'It seems your childhood affliction has returned, Your Grace.' His physician informed him grimly as Benedict lay in his bed, being treated as a bloody invalid by both his servants and his friends. Even now Graham and Philip were hovering behind the physician like mother hens. His fainting spell had frightened them greatly, the sentimental clods. 

'Aren't you the same Goddamn man who assured me that I was cured of it?' Benedict snapped as the man before him flinched.

'These things are greatly unpredictable, Your Grace. You hadn't had an attack of your dyspnea like this in years, by all accounts it seemed that your affliction had left. I wager your accident in the Thames triggered something that caused its return.'

'You wager?' Even lying in bed, he was able to summon a tone of regal menacing. 'Do I pay your extortionist fees for bloody guesses?'

'I can only tell you what the Literature tells me, Your Grace.'

Benedict scowled but Philip cut in before he could let out the volley of curses that were flying through his mind.

'What would you suggest, Doctor? What would be the best option for His Grace?'

'I would suggest that His Grace retire early to the country, preferably somewhere with a lot of fresh air. The air of London surely isn't doing him any good. And it is given that he should avoid cheroots and cigars.'

'But I have work to do in London, and not just with Parliament.'

'I am just your humble servant, Your Grace, my place is only to suggest.' The doctor said as he began to pack up his instruments.

Benedict took a mental stock of his properties; the townhouse in Birmingham was out of the question if he needed fresh air, his estate in Scotland was too damn far away. His mother would be in residence at Rothbury Castle with her interfering friends, his wife would be at Silverton Abbey as she had summered there exclusively for the last six years. His typical country residence, Sunfield Manor, was undergoing renovations in his absence.

And.....Chatwick hall housed far too many unpleasant memories.

That left him with no choice other than Hartley Manor, but even that was an unpleasant option seeing as how he and his Duchess had the unspoken understanding that Hartley Manor was her estate, since it had formerly belonged to her father and had only been given to him as a wedding present. Speaking of his Duchess, a fresh pot of flowers was situated at his bedside.

Have you cursed me again, my strange lady?

A servant had brought him his writing utensils so that he could carry out his correspondence from the bed. Giving in to a strange impulse, he began to write his first ever letter to his wife.

Duchess,

Pray tell, what it is that I have done to earn your ire so much so that you prayed for the return of my childhood sickness? I shall hasten to make amends as I cannot be indisposed for too long.

Your Husband,

The Duke of Rothbury

Her reply arrived not even two days later. He was surprised to find that he was opening it with an anticipating smile.

Rothbury,

Not 'husband', she addressed him by his title instead. He did not know why he disliked it.

Do not jest so! I was truly apologetic for your unfortunate accident! I shall pray for your good health, though worry not, God is not kind enough to make me a widow so young. You will surely die only once I am too old and withered to remarry.

Benedict bit back a laugh. The audacity of the woman!

God and I have something of a contentious relationship, you see, but I shall not burden you with such details.

I hear you and your party are trying to have a very significant bill passed in the coming weeks, I wish you the best of luck. I would once again ask you to exercise caution when making any speeches.

Praying for your recovery.

Your wife,

Minerva

He rolled his eyes at her superstition, folded the letter up, and had his servant place it in the drawer of his study that housed her other two letters. They were far too entertaining to just throw away, so he had kept them.

It just so happened that Benedict William Montgomery, Seventh Duke of Rothbury, would indeed collapse in Parliament while giving a passionate speech. He had been fool enough to ignore the tightness of his chest and the stuffiness of the room when the session began. By the time he had gotten up to speak, his cravat had felt like a noose around his neck and his lungs had been full of lead. He had had an attack and had fainted in front of every significant personality of the peerage. The scandal sheets wondered about his ailing health and made speculations about how many gentlemen would set their eyes on his widow once he eventually passed.

While the ailment would likely not kill him, the embarrassment just might.

He woke in his bed the next morning to a fresh set of flowers, another letter in his wife's graceful script, and his gaggle of mother hens.

Husband,

Never say, dearest, that you were not warned. Wishing for your speedy recovery.

Your wife,

Minerva

He allowed himself a sardonic smile and then turned his attention to his friends. 'You all need not look so worried-'

'You are going to the country. Your work can wait.' Rutland commanded him, his regal authority a rival to Benedict's own. It made him feel like he was being reprimanded by his father. He offered his friend a glare but did not argue, seeing that both Graham and Phillip seemed ready to wrestle him into a carriage bound for Hertfordshire against his will.

'I've had your servants make preparations for travel, your things are being packed as we speak.' Phillip offered in a mild tone, trying to defuse the tension. 'I have had arrangements made for a bath.'

'And I will accompany you, to make sure you don't keel over and die on the way.' Graham informed him.

'You'll be my nanny, will you?' Benedict felt his irritation mounting at his friend's well-intentioned, but unneeded coddling. 'Feed me some soup and rub my back in case I get sick? You, sirs, are overstepping. If I want to be treated like a child, I will seek out my own damn mother!'

'Shall we have the carriage prepare for the journey to Rothbury Castle, then?' Rutland's eyebrow was raised, not even remotely hesitating before calling out his bluff. Damn and blast, this was the trouble of having friends that knew you from boyhood; they knew you tried your damn hardest to avoid your mother.

Benedict felt the energy to argue leave his body. He let his body fall back into the pillows and raised his hands in surrender.

'Take me to Hartley, then, Nanny Dearest.' He waved irritably, knowing full well it would give all his friends a start.

'You're going to live with the Duchess?' Phillip asked with a bated breath. 'Your sister will be very pleased!'

'The Duchess summers at Silverton Abbey in Hertfordshire, sorry to disappoint, old chap.'

'Perhaps we should go to Silverton, it might end up being just the thing you need.' Phillip added cheerfully, not perturbed in the least by Benedict's irritation. He and his sister had the annoying habit of occasionally suggesting that Benedict try and get along with his wife. How could he explain to them that every time he looked at her, he saw Charlie's excitement for his marriage and the death of his own belief in love? That he hated everything she stood for? She was a naïve, eccentric fool that wanted love along with the title she had hunted, how was he supposed to stomach that? She was the symbol of the fact that he would never be free of his endless obligations, that his life was never his own and now it never would be.

'Quit your meddling, cousin. I tire of it.'

As Phillip raised his hands in surrender, a footman appeared in the doorway.

'Miss Camila is here to see you, Your Grace.'

'Send her in.'

The rest took it correctly as their dismissal and shuffled outside the room, but not before making their irritation known.

The smell of jasmine wafted into the room, announcing her arrival before she came and sat at the foot of his bed. She was lovely as always, her golden hair done up in tight curls pinned to the top of her head with a lilac ribbon holding it in place. Her emerald evening gown dipped low at the neckline, highlighting her spectacular bosom, the pearls he had given her adorned her neck.

'Oh cherie, what has happened to my strong, handsome Duke?' She asked in her French lilt that always pleased him.

'Nothing for you to worry about, sweet.' He purred as he pulled her towards him and gave her a slow, searing, diabolical kiss. 'I assure you, I am still as virile as ever.'

'I am glad to hear it, cherie. I thought they would send you to the seaside to recover and I would be all alone.' She sighed and settled herself along his broad chest as he laid a suggestive hand across her thigh and began to stroke.

'Actually, I am going to the country, but I was hoping you would come with me, my sweet.'

Her countenance changed at the drop of a hat, she stiffened in his arms and then rose. Benedict tried to keep his temper in check.

'Oh, how you jest!' She tried and failed to hide her irritation. 'I could never live without the life of the Town, you know that! How could you even suggest such a thing?"

'Forget I said anything.' He kept his voice even, in spite of the way his irritation kept mounting; his illness, his overbearing friends, his mercenary mistress, and his annoying wife who wrote annoyingly amusing letters. 'I think it's time for you to leave.'

She snapped up, her eyes glinting with disapproval. Unfortunately for her, her disapproval meant nothing to Benedict at that moment.

'You don't want to spend your final night in London, with me? We could go out to a gaming hell, and then come back and have some fun.' She purred in the flirtatious way that usually had him raring to go.

'I find I'm not much in the mood anymore.' Even as his blood heated with desire, his irritation at her refusal was killing his eagerness to bed her.

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

'Oh, I will miss you so! Return to me as soon as you can, dearest. Au Revoir.'

She'd miss his wallet.

'Farewell, Camilla.'

Benedict found that he did not understand why her refusal to come with him stung so damn much. He was young, handsome, and titled. It would appear that his arrogance was getting to his head. She couldn't very well be expected to become a country miss, it was her savvy attitude that he liked in the first place. She knew she liked parties and jewels and fine dresses and made every effort to indulge herself. She was worldly, and did not need affection and love. She was exactly what he had wanted. This arrangement suited both of them. His money, her attentions. And no other expectations.

It was just that he felt so damn lonely sometimes.

Where the fuck had that come from?!

No, he was just disconcerted following his embarrassment in Parliament. That was all. He did not need anyone. He was not lonely, that was preposterous. He had friends, a willing woman and welcomes at any club he so damn wished. His tumble into the Thames had apparently addled his brain. He closed his eyes and let his head rest against his pillows. Sapphire eyes danced behind his vision. A soft voice with a horrid accent whispered in his ears.

Then do you suppose we could be friends?

Damn and blast. He truly must have lost his damn mind if he was thinking of his wife after having turned away a most attractive, willing woman.

Perhaps he should go out with Camilla, after all. Yes, he would. That would stop the strange thoughts from swirling through his head. 

Resolute, he sent for his valet and asked a footman to stop his mistress from leaving.