Chapter 15
For the first time since moving into Aldercombe Grange, Violet was grateful for the ridiculous length of the dining table.
From her usual seat at the table’s foot, she speared a carrot slice with her fork, popping it into her mouth and chewing delicately.
However, as much as she tried thinking of little beyond the contents of her dinner plate, her eyes kept darting upward, sneaking glances at the clean-shaven, neatly attired, perfectly coiffed gentleman sitting across from her.
The gentleman who may be put back to rights, but that did nothing to make her forget how he’d looked with his hair curly and wild, his jaw darkened by a new beard, and the skin at his throat exposed in the absence of a cravat.
Nothing to erase the feel of his palm clutching her nape, the scent of his shaving soap mixed with something else undeniably male, the sound of his rough groan—
She took a hasty sip from her wine goblet, squeezing her thighs together as a frisson radiated from low in her belly. If there was any providence to be had, her cheeks wouldn’t flush and betray the nature of her thoughts.
Her head hadn’t stopped spinning for a good twenty-four hours.
Not since their argument in the study, followed by their confrontation in the drawing room and then their encounter in the meadow this morning.
One thing after another, all challenging her preconceived notions and shattering them like crystal beneath his heavy boots.
She set down the goblet, although she hesitated before retrieving her cutlery, taking a moment to swallow back the dryness in her throat. Her husband—reserved, distant creature he was—had opened up to her. Trusted her with a secret. Kissed her.
And furthermore, he desired her. Her face became hot, and she could only hope the space between them would prevent him from noticing.
She inelegantly cut herself a piece of sole with lemon sauce, studying him from beneath her lashes.
Yes, he’d returned to the picture of a gentleman, alternating between making nondescript comments about the day’s worsening weather and busying himself with the vegetables upon his plate.
Yet he was also the man who, in her mind’s eye, stood in his darkened bedchamber with his fall gaping and his shaft in hand, pumping the engorged length as her name shot from his lips.
A clap of thunder shook the windowpanes, and she started, her fork wobbling as she brought it to her mouth. Was it a signal from the heavens for her not to think of such things? Unfortunately, that sort of restraint proved beyond her abilities.
From the moment she’d approached the cracked-open door between their bedchambers—thinking it a sign that perhaps she’d been too rash, that she hadn’t fully given Benedict the chance to explain himself—and witnessed what she did, something within her had shifted.
Snapped. Something that had made her desperate, that had caused her to fling herself on her bed and put her hands between her legs, crying out every bit of her frustration, her confusion, her lust. She hadn’t cared if he heard.
In fact, she’d wanted him to hear, wanted him to feel the same desperation and torment she did, but tenfold.
Maybe even enough that he’d burst through the door and confront her.
Yet in the light of day, beneath the pleasant breeze on Skylark Ridge, she realized something: Benedict Prescott wasn’t a man to be pushed.
In his own time, he’d sat beside her in the beech tree’s shade and told her the truth about the pamphlets.
(She should have guessed he had a noble purpose in claiming authorship.) Of his own volition, he’d pressed his mouth to hers.
The intimacy, though, had seemed to scare him.
His drive to remain the impeccable, reserved gentleman must be strong.
And while his hesitancy made her want to scream a little, she saw him in a new light: as a man who did everything he could to protect his brother.
A man who strove to do his best in an unfamiliar place and position.
A man who would let himself be close to her again if she only gave him time.
She chewed thoughtfully, watching his throat work as he swallowed a piece of artichoke.
The same throat that had emitted her name like a guttural plea, and—heavens, the dining room was getting hot.
At least from this distance, she didn’t have to contend with the crisp male scent of him.
Nor was his rigid body close enough for her to reach out and touch.
Patience. A wind gust rattled the windowpanes, as if reminding her, insistently, of the necessity of the sixth virtue.
Biting back a sigh, she moved to retrieve another piece of fish, pondering a comment she could offer that went beyond the weather.
However, before she could say a word, another burst of noise echoed through the dining room. The wind again, picking up in intensity as the thunderstorm drew closer, but also … voices. Footsteps.
Shouting.
Running.
She dropped her fork, her body instantly straightening to alertness. Benedict did the same, the dark slashes of his brows drawing together with apprehension.
“Mr. Prescott.” All at once, a red-faced Pearce was in the doorway, his shoulders strangely hunched and his mouth dragging downward. “Forgive the interruption, but one of the grooms, Jem, is here with an urgent message.”
“I’ll see him at once.” Benedict got to his feet in an instant, already starting toward the door. Despite his haste, he made it only halfway across the dining room before Pearce vanished and a young man, windblown and soaked through, appeared in his place.
“Oh, sir.” At Benedict’s clipped gesture, the disheveled groom—Jem—stumbled into the room, attempting a bow but ending it while remaining stooped and visibly winded.
“It’s the sheep …” he panted between heaving breaths, his hands clutching the drenched knees of his trousers. “And the mud … And the river …”
“What about them?” Benedict’s question was severe, the word river seeming to poke him like a thorn.
Jem attempted to straighten, his face flushed and despondent.
“We think the dam at Watley must’ve burst, and now the river’s flooding.
Gushing right over the meadow, and the sheep …
The sheep’ve got down there somehow, and a few have become stuck in the mud.
If something’s not done, they’re bound to be swept away! ”
Violet heard herself gasp at the same moment Benedict emitted an oath she hadn’t known was part of his repertoire. She watched, momentarily dazed, as a muscle ticked in his jaw and a shadow passed over his features, making him appear especially stony.
“Go to the kitchen to dry off.” He abruptly issued the command to Jem, then strode past him, his rapid footfalls heavy with purpose.
He made it as far as the doorway before Violet’s lingering presence seemed to occur to him, and he spared a split second to glance at the foot of the table. “Please, excuse me.”
That was the last she heard from him before he disappeared into the corridor, his footsteps echoing in the direction of the entrance hall. But by that point, she’d recovered her senses and was on her feet, scrambling into the corridor behind him.
She ran until she was at his side, earning a frown for her efforts. “Violet.” He said her name as a warning, his pace momentarily slowing.
Oh, not this again. She charged ahead to the entrance hall, where Pearce stood in anticipation, already holding his master’s greatcoat.
“My cloak and boots, please, at once,” she called to the footman who waited alongside the butler, at the ready for whatever task Benedict might require of him.
Fortunately, he was equally prompt in accepting a request from her, and once he disappeared to fetch her things, she spun around, confronting her flinty-faced husband. “Clearly, I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not.” Benedict seized his greatcoat from Pearce, the worried lines in his forehead deepening as he hauled it over his arms. “There’s a bloody thunderstorm raging outdoors. Not to mention the fact that you were injured just last night.”
“A few scratches, Benedict, nothing more.” She kicked off her slippers, staring in his direction until those dark, anxious eyes locked with hers. “Haven’t you realized by now that I want to help you? Not every burden pertaining to the estate needs to fall on your shoulders alone.”
His mouth was severe, his creased brow showcasing every ounce of his discontent. Yet something flickered in his gaze. A sort of … softness, almost. He released a quick huff of breath, his shoulders giving the slightest dip. “I don’t have time to argue this.”
Did that mean … he conceded? She darted forward to meet the returning footman halfway, hastily accepting her proffered outerwear. She shoved the boots onto her feet and tossed the cloak over her shoulders. “We won’t argue, then. Let’s just go.”
Whatever he muttered in response—she thought she detected the words death of me—was swallowed up by a gust of wind as Pearce threw open the front door.
The world beyond was indeed ominous, the tree branches swaying violently and the clouds a purple-gray color that purged the landscape of brightness and cast it into artificial night.
Yet if Benedict believed the scene would deter her, he was wrong.
She moved to the threshold, steeling herself against the elements, preparing to give another rebuttal. Instead of words, though, she was met with the brush of kid leather against her palm. Fingers entwining with hers, clasping tight.
She squeezed back, taking a single instant to peer at the sight of her hand joined to her husband’s, to let the spark of warmth shoot through her veins.
And then, in tacit agreement, they raced outdoors, placing themselves beneath the rumbling sky.