Fearless Duke

frowning Jacobs. He tugged on his hat. “Your Grace, I cannot seem to get nearer to Westmorland House than this. Unless you wish me to travel back and approach through the mews, but what with the crush of carriages, I am afraid it may take us an hour or more.”
The crush of the carriages? Was someone having a fête he was unware of this evening? Perhaps he had not been invited. Or he had, and he had simply forgotten. Lord knew he was not the most social of creatures.
“Who is having a party this time, Jacobs?” he asked wearily.
Jacobs eyed him as if he had gone mad. “You are, Your Grace.”
Hell and damnation.
This could only be the work of one woman.
Callie.
“I am not hosting a party this evening, Jacobs,” he said, struggling to keep calm.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace.” Jacobs paused, looking genuinely perplexed. “But there is a party at Westmorland House this evening. A big affair, from the looks of it.”
Fuck.
All he had wanted was a quiet supper. A soup course, nothing more. A drink of whisky. Perhaps two. And then a hot soak in his newly appointed bathing room before he went to his bed, taking himself in hand to thoughts of the prickly Miss Killjoy.
“I will exit here, Jacobs,” he decided. “You may circle round to the mews as you please.”
Jacobs tugged at his hat again. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Of course it was not what he damn well wished, but it would seem he had no choice. His house was being overrun. Without his prior knowledge. And not for the first time. He waited for his coachman to depart before rising from the bench and following.
The January night was cold and blustery. As he landed on the pavements, a wind whipped up and nearly stole his hat. Icy drizzle fell steadily overhead. With each lashing gust, a fresh burst of frigid raindrops pelted him. Ahead, his townhome loomed—Christ, it still felt strange indeed to think of that ancestral pile of bricks he had visited so much in his youth as his.
Jacobs had not been exaggerating the crush of carriages ahead. Bloody hell, the entire street looked as if it were a stable. And from the looks of it, everyone disembarking from their carriages was creating a fashionable line as they flooded his front door.
He stalked on, his irritation mounting. There was only one reason why his house would be overrun with guests and blazing with lights. Blast her. He was going to have a talk with Callie once and for all. This was his home, by God. And though it was hers as well, she could not simply thrust societal engagements upon him. She could not host parties on a whim.
On he marched, growing more irate by the moment. Men and women descended from their carriages, flitting onward. Into his sanctuary. He had a great deal of patience for Callie, because he loved her. But she had tested his patience one too many times. And this fête, ball, whatever the hell it was, when he was ballocks deep in danger, treachery, termagant typing school proprietresses, dynamitards, and Lord knew what else, was the outside of enough.
As he made his way up the walk to the portico, he skirted the guests awaiting entrée. He would be damned before he would wait in line to enter his own abode.
Grimly, he slipped inside, his ire growing with each step. He fumed as he handed off his outerwear. By the time he reached Young, who was making announcements in the grand ballroom, he was furious. He took his butler aside.
“Why the devil was I not informed there was a ball being held here this evening?” he growled.
Young looked as if he had swallowed a toad. “Lady Calliope expressed a desire to surprise Your Grace.”
Of course she did. He was going to lock Callie in her chamber for the next sennight.
“Damn it, Young, who is your employer?” he demanded. “My sister or me?”
The retainer, whose marked devotion to Callie had not gone unnoted by Benedict, swallowed. “You are my employer, Your Grace. It is merely that Lady Calliope asked that this ball remain a secret.”
This was not the first time his hellion of a sister had thrown a ball without his knowledge or approval. Nor, he suspected, would it be the last. Callie had a way about her that lured in the most hardened of hearts. He wondered at how he had failed to note the preparations earlier, but he supposed he had been buried in his study first and then so distracted by Miss Hilgrove’s visit that he had simply departed for his meeting.
“No more secrets, Young,” he ordered, his gaze sweeping the crowd for his sister.
“Shall I announce you, Your Grace?” asked his butler.
“No, you shall not.” Grimly, Benedict joined the crush.
She was holding court on the opposite end of the massive ballroom, easy enough to spot both by the number of gentlemen surrounding her and the bold brilliance of her blood-red gown. He could not very well tear a strip off her before an audience, and that was no doubt part of her plan.
“Your Grace.”
At the familiar voice, Benedict stopped in his determined pursuit of his sister and turned to find Roberta, the Countess of Entwhistle. She greeted him with a slow, seductive smile. She was dressed beautifully this evening, her silk ball gown hugging her figure like a lover. Her brilliant red hair had been coiled atop her head, and she wore the Entwhistle diamonds at her creamy throat. Her bodice was cut daringly low, revealing her most famous assets.
“Roberta,” he returned, bowing as he wondered what the devil she was doing in attendance.
It was decidedly de trop for one’s sister and one’s mistress to be bosom bows. But Callie made an art form of flouting propriety at every opportunity. Then again, he was not entirely certain Callie was aware of his arrangement with Roberta. He liked to hope he was discreet enough for her to remain