'I am worried about Ophelia, Ben.' She came and sat on the edge of his bed, realizing that she never bothered to come into the chamber before. She tilted her chin up to admire the new mural on his wall depicting azure skies and playful cherubs. Ben looked up from where he was going through a report on some new farming techniques by the fire. 'I feel as though something was amiss in her behavior.'

'I agree.' Her husband concurred. 'But not to worry, I have spoken to her.'

Minerva couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that was coiling through her. She tried to convince herself that she was overreacting, that her bias against Needham was making her see things that weren't there.

But she had seen it. Needham had reached for Ophelia after breakfast and she had flinched away from his touch. The steel in his eyes afterward had sent alarm bells tolling away in her head. How many times had she seen the same exact exchange between her parents?

'You have?' She asked, trying to keep her voice even. 'What did she say?'

Vera had never liked Needham, but her apathy had turned into active dislike when, upon a visit about a year ago, he had yelled at one of her maids until the girl had wept because she had accidentally spilled some tea over his newspaper. And when Vera had stepped in, she had seen such unchecked rage in his eyes that she had nearly staggered under the force of it. Ugly, harsh, and unforgiving; and Needham had managed to mask it with a bored look so swiftly that it had unsettled Vera to the bone.

Needham had not liked Vera after she had undermined him in front of the staff, but she out-ranked him and he dared not say anything or make his dislike known. He remained unfailingly polite, always courteous but Vera could not shake the feeling that she had a glimpse of the real Needham that day, instead of witnessing him at a bad moment.

'She and Needham have been fighting as of late. Naught to be very concerned over.' He reassured her then turned back to his reading. Vera wasn't so easily mollified.

One by one, other small details began to filter in. Details, which, on their own were insignificant, but if one were to take a step back, a picture would begin to form. Ophelia's clumsiness as of late, Ophelia sometimes canceling plans at the last minute, Ophelia's hesitance to leave her husband for long stretches, the Arabian that had been abused, and the tendency of staff to quit Needham's household after a few months.

A very, very concerning picture.

Everything in her was screaming at her to tell Benedict. He would tear apart anyone who would dare to harm his family.

How to do so when all she had to go on was a gut feeling? No solid evidence to speak of. Not even servants' gossip. The niggling of self-doubt would not leave her.

What if her personal experience was making her see things that weren't there? Just like with gin; just because someone imbibed did not make them a threat. Her brain just refused to understand that. What if what Ben was saying was right and she had just witnessed the aftermath of a marital quarrel?

She feared that if she was wrong and she set Benedict's into motion over nothing, she might ruin her sister's happiness. And her relationship. Ophelia was one of Minerva's closest friends. One of her few allies in a sea of hostiles. She could not afford to alienate her.

No, she must talk to Ophelia first. She would have to scheme to get her alone, Needham was a terribly clingy husband. Always underfoot.

But before that, she had a ball to prepare for.

As if he had read her very thoughts, her husband asked, 'What is the color of the gown you will wear tonight?'

'It is midnight blue with silver embroidery on the bodice. Why do you ask?'

'I will match my waistcoat to it if I have something similar.' He said absently, squinting at the page and shifting it so it would catch more light, muttering something about technical drawings not being scaled correctly.

Why did he seem so terribly irresistible?

Because she was insistent on being the biggest fool to walk the earth, naturally.

Benedict could not help but let his appreciative gaze roam down his wife's lush figure as she descended the stairs to where he waited. Her hair had been curled and put into a lovely arrangement atop her head, tiny gems worked into individual strands to make her hair seem like the night sky shined atop it. The silver embroidery glowed in the candlelight, drawing one's eye to the creamy expanse of her chest, the neckline tasteful but teasing.

Devil and damn, she truly did have the best bust in all of Britain.

She was beautiful on an average day but in her evening finery? She was the goddess she had been named after. When she walked up to him, he bowed for her. He took her gloved hand and kissed it. Her eyes roamed his evening attire in blatant feminine appreciation. Attraction crackled between them like a physical manifestation.

Christ, how he wanted her.

'You are a vision tonight, Lady Rothbury.' He was unable to keep the sheer wonder from his voice, something primal in him purring at the fact that it was his name she bore.

'You look very dashing yourself, Your Grace.' She winked at him and he felt his cheeks go hot at the flirtation. This is what he had been reduced to; a blushing debutant. Next, he would be batting his eyelashes and giggling behind a fan.

Pathetic.

Yes, he admitted it, he was a little enamored with his wife. Charmed, captivated, besotted, infatuated; take your pick. He liked to touch her, even in the most ordinary ways. He liked taking her hand to help her rise from her seat or when she patted him in affection. If he had been joining her in her visits to the orphanage just for the sheer pleasure of her company, watching her work and talk to the children, who could raise an issue with it? If he had put his hand on her waist to guide her away from a puddle when they had been strolling after lunch and then had kept his arm around her, what of it? And if he looked for excuses to brush his lips across any possible surface of her skin; nose, cheek, wrist, or palm, who would dare oppose him?

She was his under the eyes of the law and God. He could touch her as much he damned wished. As long as she offered no complaint, what did he have to be ashamed of?

He kept a propriety stance around her as they entered the ballroom of the unassuming country estate, all eyes on them as the majordomo announced their arrival. The ballroom was of a modest size, but the tiles had been freshly cleaned and the chandelier added a lovely glow to the room. Men and women mingled with an ease only a country ball could provide, dressed well if not in the height of fashion. Servants moved about crying trays with flutes of champagne and the orchestra was in place.

It was surprising to Benedict how difficult it had been to slip back into his Ducal Persona. The haughty angle of his chin, the half-bored look on his face, the restraint in expression of any emotion. It was as if Benedict and The Duke of Rothbury were no longer one and the same. Two sides of the same coin certainly, but distinct from one another nonetheless.

Perhaps he had never been just The Duke. Perhaps he had just needed a little reminding. Perhaps he had needed an American hoyden to remember that he was also someone, not just his duty to the title. He resisted the urge to pull his wife even closer.

He scowled a little at the openly appreciative male glances that were shot her way. His wife had been foolish to take someone so beneath her station for a lover, now all these irrelevant country squires thought they had a chance to earn a place by her side.

Like the devil would he allow that to happen! If anyone was going to be filling that position, it would be him.

'The way they're gawking at you, one might think you were royalty.' She whispered to him teasingly as people came one after another to make their acquaintances. He neglected to point out it was she who was garnering far more attention.

'I will have you know, madam, that I am seventy-third in the line of ascension. Likely I am the closest to royalty that these people will ever see.' He teased back as he shook hands with their host and exchanged polite greetings before moving on.

'Really?' She was astonished. 'I had no clue. Though seventy-two seems like an awful lot of people to murder.....'

'What?'

'A scheming, title-hungry woman like me has lofty ambitions, Your Grace.' She winked. 'Why settle for being some Duchess when I could be Queen?'

God, he adored her wit. He never knew what was going to come out of that tart little mouth of hers.

'If it is any consolation, you are already a queen in my eyes, madam. Best keep your plans for treasons under wraps, others might not be as forgiving as I.'

'Sir!' She smacked his arm with her decorative fan. 'You are flirting with me.'

'Just a little.' He dragged a suggestive thumb across the swell of her hips and felt her answering shudder.

'Benedict.' She warned, shooting him a half-irritated, half-aroused glare.

'Minerva, I want you.' He lowered his voice so that no one else could hear him. 'I make no secret of it. It's hardly my fault you look extremely ravishing tonight. If had my way, you would have never made it to this ball untouched.'

Whatever she had been about to respond with was forestalled by sudden applause, announcing the arrival of the guests on honor. Benedict shifted his attention to the top of the staircase where the newlywed couple stood.

His mouth almost dropped open in absolute horror.

That was Sir Whose-it?

Perhaps only an inch or so shorter than Benedict, with broad shoulders (clearly his wife had a type), a full head of thick golden hair. His form was not the lean and slim one of aristocrats, even in his evening coat one could make out the bulge of muscular arms. His face was, Benedict was loathed to admit it, flawless. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, and green eyes. His posture was one of restrained power typical of soldiers. That must have been how he earned his knighthood. He looked like something out of the Iliad.

'That is your lover?!' He hissed at his wife, who was pointedly looking away from the descending couple. 'Bloody fucking Adonis over there?!'

How the devil was he supposed to compete with that?!

'Ugh. He looks so deliriously happy.' His wife sneered and turned her face away. 'After all that he has done to me!'

'Minerva, your lover looks like a damned Greek hero.' He snapped. 'You could have done me the damned courtesy of choosing an average-looking fellow!'

'Yes. He's rather magnificent to look upon, I don't just take anyone up on their offer. I have some standards, you know.' She waved her hands absently but she must have seen something of the horror in his face because she hastily added. 'I am sure your Frenchwoman is very beautiful, Benedict.'

As if that would mollify him!

'There is no Frenchwoman any longer!' He said testily. 'And she was nowhere as-'

He paused before he could embarrass himself any further, but of course, it was too late. His wife turned to him with a sly grin and quirked eyebrow. 'Nowhere near as heartbreakingly, devastatingly beautiful as I am?'

He gave her a pointed stare and refused to comment.

'Why, thank you, Husband. How kind of you to say.'

'I didn't say anything.' He grumbled. 'And certainly not anything involving the phrase heartbreakingly.'

'Ah, but you thought it and it warms my heart.' She seemed so damned smug, and it seemed to just make him like her more. He didn't think it was possible, but his wife was rapidly becoming his favorite person to be with. God, any more of this and he might as well try his hand at poetry.

'Would it be any consolation if I told you I far prefer Hades to Adonis?'

He felt his annoyance melt into a puddle. 'Marginally.'

She had him wrapped around her dainty little finger.

No, no this would not do at all, this imbalance of power in their dynamic. They had always been equals from the very beginning.

It was becoming clear and clearer to Benedict that he had only one way to remedy his infatuation with his wife; he was going to woo her until she, too, wanted no one but him. Until she, too, saw the most obvious answer; there was no future better than one in which they were together.