Chapter 4
Benedict
I’ve made a lot of impulsive decisions in my life. Expanding Bronson Hall to other countries was one of them, when property became available in Germany. So was slugging the reporter when they swarmed my steps the day Georgiana died.
But marching down the aisle toward my son’s bride-to-be, intent on replacing him at the altar, might just take the crown.
Madeline Clarke stands at the end of that runway of expectation, a breathless portrait of grace and disbelief. Her gown glows gold in the afternoon light. Her hair is swept up once again, neck exposed, shoulders bare.
And no Derrick.
No goddamn sign of him anywhere.
He disappeared hours ago—off the grid, unreachable, like some rebellious teenager rather than the grown man I raised and gave every goddamn advantage to.
I learned of his absence just after arriving.
A staff member at the resort, tight-lipped and pale, approached me in the lounge with the words, “Mr. Bronson, there’s been a situation. ”
Of course there has.
I’m livid—but not at her.
Madeline’s eyes widen as I approach, her expression morphing from poised to stunned to guarded again, all within seconds.
She stands alone, her sister having stepped quietly back and to the side.
The priest is watching like a hawk, taking in the situation with a calculated gaze.
He’s older, at least in his late seventies—and at his word, this wedding could be shut down.
Guests turn in their seats like flowers seeking the sun. Whispers swell behind me, but I don’t hear them. I hear only the sharp snap of leather beneath my shoes as I close the distance between my legacy and its salvation.
Maddie blinks up at me, brow furrowed.
“Where is he?” she asks, quiet, even as the crowd leans in.
“Gone,” I say. There’s no point in trying to whisper; it’s obvious that Derrick isn’t intending to show up at this point. “And I’m not letting this fall apart because my son can’t tell time.”
Her shoulders stiffen. She glances over at her parents—her mother is turning an amusing shade of purple, hand clenched around the cell phone that she must think fixes everything.
Except this. Rupert Clarke looks like someone clubbed him in the gut.
My mouth quirks up in a triumphant smile; he seems to be struggling, having realized exactly what I’m about to do.
And as we’re close in age, it’s probably about to give him a stroke.
Yet it’s Madeline who turns back to me with her spine straight and her chin lifted.
The string quartet has long since stopped playing.
I hold her gaze and lower my voice. “This deal was never about love. It was about legacy. And I have no intention of watching the work of a decade slip away because Derrick couldn’t get his head out of his ass.”
Amusement flickers in her brown eyes. “You’re proposing to me,” she says, more observation than question.
“I am,” I confirm. “Here. Now. In front of the people who need to see it happen.”
She stares at me, and I see the crack in her mask, just a flicker of surprise behind the veneer of composure. For a moment I’m certain she’ll walk away. She has every right.
But then—
She flattens her hand over her belly like she’s steadying herself from the inside out.
“Where’s the ring?” she asks.
I nearly smile. Instead, I turn to the dumbfounded ring bearer—a distant cousin of hers, I think—and hold out my hand. The boy places the box in my palm as though handing over live explosives.
I open it, lift the ring, and without kneeling, without ceremony, I take Madeline’s left hand.
“If you agree to this,” I murmur low enough that only she can hear, “you’ll become Mrs. Benedict Bronson. My wife. Not his.”
She swallows, her eyes searching mine. For a moment I’m convinced she’ll bolt—why wouldn’t she? Maddie Clarke was probably already an unwilling participant, and now this—marrying a man almost twice her age. No time to consider the consequences.
“Yes,” she murmurs, and the soft, single word is like a punch to the gut. I stare at her until she repeats: “Yes. Okay. I’ll be your wife.”
There’s something determined, solid, that I haven’t seen before in her eyes. She holds out her hand. I slide the ring onto her finger.
It fits perfectly.
“I accept,” Madeline says loud and clear, voice like the pop of a champagne cork—elegant, inevitable. The priest looks back and forth between us but seems to relax; he’ll accept this too, then.
My chest tightens.
Good girl, I think. And I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.
A flicker of heat licks at my gut, shame and desire twisted together like the vines of old grapes.
The priest is talking, words like a well-worn path as he initiates the ceremony. It barely registers. I’m having a hard time looking away from Madeline. She’s beautiful, and strong, and nineteen years younger than me.
I know because I vetted her when Derrick was just sixteen. I sat at the dining room table in my home, only miles away from here, and decided that we’d fit her into our future like the last piece of a puzzle.
But I never expected it to be like this.
“Do you, Benedict Richard Bronson, take Madeline Laurel Clarke to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.”
Maddie meets my gaze again. There’s a wall there, though, one I can’t see past; she has her parents’ cold strength, or at least she’s learned how to appear to. I wonder if behind that wall she’s regretting this.
“And do you, Madeline Laurel Clarke, take Benedict Richard Bronson—”
“I do,” she says, cutting cleanly across him.
We don’t have vows. This isn’t a love story. This is a merger.
Georgiana is rolling in her grave.
When the priest says, “You may kiss the bride,” the air in the room turns electric. The temperature spikes.
I cup her face in my hand, my thumb brushing her jaw as I lower my mouth to hers.
Just a kiss, I tell myself.
One kiss.
But it’s a mistake.
Her lips part beneath mine and something raw sparks between us. A hunger I haven’t felt in years coils low in my stomach. She tastes like courage, caramel, and bitter disappointment, and I have no right to feel anything about her except relief.
Yet I do.
Too much.
My lips coax hers open, and it’s a surprise when her tongue delves quickly, shallowly, between them.
When I pull away, she’s flushed. Her chest is rising and falling too quickly.
I glance toward the crowd and see Caroline smirking like the cat who swallowed the scandal.
She raises a single, judgmental brow. Next to her, my nephew Leo looks both disgusted and astonished.
Well. Let them whisper.
I offer Madeline my arm.
She takes it.
Together, we walk back down the aisle as husband and wife, every gaze cutting into our backs like blades. But she doesn’t falter. Her heels click with certainty against the polished floor, even though she must be shaking.
She plays the part well.
And I’m almost grateful for the performance.
We emerge into the bright sun, the hush still hanging in the air behind us. The music hasn’t started back up. The guests haven’t even begun to rise from their seats. It’ll be a while, I think; they all need to discuss the scandal they just witnessed.
“Benedict,” she says softly, her hand still resting on my arm. “Would you mind giving me a few minutes alone? I need to… collect myself.”
“You can call me Ben.”
For some reason, the formal way she’s addressing me feels like a thorn in my side. We’re out on the main terrace now, and even though it’s been blocked off for the wedding, it still feels too exposed. Settling my hands on her hips, I slowly walk Maddie back toward the massive stone building.
The corseted top of the dress feels still under my palms, but she’s warm, her chest rising with deep breaths until we’re tucked into an alcove out of sight.
So close, I’m tempted to revisit that kiss.
To close the distance between us.
“Ben.” Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same.
The sound of raised voices and laughter jars me from the moment. Somewhere down below, skiers are getting in the last days of the season. Maddie’s hands are on my forearms. She gently removes my hold on her and I step back, feeling scorched.
“You needed a moment,” I say roughly, chastising myself.
This isn’t my day. It was never supposed to be.
I pause. “Come with me. I have a suite here. You’ll have privacy and can come down to dinner when you’re ready.”
She nods, slow and stunned, and I guide her across the stone path and into the resort, past staff and guests and gawkers. Regardless of what just happened in the ballroom, people would look at her—she’s gorgeous.
The suite is on the top floor. I key us in without speaking.
The heavy door opens into a spacious, masculine room with dark oak floors and warm sand-toned walls.
The windows stretch high and wide, framing the mountains in golden light.
A stone fireplace takes up one wall, unlit but ready.
Leather seating surrounds a thick, walnut coffee table.
A decanter of scotch and two tumblers wait atop a tray.
Maddie steps in and looks surprised.
“Is this okay?” I ask, suddenly feeling self-conscious despite literal decades of confidence.
She hesitates before replying, “Yes. It’s… it’s very inviting. I didn’t expect it to be,” she admits.
“Ahh. You were expecting something cold, austere? Business-like?”
She nods, an embarrassed blush coloring her throat and chest.
Leaning against the wall, I explain, “I don’t come here often, as my actual home is just south of the town. But I’ve made sure over the years that the staff is well cared for, and in return they take care of me.”
That seems to please her. She walks slowly into the space, taking it in, and as she does I see it through fresh eyes all over again.
It smells faintly of cedar and smoke. The furniture is rich but comfortable, the kind that invites you to sink in and disappear. It’s where I stay when I want to be reminded of who I am without all the noise.
Madeline removes her heels with a wince and sets them beside the velvet bench near the door. Then, without looking at me, she walks to the windows and stares out at the mountains, her arms folded tightly across her stomach.
I watch her in silence. Her dress is magnificent. Her spine is straighter than ever. But I can see the tension coiled in her shoulders.
“I didn’t mean for this,” I say finally. “I didn’t expect it either.”
“No?” Her voice is light. Controlled.
“No. But I wasn’t going to let Derrick ruin this.”
“You mean our companies’ partnership,” she says, still not facing me.
“I mean everything,” I say, the words clipped. “Your family’s survival. Ours. This entire empire we’ve built, all of it anchored to this moment.”
There’s a long silence. Am I being too forward, too honest? Will she decide this isn’t something she can do, someone she can be with?
“And now I’m your wife,” she says softly.
“You are.”
She turns finally, and there’s a ghost of a smirk on her lips. “You should probably apologize for your son.”
“I’m sorry,” I say without hesitation. “He’s… not a man yet.”
“No,” she says. “He isn’t.”
Which makes it even more obvious that when it comes down to it, Madeline and I are just that: a man and a woman. Newly married.
Alone.
For a long beat, neither of us says anything. The mountains look as if they’re holding their breath, watching us through the glass.
“I’ll give you space,” I say, gesturing to the room. “Take all the time you need.”
She tilts her head. “And what will you be doing, husband?”
The word lands like a dart between my ribs. I shouldn’t like the way it sounds in her mouth.
I shouldn’t like it at all.
“I need to go call my lawyer. And find your father,” I reply. “There’s work to be done.”
“Of course.” She lowers her eyes. “Always business.”
I nod once.
But as I step toward the door, her scent wafts past me—vanilla and something darker, something that reminds me of aged whisky and long rides on cold mornings. When I come back, will the room smell this way?
Like her?
I’ll have to stop at management’s office on the way down and request that another suite be prepared for her. Something better than what was initially on offer, if she’d ended up with Derrick. I’ll fill the room with flowers, whisky, whatever she wants—just to let her know how sorry I am.
I don’t touch her again.
I leave.
But my hands ache to return.