Chapter 6 #2
When at last his mother rose, Harriet followed her. Benedict stood with his father and watched the two women leave the dining room together. Harriet paused at the threshold and glanced back at him. Her smile was faint and uncertain, but it was a smile nonetheless.
His father waited until the door had closed before observing, “You appear pleased.”
“I am relieved Harriet is pleased,” Benedict corrected. “There is a difference.”
“Of course there is.” Lord Denham's agreement was far too mild to be sincere. “I daresay you will explain it to yourself eventually.”
Harriet had nearly reached the stairs when Lady Denham touched her arm. “Walk with me for a moment, my dear. There is a matter upon which I would like to speak with you privately.”
The countess led her into a small morning room and closed the door.
The lamps had not been lit, but firelight from the grate cast a soft glow over the chairs gathered near it.
Harriet remained standing. Something in Lady Denham's manner—kind, deliberate and faintly uncomfortable—gave warning of the subject before she spoke.
“Your mother is not here to advise you,” Lady Denham began, “and while I would never presume to take her place, I could not allow you to retire without asking whether you understand what may be expected of you tonight.”
Heat swept from Harriet's throat to the roots of her hair. Of all the conversations she had imagined upon becoming Benedict's wife, an explanation of the marriage bed delivered by his mother had not been among them. “You need not concern yourself, ma'am. I understand perfectly.”
This was not precisely true. Harriet understood the purpose of the act and possessed a general notion of its mechanics, gathered from whispers, an ill-concealed book and observations of breeding horses she would rather not recall.
The details remained mercifully indistinct.
Even so, uncertainty was preferable to hearing Lady Denham explain what her son might do once the bedchamber door was closed.
The older woman was plainly unconvinced.
“There is no shame in ignorance, Harriet. Young women are too often protected from knowledge until the very hour they are expected to possess it. Nor does marriage deprive you of the right to kindness and consideration. Benedict knows his duty in that respect.”
Harriet's embarrassment eased enough for affection to intrude.
Lady Denham was not attempting to frighten her or persuade her to submission.
She meant to arm her with whatever knowledge she could provide and to assure her that she had an ally beneath this roof.
“I know that he does. Benedict and I have spoken of the matter, and he has given me no cause to doubt his word.”
It was the most she could say without betraying the private terms of their marriage.
Lady Denham seemed to understand that a boundary had been drawn.
She took Harriet's hand and pressed it gently.
“Then I shall say only that you may come to me if ever you have need of advice.
About this or anything else. You are not merely Benedict's wife now. You are part of this family.”
The kindness threatened Harriet's composure more than the proposed instruction. She thanked Lady Denham and escaped before gratitude compelled some display she would regret.
Mrs. Mercer and a chambermaid awaited her in Benedict's apartments. The chamber had been transformed in her absence. Her wedding gown had been packed away and soon the green silk she’d worn for dinner would be packed into her trunks as well.
The bed covers were turned down and another log had been placed upon the fire.
Across the bed, her nightrail and wrapper had been laid out for her.
Benedict stood near the writing desk, speaking with his valet. He had not yet undressed, and the ordinary formality of his coat and cravat offered Harriet a momentary reprieve.
He dismissed the man almost as soon as she entered. “I shall use the dressing room. Mrs. Mercer may attend you here.”
The words were meant for the servants, no more than a commonplace arrangement between husband and wife. His eyes met Harriet's briefly before he closed the dressing-room door behind him. The assurance in that look reminded her of his promise. Nothing would be required of her tonight.
Mrs. Mercer asked no questions. She brushed Harriet's hair and helped her into the white nightrail and the accompanying pale blue velvet wrapper.
Harriet attempted to speak of Everton House, but the words faltered whenever she heard movement beyond the closed door.
A boot struck the floor. A drawer opened and closed.
Each sound announced Benedict's nearness.
At last Mrs. Mercer gathered the discarded clothing and departed with the chambermaid.
Harriet stood alone before the fire, holding the wrapper closed at her throat despite the warmth of the room.
She had been alone with Benedict countless times—morse so in their youth than since they’d both come of age.
But she had never before been alone with him while wearing so little, with a bed turned down behind her and the entire household expecting the customary conclusion to a wedding day.
The dressing-room door opened.
Benedict had discarded his coat and waistcoat.
His cravat was gone, and the open collar of his white shirt revealed the strong line of his throat.
He wore only that shirt and his breeches, an entirely respectable degree of undress for a husband in his own chamber and one Harriet found alarmingly intimate.
Without the severe precision of his evening clothes, he appeared broader, less guarded and far more dangerous to the composure she had been determined to preserve.
He took one look at her and stopped. Concern replaced whatever thought had occupied him. “Harriet, you need not be afraid. I have not forgotten my vow.”
She tried to answer, but her mouth had gone dry. Benedict mistook her silence for confirmation. He crossed to the hearth and reached for the folded blankets left upon a chair.
“I mean to sleep upon the floor.”