Unconventional Suitors 01 - Her Unconventional Suitor, Page 2

  Benedict waved one hand before him. “Not tonight, Jonathan.”

  Jonathan’s face registered confusion. “You have no need of my services, my lord? Are you not going out for the evening?”

  Benedict leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “It is not that at all. I have found that none of the clothing I ordered will do.”

  Jonathan gulped loudly. “Do they not fit to your liking, my lord, or is it something else? They appear to be cut of the finest material and are very well made.”

  Oh and they were, Benedict thought with irritation. His new wardrobe had been ordered with care, each garment being custom-made to fit his physique to perfection. He had spared no expense on the wardrobe either, hoping to make a good impression upon his re-entrance into society. But, thanks to his dim-witted friends, the clothing would go to waste this season, a thought that vexed him greatly.

  Benedict debated whether he should fabricate a story to tell Jonathan or if he should simply tell him the truth as to why he would not be wearing some of his new clothing to the Trenton Ball this evening. He finally settled on being honest.

  Jonathan sat stone-faced listening to Benedict’s silly excuse. It sounded even sillier to Benedict’s ears when he was forced to try and explain his reasoning. It was clear that Jonathan was not amused. Once he had finished explaining the bet, leaving out the part about the child the former Earl of Danford had fathered with his lover, he sat back in his wing-backed chair and waited for a response.

  Several long seconds passed before Jonathan spoke haughtily. “What a foolish idea, my lord. You are no longer in your youth; your reputation does not need to be compromised at your friends request. Your mother would be appalled to learn of this. I insist you back out of this childish bet at once.”

  “It is not your place to insist I do anything,” Benedict reprimanded. Jonathan’s cheeks turned red as he continued, “Nor will I allow you to speak a word of it to my mother, understood?”

  Like the obedient valet he was, Jonathan dipped his head and mumbled, “Yes, my lord,” though Benedict knew it pained him greatly to do so.

  Rising, he motioned towards his dressing room. “You may have the evening off, Jonathan. My friends will be here any moment to help me with my facade.”

  Jonathan scurried to the dressing room to replace the unused clothing just as a firm knock resounded through the room. Benedict walked to the door and swung it open with a flourish to reveal Warren, Marcus, and Griffin dressed in the height of fashion.

  He stood back and let the men walk into the room, silently inspecting their evening wear. All three men were dressed in impeccable attire, from their finely cut tailcoats down to their perfectly polished shoes. Benedict had no doubt in his mind that they spared no effort in their appearance that night in hopes of making him look even worse.

  Griffin walked over to the bed and plopped down a heap of faded clothing that he had been carrying in his arms. He pulled a ghastly looking red velvet dress coat from on top of the stack and turned, holding it up for Benedict to see.

  “This is for tonight.”

  Benedict’s eyes widened in alarm as he took in the tailcoat that was cut atrociously wide, instead of fitted as per the current fashion dictated. “It’s horrid.”

  He walked over to the stack of clothing and began rummaging through it, desperately hoping to find something less hideous and less out of date than the offensive jacket. Finding nothing he scoffed, “Where did you find all of this atrocious clothing? In your own closest?”

  “Not likely,” Griffin answered. “Most of it came from Warren.”

  Benedict looked to Warren who was several inches taller than he and much more slender. He doubted the clothing would fit, at least he hoped and prayed it wouldn’t.

  “Hurry up and get dressed,” Marcus urged impatiently, “or we will be late for the ball.”

  Benedict removed his dressing gown, throwing it haphazardly onto the bed while he waited for Griffin to hand him the chosen clothing. He handed him a worn shirt which he slipped over his head. The sleeves dripped with lace that was yellowed with age. It fit so snugly that Benedict was afraid if he lifted his arms the seams would rip.

  “How am I supposed to dance in this?” he asked with disgust, flinging his hands out before him as he inspected the horrendous lace and shuddered.

  Marcus laughed. “You mean you think you’ll actually find a lady desperate enough to dance with you dressed like that? Not likely. Now put these on,” he said, stretching forth a pair of navy blue breeches that were too long.

  Benedict slipped into the ill-fitting breeches then waited for Griffin to tie a ruffled cravat around his neck. He despised ruffles. Next, Griffin helped him into yellow waistcoat embroidered with green leaves before assisting him into the red velvet jacket whose sleeves were unfashionably short.

  “It’s no wonder you haven’t been able to snare a wife, Warren, with these dreadful clothes at your disposal. I can only imagine that if I look this awful, then you must have looked downright hideous in them.”

  Warren rolled his eyes. “You cad, those aren’t really from my closest. Do you think I would dare be seen wearing something so unfashionable? Hardly,” he scoffed.

  Benedict glared at Griffin. “I hardly dare ask where they came from then.”

  “Wise idea,” Griffin assured him. “It’s best you do not know. Now put these on,” he said, extending a pair of scuffed leather shoes with a large brass buckle towards him.

  Benedict hesitated before attempting to shove his foot into the shoes, without any success. “They aren’t going to fit,” he said with satisfaction.

  “That’s all I could procure,” Griffin said. “You will just have to wear your own shoes.”

  Benedict considered it a small victory, until he put his brand new, perfectly polished shoes on and stood back to inspect himself in the looking glass. If it were possible, the shoes only made him look even more unfashionable, for they stood out like an eye sore next to his faded and ill-fitting clothes.

  “I look like an a—“

  “Unfashionable half-wit,” Warren said, handing him a quizzing glass to finish off the look. “Exactly what we were hoping to accomplish. Now don’t forget, you must act the part as well or no one will believe it is true.”

  Benedict groaned.

  “So basically, you may continue to act as yourself,” Marcus teased.

  “It’s time for us to depart,” Warren said, coming over to muss Benedict’s perfectly styled hair. “We will see you at the ball.”

  “I may not come,” Benedict called after their retreating figures.

  “It’s your choice,” Griffin shrugged, “but then you won’t get to see which lucky lady we choose for you to wed.”

  Benedict threw the quizzing glass at his back, but Griffin pulled the door closed right before it reached him. The glass smashed into the door then clattered to the ground. Benedict was hopeful that it had broken, but when he bent to retrieve the dratted thing, it was miraculously in one piece. Just his luck.

  ***

  Benedict walked uncomfortably up the three stone stairs leading into the Trenton’s townhouse. He handed the butler his card, the whole time trying to pretend he didn’t notice the disdainful looks the servants were giving him.

  He followed a servant into the ballroom where he was introduced to the mistress of the house, Lady Fiona Trenton.

  “Benedict St. Claire, the Earl of Danford.”

  Lady Trenton eyed him skeptically, taking in his appearance with a scowl on her face. Her lips pinched tightly together as he took her hand and bowed carefully before her in hopes his clothing wouldn’t tear.

  “It is an honor, madam.”

  “Yes, I am sure that it is.” Her voice was disdainful and Benedict was grateful she couldn’t see him flinch.

  He stepped into the ballroom, scanning the throngs of people looking for Marcus, Griffin, and Warren. As his eyes scanned the crowd, he noticed several people turn to
look at him before quickly turning away, as if he wasn’t worthy of their glance. He felt deuced uncomfortable. His hideous ruffled cravat suddenly felt as if it were suffocating the breath right out of him.

  Finally, he spotted his friends and began quickly making his way to where they were standing, glasses of champagne in each of their hands. He tried to pretend that he didn’t notice several ladies tittering behind their gloves as he passed, knowing full well that he was making a cake of himself and hating every minute of it.

  “You better wipe that scowl off of your face, lest you scare your future bride away,” Marcus warned as he approached.

  Benedict grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing tray and took a long swallow. “About that. Have you had enough time to make your selection?”

  “Hardly,” Griffin chimed in. “We only just got here minutes before you. Please be so kind as to allow us ample time to make such an important decision.”

  The four of them quietly moved to a corner of the ballroom where they could comfortably appraise their options. Benedict pulled at his cravat, wishing he could take it off. The room felt too hot. He glanced around at the ladies in attendance, curiously wondering which one his friends would choose.

  His eyes roamed around the outskirts of the room, spotting several ladies standing with their mother’s, looking around nervously as if they were anxious for somebody, anybody to ask them to dance. A quick appraisal told them that these were the spinster’s of the ball. They appeared older than most of the ladies, clearly about to be considered on the shelf or already firmly there. Their dresses were out of style and their faces not altogether pleasing. It was no wonder they had not made a match.

  Inwardly Benedict groaned. These were exactly the type of ladies that his friends, in their attempt at humor, would match him with. He couldn’t fathom spending the rest of his life with someone he wasn’t attracted to in the slightest. Not for the first time, he thought this whole thing a foolish idea. If it weren’t for his friends threatening to tell his mother about his father’s shameful secret, he’d back out of the deal this instant.

  The swooshing of silk skirts alerted Benedict that somebody was moving towards him. Turning his head, he saw a plump girl with bright red hair sidling up to him. She was batting her eyes in an attempt to appear coquettish, but the attempt failed entirely. Instead the poor chit appeared as if she had something in her eye.

  As she neared, her chaperone stepped from behind her to make introductions. “Good evening, my lord. I’d like to introduce you to my niece, Miss Helen Featherstone.”

  Benedict bowed politely. Miss Featherstone’s eyes began twitching unbecomingly as she continued her awkward attempts to appear seductive. Benedict decided to forgo his own introduction and instead said, “Pardon, my lady, but it appears as if you have something in your eye. Perhaps your aunt should escort you to the retiring room so you can see to it.”

  The poor miss blushed a deep red that put her hair to shame. Benedict took the opportunity to turn away, not waiting to hear what she would say. Drawing close to Griffin, he leaned in and whispered, “Please have mercy on me, and do not match me with that chit.”

  Griffin looked towards the girl that Benedict was indicating with his eyes. “Oh no, for that would be far too easy. A lady of that quality would not hesitate to ignore your social awkwardness and state of dishabille. I think she would be most anxious to receive your attentions and flattered by your offer of marriage. No, that wouldn’t do at all.”

  Benedict sighed in relief.

  “What about her,” Marcus asked, pointing his head in the direction of a rather sturdy looking lady who had to be at least several inches taller than any of them. “She’s an amazon.”

  “Too easy.” Griffin brushed away his suggestion with those two simple words.

  Benedict’s anxiety was growing by the second. He wasn’t sure if it was due to all the stares he was receiving or due to the fact that any second now, his comrades were going to decide upon his future bride. Neither scenario was particularly comfortable.

  “What about Lady Claire?” Warren questioned, looking in the direction of a rather plain woman in a fashionable blue dress.

  Marcus inspected the girl several seconds before saying, “I do believe that Claire St. Claire has a nice ring to it.”

  “Yes,” Warren agreed with a straight face, “very proper sounding.”

  Marcus’s face broke out in a grin.

  “I realize that this is all very humorous to you, but let me remind you that it isn’t just my future you are talking about—remember that if I win the bet, it will be I on the other side of the table, picking out your brides for you, and I promise I won’t be merciful. So, choose wisely,” Benedict threatened.

  “Ah, gentlemen, I think I have found our winner.” Griffin said with a self-satisfied look on his face, ignoring Benedict’s growing agitation.

  Benedict quickly tried to determine where Griffin was looking, but all he could see was a group of several young bucks gathering in the opposite corner of the room.

  “Who is she?” Warren asked, craning his head to get a look.

  “None other than the Duke of Chesley’s oldest daughter, Lady Gillian.”

  The daughter of a duke? That sounded promising, Benedict thought as he continued to struggle to see the girl.

  “I don’t believe I have been introduced to her,” Warren admitted. “Where is she?”

  “Over in the corner, thronged by all those anxious suitors. Care to be introduced to your future wife, Danford?”

  Benedict had no choice but to nod. They slowly made their way across the room, the over-confident Griffin leading the way. Benedict squared his shoulders, deciding that appearing confident was perhaps the only thing he could do to bolster his appearance. He may be dressed like a fool, but that didn’t mean he had to carry himself as such.

  His heart was beating frantically as they made their way towards the crush of people. His palms unexpectedly began to sweat. He wiped them discreetly on his breeches before they approached. Griffin shouldered his way past several gentlemen and, as the crowds parted, Benedict laid eyes on the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and he wanted to curse. Of course Griffin would choose a diamond of the first water, for in no uncertain terms would he be able to woo her away from her many suitors dressed as he was.

  His nerves were on high alert as they approached, his eyes taking in the girl before him. She was dressed in a white gown that was the height of fashion, perfectly designed to mold artfully to her lush curves. Of course she was a debutante, Benedict thought, for it was highly improbable that the siren would have made it through her first season without an offer of marriage. Or several. She was a tempting armful to be sure.

  Her sleek chocolate-brown hair was swept on top of her head in a pile of curls, with one thick ringlet hanging over her right shoulder. Her eyes, the same color as her hair, seemed to shrewdly take in all of her surroundings, while her animated face registered delight.

  Griffin approached her mother, taking the lady’s hand in his own, he bowed before her. “Duchess of Chesley, it’s a delight to see you this evening.”

  “Lord Straton, the pleasure is all mine. How is your father doing?”

  Griffin straightened. “He is doing well, thank you for asking, though he prefers to spend his time in the country since my mother passed away.”

  “God rest her soul,” the duchess spoke reverently. Then, propelling her daughter forward, she said, “I know it has been several years since you have been to Penwitch House, but you must remember our eldest daughter, Gillian.”

  Benedict watched as Griffin gently kissed the top of Lady Gillian’s gloved hand. “Of course I remember. How could I ever forget such a lovely face?”

  Lady Gillian smiled radiantly.

  “Allow me to introduce you to my friends. This,” he said, indicating Warren, “is Lord Dawkins.”

  “Where do you hail from, Lord Dawkins?” Lady Gillian asked politely as h
e took her hand in his and bowed over it.

  “London, of course,” Warren replied.

  “Oh, how unoriginal,” she exclaimed, much to everybody’s chagrin, as she pulled her hand back.

  “Gillian Bourne,” the duchess scolded, whacking her lightly on her arm with her fan. “Just because your brain entertains a thought, it does not mean that you are required to put a voice to it. Lord Dawkins has no control over where he hails from. I insist you apologize at once.”

  Curious, Benedict watched Lady Gillian’s face for a reaction. At the very least, he expected her cheeks to bloom with color at her mother’s scolding, but they did no such thing. Instead, a small twitch formed at the corners of her mouth, as if she were struggling to keep from smiling.

  Raising her fan to cover her face, she said, “My apologies, Lord Dawkins. I truly did not intend to insult you. I myself hail from London as well.”

  “Apology accepted, my lady,” Warren quickly replied.

  Lady Gillian continued to hold her fan in front of the lower half of her face, presumably to block an ill-timed smile and avoid more of her mother’s scolding, but Benedict regretted that the blasted contraption blocked his view of her full lips, lips that were the color of his favorite raspberry jam. He briefly wondered if they would taste just as scrumptious.

  “And this gentleman here is Mr. Graham.” Marcus stepped forward and bowed over her hand.

  “Are you by chance related to the lovely Miss Serena Graham?” Lady Gillian asked excitedly, finally lowering her fan from her face.

  “It depends on the purpose of your inquiry,” Marcus said, a twinkle in his eye.

  “I’ve just had the pleasure of meeting Miss Graham tonight and I found her to be quite delightful.”

  “Then I suppose I will claim her,” Marcus smiled. “Miss Graham is indeed my sister.”

  Lady Gillian clutched her gloved hands together and squealed, “Oh, I knew it. She has your same eyes and the family resemblance is really quite striking.”

  “Yes,” Marcus drawled, “we have all been fortuitously blessed with superior family traits, though I claim to be the best looking of the lot.”