Much Ado about the Shrew (9 page)

           
Ben
sighed as he made his way up the stairs to the Putney's ball. He was tired of
chasing after Bee, and she was obviously not happy with him tailing after her.
This would be the last evening, he decided, and from now on he would be
spending his evenings at his club. Or perhaps he would look to entertain a
young actress or singer; he knew Milford and Welles had been talking about
doing such a thing, although he doubted they would follow through.
 
They were far too tame to take a mistress.

           
He,
on the other hand... well, he had taken one, for a short time, anyway.
Isadora.
Ben sighed with the memory of
her. She had insisted on being called Lady Isadora, although Ben doubted she
could claim any noble bloodlines. She was beautiful, and their time before she
was officially his was quite heated.
 
She
had no qualms about following the regiment, and he had made it a personal goal
to have her acquiesce to be his, and his alone. The moment he became her
protector, however, he did not bed her.

           
It
was really Bee's fault, actually, Ben reminded himself. Immediately after he
had set Isadora up in a small little townhouse near their regiment, Ben had
come home on leave, and had, as was his custom, to check in on Bee and his
aunt. The night he came in, he and Beatrice had been arguing, as was
their
custom, although this particular
evening Bee had broached the subject of how unfair it was that there were some
behaviors were acceptable for men but were not for women.

           
"It
is not fair," Beatrice had said with a stamp of her foot, "that young
men are allowed to go out and enjoy themselves, while young women are supposed
to stay at home."

           
Ben
laughed. "I don't think you'd enjoy the gambling
hells
,
my dear."

           
"But
it's not just that," Bee said. "Because I'm a woman I can't do so
many things! I can't even go into a tavern."

           
"You
wouldn't enjoy those, either," Ben said, his countenance glowering at the
thought. "The men there might think you're... you're...."

           
"I'm
what?" Beatrice countered.

           
"Nothing,"
Ben muttered.
      

           
"What?
A
lightskirt
?"

           
Ben
choked on the claret he was drinking and sat up quickly. "Bee!" he
said. "You shouldn't even... I don't... for God's sake!"

           
"Don't
swear at me, Ben. I'm not an idiot, you know. And there's a brothel in the next
town over."

           
"Bee,
you shouldn't be talking about such things."

           
"Why?
Because I'm a lady? You think women don't know about tavern wenches or brothels
or mistresses?"

           
"They
don't talk about them, is all," Ben said darkly.

           
"Why
not? Some men bring their mistresses out to the theatre or to dinner
parties."

           
"They
shouldn't," Ben said, setting the wine glass down. He gazed down at his
shirt, noting the wine stains. His valet would kill him, if he had a valet.
Once the war was over, he should definitely look into getting one.

           
"I
don't see the difference between a mistress and a woman in a brothel,
anyway," Bee continued.

           
"Bee,"
Ben warned.

           
"They
are both getting paid for doing a service. It seems to me that they are the
same thing."

           
"Enough!"
Ben roared and stood up. "I cannot have this conversation with you."
He had stormed out of the room, and had been in a foul mood the rest of the
trip, barely saying anything to Beatrice or his aunt.

           
When
he got back to the Continent, he gave Isadora a beautiful sapphire necklace
immediately before he had set her free. Beatrice's comments had made something
that seemed such a wonderful idea seem lewd and cheap, and those same words
would not stop haunting him. The thought that Isadora would only be bedding him
because he was paying her tainted any sensual thought he had about her.
 
Guilt settled around his heart when he watched
her eyes widen with delight at the necklace, then at shock at being let
go.
 
That guilt was quickly replaced with
disappointment, however, when she did made no attempt to try to change his
mind, but merely smiled and gave him a peck on the cheek instead of a long,
sensual kiss, and asked when she needed to move out.

           
Ben
frowned at the memory. Perhaps he would find a nice eager widow, then. There
would be no promise of payment, no irate husband, and no Bee to make him feel
guilty.

           
She
would still find a way to make him feel guilty.

           
Ben
put a hand through his dark hair and sighed.
 
He knew it wasn't just chasing after Bee that had him out of sorts. The
truth was that he wasn't used to the constant entertainments of the Season, the
insidious small talk and stress of society. He was used to dealing with issues
of war and death, of wondering if he would even be alive the following day.
This was the longest he had dealt with the London Season in over five years,
and he found the entire experience tedious.

           
He
hoped Bee would find a husband soon.

           
Ben
was announced to almost no fanfare, as the noise of the ballroom overwhelmed
the sound of his name being called. Which was just fine to Ben, although he
hoped to find Milford and Welles, as they had promised to attend. Glancing
about the glittering ballroom, Ben spotted Bee standing with Lennox and his
aunt and a short little thing in white. Probably her cousin, he thought, whom
he would have seen, had he not left the garden party early.

           
Over
which he refused to feel any guilt whatsoever.

           
"I
see you've spotted your quarry," Ben heard Milford's voice behind him.

           
"Milford,"
Ben said, turning. "Did you just come in? I didn't hear you
announced."

           
"They
don't announce him," Welles said from behind Milford. "It causes less
embarrassment to all."

           
"We
got here a few minutes before you did," Milford said, ignoring Welles.

           
"Anything
of consequence happen so far?" Ben asked.

           
"At
a ball? Hardly," Milford snorted. "A few young misses made cow-eyes
at Welles here.”

Ben’s eyebrows lifted.
“Really, Welles? You?”

“Shove
off,” Welles grumbled, but Ben saw a smile tug at his lips.

“I was just talking Welles
here into going into the card room,” Milford said to Ben. “You too, if you
think you can leave your lovely beauty there unattended."

           
"She's
not my beauty," Ben growled.

           
"Semantics,"
Milford shrugged.

           
"Fine.
The card room sounds excellent," Ben spat out.

           
"I'm
sure they have brandy there as well," Welles said hopefully.

           
Ben
rolled his eyes. "How did I ever get caught up with such wastrels as
you?"

           
"The
other wastrels wouldn't have you," Milford reminded him.

           
Ben
laughed in spite of himself. "Let's go, then," he said, casting
another glance at the ballroom and at Bee before turning away.

           
"Lord
Surrey!" Ben heard the footman announce.

           
What the hell?

           
"Wait," Ben said,
grabbing Welles' jacket at the back lightly, stopping him.

           
"What's
the holdup?" Milford turned. "Are we in search of brandy or
not?"

           
"It
can't be," Ben murmured.

           
But
it was. The entire ballroom had grown silent at the announcement, and now had
erupted in a flurry of conversation.
 
Ben
turned and saw the man who had killed his best friend in cold blood standing at
the entryway.

           
Surrey
surveyed the crowd with a sardonic look on his face.
 
He looked very much the same as he had five
years before, standing over William's dying form; he seemed bored with
everyone's excitement and anxiety.
 
But
what the hell was Surrey doing there, and why was he wearing a bloody officer's
uniform?

           
"It's
Surrey," Ben snarled. "What the hell is Surrey doing in England? I'll
kill him. I'll kill him tonight. In fact, I'll kill him right now."
          

           
"Hold
on," Welles said, putting a firm hand on Ben's shoulder, holding him in
place. Ben sometimes forgot how strong Welles was; the firm grip stopped him in
his tracks, which, he belatedly realized, was on a direct course to
Surrey.
 
Ben took a breath, and relaxed
his hands that he discovered had both curved into tight fists.

           
 
"He deserves to die," Ben said in a
low voice.

           
"No
doubt," Milford murmured, having quickly placed himself on Ben's
left.
 
On some level Ben realized that
Milford and Welles were flanking him in case he decided to throw himself at the
bastard.
 
Which, truth to be told, was
looking more and more decidedly like an excellent idea.

           
"Just...
wait," Welles said softly, and the crowd began to murmur loudly again.

           
"What
the hell is going on now?" Ben muttered, craning to see over feathered
headdresses.

           
"Oh,
dear God," Welles said.

           
"I
knew we should have gone to the Rochester's ball first," Milford sighed.

           
"What?
What do you see that I don't?" Ben asked, pushing his way through the
crowd.

           
"We
are going to have to resign our commission after this, you know," Milford
grumbled as he and Welles followed in Ben's wake.

           
Welles
sighed loudly as he pushed aside the crowd. "I know," he said
dolefully.
 

           
"What
are you two going on about?" Ben asked, turning his head slightly,
noticing the room grow unnaturally quiet.

           
Welles
nodded once to the scene that was playing out in the middle of the ballroom
floor. "That," he said.

           
Ben
turned to see the tableau unfolding before him. There stood Surrey, resplendent
in his red coat, his tall, thin frame towering over most of the lords in the
room.
 
Marching towards him across the
ballroom floor, without missing a beat, was Bee.
 
The crowd parted quite willingly for her as
she made her way through, and she quickly reached the edge of the dance floor,
which had been vacated by the dancers as soon as Surrey had been announced.
 

           
Ben
had often been invited to watch dog fights, but found he hadn't the stomach for
such violence.
 
The men who ringed the
fights were as aggressive as the animals inside, yelling and screaming at the
top of their lungs. Even though there was no sound except the soft pad of Bee's
slippers on the dance floor, there was as much excitement for pain here as
there was at one of those fights, and Ben was reminded of the smell and
anticipation of violence.
 
His insides
squeezed as Bee approached the man who had murdered her brother.

           
Bee
marched up to Lord Surrey, one hand holding her skirts to allow her to take
such long strides. She stopped when she stood but a foot from him, and dropped
her skirts, smoothing them lightly while staring Surrey straight in the
eye.
 
Lord Surrey, however, did not move,
but remained a statue, as if he knew the altercation was coming, and would
rather have it done with now than later.

           
"Bee,"
Ben whispered, and began pushing his way through the remainder of the crowd.