Chapter 2
Benedict
Madeline Clarke is sinfully beautiful.
I’ve seen her before, of course; her father, when he proposed the match, sent over a literal dossier on her. Photos of a trim young woman, dirty blonde, with brown eyes and freckles.
Laughing with the ranch hands. Staring out across a sunset Montana landscape. Riding a horse, her features in profile, focused and determined.
The dress she’s wearing pays homage to her slight curves, her décolletage and long neck. It gives her eyes a warmth that’s hard to look away from when she glances up at me.
What’s even more attractive is imagining her in fitted jeans and a ranch hand’s flannel. Hair up, dirt smudged on her cheek.
The sound of silverware clinking on glass draws my attention back to my surroundings—and the fact that my son is marrying this woman. This is no time to be distracted by Madeline Clarke.
Rupert Clarke stands, his smile mellow and eyes flat. It’s surprising that Madeline, who seems so lively as she glares at my son on his phone, comes from a man so cold. He holds up a champagne glass.
“Thank you all for coming this evening. We’re delighted to be celebrating the engagement of our daughter, Madeline Laurel Clarke, to Derrick Bronson of Bronson Hall.”
Interesting how he managed to sneak in my company’s name.
“This isn’t just a celebration of two people—it’s a formal joining of two families. Two names, two legacies. In business as in life, strength comes from alliances.”
Rupert looks at his daughter, whose polite smile has faded, her face pale and dull. Derrick tips his head back and stares at me as if to say, Happy now?
My gut twists with rancid anger. It’s clear that despite their success in the world of luxury spirits, the Clarkes have no taste. Gwen, seated next to her husband, is sweeping a triumphant gaze across the guests.
A hand smacks my arm. I look over to find Caroline, my sister, smirking.
“Watch it, Ben, you’re going to burn a hole through those two.”
Cracking my neck, I watch as the guests clap and salute my son and future daughter-in-law. Madeline looks as though she’d rather sink through the floor than be here.
“Where’s Leo?” I ask, wondering how much trouble a sixteen-year-old can get into on a Montana ranch. Not that we don’t have ranches in Colorado; in fact, my estate and the neighboring nature preserve come close to touching the Clarke acreage.
“Oh, I told him to sneak off. He was curious about the horses, I think.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“Better idea than this marriage,” she mutters.
I shift uncomfortably. Caroline, five years younger than me, has had an easier life.
In some ways. She had Leo after a one-night stand and parted amicably with his father, who is somewhere in France the last I knew.
Our father passed away of a heart attack, not long after she announced casually that she’d been knocked up`.
“When Derrick was sixteen, you were signing the contract for this marriage, weren’t you?”
“I was. Yes.”
Caroline levels me with a look over plates of T-bone steaks, sweet potatoes, duck, and poached apples. “No offense, big brother, but I’ll skip the parenting advice.”
I’m about to open my mouth and lecture Caroline on why this needed to happen—the importance of preserving Bronson Hall through moving into the modern age, pairing with modern companies. Our money is old, and old money does not survive on reputation alone.
But her attention is elsewhere.
I follow her narrowed gaze and find Madeline Clarke staring.
At me.
“Watch it,” Caroline warns quietly. “You keep smoldering in her direction, Ben, and there’s going to be a scandal.”
Another scandal goes unspoken. The last thing we need.
“Promise that you’ll find him after dinner?” I grunt, pulling my plate toward me gently but firmly. “I want to get back on the plane as soon as possible.”
“Hmm… you, or your son? Derrick seems hot to leave.”
Ignoring her, I stab into the steak with a serrated knife and saw at it as if I could cut out the bitter part of me that feels far from celebrating.
This isn’t what love looks like.
This is selling out.
The infectious sound of Madeline’s laughter chimes once more in the dining hall, and I can’t take it anymore.
The other guests are rambling their way through dessert. Chatting. Laughing. Murmuring and judging.
Zachariah Carter has managed to keep my attention, and my temper controlled, throughout dinner. I find myself wishing that he was the man I was tying my family to. But alas, we have no need for cattle.
“Excuse me,” I murmur to the down-to-earth rancher. “I need to stretch my legs.”
He gives me a knowing nod as I manage to slip away from the table and into the shadows. It isn’t easy; I tower over most of the men here. But it isn’t hard, either, if you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. Even the rich can be stealthy.
Walking lightly through the barn, I take dark corners until a red “Exit” sign glows. It presses open with an audible click and then the air outside invades my lungs, a welcome cleansing.
Montana spreads out before me. It’s deceptively dark, twilight already shifting into night. The mountains in the distance are silhouettes, only the snow caps glowing lightly against the navy-blue sky.
There are other shadows that draw me—the distillery itself. Weaving through the corral of cars, I make my way toward the massive buildings.
Getting in isn’t a problem. The doors are open, night workers on a bare-bones crew moving quietly about their tasks. They nod politely as I stride in, as if I own the place.
In a way, I do.
The large copper kettles and steel drums wait patiently, or seethe in silence. I pass through them into another room, all wood and brick, with lower ceilings and a long bar.
There are black leather stools, barrels lining the far wall, iron chandeliers overhead.
It’s nothing to step behind the bar, choose a bottle, and pour myself a glass. Two fingers of Elkhorn Whisky, a variety I’m familiar with from the estate in Aspen.
The soft rustle of silk draws my attention.
Madeline Clarke practically glows in the shadows.
It’s not just the champagne color of her dress; it’s her eyes, warm honey, her pale face vulnerable thanks to the up-do.
“Hello.”
The greeting is simple, professional. I forget that this is her home, too.
“Hello, Madeline.”
“Please, call me Maddie, Mr. Bronson.”
“Call me—” daddy. It catches on my tongue, and I clear my throat. “Ben, please. Would you like a drink?”
She smiles and finally steps forward, into the low light of the bar top.
“Of my own whisky? Sure.” Madeline—Maddie—pulls herself onto a stool.
The movement tightens her dress around her breasts, giving them a plump, inviting appearance.
She leans forward on her elbows, unaware of the thoughts she’s inciting.
My son is a fucking idiot.
“You don’t want to see the celebration though? A woman as beautiful as you is sure to be missed,” I ask smoothly, sliding her glass toward her. She hesitates, then takes a sip. A rather large one.
“I think I’ve celebrated enough for tonight.”
“Mmm. My son will feel slighted, I’m sure.”
It’s not an insult to her, but her eyes light up with a fire that takes my breath away. She downs the rest of the whisky and takes the bottle from me.
“No offence, Mr. Bronson, but I was hoping for better.”
A chuckle slips out, and Maddie looks surprised. Her cheeks go pink with a blush, guilt, embarrassment, regret?
“I apologize, darling. I’m aware that my son can be… somewhat vacuous. But I promise you, your life as a Bronson will more than make up for his shortcomings.”
She sits up, a lock of hair falling out of the twist, mouth set. “And what exactly am I promised with that life that I can’t have here? Love? The adoration of my husband?”
The words land like a blow. We both know she won’t get either from Derrick, but what surprises me even more is that Maddie believes in love. I take in her features, mature but youthful, serious but gorgeous.
Has she really been hoping for a knight in shining armor?
A clatter draws our attention. A staff member steps out of the shadows, apologizing, smiling warmly at Maddie. “I just needed to get the list for tomorrow’s shower, to have the guys pull from the backstock tonight.”
Maddie nods, stands, and gracefully strides behind the bar to join me. Her scent—like strawberries and vanilla—makes me sway toward her. It feels like just the two of us here as she approaches, her eyes locked on mine.
Her heels click as she walks right up to me, almost chest to chest.
Then she leans in.
And grabs the clipboard under the counter.
“Here you go, Seb. It’s a party of eighty, right?”
The man in a Crown and standing in the amber light of the distillery bar, it occurs to me that Georgiana was right.
Something is stirring. Something is coming.
Maddie straightens up and smooths her dress. “I should get back. I need to speak to my parents before the night ends.”
The edge of petulance in her voice makes me reach out, grab her hand—for a second time today.
Just as earlier, my fingertips tingle at the touch of her smooth skin.
“Madeline. I want to make this clear: whether or not my son can handle a woman like you, you will do as you’re told.”
Is the shiver that straightens her posture fear, or excitement? My heart thuds once, hard, and I can’t stop myself from leaning into her again.
Catching her scent. Tongue watering. Skin warming.
Then she’s gone, her fingers slipped out of mine and that champagne dress rippling as she strides from the building.
Every muscle in my body feels tense, shot through with adrenaline. On top of that… a certain body part is a little too alert. “Fuck.”
Taking my phone out, I text Caroline and ask her to meet me at the car with Leo.
It’s over? she types back quickly. I’ve been smoking a cigarette out back.
Sighing in exasperation, I push the whisky and two glasses away, heading for the exit.
Yes, I respond.
But it feels like just the beginning.