Chapter 5
Dear Uncle,
I was in Wiltshire for all of an hour before bollocksing everything up—
Dear Uncle,
You asked for my report on the condition of Aldercombe Grange and my appraisal of the new land agent. Might I interest you instead in my reflections upon how it feels to hold the warmth of a woman’s ankle within my palm—
Dear Uncle,
God, I’m an idiot—
Ben took yet another sheet of paper and tore it into bits, scattering the remnants into the fireplace so the flames could turn them to ash. That accomplished, he slunk back to the desk in the middle of his study and sank into the leather chair, taking up his quill for perhaps the twentieth time.
But it was no use. The words he needed wouldn’t come; there was no explaining a situation that continued causing him a great deal of uncertainty and, frankly, confusion.
He slumped back in his chair with a sigh, surveying the stacks of literature that cluttered his desktop. There were account books to peruse. Farming pamphlets to study. Estate correspondence in need of replies. Yet for all that he’d been a dedicated scholar, he could focus on none of it.
He leaned to the side where his bulldog, Achilles, lay curled up by his feet, and he absently scratched the sleeping animal behind the ears.
There was something calming in performing the rhythmic motion.
In a world that kept changing and throwing him off balance, the dog at his heels was the one constant.
Achilles had happened upon him by chance when Ben was a mere boy of eleven, providing a much-needed companion to both Ben and his brother Alex when they’d become fatherless children adjusting to life in their stringent grandmother’s home.
Many years had passed since then, but although Achilles grew slower and a little grayer about the muzzle, he remained ever the faithful friend.
He’d been there waiting at the door upon Ben’s unexpected return from Cambridge several weeks ago, wagging his tail while the rest of the family looked on in bafflement.
He’d been there the day when Ben’s uncle, the marquess, had shown up at his home on Buckingham Street, looking to give Ben a fresh purpose.
And now, Achilles was here as Ben sat in the countryside, pondering how swiftly and abysmally he’d erred in his new role.
He’d tried to right a wrong in the best way he could imagine.
How was he to know that Miss Collingwood would receive his proposal as favorably as if he’d asked her to go to London and stroll about Hyde Park in the nude?
How could he have predicted that her cheeks would turn very pink, and her eyes would look very blue, and she’d storm away from him while shouting her intentions to revisit the house that had cast her out?
There’d been nothing for him to do in the period following but go home, despite Lady Collingwood’s frantic assurances that if he only stayed for dinner, her daughter would return and come to her senses.
He may not know Miss Collingwood—Violet—well, but he’d discerned enough to suspect that once she made up her mind on something, she didn’t easily back down.
Which left him with an unsolved problem.
He sank his fingers deeper into the dog’s glossy coat, his gaze wandering to the vibrant green fields beyond the window.
Unless Violet’s darling George—the mere thought of the man made Ben somewhat dyspeptic—had a change of heart, how would she rid herself of the scandal?
In turn, how was Ben to salvage his own good name?
He could ill afford another smear on it.
“Sir?” His butler’s voice drew his attention to the door, eliciting a soft whine from Achilles when the ear scratches stopped. “Forgive the interruption,” Pearce said, “but there’s a young lady here to see you. A Miss Collingwood.”
Ben stiffened in his chair, the name jolting him as if he’d touched his palm to a hot poker. What did this mean? A deluge of possibilities began forming in his head, each one fighting for purchase. However, he pushed them aside, offering a brusque nod. “Thank you, Pearce. Please show her in.”
The butler shot him a knowing glance—which should perhaps come as no surprise—before bowing and making his retreat. Rumors seemed to travel in the countryside even faster than if they were printed in a London gossip rag.
But what of it? Ben sprang to his feet, running a hand through his hair and smoothing the sides of his trousers. He would get back to lamenting the virulent spread of gossip after his meeting with Violet.
He was just returning his reading spectacles to his pocket when the woman in question walked in, halting a few steps before his desk and standing there like a portrait on display.
She’d seldom left his thoughts from the time of their first encounter, but his memory failed to do justice to how bright she appeared.
Her gown today was vibrant yellow, the striped fabric subtly highlighting the plushness of her curves.
The sun caught the corkscrew curls that hung below her bonnet, making the golden swirls shine.
Her eyes were the same clear blue as the afternoon sky, her lips the same soft pink as the peonies blooming in the garden.
Lips she began biting as her eyes fixed uncertainly on the creature at his feet.
Not that Ben could blame her—the dog did have origins in a blood sport arena.
However, it was a place for which he couldn’t have been more ill-suited because he didn’t have an aggressive bone in his body.
Presently, Achilles lifted his substantial head, sniffing the air in Violet’s direction. Maybe he smelled sweetness.
“Come in, Miss Collingwood.” Ben quickly cast away all postulations about feminine scents as he bent to give the dog a few pats, then motioned to the chair on the other side of the desk. “Achilles is harmless, I assure you. He does little these days beyond sleeping.”
As if proving Ben’s point, Achilles finished his evaluation and, seemingly satisfied, rolled onto his side to doze.
Violet almost smiled at that. He caught the quirk of her mouth and the tiny crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Yet before it fully developed, she rushed forward, accepting the proffered chair with merely a nod. “Thank you. Good day, Mr. Prescott. And Achilles.”
“Good day.” He returned to his chair, giving his waistcoat a swift tug to ensure it remained straight and folding his hands against the desktop. And then, when she made no attempt to say anything else … he waited.
The lady had obviously come for a reason, and he had no wish to play a guessing game as to what that reason was.
Especially because his recent assessments weren’t particularly sound.
Instead, he sat in silence while she adjusted her bonnet.
Smoothed her skirts against the chair. Twisted the edge of the airy material within her fingertips.
Until finally, her attention returned to him, and words tumbled out.
“I fear I was impolite during your visit yesterday.”
His brow twitched. Had she come to apologize, then? He gave his head a single brisk shake. “You needn’t trouble yourself over it.”
She pursed her lips, drawing in an audible breath that made her chest rise and her shoulders tauten. “I fear I was hasty.” She exhaled, but the tension didn’t leave her body. “When you made me the offer of marriage, did you really mean it?”
Marriage. The mere mention of the word caused him to feel … he didn’t know. Relieved? Terrified? He didn’t try to sort it; he made himself focus only on facts. “I wouldn’t have extended the offer otherwise.”
“But why?” She leaned forward, her elbows hitting the edge of the desktop as she gazed at him. “Why would you choose to spend the rest of your life leg-shackled to a perfect stranger?”
He eyed her levelly, reciting the truth he’d gone over so many times in his head.
“Because after what happened yesterday, I’m honor-bound to see that your reputation is restored.
It’s unfortunate our paths collided when they did and that the situation should have been so misconstrued, but due to the appearance of impropriety between us, I have an obligation to—”
“Yes, very well. You’d best not continue lest your passionate speech cause me to swoon.” She returned her spine to ramrod straightness and folded her arms across her chest. “Are you aware that my father, too, is currently embroiled in scandal?”
He blinked, the sudden change of subject enough to make his head spin. “I don’t read the gossip rags.”
“Let me enlighten you, then. He was caught in flagrante delicto at the Theatre Royal with both his mistress and an actress. Simultaneously.”
No, Ben certainly hadn’t known that. How … adventurous. Yet if Violet thought the revelation would make him rescind his offer, she’d miscalculated.
He blew out a short exhale, pressing his knuckles more firmly into the desktop.
“I’m not sure how familiar you are with my uncle, the Marquess of Rockliffe, or the rest of the Prescott family, but there’s been plenty of scandal attached to us over the years.
My name hasn’t remained clear of it.” Which was true this month more than ever.
Ben could still recall every detail of the day he and Alex had been called to the provost’s office.
The way Dr. Thackeray had clutched the offending literature in his palm and grimly relayed his discovery. I’m certain one of you is responsible.
“As my mother enjoys gossip rags, I know a little about your family,” Violet said, causing the memory to shatter and pulling him back to the study. “But to quote another of your amorous declarations, Given the circumstances, I’m not sure we can allow that to matter.”
He paused, a small knot tugging at his chest. It was all very well to decide he’d ignore feelings in favor of facts. When it came down to it, though, he couldn’t overlook the shadow that passed over her features or the tight lines that formed at the edges of her mouth.