then?”
Benedict stared at her. The women of his own class, ladies, never laughed with their mouths open. It was considered vulgar, but, perhaps more important, few women of this age had better than tolerable teeth. So, instead of laughing out loud, they smirked, they tittered, and they giggled behind their gloved fingertips or their fans.
He ought to have been disgusted by this vulgar, laughing Irish girl. Instead, inexplicably, her laughter aroused him. He suddenly wanted to make love to her right there, right where the cat sleeps. It was an irrational impulse, of course, like all sexual attraction, but to deny it would have been even more irrational, and, where irrationality could not be avoided, Benedict liked to keep it to a minimum. Recognizing the attraction was the first step in controlling it.
“I am too old for such exercise, Miss Cosy,” he said firmly.
“Ah, no. Your hair is still black, and your back is still straight. Why, you couldn’t be more than a hundred and ten.”
“Miss Cosy!” he said sharply. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Only for about the past five hours,” she said with mock exasperation.
“I am thirty-eight,” he said indignantly. “You cannot be more than twenty-two.”
The kettle whistled, and she jumped up to take it off the hook. “Are you sure you won’t have a cup, Sir Benedict?” she asked. “No sense wasting a boiling kettle, is there?”
“No; I thank you. One is obliged to drink so much tea in society that I never drink it in private life.” He held out his glass. “Whiskey will suffice, I think.”
Cosy hesitated. Having learned from bitter experience that a third glass of whiskey could turn even the most respectable man into a thorough blackguard, she had decided to cut him off at two. “That would be your third, sir,” she reminded him gently. “You might want to slow down.”
“Why?” he said sharply. “Is there something wrong with your whiskey?”
She stared at him blankly for a moment, then, for no reason he could detect, burst out laughing. Again, her laughter had its unsettling effect on his physiology. With tears in her eyes, she uncorked the bottle. “You’ve earned your third glass, so you have. ‘Is there something wrong with your whiskey?’” she repeated as she poured it out.
She sat down on the step again and wiped her streaming eyes with the corner of her apron. “It’s just the sort of thing Sandy would say, to get a third glass out of me. He could always make me laugh, Sandy. God forgive me, he’s the one I miss the most.”
Benedict felt absurdly jealous of the unknown Sandy.
“I’ve three brothers altogether,” Cosy said, after a moment, persevering in the face of his apparent indifference. The man had a face like carved marble. “They appreciated my cooking,” she added, giving him a look of strong reproach. “Of course, they’d eat their own fists if I let them, so it’s hardly a compliment.”
Benedict was pleased. “I see. Sandy is your brother?”
“One of three,” she reiterated.
The possibility of three Irishmen running tame in his house, eating their own fists, did not appeal to Benedict at all. “Are they in Ireland?” he asked, concerned.
“They are not. Larry’s in hell, of course,” she said matter-of-factly, “but there’s hope for Sandy, I’m thinking. I’m on my knees for him, anyway. They served in the Fifty-fourth, the Duke of Kellynch’s Own Regiment of Foot. Do you know it?”
He spoke gravely. “Yes, of course. Only four men survived the Waterloo action.”
She nodded. “My father was one. He’s in India now, with two hundred fresh recruits. Larry and Sandy were not so fortunate. They died there in Belgium, like so many.”
“I’m sorry,” he said gravely. “Especially in regards to poor Larry.”
“They were fighting men,” she said simply. “Were you at Waterloo?”
“Only as an observer.” Benedict held up his glass. “To the fighting Kellynch.”
The toast earned him an unprecedented fourth glass of whiskey. The drink seemed to be loosening his tongue, which pleased her. She thought he was the most interesting man she had ever met. She could have talked to him all night. She never wanted to go to bed.
“You said you had three brothers.”
“My youngest brother is on his way to India now,” she told him. “That’s Dan. He’s only eighteen, the lamb. When you knocked, I was afraid you might be bringing me bad news.”
Reassured that her father and brothers were all out of the way, he had no further interest in her family. “How long have you been acquainted with Lord Skeldings?” he asked abruptly.
“Skeldings?” she repeated in surprise. “Which one is he?”
“How many have there been?” he wanted to know.
“Too many,” she said frankly. “One more lordship, and I’m off to America.”
He frowned at her. “Lord Skeldings is the owner of this house, Miss Cosy.”
“Is he so? It was all handled by agents,” she explained. “I asked only for a nice, quiet place in a respectable street. So I did all right for myself, I think?”
“Certainly Camden Place is respectable enough for anyone,” he said.
She wrinkled up her forehead. “Pretty steep, though, I’m thinking?”
“Yes; but walking uphill is good exercise.”
“No; I meant the rent.” She laughed. “Don’t you think it’s exorbitant? Sure England is a dear place; everything is exorbitant.”
“Not everything, surely,” he murmured.
By strict definition, it was impossible for everything to be exorbitant, of course, but Miss Cosy did not seem to concern herself with definitions, strict or otherwise. Her fondness for the word “nice,” for example, almost amounted to a speech impediment. “Aye; everything!” she insisted. “I’ve not had a nice joint of beef these three weeks together. Eleven pence a pound! And now it’s Lent, and I couldn’t have it, even if I could afford it.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. If Miss Cosy was to be his mistress, she would have to learn to be more precise in her choice of words, and to elevate her conversation above these mundane matters in which he had no interest. To that end, he would recommend books for her, to improve her mind and refine her tongue. Her soft, creamy voice would remain unchanged. He didn’t even mind her Irish accent. It occurred to him suddenly that she might not be able to read at all; reading was widespread among women of the upper and middle classes, but most of the lower orders, both male and female, usually were illiterate. This was especially true in Ireland.
“What do your friends call you?” she asked him suddenly. “Benny? Or Dick?”
He was appalled. “Neither, I trust!”
