'Lady Eleanor, you are lovelier every time I see you.' Benedict greeted Minerva's guest by taking a sweeping bow, then placing a kiss on the hand of the Marchioness of Graham. His tone was light, his shoulders relaxed and a lazy, fond smile curved at his lips. He'd forgone his hat, his hair curling in that stupidly charming way she found incredibly appealing in spite of herself. He'd neglected to change his ruined shirt, which was obviously deliberate, and infuriatingly well done. Maybe he'd had the tiniest point when it came to this dressing appropriately nonsense, she admitted begrudgingly as she watched the Marchioness raise a disapproving eyebrow at him.

'It is good to see you, Rothbury.' She said with casual maternal affection, patting him casually on the shoulder in a gesture that seemed to come easily to her. 'You seem much recovered, your tragic state of dress aside.'

'My wife's household is hardly as efficient as yours, My Lady. The laundress doesn't know how to wash, the cook can barely muster an edible plate.' He shook his head in false dismay at her and offered her his arm. 'But can you blame her? Likely it is all still new to her. All of this-'He waved absently at the manor '-can be terribly overwhelming, if one lacks the wit and mental prowess to run a large household.'

Horse's arse. But there was no vehemence in the thought, it is exactly what she would have done.

'Any reason in particular that you are being uncharitable to your lovely wife, boy?' Lady Eleanor's voice clipped with stern rebuff. Minerva waited for Benedict to snap at her causal address, but he seemed entirely unfazed. Then she remembered that Benedict shared a close relationship with the Marchioness, as both he and Charlie had spent many school breaks with the Hastings during their years at Eton. God knew that their actual mother hadn't a maternal bone in her body, Lady Eleanor must have been a welcome change with a stern and severe manner that hid a loyal and protective heart.

'Uncharitable? Hardly.' Benedict continued warmly, exuding charm by the bucketful. 'It is just that in comparison to you, any woman would be found lacking in both intelligence and beauty.'

Lady Eleanor laughed and gave him a dismissive wave of her hand, clearly charmed by his words. Irritation sparked deep and insistent in her gut. Who on earth was the man before her and what had he done to her surly brute of a husband? Why was he all smiles and flirtation now when he had been nothing short of unpleasant this entire week? Why did she get the frosty, cynical Duke of Rothbury, and everyone else got to see the actual man underneath?

Ah, there was the crux of the problem, wasn't it? She was still an idealistic fool that believed in a middle-class concept like affection between spouses. It would have been easy enough to dislike him; the man was arrogant, high-handed, and proud, but earlier today something had shifted. She had always known that beneath all his thundering and scowling, he was a man that valued honor above all else, but hearing him today, impassioned and upset by the fact that he had not been doing right by his people had sparked something in her. A deeper aspect of respect, a sense of duty that her own soul resonated with.

This was a man who cared for those who depended on him. This was a man who had suffered a harrowing tragedy, and had walked to the altar not a week after it just because if he hadn't, his tenants would have suffered. He'd been courting a childhood friend before their wedding, and yet he had given her up to do his duty. A man who had the affection of two women she greatly esteemed; Ophelia and Lady Eleanor. A man who, despite all his grumbling, took her antics with grace. She knew what monsters men could be, a man like her sire would have raised his hands to her already. Her father had struck her mother for far less. Come what may, she knew in her heart that she need never fear Benedict like her mother had feared her own husband.

And really, that was the issue, wasn't it? It was impossible to yearn for a monster. But a man with depth and a sadness that was evident in every small action? Well, what kind of woman didn't feel the impossible thrall of a brooding man? The last thing she needed to be doing was romanticizing her churlish arse of a husband and yet their earlier amiability had brought back her youthful yearnings in full force. A husband who laughed with her, who would kiss her brow in absent-minded affection, who would carry their children on his shoulders. God, who was she kidding? Rothbury probably subscribed to the high society idea of letting one's servants raise one's kids. And as for affection? She didn't think he knew the first thing about it.

For a moment she allowed herself to return to the moment in the study, when their laughing eyes had locked and she'd felt a jolt of awareness so potent she'd nearly lost her breath. She allowed her heart to, for just one moment, wish that she and her husband were anyone other than who they were. That their circumstances were anything other than their reality. And then she took her yearning, her wishes, and locked them in a box that she dare not leave open, leaving them to gather dust in the back of her mind.

'Self-defense? Well, that is certainly a wonderful idea. Thank you, Eleanor. It is lovely to meet you, Miss Macleod, I am sorry to have missed you earlier. You were tending to your horse in the stables, I believe?' The Duchess greeted Seraphina with a welcoming smile. Seraphina, on the other hand, looked jittery and ashen, unused to keeping such exalted company. You could put her in the middle of a tavern brawl with men thrice her size and she wouldn't feel an ounce of the trepidation running through her body as she struggled to remember how one addressed a Duchess. Did one curtsy? Offer a hand? The Duke looked so severe and forbidding, reserving his cordiality only for Lady Eleanor, that she suspected he would simply accept it as his due if she fell to his feet in supplication.

'Likewise, my La- Your Grace.' She schooled her voice to eliminate her brogue, even as her heart kicked into overdrive. Heaven help her, Lady Rothbury was one of the most generous benefactors to the Sanctuary and she'd almost insulted her by using the wrong form of address! The Duke's arrogant gaze landed on her and his disapproval was palpable.

Jesus, she was not going to survive the next few days.

'Seraphina here is training a mount for me, her paternal family used to trade in horseflesh. And as with all things, she is incredibly thorough, she settled in the mare before she settled herself in.' Lady Eleanor supplied, mercifully sparing Seraphina from having to think of an acceptable excuse. She couldn't very well say that she had intentionally stayed behind so she could avoid having the Duchess greet her while she was still grimy from the road.

'Of course, I would expect nothing less. I take no offense if that is what worried you.' The Duchess appeared cordial, but Seraphina wondered if that was high society speak for I will never forgive you for this insult.  'Follow me, please, the dining hall is this way.'

How was she supposed to take down any food in this state? She hardly remembered which spoon was used for what, on top of that! Was it too late to run back to the stables, she wondered mournfully. She'd find oats far more palatable at the current moment.

It had been hard enough to come to the point where she spoke comfortably with Lady Eleanor, but a Duchess was a cut above even a Marchioness. She dropped into a curtsy, hoping that her wobbly knees were not evident. Then she took her unsteady legs and began to follow the rest of the party to the dining hall that would have fit her entire house three times over.

'Well, since I am putting my life in your hands.' The Duchess chuckled as she showed Seraphina her seat. 'You may as well call me Minerva. Or Vera, if you would like.'

The Duke's eyebrows raised even farther up on his forehead.

What in the seven hells was wrong with the people in this place? First Lord Graham – who, much to her mortification, was seating himself right next to her- and now the Duchess? Was it up to the lowborn nobody to remind them all that she was so far below their station that she could look up and not even see the soles of their boots? With Lord Graham, at least, she could have reassured herself that he was only living up to his reputation as a rake and a flirt. What excuse did the Duchess have?!

And yet, could she snub a Duchess? What if she felt the insult so keenly that she decided to withdraw support from the new maternity wing they were supposed to open next month? The aristocracy were a feeble lot, after all. However, in her defense, the Duchess had not so much as even flinched at the sight of the jagged ruined skin on one half of her face, so that was certainly a point in her favor.

'Your Grace, I could hardly do such a thing! 'She protested. The Duchess smiled reassuringly at her and nodded in serene understanding. Seraphina felt her shoulders relax and her appetite return. She looked at the utensils in front of her, wondering which one she was supposed to use for the appetizer; something French, the name of which she couldn't even hope to pronounce.

'Relax.' Lord Graham's deep tenor sounded so close to her ear that she very nearly jumped and knocked over her wine. His hand came to rest atop hers under the table, and he ran a soothing thumb over her knuckles. So shocked was she by his forwardness that she could only muster a squeak, as her body caught fire where his was in contact. Her pulse pounded in her throat and she felt an answering pulse between her legs, a steady ache settling into the most intimate part of her anatomy. Unbidden, she imagined his fingers in another place entirely, stroking and coaxing expertly. Oh sweet mercy, what was wrong with her?! One did not grow up to the grand age of five-and-twenty without at least a passing acquaintance with lust, but right now that particular emotion was pounding on her front door, demanding to be heard, to be assuaged. And just from some innocuous hand-holding! It was shocking how easily she understood now, why so many women had followed him to his bed.

This man was dangerous. And yet she was completely enthralled, helpless to move her hand from his even as her brain screamed at her to do so.

'The Duchess comes from very humble beginnings, she will not take offense if your etiquette is less than stellar. But, if you are still nervous, just watch me.' His breath, hot and damp tickled her ear in the most wicked of ways, she felt it like headiness from whiskey; limiting her reason, heightening her senses, and bringing her immeasurable pleasure. Her heart danced an ecstatic jig in her chest at the fact that he had understood her and offered her support instead of mockery. She took in his masculine scent like an addict, a deep sort of musk that made her insides quiver with want.

'Thank you, My Lord.' She congratulated herself on being able to speak in a tone that was almost normal. He removed his hand from hers, much to both her relief and regret, and turned back to the larger conversation taking place at the table, leaving her just a little dizzy.

He is your employer's son! And a notorious libertine to boot! Get yourself together. The logical part of her brain hissed at the less logical parts of her body clamoring for his touch.

No, this fascination wouldn't do at all. There was too much at risk, her reputation, her income, her future. And as handsome as he was with his beautiful golden hair, soft brown eyes, incendiary touches, and sinful smiles, some temptations simply could not be heeded if one intended to make it out in one piece. She prayed the next few days would pass by in a blur even as her heart protested at the idea that her time with him would be so limited.

She took a sip of her wine as an uncomfortable surety settled within her; Winter Hastings would destroy her if she let him any closer.