Chapter Nine

It said something about the stranger’s character that he had forced his way onto a duke’s property rather than doing as he was told. The trouble was, Sebastian didn’t know whether that something was good or bad, because only foreign sounds fell from the man’s lips.

As Miss Mukherjee, who undoubtedly understood every word, remained oddly silent, he turned questioningly to Nick, who had spent time in India.

But Nick shook his head. “I don’t speak their languages. Colin Smith acted as my interpreter.”

Ah. Mr. Smith was an adventurer and had arrived in England this past summer. He had stayed long enough to discover a Roman treasure before hying off for Egypt, with Lady Claire—the daughter of a marquess—in tow.

Sebastian narrowed his eyes and studied the intruder. He did not seem inclined to harm Miss Mukherjee at the moment, and the flush of her countenance suggested she was more abashed than afraid, like a child who had snuck a jam tart before supper. The man wore a garment draped loosely about his legs and a long shirt that hung to his knees. Both garments were plain and white, but Sebastian could see that they were constructed of the finest silk and that the stitches were done by an elegant hand.

Whoever this man was, he had money.

Sebastian was inclined to call that a point in his favor. At the very least, he could afford his own fare back to India, if Miss Mukherjee requested.

The question, then, was whether Miss Mukherjee did indeed request it.

“Miss Mukherjee,” Sebastian said, interrupting the growing cacophony of voices. They all turned as one to look at him. “Shall I ask him to stay, or ensure that he leaves?”

She blinked. “Of course he must stay.” She said this reluctantly, as though trying to convince herself of the fact.

She turned and said a few hurried words in what he assumed was Bengali, to which the man gave a short nod and looked at Sebastian.

“Duke Wessex,” she said, “this is Ramtanyu Vidyasagar. He is an old friend. Our families know each other well.”

“Mr. Vidyasagar.” Sebastian said his name slowly to ensure its correctness. The letters might not be ordered in an English way, but they still created sounds his tongue knew. “You are welcome to stay.”

“Duke Wessex.” Vidyasagar also spoke slowly and correctly, his eyes wary.

Sebastian nodded. He gave an order to the footman, who immediately strode off in the direction of the house. “Your room will be prepared, where you may reside while Miss Mukherjee determines what is to be done with you. Make no mistake, if at any time she wishes you gone, your removal will be immediate.”

Miss Mukherjee hesitated a moment, a strange expression crossing her face, then translated. Vidyasagar arched his dark brows and smiled slightly, nodding his agreement.

“Dhan’yabāda,” he said.

“Thank you,” Miss Mukherjee translated.

When the footman reappeared, indicating the room was ready, Miss Mukherjee went, as well, no doubt to act as translator, but she did so willingly. Surely, if she felt herself to be in danger she would have said so. Still, Sebastian quietly made the footman understand that her protection was in his hands.

“Well!” Lady Abingdon looked about the orchard as though trying to make sense of what had just happened. “That was interesting.”

Far more interesting to Sebastian was the way in which Miss Benton was studying him. Was that approval he found in her gaze? Well, there was a first time for everything…although he couldn’t for the life of him think how he had earned it.

He took a cautious step closer. “Your basket is nearly full. May I assist you?” Foolishness! She would refuse him and send him off to Lady Jane, Lady Abigail, or Lady Louisa, as she had done before.

But to his surprise, she handed the basket to him with a small smile. “You may.”

He shifted the basket to one elbow and offered his other arm to her. Together, they ambled to a tree that hadn’t yet been relieved of its bounty.

She twisted an apple off its stem and studied it. “That was well done of you.”

It took him a moment to realize she was talking to him and not the apple. “What was? Please be very specific and provide as many details as possible. I do so many things well that I am not sure to what you refer.”

She gave him a withering look before stretching her arm to reach a higher apple. The sunlight filtering through the tree branches dappled the white skin of her cheek and throat in a ruby glow. If she had been anyone but Miss Eliza Benton, and he had been anyone except himself, and if they had been anywhere but his orchard surrounded by their friends…

Well. It did not do to contemplate ifs. He pushed the image into the dark hole, where it joined other contraband, such as the way her voice trembled when he almost made her laugh and the exact blue of her eyes when she was sleepy after a night of dancing. And the feel of her warm body against him scarcely an hour ago.

“You asked Miss Mukherjee for her opinion and allowed her to make the decision. It was good of you to be concerned for her welfare,” Miss Benton said.

“Not at all.” A small brown leaf floated down from the tree, landing on his sleeve. He brushed it off. “It was not concern for her welfare, but for my own. Miss Mukherjee was the only person who knew what the devil was going on. For all I knew, the man was a thief or a murderer, and I should not like to be robbed or murdered. It was only natural that I sought her guidance.”

Miss Benton regarded him with narrowed eyes. “You care for her. I don’t know why you deny it.”

“I like her well enough,” Sebastian conceded. “But you must understand, Miss Benton, that I like everyone well enough. I have yet to meet a person I truly despise or whom I truly love.”

“You can’t mean that! What of Lord Abingdon, who has been like a brother to you for many years? What of—” She looked away with a sudden flush in her cheeks.

What name had she silenced on her lips? He paused a moment, waiting, but she said no more, and so he continued.

“What I mean to say is that love and hate are all-encompassing emotions, but I allow neither to encompass all of me. Of course I don’t wish to see Miss Mukherjee injured. But my first concern was of my own welfare, and if she benefits from that, then it is a happy coincidence. I hold myself in the highest regard, Miss Benton, and I have yet to meet a person worth my life. Or even my comfort.”

She looked at him for a long moment, as though to ascertain his sincerity. “I pity your future wife,” she murmured finally.

“Do you?” He was of the opinion that any woman would be delighted to be his duchess—present company excepted, of course. Which was fortuitous, since he had no intention of marrying Miss Benton. “I think she will be quite content. What will it matter if I put my comfort above hers? She is free to do the same. I daresay most marriages follow the same principle.”

Miss Benton laughed, but bitterness mingled with mirth. “Blind, like all men. A woman can never put her own comfort first.”

Sebastian contemplated the heightened color of her cheeks and the annoyed flash in her eyes. Miss Benton was a hairsbreadth away from true anger. A wise man would agree with whatever foolishness she’d uttered or—better still—say nothing at all.

“I suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “that you are one of those unnatural women who spurn the very idea of a husband and children. I had wondered, on occasion, why a woman of your attributes had not yet married.”

No, he was not wise. But he could not help himself. Something drove him onward. He needed to hear her say it, that it wasn’t only him in particular she did not wish to marry, but all men in general. It was inconceivable that the censure should be his alone.

The fire in her eyes licked brighter. He fought the urge to flee. Christ, but he was a fool for goading her. Nothing good ever came of an angry woman.

“When a man blithely declares his intent to marry for the sole purpose of begetting an heir, with neither thought nor qualm that the begetting could very well kill his wife, it does not inspire me to join him in holy matrimony.”

“The begetting of children is necessary.” Why did he keep pressing her? He knew not, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Women die, and that is unfortunate. You would ask that mankind cease to multiply and disappear from the earth.”

“I do not. I ask only that you care. My mother died in childbirth, as did my stepmother. Unless I spend my life as a spinster, I fear I will follow in their footsteps.”

“Ah,” he said softly.

And there it was. Miss Benton had no intention of marrying any man, much less him. He was safe.

Safe? The thought startled him. Why should it matter to him at all whether Miss Benton refused to marry? It should not. It should certainly not make him feel safe.

And yet it did.

He could imagine, with the cool detachment of a witness rather than a participant, what it would do to him to truly care. He was no monster. Of course he would mourn any wife for the appropriate time before finding her replacement. He would remember her fondly—he hoped—and even miss her upon occasion, the way one missed a dog or childhood nanny.

But what if the wife were not Lady Jane, Lady Louisa, or Lady Abigail, but someone infinitely dearer? What if the wife had eyes of twilight and hair of spun moonshine, and a way of speaking that twisted a man up inside and made him feel? Her death would destroy him. Or perhaps there would be nothing left of him to destroy. Perhaps a lifetime of caring, of loving, would have already ripped his tender heart to shreds.

His heart had been shredded once before, and he had no wish to repeat the experience. No, thank you. He wanted no part of that. His entire being recoiled at the very thought.

“Well?” she demanded. “Do I ask for too much, Your Grace?”

He gave her the truth.

“Not at all, Miss Benton. So long as you do not ask it of me.”