Chapter 9 #2
She ate right to the bottom of her crystal dish, ignoring the slight churn in her belly.
Should she finish the meal with an iced biscuit?
She was nowhere close to being able to reach the plate, but she could take a little jaunt to the center of the table, he might feel inclined to follow, and they’d have a biscuit-filled reunion that was as joyful and sunny as their dishes of lemon ice.
She bit her lip to keep from giggling at the ridiculous notion. Which was the precise moment a water droplet hit the bottom of her empty bowl. Odd. She glanced upward, although it didn’t make sense that the roof would leak when it wasn’t raining.
Another fat droplet splashed against the crystal, and she unthinkingly put a hand to her cheek.
Oh.
Oh, no. The droplets came from her. As if a dam behind her eyes had sprung a tiny leak.
She concentrated on her dish and gave her eyes a few hasty swipes, suddenly glad for the vast distance between one end of the table and the other.
What in blazes was wrong with her? One moment she’d been savoring her small victory, conjuring up a semblance of happiness, and the next … How utterly absurd.
At least Benedict hadn’t worn his spectacles to the table. Did that mean he couldn’t see her clearly? With any luck, she could give her eyes another dab and count to five, and he wouldn’t notice a thing amiss when she looked up.
“Violet?”
The voice didn’t come from across the table but from beside her, and then, a strong weight fell upon her shoulder.
She inched her head to the side, taking in the masculine fingers that rested atop the delicate blue silk of her evening gown.
The sight was so incongruous, so unexpected. How had he … Why was he …
She muttered a pitiable comment to his hand about dust in her eyes, wishing the floor would open and swallow her whole. Even so, her nerve endings gave a frisson of protest when the pressure on her shoulder receded.
Foolish. It was best for the length of the table to separate them again and for them to add this incident to the list of things they could pretend had never happened.
Except instead of leaving, he lowered himself to the chair beside her. His thumb went to her cheek, catching the moisture. Wiping it away.
Her breath hitched. Everything about him seemed so formal, so detached.
However, his touch was warm and soft, the type of caress she could lean into like a needy lapdog demanding more.
At least, that’s what she’d do if she didn’t know better.
If she didn’t recognize the need to keep her guard up, too, lest she encounter rejection yet again.
“Are there any shops in Dayleford you’re fond of?” His voice was as gentle as the thumb upon her cheek. “Perhaps you’d like to take the carriage tomorrow and make a day of it.”
A thick lump formed in her throat, and she studied the buttons on his waistcoat, unable to meet his eye.
He was trying to distract her. To make her feel better.
For some reason, the notion made her chest ache and her eyes sting more potently than ever.
“Thank you, but no.” She squeezed her fingers into the napkin on her lap, willing her words not to waver. “There’s nothing I need.”
He withdrew his hand, but his body remained close, his gaze lingering upon her. “Maybe you’d prefer a visit with your sister, then. You’re welcome to invite her to Aldercombe. She can stay the week, or longer if it would please you both.”
If only. Memories of her afternoon in the woods came rushing back.
The frosty stares. Lord Frederick’s dismissal.
Arabella skipping away, her hand in his.
“Thank you, but that won’t be possible,” she said, unable to prevent bitterness from seeping into her tone.
“Arabella has other things to occupy her time. I’m afraid a visit here won’t fit into her schedule. ”
She glanced up just in time to see Benedict’s brow knit. “Surely, if you asked her—”
“No.” She shook her head, hating how brittle she sounded.
How weak. Yet there was something about his proximity, his concern, that made her keep going, letting the lamentable truth burst free.
“I saw her today, and it became clear where her priorities lie. She doesn’t have time for me. None of them want me around.”
“None of them?” The line in his forehead grew deeper. “To whom, exactly, do you refer?”
An acerbic taste filled her mouth. “To Lord Frederick.” Ugh, why did that man have the ability to plague her so?
He was such a toad that his opinion didn’t deserve to have any bearing on her in the least. However, her mind flashed back to the other faces in the woods.
Those who blindly followed his lead because he was the son of a powerful duke and she was naught but a scandal-plagued woman.
She blew out a breath, fighting against the sharp ache in her chest and the burn in her eyes.
“To all the guests at his dratted house party.”
How strange that as the admission poured from her body, her thoughts returned to the hand on her shoulder. The thumb on her cheek. And strangest of all, she wished they would come back because, inexplicably but undoubtedly, they would help make her feel better.
Benedict no longer leaned toward her, though, but sat upright in his chair, his arms crossed and fingers clamped tightly around his coat sleeves.
“I’m sorry the day was distressing to you.
” He spoke not like a husband offering comfort but like a stranger.
As if the embrace were a mere figment of her imagination and the length of the vast dining table still separated them after all.
“If there’s anything here at Aldercombe that could add to your happiness, you’re welcome to it. ”
She could find no fault in his offer; it fairly dripped politeness. However, it was like an invisible door had sprung up between her chair and his, then been slammed in her face and locked, creating an impassable distance between them.
A distance that quickly transformed from imaginary to real, for he rose from his seat, turning not to his former place at the head of the table but toward the doorway.
“Where are you going?” She tracked each of his movements—the bend of his fingers while he tugged invisible creases from his coat, the subtle tic in his jaw—as her spine became rigid, and her head spun too fast to think straight.
He shot her a glance, although it was clear his attention had already wandered beyond the dining room. “I have correspondence to attend to that will occupy the remainder of the evening. I’ll bid you goodnight.”
Goodnight? So, this was to be the end, then?
Coming on the heels of the unexpected warmth he’d bestowed upon her, the sudden wave of frostiness was enough to chill her to the bone.
“Do you not still want the main course?” she asked feebly, making a halfhearted motion toward his end of the table.
As deep as the encounter in the woods had cut her, it suddenly felt secondary to the ache of watching him walk away with renewed aloofness.
He paused only to give the paltriest shake of his head. “The ice was sufficient. Goodnight.”
And then, before she could utter another word, he was gone. Leaving behind nothing but a near-empty bowl of melted lemon ice and the memory of a touch that no longer felt real.
She grabbed the napkin from her lap and tossed it onto the table, letting out an aggrieved sigh. Only for it to dawn on her that she remained under the watch of two attentive footmen.
She motioned to Thomas, making her best attempt to appear collected but certain she failed miserably. “That will be all for this evening. Please see that the duck is shared at the servant’s table.”
Mercifully, the footmen obeyed without question, sweeping in to collect the dessert dishes and vanishing through a side door before she could count to ten.
Then, in the vacant room, she well and truly let her elbows slump against the table, her head drop to her palms, and her breath come in deep, shuddering exhales.
What on earth had just happened? Why had her husband come close merely to retreat? And why had she craved that closeness?
Because she was a ninny, that’s why. As for Benedict, he was a … a …
An enigma. An uptight, infuriating, contradictory, compassionate, handsome enigma.
She shifted her bleary gaze to the doorway through which he’d departed for his study. Had he gone there to pen a note to his land agent about irrigation or sheep-shearing? Or did his quill hit paper to craft another story about a wanton widow who surrendered herself to pleasures of the flesh?
She clamped her thighs together, her mouth becoming a tight line. What he wrote in the solitude of his study hardly mattered, did it? It wouldn’t change the fact that they’d moved a step forward eating ices at the dinner table. And then promptly stumbled two steps back.