Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Harriet had expected the first evening at Everton House to feel unfamiliar. She had not expected it to feel so entirely her own.
The room still bore the marks of its former occupant.
Ivory silk aged to yellow covered the walls, faded in narrow bands beside the windows, and the carved bedstead was older than anything Harriet would have chosen for herself.
Yet her mother's portrait stood upon the mantel.
Her books occupied the shelves beside the writing desk, and her silver-backed brushes rested upon the dressing table.
Someone had placed a small vase of late roses near them, their scent mingling with the smoke from the fire.
At Denham Park, she had slept in Benedict's chamber. Every object had reminded her that she occupied a space belonging to him. Here, the servants had carried her belongings into rooms intended for the mistress of Everton. Whatever uncertainty attended that position, no one could call her a guest.
Mrs. Mercer fastened the final button of Harriet's wrapper and looked at her reflection in the mirror. “It is a pleasant room. A little faded, perhaps, but that may be remedied when you have decided what you like.”
“I like that no one else has decided it for me.” Harriet touched the silver lid of a small box that had belonged to her mother. “Though I suspect Lady Denham selected the roses.”
“Then she chose wisely.” Mrs. Mercer gathered the discarded gown.
She had asked no questions about the arrangement of the bedchambers, but Harriet had seen her notice that Benedict's belongings had been carried elsewhere.
The older woman confined herself to saying, “Will you require anything more tonight, my lady?”
“No. You may go.”
Once the door closed, the quiet changed.
During the day, the house had echoed with footsteps, voices and the movement of furniture.
Now the servants had withdrawn belowstairs, and the silence revealed every creak of old wood and stir of wind against the windows.
Harriet crossed to the hearth and held her hands toward the fire.
She ought to have been relieved. There was no enormous bed containing the suggestion of Benedict, no sound of him moving in a dressing chamber only a door away. His rooms lay across the short private passage. She possessed precisely the independence she had demanded.
It felt rather more like isolation than victory.
The thought irritated her. Benedict had spent the day avoiding any reference to the words with which he had ended their wedding night, and she had followed his example.
They had spoken of Everton, servants, tenants and a dozen other matters without once acknowledging that he had invited her to alter the terms of their marriage—or that she had lain awake afterward wondering what answer she might have given if surprise had not stolen her tongue.
She moved to the window and drew back one edge of the curtain. Darkness had swallowed the lawn. Beyond it, the woods formed a deeper band of shadow beneath the clouded sky.
Selby had been there. Distance and the swiftness of his disappearance had allowed doubt to intrude, but Harriet no longer believed she had imagined him.
She remembered the stillness of his horse and the fixed direction of his attention.
He had watched her ride toward Everton. Whether he meant to intimidate her or merely satisfy his curiosity, the knowledge left her uneasy.
A knock sounded behind her.
Harriet dropped the curtain. For one startled instant, she expected Mrs. Mercer. Then the inner door opened, and Benedict stepped into the room.
He had removed his coat and waistcoat, though his cravat remained loosely tied.
The informality of his appearance carried Harriet at once back to the previous night— their wedding night—the fire, his discarded clothes and the unmistakable strain in his voice.
She tightened her wrapper and hated that he noticed.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“You appear to have done so.”
One brow lifted. “I knocked. When you did not answer, I feared you had not heard me.”
“I heard you. I was merely surprised.” Harriet let the curtain fall into place. “These are my rooms.”
“I am aware of it. Mine are through that passage, exactly where you instructed the servants to place them.” Benedict closed the door but did not advance farther into the chamber. “That is why we must speak.”
Harriet gestured toward a chair near the hearth. “If this is another complaint about the placement of your desk, I have already explained that the estate room belongs to the person most likely to use it.”
“It is not the desk.” He waited until she had seated herself before taking the chair opposite.
The fire lay between them, lending the conversation a formality made absurd by the fact that she wore a nightrail beneath her wrapper.
Benedict appeared conscious of the same contradiction.
His gaze rested upon her face with unusual discipline.
“We must decide how our domestic arrangements are to appear to the servants.”
Harriet's uneasiness returned. “You said this afternoon that they must believe our marriage ordinary.”
“Yes. At Denham, no one questioned my presence in my own chamber, even after yours was added to it. Here, every servant knows we have separate apartments. That is not remarkable in itself, but if I never enter yours after dinner, it will become remarkable very quickly.”
“Mrs. Mercer has attended me since childhood. She will say nothing.”
“I do not question Mercer. Nor do I question the servants we brought from Denham. But we must engage others, and the fewer people required to protect our secret, the safer it will remain. A maid cannot betray what she has no reason to suspect.” Benedict leaned forward, resting his forearms upon his knees.
“I must come to your chamber in the evenings—at least on occasion. Not every night at precisely the same hour, as though we had established a schedule for deceiving the household, but often enough that my visits become ordinary. I can return to my rooms through the private passage after the house has settled.”
The proposal was entirely sensible. It also meant that this scene would repeat itself: Benedict entering after she had undressed, his coat and waistcoat discarded, the formal barriers between them reduced one garment at a time.
“How long must you remain?” Harriet asked.
“Long enough that no one waiting in the corridor hears me leave five minutes after I arrive. An hour, perhaps. Sometimes longer.” His mouth tightened before he added, “Nothing need occur during that time. We may talk, read or quarrel in subdued voices. The appearance of a normal marriage is all that is required.”
Harriet looked toward the connecting door.
When she had demanded separate rooms, she had imagined safety in the distance between them.
She had not considered that the secrecy it required of them would create its own kind of intimacy.
It would bring him into her chamber regardless, nor that his presence there would feel more deliberate because he possessed another bed to which he might retreat.
“And if I wish to sleep?”
“Then sleep. I will sit by the fire until it is safe to leave.”
“As you sat before the fire at Denham?”
The words escaped before she could recall them. Benedict went very still. His gaze lowered briefly to the carpet, and Harriet remembered him stretched upon the hard floor while she insisted there was room beside her.
“Not precisely,” he said. “I should prefer the chair to the floor. It’s marble and rather cold.”
Heat gathered beneath Harriet's wrapper. She rose and crossed to the mantel, putting the width of the hearth between them. “You have contrived an inconvenient solution.”
“The inconvenience is not of my choosing. Selby must not learn that our marriage differs from what the contracts presume it to be.” Benedict watched her. “If this arrangement causes you distress, say so. I will find another means.”
There it was again—the careful restraint that made refusal both easier and far more difficult.
Had he presumed upon his rights, Harriet could have rejected him without hesitation.
Instead, he sat in her chamber asking whether his presence frightened her and offering to protect the very boundary she had begun to regret.
“It does not distress me,” she said. “I am distressed that we must continue to that wretched man.”
That was not entirely the truth. Benedict tempted her.
That was the truth she had avoided since their wedding night.
She wanted to know what would happen if he ceased retreating each time the air between them changed.
She wanted to understand why the sight of his bare throat could scatter thoughts she had managed perfectly well in the presence of fully dressed men.
Was it only the nature of marriage and the implicit permission for such liberties that had prompted these sudden wanton thoughts?
And she was terrified of what wanting might cost her.
If she altered their agreement, there would be no returning to the certainty with which she had entered this marriage.
Physical intimacy would not make Benedict love her, nor would it ensure that he continued to respect the independence he presently admired.
Her mother's marriage had taught Harriet how deeply a woman might be cherished.
Her father's grief had taught her what remained when such love was taken away.
She did not know whether she feared Benedict's indifference more than she feared coming to depend upon his affection.
“You are very quiet,” he said.
Harriet turned from the fire. “I am considering the practicalities.”
“Naturally.” His expression revealed nothing, but she heard the faint dryness in his voice. “Practical considerations have governed every conversation we have ever had in a bedchamber.”
“We have had only two such conversations.”
“And both concerned where I was permitted to sleep. I begin to think my comfort exercises an unusual fascination for you.”
His teasing restored enough of the familiar between them that Harriet could breathe. “Your comfort concerns me only because you make your suffering so conspicuous. Had you borne the floor with dignity, I should never have mentioned the bed.”
“I did bear it with dignity. You objected to the manner in which I breathed.”
“You were breathing resentfully.”
“How precisely does one do that?” Benedict settled farther into the chair. Some of the tension left his shoulders, though his attention did not leave her. “Shall we attempt the illusion, then? I promise to breathe with perfect neutrality for the required hour.”
Harriet returned to her chair. The distance between them was unchanged, yet the room seemed smaller than it had before his arrival. “Very well. You may remain. But if this is to occur regularly, we must establish rules.”
“We already possess rules enough to govern a small nation. What deficiency have you discovered?”
“You are not to enter without waiting for an answer. If Mrs. Mercer is still here, you will wait until she leaves. And you are not to assume that permission to sit in my chamber is permission for anything else.” Harriet delivered each condition firmly, though the last required greater effort than the first two.
“The arrangement is intended to satisfy the servants. Nothing more.”
Benedict regarded her for a long moment. Firelight warmed his face and caught in the loosened folds of his cravat. “I understand that the satisfaction of our servants is paramount.”
His ready agreement should have relieved her save for the dryness of his reply which seemed laden with a meaning she did not quite understand.
Instead, disappointment moved through Harriet with such quiet force that she could neither deny nor explain it.
She had demanded a marriage in name only, separate rooms and freedom from every obligation beyond public appearances.
Benedict had granted each condition. Now she could not fault him for believing she still wanted precisely what she had asked for.
He reached toward the small table between them and picked up the book Mrs. Mercer had left there. “Poetry?”
“Give it to me.” Harriet held out her hand. “You dislike poetry.”
“I dislike bad poetry. I have not yet determined which sort you prefer.” He opened the volume before she could reclaim it and examined the marked page, his brows lifting in surprise. “It’s quite scandalous, Lady Everton. My grandmother would be appalled.”
“Your grandmother is no longer mistress of Everton.” Harriet leaned back in her chair and met his gaze. “I am.”
A slow smile altered his expression. “So you are.”
The words held more than acknowledgment. Harriet felt it in the pause that followed and in the way his gaze moved over her before returning to the book. Temptation and fear remained in equal measure, neither strong enough to defeat the other.
Benedict began to read aloud. His voice settled into the quiet of the chamber, low and even, while the fire burned between them.
They did nothing a husband and wife could not have done before a room full of guests.
Yet Harriet was more conscious of him than she had been when they shared his bedchamber at Denham.
Separate rooms had not created the distance she had expected. They had only ensured that every moment Benedict spent in hers would be chosen.