Winter was in hell.

One of his own making, granted, but hell nonetheless. For the last three days, he had fastidiously avoided Seraphina Macleod as if she carried the very plague; he had changed the time of his morning rides so that he would not find her in the stables, he took care to not be seated next to her at dinner and he made sure that he never, not ever, found her alone. Especially now that Rothbury knew of his interest in her. Worse still, with the way she had blushed when he had sought her hand under the table like a besotted fool, she was not immune to him, either. And that was the trouble. One-sided attraction, he could have borne, but if it was reciprocated, how was he supposed to do the right thing and leave her alone? Knowing that nothing could ever come of it, knowing that he would ruin them both if he coaxed her into his arms, he had no choice but to quash whatever sentiments were budding in his heart.

So then, what had possessed him to join the ladies for Seraphina's – for try as he might, he could not think of her as Miss Macleod- nightly instruction of the Duchess when he had retired to his bedroom every other night? He was not averse to a little wicked punishment, but this was not even the fun kind. Thanks to his sheer idiocy he would now live the rest of his life with the image of Seraphina Macleod, with her fiery hair, clad in men's breeches seared into his mind. Her shapely, endless legs and her wonderfully pert rump were on display, and they would tempt a saint to sin.

Winter Hastings was many things; a reformed drunkard, charming bastard, a former libertine but a saint he was decidedly not. He swallowed a helpless groan of agony. He understood now why women were not allowed to wear breeches; it was not to protect their modesty, but to protect men like him from throwing their dignity to the wind and getting on their knees to beg a woman for her favor. As it turned out, on the right woman, breeches were a far more erotic sight than lingerie from the most scandalous of French modistes. Unable to take his eye off of her, he contemplated how rude it would be if he just up and left like a coward.

She moved with the feline grace of a panther, restrained power in every movement. She showed the Duchess the way to arch her body to deliver an effective punch with the kind of ease that came with years upon years of practice. Gone was the hesitant woman who felt out of her depth at the dinner table, in front of him now was a woman wholly in her element. Confident, elegant, and utterly focused. And she was all the more beautiful for it. He knew from his years of boxing for sport at both Eton and Cambridge that her form was flawless. Though why should he expect any different from someone who took her instruction from a national champion? He was beginning to fear that he would never be able to rid himself of the ailment brought onto him by this particular woman. Clearly, his self-imposed celibacy had driven him slightly mad. And yet, the thought of slipping into town and finding himself someone to spend the night with remained as unappealing as it had the last two years. It appeared that he craved only one particular redhead who spoke in Gaelic to bad-tempered horses and could plant a facer like a prizefighter.

Given her propensity to lose her English side whenever she was stimulated, would she speak her father's tongue in the throes of passion? What a tragedy that he would never know. That some nameless, faceless man who could give her what she deserved would know her in ways that Winter craved to. The very thought darkened his mood.

Gah! Honor was so dreadfully overrated.

'Plant your feet to the ground like so, your left foot facing eleven. If your form is incorrect you will only hurt yourself.' She demonstrated as the Duchess followed with great enthusiasm and a significant amount of glee. Rothbury ought to be concerned. 'Now, pivot your right foot and follow the rotation through with the rest of your body. Keep your wrist straight, let your arm and back do the work. Your knuckles will deliver the blow. Excellent.'

Christ. Those legs deserved to be thrown over his shoulders as he feasted himself upon her until she came apart with her voice hoarse from screaming his name. On the very heels of that damning thought, her gaze collided with his and she must have read the unadulterated hunger there for she colored and looked away quickly.

God would have to make a new, eighth level of hell just so Winter could be sequestered in it.

'Don't act so scandalized.' His mother mistook the reason for his stricken face. 'She cannot show the proper placements or the appropriate movements in her skirts.'

Ha! If only he was a stodgy, uptight prig like Rothbury! Then he wouldn't be thinking salacious thoughts about his mother's employee and could be focused on the inappropriateness of her attire!

Speaking of Rothbury, he too had now joined the ladies, entering quietly from the entrance to the retiring room and skirting around the women. Strange. He had been avoiding his wife with more dedication than Winter ever since he had made the trip to the orphanage three days ago. He looked assessingly at the two in the center of the room, then made it to Winter's side, his gaze never leaving his wife and Seraphina. Winter felt his face pull into a grimace at Rothbury's perusal of the women.

Don't say it. He already has enough ammunition after your primitive show at the stables. His mind warned. Don't you dare say–

'Keep your eyes in your goddamn head, Rothbury.' He snapped in a low voice, so that the profanity may not carry over to the ladies. He might as well have beat his chest like an ape, warning a rival that that particular woman was taken. His friend turned red at the tips of his ears, and that was when Winter realized that he had been looking at his wife and not Seraphina. What a magnificent pair of fools they were.

'I dare say it is you who ought to worry that his eyeballs may fall from their sockets.' Rothbury's cool response held promise of a conversation they would be having later. Great. Fan-bloody-tastic. 'Graham I must speak-'

'Perhaps we could call a footman so that I may demonstrate?' Seraphina's voice cut through the awkward exchange.

'No need. I think His Grace would be more than happy to volunteer.' The Duchess offered a lethal smile to her husband who was making a point of looking at anything but her.

'I beg your pardon?' Rothbury asked, shifting his gaze to Seraphina.

'I am showing Her Grace on what to do if she is grabbed from behind again. I- that is I need someone larger than me for the demonstration. She thinks that you might volunteer-'

'Like blazes he will!' The words were out of Winter before he knew what he was doing. Over his dead body would Rothbury put his hands on her, no matter what the context! He scrambled, searching his brain for any possible excuse for his outburst. 'You might make his injury worse.'

Well done, Graham! He thought proudly. That had been a masterclass in quick thinking.

'Why don't you do it? I should hate for this to become servant's gossip.' His mother suggested and he did not know whether he loved or hated her.

'I don't know how appropriate that would be.' Rothbury grumbled. 'It is hardly seemly for two unmarried people to carry on so. How do you usually go about such demonstrations at the Sanctuary?'

'Yes, Your Grace. This cannot possibly be a-acceptable.' Seraphina, completely red in the face, nodded enthusiastically. 'We have a guard that volunteers, he has been with us for many years, and the other women trust him, so they do not mind if he demonstrates. For the women who are smaller, I allow them to practice on me. I am rather tall.'

His mother shot them both a look that spoke of her surprise that either of them should care about etiquette. She, because this was the very nature of her profession and he, because his mother was not ignorant of his less-than-respectable escapades.

'I agree that this doesn't exactly fall into what society would deem respectable, however, I recommend against calling a servant. This is not the same as the Sanctuary, where we instruct women from far less glamourous walks of life, who have far more pressing concerns than idle gossip. I should hate to hear the rumor mill have another reason to speak ill of Her Grace.' His mother insisted, giving him a pointed look. He could only manage a short nod of acquiescence as anticipation and dread thrummed through him.

'Come and stand behind me. My lord.' Seraphina's blush was so severe that her freckles were barely distinguishable. She was so transparent in her attraction to him that it made Winter's heart dance, swell, and ache. How was he supposed to let her go after he knew what it would be like to hold her?

'Now, more often than not, an assailant will try to approach you from behind and then drag you off to a second location. Somewhere less public.' She reached around with trembling fingers and secured one arm around her waist, then the other across her mouth. The lack of guile was so entirely endearing that Winter had to bite back a grin. 'L-lift me if you please, M-my Lord.'

In one of the most agonizing moments of his life, he pulled the woman he wanted more than his next breath flush against his body and lifted her up in his arms. He would not think about how right she felt there, as if the cradle of his arms had been made just for her. Nor would he think of the hundred different lewd ways he wished he could have her. He felt the hard planes of her stomach under the shirt she wore, a woman who had honed her body into a weapon. And to think that the same woman was turning scarlet at his touch. Masculine triumph coursed through his veins, heady and potent. Intoxicating. She hooked her leg behind his knee, pulling them even closer. He suppressed a groan as lust shot through him like a bullet. If he ended up sporting an erection in front of his mother or Rothbury, he would happily fling himself out of the first available window. 'Now, your aim is to stay his movement. Once your leg is behind his knee, you destabilize his stance, making it very difficult for him to move without toppling you both over. From here, hit him in his...er- delicates as hard as you can. If his mouth is over your face, bite it as hard as you can. Once he releases his hold-' She waited expectantly and Winter released her without so much as a hint of the actual reluctance he felt. '-you should run to the nearest place with a crowd.'

'Thank you for your assistance.' Seraphina said, still not meeting his eye. 'Since I am taller than Her Grace, we shall not require your assistance further, My Lord.'

Well, that was a dismissal if he ever heard one.

'Happy to be of service.'

In fact, could he become a permanent volunteer?

As she went to stand behind the Duchess, a firm knock sounded at the door.

'Enter.' Rothbury and his wife said in unison and then shot each other uncomfortable looks. What had happened at the orphanage?

The aging butler slid the door open and held up a small white letter upon a silver tray.

'An urgent missive for Miss Macleod.'

He watched Seraphina's face, still flushed from their demonstration, go completely ashen. Her trembling hand came up to absently stroke the scar on her face as she read the letter again. Winter felt anxious, waiting for her to tell them what was wrong. So that he could fix whatever in hell it was that had made her so worried.

'Your Graces. Your Ladyship.' She said on a pained, breathless whisper. 'I must take my leave, first thing in the morning. My-my Da has collapsed. I know I was to spend three more days here for your instruction, but it is simply impossible for me now. My younger brother is alone with him, he is only ten. I am so sorr-'

The Duchess rushed to take her hands, giving them a comforting squeeze. 'Do not apologize. There is nothing more important than family.'

'If there is someone on staff who knows the schedule of the mail carriage, I would greatly appreciate it if they could relay it to me.'

'The mail carriage?' Rothbury spoke with uncharacteristic softness. 'Do not be ridiculous, I can spare my own. You will take a groom and some footmen for safety.'

'Your Grace, I couldn't possibly-'

'Do not be silly.' Lady Rothbury murmured in soothing tones, her eyes on her husband. The look of approval was evident upon her face. 'You are our guest. Rothbury shan't hear of you taking a mail coach, and neither shall I.'

'I shall leave you ladies to your evening. Miss Macleod, if there is anything either my wife or I can do for you, you must not hesitate to ask.'

'Or Graham and I.' Lady Eleanor added.

'Your Graces have shown me more generosity than I have ever known. Thank you, Lady Eleanor, Lord Graham. I must see to my packing, if you will excuse me.' She managed a weak curtsy.

Bereavement. Anguish.

That was the name for the emotion that had Winter in his thrall. Their paths would likely never cross again. Their meeting had been both serendipity and a curse. But it was for the best. Nothing could come from it, no matter how strong the connection was between them. Even still, as she exited the room, Winter made to follow her to make sure she was alright. Rothbury's hand clamped down on his shoulder like a vice, halting his step.

'Join me for a brandy, won't you Graham?' Asked his friend, knowing full well that Graham had given up spirits years ago. Ah, so they were to have their overdue conversation.

'Of course, lead the way.'

As the door to Rothbury's study closed with a damning snick, Winter debated the merits of telling his friend to mind his own business and to fuck off. Rothbury lowered himself into the leather chair behind a magnificent mahogany desk, reminding him of all the times he had been called into his father's study for a scolding. His hand twitched with the sudden urge to make a vulgar, immature, and definitely ungentlemanly gesture as Rothbury looked at him with ducal disapproval. He sighed, deciding against it. He knew precisely what Rothbury would say. He knew also that Rothbury would be absolutely right in whatever he would say, the sanctimonious prig that he was. It did not make the prospect of being lectured by the person he had rescued from the torment of older boys at Eton any more palatable. Winter was scowling by the time Rothbury had poured them both glasses of water and offered one to him.

That gesture did away with some of Winter's irritation at his high-handed friend. Though neither had verbally acknowledged it, Rothbury always avoided drinking when it was just the two of them, out of both respect and solidarity.

'Graham.' Rothbury began awkwardly. Then he paused and corrected. 'Winter. You know what I wish to talk to you about.'

So the conversation was significant enough to merit the use of their Christian names?

'Benedict. Out with it.' How strange and foreign these names sounded and felt on each of their tongues.

'You are like a brother to me, Winter.'

Winter started, this was not the direction he had expected the conversation to have taken.

'In spite of that. Nay, because of that, I will not be silent if I see you doing something wrong.'

'I do not recall this mothering when I was out with a new woman every night nor when I was rutting my way through London. When did you decide to don the priest's habit, my friend?' Winter supplied sardonically.

'Which manner of.....experienced companion you choose to spend time with is hardly my concern. It becomes my concern when a respectable young lady is involved. And I am telling you now, Winter, even when she ceases being my guest, I will not countenance you mistreating her.'

'Mistreating her? I have treated Sera- Miss Macleod with all the respect a gentleman affords a lady.'

'And that is why you look at her like a starving man at a feast?'

The back of his neck pricked with embarrassment. He should have just gone to the baptism and spared himself the entirety of the last ten days.

'I will not deny that I find her attractive, I can hardly control that.'

'You know your sentiments are reciprocated.'

'It does not matter. Nothing can come of it.'

'And yet, you were going to follow her to her room just now.' Rothbury raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Christ.

It really was deuced inconvenient to have childhood friends.

'Just an association with a man like you can be deadly for a woman like Miss Macleod. A woman with employment, with a profession.' There was nothing but the truth in Rothbury's words. And yet, it pained him in ways he did not know he could be hurt.

'I know.'

'And you cannot marry her.'

'I know.'

'And if you took her to bed, her reputation would be ruined. How many people, do you think, would want to make generous donations to an enterprise that hires the mistress of a Marquess? Your mother would have no choice but to let her go. And after that, when she is penniless and unemployed, you will not be able to give her the protection of your name. I will not let you do this.'

The words were ugly and hurtful and miserably true. Never had he hated society's hypocrisy more, where he, the unrepentant reprobate was welcomed in all sorts of respectable circles and she, practically an innocent, would be doomed just by an association with him. He swallowed the knot of despair in his throat. He knew from the first moment he had seen her that they were doomed. And yet, someone had not delivered that certainty to his heart.

'I know it. I know it all. You are right.' He said on a ragged whisper, closing his eyes on a wave of disquiet. 'She leaves in the morning anyway.'

And I will likely never see her again.

For once in his life, Winter Hastings would do the honorable thing and purge Seraphina Macleod from his very soul. And it would be worth every moment of pain that it would cause because the alternative was to steal her very life. And for her to know loss at his hands? That he could not abide.

'If that is all?' Winter somehow schooled his voice to its usual relaxed cadence and made a too-casual gesture toward the door.

'Actually, no.' Rothbury got up, walked to one of the shelves, and slipped out a thick brown ledger. He opened a section with several highlighted transactions and handed it to Winter. 'I believe my wife's steward and my secretary are stealing from us, but I could use the help to catalogue just how much damage has already been done.'

Ah, well that was as good as an apology that he would get from Rothbury. He nodded, acknowledging the conciliatory gesture for what it was.

'How come you haven't noticed until now? You are usually very diligent in these matters.'

'As it turns out, my wife has been paying for the estate upkeep from her own income after she came into her inheritance two years ago.' Winter imagined that had gone over well with his friend. 'But, I had my own documents sent over from London and my secretary has been cataloging the expenses against my accounts. The steward compiles the report that I receive, so they must be in league with one another. We could be out thousands of pounds, neither of us any the wiser.'

Winter let out an ugly curse and straightened up. He settled the ledger on the desk and began to pour over it. Rothbury let out a murmur of thanks which Winter stayed with a motion of his hand.

'No thanks necessary. It is what brothers do.'

A/N: Writing this chapter made me wish I could give Winter and Seraphina their own novella, but their story is so linked with Benedict's growth as a person that it was literally impossible lol. Moving forward, we will sadly be seeing less of them for at least a while, after the next chapter which will be in Seraphina's POV.

Another thing about this chapter was that it made me appreciate the subtlety and nuance of male friendships, as I hope I was able to relay with the latter part of this chapter.