Chapter 11
Benedict wasn’t in the dining room when Violet came down for dinner that night.
Every evening thus far, he’d always been standing near the doorway when she appeared, ready to accompany her to her seat at the foot of the table before making the long march to the opposite end to take his. The only person awaiting her at the moment, however, was Thomas.
He did his duty as efficiently as ever, inclining his head and then pulling out her chair as if not a thing were different.
But Violet hesitated, the difference proving so stark in her mind that her body refused to sit.
“Has there been no sign of Mr. Prescott?” she asked, feeling a slight crease form in her brow.
Surely, Benedict Prescott would never do anything so careless as run late.
“Mr. Prescott sends his regrets, madam. He’s been detained by an important business matter.”
Humph. She didn’t know why her stomach pinched at the news.
Not from disappointment, certainly—for how did it make sense to miss a dinner partner when their conversations never strayed beyond the most mundane topics?
Perhaps it was because, once again, the chasm between them displayed itself to full advantage, alerting the servants just how superficial their marriage continued to be.
She often tried to hide it, to make it look as though husband and wife weren’t sham titles and that they actually knew something of one another’s whereabouts and well-being.
Tonight, though, instead of pretending she and Benedict shared a confidence they did not, she swallowed her pride. “Is he not at home, then?”
“He is, madam. In his study.” Thomas paused, the next word coming out lower than the others. “Alone.”
Violet’s eyebrows arched. Odd. Why would the footman add such a clarifier?
But no matter. She’d learned everything she needed to know. “Thank you, Thomas. My apologies for the delay, but please hold dinner a while longer.” She turned away from the vacant table, waiting just until she heard his assent before slipping from the dining room.
The study was only a few doors away. Not nearly long enough of a walk to give her time to ponder why she was the one suddenly craving structure and routine.
In fact, she didn’t think at all; she simply stood before the carved oak door and knocked.
And then, when no answer came, she pushed the door open and entered.
Dear Lord, had there been an explosion? Her eyes trailed around the room, her mouth gaping.
Typically, Benedict kept his study in perfect order, with books arranged by size and color lining the shelves and correspondence stacked in two neat piles atop his desk.
Over the short course of their marriage, she’d sometimes stopped in unannounced to say goodnight—always hoping to catch him in the act of authoring a salacious story, although it had never happened—and the room was equally pristine on each occasion.
Presently, however, tomes of all sizes were scattered across the shelves and cast onto the floor, and Benedict’s ancient bulldog lay dozing on the carpet, surrounded by a flurry of discarded papers.
As for Benedict himself, he stood hunched over one of his desk drawers with a ledger in hand, rapidly flipping through pages before tossing it to the floor where a small pile had already accumulated.
“What in heaven’s name has happened?” She crossed the floor—careful not to tread on any papers—until she stood near the chaos that surrounded his desk.
He didn’t seem to have heard her come in, although the question caused him to dart the paltriest glance upward before his focus returned to the drawer. “I’m looking for something.”
Yes, I gathered. She placed her hands on her hips. “Would you care to provide a touch more detail?”
“A document … a letter … a deed … something,” he mumbled. He hauled out another ledger, giving it a shake to check for loose pages before pushing his spectacles up his nose and reading anew.
Well, that was frustratingly vague. She sank her fingers deeper into her hips, racking her brain for a question that might produce a real answer.
Until Benedict abruptly straightened, his gaze going to hers and remaining longer than a fleeting moment.
“Violet.” He sounded surprised, as if he’d truly taken stock of her presence for the first time.
“Did no one relay the message that I wouldn’t be at dinner this evening? Please, go ahead without me.”
He tapped his fingers against the open page, clearly anxious to get back to his task.
Yet Violet remained where she was, taking stock of him, too.
She hadn’t thought it possible for his starched cravat to move an inch out of place, but lo and behold, the knotted linen rested askew.
There was even—gasp—a wrinkle in his waistcoat.
As for his hair, several of the locks he kept carefully contained with pomade had sprung free, falling in unruly curls across his forehead.
She didn’t think he had it in him. What on earth had transpired to make him look so … undone? Whatever it was, a flicker of heat uncurled low in her belly.
She shook her head, going to the opposite side of his desk and waiting, not unlike the day they’d solidified their marriage arrangements. “I don’t want dinner. I want to help you. Although I confess, I remain unclear what you’re seeking.”
“I’m searching for something I hope to God doesn’t exist!
” His voice was rough, unmeasured, and he pitched the ledger to the desktop, letting out a beleaguered sigh.
“A written agreement, signed by Aldercombe’s former land agent, stating that due to issues with flooding on tenant lands, Lord Frederick Denham can take full control of the river intersecting our properties. ”
She frowned, the loathsome name causing its usual stab of resentment within her. “But why would the land agent have signed such a thing?”
“I don’t know!” He shoved a hand through his hair, although it did little to tame the errant curls on his forehead.
“There were questions about his competence during his final days, but even so, I highly doubt he ever did. Regardless, Denham has taken it as cause to dam the river and divert the water flow back to his own land.”
“He what?”
Benedict’s jaw looked rigid enough to snap. “You didn’t notice?”
“Something amiss with the river?” Her brow rumpled. “No, although I haven’t gone past it today. I took my walk into the village instead so I could procure new trimmings for a bonnet.”
For an instant, the tension marring his features softened, and she could nearly imagine she saw something approaching relief. Nearly, except the lines around his mouth returned as quickly as they’d waned, and it was impossible to perceive him as anything less than ruffled.
“Surely, Mr. Hayward would know about the arrangement if it truly does exist,” she said, her mind whirling a hundred miles a minute. “Or have you conversed with a solicitor?”
“The solicitor is exploring the matter as we speak. He judges the claim to be drivel, but we need proof.” Benedict swallowed, the cords in his throat tight.
“I have to believe Mr. Hayward would have spoken up immediately had he known anything about this. However, I cannot verify my belief until he returns from Gloucestershire in two days’ time.
I granted him a sojourn because I thought everything with the estate was going so blasted well! ”
His tone rose and then fell, his vehement words fading to something indistinguishable but having the distinct air of another oath.
She hadn’t imagined he’d allow himself to say such improper things—not outside his secret writings, in any case.
Yet this version of her husband differed from the one she thought she knew.
He was rawer. Realer. All because he was distraught.
A small twinge tugged at her chest, and her arm began creeping forward.
He’d held her ankle once. He’d brushed his thumb over her cheeks as she’d let emotions get the better of her at the dinner table.
Did that mean she could touch him, too? Lay a palm on his shoulder, perhaps, or allow their hands to intersect.
But before she could make any further moves, he slid his fingers beneath the temples of his spectacles, releasing another exasperated breath.
“Denham may deem me an ignorant land manager, but I’m not so daft that I fail to recognize the consequences this will have for our crops and livestock.
” His fingertips pressed tightly against his forehead.
“Uncle Rockliffe is considering selling Aldercombe,” he mumbled, more to himself than to her.
“Perhaps I’d best tell him to do so and be done with it. ”
What? The revelation crashed into her like a pack of wild horses.
She’d had no idea the estate wasn’t entailed and that selling the property had ever been a consideration.
To what purpose, then, did he traverse the land and toil over farming pamphlets at all hours?
And if he let the numbskull next door drive them away, where did he mean for them to go instead?
“This is absurd,” she snapped. “I’ll visit Watley Hall this moment and find out just what Lord Frederick thinks he’s doing.”
“No.” Benedict’s face was a thundercloud, his eyes black as flint.
“Yes.” She squared her shoulders, giving her foot a determined stomp against the rug. “I’ve confronted that toad before, and I have no qualms about doing so again. He believes himself to be so high and mighty because of his parentage, but I won’t let him get away with—”
“Leave it, Violet. I’ve already spoken with Denham today. There’s nothing more you can do.”
Ugh. Why was the world filled with so many cannots and should nots? Especially for women, who continually found themselves underestimated. She folded her arms across her chest, refusing to let her chin drop as she looked at him. “Do you think I lack the cleverness for such an undertaking?”
A strangled sound shot from his throat, one she would have called a laugh if she didn’t know any better.
“God help the man foolhardy enough to make that assumption.” He gave his head a quick shake, and his hands went to his sides, his body somehow more unyielding than ever.
“This has nothing to do with cleverness. I simply do not wish for you to charge over to Watley in the dark and become involved in a confrontation.”
He’s right. A tiny part of her brain had the wherewithal to recognize as much.
However, the knowledge failed to lessen her urge to yell at Lord Frederick Denham until his eardrums burst. Or if not that, at least to understand the purpose behind his whole water diversion scheme.
She’d seen nothing of the river today, just like she told Benedict.
Her mind raced backward, though, to the muddy hole that was Watley’s back garden.
To the argument between Lord Frederick and the laborer beside the riverbank last week. Could it be that—
“Violet.” Benedict’s voice was sharp, containing an unmistakable note of warning. “I won’t have it. I … I forbid it.”
She snapped back to attention, a fiery prickle shooting down her spine. More denials. More dismissals. More decisions made on her behalf where she didn’t get a say. She wouldn’t stand for it!
Her feet moved without another thought, rounding the desk so she, too, stood behind it like a master did.
Benedict had the obvious advantage in height, his body long and lean where hers was short and curved.
However, that didn’t stop her from getting so close that the front of her gown nearly brushed his coat, nor from raising her head and displaying her fiercest glower. “You cannot order me about.”
His eyes flashed, something turbulent stirring in their dark depths. “I’m your husband.”
The air between them was heavy, the word like a lightning bolt illuminating a stormy sky.
Husband. The man with whom she’d stood in a church and promised to obey.
The man who now towered above her while holding her stare, his chest rising and falling, each exhale sending a tiny lick of warmth onto her skin.
How maddening. How unjust.
How utterly perplexing that she couldn’t shake the urge to tear off his crooked cravat and throw it on the floor. To tug and twist his waistcoat until the buttons were undone and every bit was wrinkled. To run her hands through his hair so not a single curl stayed in place.
She squeezed her thighs together, willing the ache between them to abate. Her heartbeat was a rapid thump; her blood simmered with the heat of her frustration. And even so, she was cognizant enough to know she couldn’t win like this.
She sucked in a breath, her words coming out as a hiss. “Very well.” Her gaze remained locked with his, for she kept her chin in the air, refusing to let it tremble. “Husband.”
And then, because the fire she played with seemed on the verge of scorching her, she whipped away from him, marching over to a bookshelf he’d so far neglected and taking up a manual on Wiltshire Horn sheep. After all, she’d said she wanted to help him, and in this matter, she could keep her word.
She shook out the pages to check for secret papers tucked within, just as he’d done with the ledger.
And when none appeared, she took another lesson from him and cast it to the floor.
She repeated the process with one book after another, each one landing with a satisfying thud, until the full shelf was bare.
Only then did she glance over her shoulder, meeting the gaze whose weight had rested upon her the whole time.
“The document you seek isn’t here,” she said tartly, trying to ignore how very intense his eyes appeared behind his spectacles.
Then, she returned to work, scooping the discarded books into her arms and tossing them back on the shelf in an arrangement that was decidedly not by color or size.
She could keep going with the rest of the shelves he had yet to check—there was something cathartic about the thump as each cover hit the floor and careful order became dishevelment.
However, this was a fool’s errand. Land agents, even confused ones, were unlikely to tuck contracts into the pages of random books.
The answer to the river dispute lay next door. The place she’d been forbidden by her husband to go. Yet when said husband remained closed-off and secretive about his life, it seemed only fair for her to have a secret of her own.
And so, she abandoned the shelf and walked out of the study without another word. Without a single backward glance.
Beginning to plan.