Lucifer did not in the least appreciate, if the tight clenching of his jaw, and the dark glitter of his eyes as he continued to observe Genevieve beneath hooded lids, was any indication.

Genevieve had not felt so giddy with excitement for years. If ever …

Josiah Forster, a man almost forty years her senior, had offered for Genevieve halfway through her first Season, an offer which her brother had been only too pleased to accept on her behalf. The man was a duke and Genevieve would become his duchess, Colin had argued when she had protested at the idea of marrying a man so much older than herself.

It had been a fairytale wedding, with all of the ton there to witness the union. And if Genevieve had quaked in her satin slippers at thoughts of becoming the wife of the elderly and obese Duke of Woollerton, no one would have guessed it as she floated down the aisle, a vision in satin and lace, nor at the wedding supper later, as she had stood at the duke’s side, smiling and greeting their guests.

It had only been later that evening, during the carriage ride to the Woollerton estate in Gloucestershire, that Genevieve’s nerves had got the better of her at thoughts of the night ahead.

A night which had been every bit, and more, the nightmare Genevieve had feared it might be, Josiah making no allowances either for her youth or her lack of experience.

She shuddered now just at the memory of the horrors she had suffered that night, and that had only been the start of those fearful years of incarceration as Josiah Forster’s wife.

A prison Genevieve had only escaped upon his death.