The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(22)

Tessa would never forget the kindness of her friends. They’d been her safe harbor during the lonely years of childhood and the stormy ones of womanhood. After yet another day of being bullied and ridiculed at Mrs. Southbridge’s, she’d arrive at the club, dejected and feeling alone.

Belinda had always had a kind word and gentle hug, Daisy an amusing rejoinder.

And Francie had been the fount of wisdom.

“As your friends, Tessa,” Francie said, right on cue, “we don’t want you getting ’urt. What ’arm would it do to ’ave a guard?”

“He wouldn’t let me come here, for starters.” Tessa plopped back onto Francie’s bed. “Bennett is like a Professor of Propriety. He’s always lecturing me, telling me what I can and cannot do. I think he enjoys enforcing Grandpapa’s orders to keep me in line.”

“Enforcing?” Belinda’s voice quivered. “Is this Bennett a brute?”

Bennett…wasn’t. That was the problem: he wasn’t like any man Tessa had dealt with before.

“He’s not,” she said grudgingly. “I mean, he is rather large, in a tall, muscular sort of way, but he’s not a lummox like the previous guards. He’s intelligent, and he’s got a gentleman’s polish…though he’s no fribble, either. In a brawl, he can hold his own as well as any prizefighter.”

“So let’s see if I got this right. This Bennett is a virile, brainy, well-mannered toff who’s good wiv ’is ’ands.” Daisy made a droll face. “I can see why no woman in ’er right mind would want ’im about. ’E don’t ’appen to be a looker, too?”

Tessa’s cheeks warmed. She’d eat her cap before admitting that Bennett was attractive.

“I haven’t noticed his looks,” she lied. “The point is I don’t like his manner.”

“What’s wrong with his manner?” Daisy wanted to know.

He’s too observant. Overbearing. And he never loses his temper.

She found Bennett’s equanimity particularly irksome. Yet she appeared to be the only one for Mrs. Gates was constantly praising his amiability and Mrs. Crabtree his steady, considerate nature. Tessa, however, didn’t trust a man with good manners.

Perhaps it was because she was used to men who expressed their displeasure in no uncertain terms. Both her father and grandfather had volatile tempers. In contrast, Bennett’s calm rationality was dashed unnatural. When she played a prank on him, he didn’t shout or threaten or show much emotion at all. In fact, he regarded her with calm brown eyes, gave her a lecture in cool, rational tones, and moved on…as if nothing had happened!

This, perversely, egged on her bad behavior. Made her want to get some reaction from him. To pierce his blasted armor of control.

“He’s high-handed and controlling.” She crossed her arms. “Can you believe he had the gall to prevent me from seeing Alfred? To tell me what to do?”

“He’s a man, luvie,” Francie said. “Telling a woman what to do is what they do best.”

“Well, I don’t need some dictatorial keeper. Especially one whose sole purpose is to ensure that the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville gets a pristine bride,” she said bitterly.

Bennett’s complicity with her grandfather’s plans angered her most of all. For a brief instant, when she and Bennett had been on the run together and he’d let her guide the way, she’d believed that he saw her as an equal. That the respect she’d felt was mutual. Instead, he thought she was some bored twit who ought to do whatever she was told.

Francie quirked a brow. “Your grandfather is still set on marrying you off to Ransom?”

Society had given the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville the moniker of “Ransom.” It was not only a clever contraction of his two titles but also a reference to his popularity with the ladies: according to the on dit, he held female hearts hostage wherever he went. If the situation weren’t so dire for her personally, Tessa would have snickered at the ton’s absurdity.

“I have to meet the blasted nob tomorrow night,” she said mulishly.

“Would it be so bad to be a duchess?” Belinda’s expression turned dreamy. “Just fink o’ the fancy balls and ’ouses in the country, rubbin’ shoulders wiv all ’em grand folk.”

Tessa could sum all of that up in one word: torture.

During the Southbridge years, she’d hated every minute of pretending to be Miss Theresa Smith. Hated being forced to hide her name, family, and heritage—and for what? To be ridiculed by milk-fed chits who didn’t know their arse from their elbows?

Crikey, she had more important things to do than being a wallflower. Grandpapa’s empire was under attack. She had to protect her people, her world.

She lifted her chin. “No title is worth giving up my name and who I am.”

“From what I’ve ’eard, Ransom ’as merits other than ’is title,” Daisy said with a smirk. “One big merit in particular.”

“’Old your tongue,” Francie admonished. “Tessie’s ’ere.”

“It’s all right—” Tessa began.

Francie shook her head. “It’s not right. You’re an unwed miss.”

“Sorry, forgot meself,” Daisy said contritely.