She had forgotten, Minerva thought a little breathlessly, what a force of nature her husband truly was. Four days had passed since their guests had left, leaving only a week until her husband left. Four days which they had spent successfully avoiding each other, except for when they crossed paths in their shared study. Today, while she had just been leaving for the orphanage, he had sent a footman requesting her presence in the study. When she had entered, she had found that they were not alone; two uniformed gentlemen stood in attention at the back of the study while her steward trembled slightly as the imposing figure of her husband was flaying him with a threatening perusal, a panther sizing up its prey. So he had managed to find some irrefutable proof. At her entry, he rose politely and motioned her to join him on the sofa next to him. Vera caught her breath at the magnificent figure that he cut in the midnight blue ensemble he had chosen, the only thing white was the shirt he wore beneath his coats and the crisp cravat around his neck. It somehow enhanced his dark beauty all the more. The undeniable fury in his expression made her legs quiver, but not with fear. Arousal thrummed through her blood, hot and undeniable as she felt heat pool between her legs. His absolute power, his masculinity called to something base and intrinsic in her.

Is that an invitation to prove you wrong? His deep timbre reverberated through her, the wickedness his offer promised making her ache most pleasurably.

Dash it, she did not want to imagine slowly stripping him of his stuffy layers and seeing exactly what it took to drive her ever-so-composed husband mad. Christ, his shoulders. And his thighs. She shot an irritated look heavenward, knowing full well that God would be enjoying Himself immensely. Devil take it, she did not want to find him mouth-wateringly attractive, but here she was, contemplating the flavor of his kiss. It would likely be spicy, tasting of brandy. Jesus, she was pathetic. She dug her fingernails into her palm before she could regret refusing his kiss at the orphanage.

'Thank you for joining me, Your Grace. I was told you were on your way to a picnic, so I shall endeavor to keep this brief.' He took her hand and waited until she had lowered herself into the chair next to him. Was it just wishful thinking or had his hand lingered just a split second longer than necessary?

And why the devil would you be wishing for his touch? Get a hold of yourself, you randy woman.

'I was happy to oblige, Ben- er- Your Grace.' She corrected hastily. He would not like for her to refer to him with such frankness in front of these strangers, she was sure. English rules were remarkably stupid, and she did not pay much mind to them anymore but she did not wish to undermine him in his confrontation with the potentially thieving steward. Benedict turned his attention back towards the man who was tugging at his neckcloth and sweating profusely.

'So, Mr. Fielding. I assume you know why you are here?'

'Haven't a clue, Your Grace.' The steward's response was surprisingly even, in spite of the hundred other ways he was making his discomfort known. The sweat beading on his brow, the perceptible tremble of his hands, the impatient tapping of his foot.

'Did you know-' Benedict's face curved into a lethal smile as he reclined casually into his chair, a king before his subjects. '-that my secretary was arrested yesterday in London? He fleeced my wife of seven thousand pounds.'

'Dear heavens! What a blackguard!' Replied the steward, his face pale but his indignation almost convincing. Vera felt her mouth curve in distaste. Why, the gal! Lying, cheating, son of a bitch!

'He was your distant cousin, I believe?'

The steward blanched. Vera briefly saw something dark flicker behind his eyes. 'A mere coincidence, I assure you, Your Grace.'

'Let me introduce you to Mr. Wickham and Mr. Murray, they work for the local magistrate.' Benedict replied coolly. 'They shall be taking you into custody for embezzling my wife's funds. I think you ought to get acquainted.'

'Sir, you would impugn my honor with these accusations?! You are-'

'Your honor?!' Vera burst out. 'After you told me the story about your sick mother and asked for a raise not once but twice?! And all this time, you were fleecing me? And you will speak to His Grace with the respect that he is due!'

Benedict's warm hand closed over her furious fist, a thanks and a show of solidarity. There was a glimmer of unabashed approval in the look he shot her. Her toes certainly did not want to curl in pleasure.

'You took advantage of my wife's generosity. Attempted to play me for a fool. And now, you shall stand here and lie straight to her face? Tell me, do you think so little of your life that you would gamble it for money? The sentence for your crime is the gallows, though I am sure you do not need a reminder.'

How was Benedict so calm when Minerva was so entirely furious?

Fielding turned even paler. 'You ca-cannot p-prove-'

'We already have the proof, you bounder! We have corroborated my ledgers with the ones from His Grace's accounts! How could the secretary have pulled it off unless you doctored the reports?!' Vera snapped. How dare he try and disrespect her husband and lie to her on top of it? The snake had been stealing from her for over two years! Presented with the undeniable evidence and her rage, the steward slumped forward in defeat.

He let out the whole sordid tale of how he only took some to pay for his mother's treatments after the entirety of his savings that had been lost on a gold mine investment that never amounted to anything, how he had planned to return the money once his mother had recovered when Rothbury's secretary discovered the duplicity and began to blackmail him. Asking him to take increasingly outrageous amounts.

'I can show you the l-letter's, Y-your Grace.' He turned his pleading eyes to Vera, getting down on his knees. 'Please, I will do anything. If I hang, my mother will be-'

Minerva felt her heart soften toward him, but a look at her husband showed that he was entirely unmoved.

'Excellent story.' Ben sighed, almost bored. 'Now, what I want to know is will you help us recover the funds or shall you be joining your cousin on the first ship to Australia?'

'Ben-' Vera began, wanting to ask him to have something resembling a beating heart but he silenced her with a look. His hand tightened over hers once more.

Trust me. His touch beseeched.

And she was entirely struck dumb by the realization that she did. Cold and exacting he may be, but dishonorable and unfair he was not. Her fingers, as if by a mind of their own, laced into his.

I do. Was the response in hers.

'I cannot possibly arrange for seven thousand-'

'Very well. Mr. Wickham and Mr. Murray, will you kindly take him into custody?'

As the burly men moved forward, Fielding's entire countenance changed. Gone was his pleading, pitiful expression, replaced by pure, potent hatred.

'You wouldn't have even missed the money, you ungrateful, greedy whoreson!' He snarled. 'You lot, with your mansions and servants and carriages, while the rest of us live in squalor? If your bitch was fool enough to believe a sad little story, why shouldn't I have taken the money? It is not like you lot needed it! She never suspected a thing until you came along, the stupid whore.'

Minerva flinched at the harsh words, completely taken aback by the unjustified vitriol behind them. Wickham clapped his hand solidly on the offender, and then the next few moments passed in a blur. Fielding whirled around and struck Wickham's face with his elbow, the man releasing his grip on the criminal in order to defend his face. Wickham stumbled back into Murray, who lost his balance and fell backward. Rothbury began to rise from his seat in what seemed like slow motion, as an infuriated Fielding lunged for her. She blinked and Rothbury was in front of her, Fielding collided with him and they both went over the sofa struggling. Oh, dear Lord, he was attacking her husband! Like the devil would she allow that! She reached around wildly for a weapon, her hands closing around the decanter of scotch on the table. She flung it as hard as she could.

'Get the fuck off of my husband, you son of a bitch!' Every lesson in propriety drummed into her by her various tutors, forgotten. The scoldings she had received when she had used coarse language before, immaterial. The inappropriateness of the crude words on the tongue of a duchess, irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was that this blighter had dared to lay his thieving hands on Benedict. The glass shattered over his head, crystal raining over him as the alcohol soaked into his clothes and seeped onto the floor. The momentary chaos was enough for Benedict to gain the upper hand, rolling Fielding under him, and then his fist connected with the fucker's face in a resounding and immensely satisfying smack. Rothbury rose with the grace of a triumphant warrior, disheveled and – heaven help her- incredibly delicious. His wide shoulders moved with the force of his breathing, labored from his struggle. He rubbed a hand on his chest as if to soothe an ache and too late she remembered his breathing affliction.

And then before she knew it, or could stop herself, she had practically launched herself into his arms. 

Another unfortunate side effect of her courses; she was a little prone to tears. Before she knew it, she was sobbing into his shoulder. His body was stiff, as if he was unsure of how to react to her unexpected burst of emotion. His hand patted her back awkwardly, murmuring his poor attempt at comforting words and the fact that he was trying to offer her comfort after defending her only made the tears run faster.

God, she would never forgive herself for this embarrassing display, but that was a thought for another time.

'Are you alright?' She sniffled, unable to stop herself from running her hands all over his torso to check for any signs of injury once the criminal had been taken away.

'Yes. I am alright.' His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs absently wiping her tears.

'You must think me so foolish for having believed his story without even corroborating it.' She sighed, embarrassment reddening her cheeks. She found herself unable to meet his eye.

'Just a little.' He admitted. 'It is because you are a romantic, you cannot help yourself. I can hardly hold it against you.' 

She sucked in a sharp breath at the insult. His finger gripped her chin and forced her to meet his steady gaze.

'I do not seek to offend you, wife.' He replied gruffly. 'It is not always a bad thing to be an optimist, though it does make one a little more susceptible to treachery. It is because you are a romantic that the people of this town admire you enough to hunt down the man who harmed you.  It is not easy seeing negativity and coldness in everything, either. It takes a toll on your heart. On your soul. Your soul remains without blemish, without weight because you are a romantic.'

If only he knew about the weights on her soul. Still...

'I think that is the nicest thing you have ever said to me, husband.' She attempted a wobbly smile.

'It is a strange occasion after all.' He responded with a hesitant smile of his own. 'Are you alright?'

'Yes! Though I only wish I had thrown the decanter harder!'

His face lit up in a disbelieving grin. 'My wife is a foul-mouthed, bloodthirsty little thing. I should be appalled, but the excitement seems to have addled me for I am finding it outrageously hilarious.'

Dare she say she heard a bit of fondness in that sentence?

'Well, we Americans have to have some qualities to set us apart from you dreary English. I imagine the proper duchessly thing to do was faint?'

'Duchessly is not a word.' He corrected mildly. His thumbs continued to caress her skin, though her tears were long gone. His gaze dipped down to her mouth, forcing a shudder of desire to wrack her frame. She resisted the urge to wet her lips with her tongue in invitation. In a desperate bid to break the heady moment before she did something stupid, she joked:

'Though if you'd just let him at me, you would have washed your hands of your troublesome wife finally.'

His gaze snapped back to hers, his dark eyes tumultuous with an emotion she was unable to name.

'Never.' He rasped, insistent. 'Never even in my worst moments have I ever wished you harm. Do you think I do not know what I owe you?' And then his lips curved upward in a playful smile. 'Which, by the by, is more than what can be said for you, what with your cursing me to fall into the Thames.'

Oh. Oh, dear. Her stomach fluttered helplessly. The smile took years and years off of his appearance. And if she had thought him a little irresistible before, he was devastating now.

'Why, Benedict William Montgomery, I do believe you are teasing me.' She smacked his shoulder and then strategically stepped out of his embrace. It was time for a tactical retreat!

'Why, Minerva Catherine Montgomery, I do believe I am.' His smile turned strangely wistful. 'I believe I am keeping you from an engagement. I hope you enjoy your picnic, though I doubt it will outdo the excitement we've just been provided.'

Don't do it. Do. Not. Do-

'Would you like to join?' At his silence, she hastily added. 'That is, the children are rather fond of you and they have been asking for you. Of course, do not feel obligated to come.'

'I actually need to get some work done, my apologies.' He offered a tight smile and headed to his desk.

You will never learn, will you? Fool, fool, fool. How many times must you bear his rejection before it gets through to you?

She inclined her head in farewell and turned to leave.

'Wait!' He called after her, and she turned back with her heart pounding in her ears. 'It is nothing that cannot be done later. I think I shall join you after all, if you are agreeable?'

'Of course, Your Grace.'

Her heart certainly did not give a delighted squeeze.