Dukes of War #1: The Viscount's Tempting Minx

Chapter Seven

One week. An entire wasted week. 

Benedict drummed his fingers atop his accounts ledger. He wasn’t certain which circumstance was the most surprising: seven days passing since he’d last seen Lady Amelia, or the woman’s absence driving him battier than her presence. She had allowed that single, stolen kiss beneath the holly—and ignored him ever since. He ground his teeth. 

Something had to be done.

One might suppose he could simply wait two more days until the evening of his Christmas Eve ball, but no. Benedict could not. He had tried. 

It was four o’clock on Friday afternoon and the only thing he’d accomplished in the past seven days was wondering what Lady Amelia was doing—and vainly trying to convince her to spare him a bit of her time. He rubbed his temples. When he’d shortsightedly given her carte blanche on the decorations, he’d inadvertently spoiled the sole reason she’d had to contact him. And so she had not.

Benedict had jotted missives and left calling-cards and sent a wagonload of flowers . . . to no response. Lady Amelia was not other people. Or even most people. She was unique and fetching and too bloody efficient to pen unnecessary notes to hopelessly smitten viscounts who wished to waste her time eating ices at Gunter’s or visiting the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly. 

Merely wishing for her company was not reason enough for her to grant it. He sighed. The silver lining to her strict adherence to efficiency was that the sole solution couldn’t have been clearer: He would simply have to invent some pretext wherein he didn’t just want her. He needed her. 

And then he’d whisk her somewhere else entirely. Somewhere less tepid than lemon ices and Egyptian relics. She could do those things with anyone of her acquaintance, any time she wished. If he intended to prove that time spent with him was not only an experience worth having, but one she could not have with anyone else—well, he would have to make certain that happened. The sort of evening only a reformed rake could offer.

But first, he had to lure her from her efficient cage.

He selected a fresh sheet of parchment and sighed heavily. Nothing for it. He was forced to tempt her with the one thing she won’t be able to resist: the opportunity to lend her quick, clever brain toward the management of his estate. He dipped his pen in the ink and marveled at the steadiness of his fingers. 

A fortnight ago he had balked at the idea of accepting help with a party he had no time to arrange. And now, he was prepared to offer much more than that. He would invite her to share everything. If she would only accept the invitation.  

He smiled. She was not the only one capable of maneuvering others to do her will.

My dearest Lady Amelia,

I find myself in the position of requiring an independent perspective on a small matter pertaining to resource allocation, and my head steward shan’t return until after Christmastide. If you would be so kind as to lend your practical brain to the affair, the problem could be resolved this very day. 

That said, do come at once or not at all—I depart for Grosvenor Square at the stroke of eight. I’ve extremely impractical plans for a loud, bosky evening, and you know how loathe I am to break from schedule.

Yours &ct,

Benedict Sheffield

There. He signed with a flourish and grinned at the scrawled words. ’Twas the perfect mix of annoying and tempting. Either way, Lady Amelia would be unable to resist giving him a piece of her mind. In person. Tonight.

He franked the missive and instructed his footman to await a reply. In the meantime, he summoned his servants into the main parlor for a brief conference.

“Soon, you are to expect the arrival of Lady Amelia Pembroke. Some of you might remember her as the young lady who’d brought a book to read and rugs to sit upon in full expectation of being forced to wait to be granted an appearance. From this moment onward, she is to be granted immediate access to anything she desires including, but not limited to, my company.”

His butler’s face blanched at the thought of accepting a guest without prior appointment. “Immediate access . . . After eight o’clock?”

“Immediate access immediately. Regardless of the hour.” Benedict turned from Coombs to address the rest of his staff. “Now then. Lady Amelia believes she has been invited to offer suggestions regarding certain resource misallocations in the household.”

“What resource misallocations?” his housekeeper demanded hotly. Mrs. Harris had managed the underservants since before Benedict had inherited the viscountcy and prided herself on knowing every inch of the estate. 

He waved a hand. “I’ve no idea, but I cannot overstate the importance of allowing Lady Amelia to offer insightful suggestions.” 

Coombs cleared his throat. “We’re to . . . humor the lady?”

“Humor her?” Benedict paused. There once was a time when he too thought such a feat was possible. This was no longer a meaningless game—if it ever had been. 

The only prize worth winning was her heart. She was already in possession of his. “No. Please treat her as if she will become your future mistress. With luck, I can make that happen.”

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