Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
Benedict disliked Mr. Crandell within five minutes of meeting him.
It was not an objection he could readily defend.
The man’s clothing was sober and suitable to the position he sought.
His speech was precise, his posture deferential without being servile, and the papers supplied by the agency described more than twelve years of employment in respectable households.
He answered every question correctly. Indeed, his answers possessed such faultless propriety that Benedict found himself searching for the imperfection they concealed.
Under ordinary circumstances, he would have continued searching until he found it.
The present circumstances were not ordinary. Harriet’s body had been pressed against his less than a quarter hour earlier, and the imprint of it remained with a clarity that rendered rational inquiry nearly impossible.
He sat behind the desk in his study while Crandell occupied the chair opposite.
The man was speaking of his familiarity with a country household, but Benedict heard only fragments.
His mind supplied instead the sound of Harriet’s breath catching when he drew her nearer.
He recalled the pressure of her hands upon his shoulders and the slight parting of her lips as he bent toward her.
Had Mrs. Mercer entered a few seconds later, he would have kissed his wife.
That fact ought not to have carried such force.
A man did not require absolution for wishing to kiss the woman he had married.
Yet Harriet had agreed to become his wife only after he promised that the title would give him no claim upon her person.
For two days, he had entered her chamber beneath the assurance that nothing would occur there which she did not invite.
In the library she had not invited him. She had merely failed to stop him.
The distinction was one a gentleman ought to observe before his mouth was almost upon hers.
“You were last employed in London?” Benedict asked, forcing his attention to the papers before him.
“Yes, my lord. The household was reduced when the family removed abroad.” Crandell’s expression remained impassive. He was perhaps forty, though the severe arrangement of his dark hair and the deep lines beside his mouth made certainty difficult. “The agency will confirm the circumstances.”
“I presume it already has.”
“Most thoroughly, my lord.”
Benedict glanced again at the letter bearing the agency’s seal.
His father’s secretary had recommended the firm, and Denham had employed servants through it before without cause for complaint.
That ought to have been sufficient. It would have been sufficient had Benedict not spent the previous afternoon warning Harriet that no stranger should be admitted to Everton without the closest examination.
He should ask why Crandell had left his earlier post after only eighteen months.
He should send inquiries to each household named in the references rather than relying upon the agency’s report.
The appointment need not be made today. Mrs. Mercer could continue directing the household, and Pritchard had promised to come from Denham whenever assistance was required.
But those sensible conclusions dissolved when Benedict remembered Harriet looking up at him with her eyes half closed.
The past two nights had afforded him little rest. Each evening he had sat in her chamber while the fire burned low and the household settled around them.
Their conversations had begun cautiously, then wandered into the sort of confidences he had never imagined Harriet would offer him.
She had spoken of her mother without the hard brightness she employed before others.
He had found himself telling her things he had never thought important enough to repeat.
Then he returned to his own chamber, poured brandy and drank until sleep seemed possible.
It never proved peaceful. He dreamed of Harriet.
Not as she appeared at dinner, armored in silk and armed argument, but with her hair unbound and the prim white nightrail clinging to curves modestly concealed by daylight.
He had imagined what lay beneath it until the imagined woman and the real one had become dangerously difficult to separate.
Each morning he woke exhausted, ashamed and no less tormented than before.
Now he no longer needed imagination to tell him how she would feel in his arms.
He knew the yielding warmth of her waist beneath his hand. He knew the slight weight of her body against his chest. He knew that when he lowered his mouth to hers, she had not recoiled. The knowledge had followed him from the library and seated itself between him and the man he was meant to judge.
“The household is not yet fully established,” Benedict said. “Mrs. Mercer serves as housekeeper, but several other positions remain vacant. You would be expected to assist her in examining applicants and establishing an orderly division of duties.”
For the first time, something altered in Crandell’s expression.
It was gone too quickly for Benedict to name, perhaps no more than surprise that he would be expected share such responsibilities with a mere female.
“Naturally, my lord. I have always found that a clear understanding between butler and housekeeper prevents disorder belowstairs.”
The answer was proper. Benedict disliked it nevertheless.
“Discretion is of particular importance here,” he continued. “Everton has stood unoccupied for many years. My marriage and the reopening of the house have naturally stirred curiosity. I will not tolerate servants who make household matters the entertainment of the village.”
“A servant who discusses his employers has mistaken both his position and his value, my lord.” Crandell met Benedict’s gaze with careful respect. “I have no taste for gossip.”
Nor, Benedict thought, any visible taste for anything else.
The man’s composure was complete. Pritchard’s dignity had always possessed warmth beneath it, revealed in the smallest softening of his manner toward Benedict’s mother or in the patience with which he had endured the mischief of two neighboring children.
Crandell appeared carved for the role he sought, every response polished until nothing of the man remained.
Benedict set the references upon the desk.
A faint ache had begun behind his eyes, the consequence of too little sleep and too much brandy partaken of too late in the night.
He wanted the interview concluded. He wanted to return to the library and discover whether Harriet regretted what had almost occurred.
He wanted, with an urgency that humiliated him, to finish the kiss that had been denied them.
“The position is yours, if you wish it,” he said.
The words were spoken before caution could reclaim him.
Crandell inclined his head. “I am honored by your confidence, my lord.”
Benedict’s unease sharpened. He ought to correct the error, explain that the appointment depended upon further inquiries and endure whatever inconvenience resulted.
Instead, he heard Harriet’s voice accusing him of making every decision as though no other person possessed sense enough to participate in it.
They required a butler. The agency was well regarded.
The references had already been examined by men whose profession depended upon their accuracy.
His dislike was instinct, not evidence.
“You may begin at once,” Benedict said. “Mrs. Mercer will show you the servants’ quarters and acquaint you with the present arrangements.”
Crandell rose. “Very good, my lord.”
He bowed and withdrew, closing the door without sound. Benedict remained at the desk, staring at the empty chair. He could still call the man back. He could require a week’s trial or send a rider to Denham with instructions that inquiries be made independently.
He did neither.
For several moments, he attempted to review the accounts awaiting his attention. The figures blurred. He abandoned them and crossed to the sideboard, then stopped with his hand upon the brandy decanter. It was not yet noon. Even in his present state, he had not sunk so far as that.
Benedict turned away and went to the window.
From there he could see the southern lawn and the neglected garden beyond it.
Harriet was not visible. He pictured her still seated upon the library carpet, startled by what had passed between them.
Or perhaps she had risen the instant he left and resumed cataloguing books, dismissing the incident as another example of his presumption.
He could not dismiss it.
For years he had believed their quarrels proof that he and Harriet were fundamentally ill suited.
Marriage had revealed a more unsettling possibility.
Their antagonism had never arisen from indifference.
He had noticed too much about her, sought her attention too relentlessly and felt every rebuke too keenly for indifference to have played any part in it.
Irritation had been safer because it demanded nothing and admitted less. But that safety was gone.
Tonight he would enter her chamber because the servants must believe theirs an ordinary marriage. He would sit near her fire and listen while she spoke. He would be expected to behave as though he had not held her in his arms and come within a breath of tasting her mouth.
Benedict rested his forehead against the cool glass.
He had thought sleeping apart would preserve the terms of their agreement.
Instead, every evening had become an exercise in leaving the woman he desired and seeking an empty bed only a few yards away.
He did not know how long honor could withstand such intimate punishment without altering him into a man he had never meant to become.
Behind him, the door opened. Crandell stood upon the threshold, as silent as he had been when departing.
“Forgive me, my lord. Mrs. Mercer has asked whether I am to accompany the household to church on Sunday.”
Benedict straightened. “Yes. You may attend with the other servants.”
“Very good, my lord.”
The door closed again.
Benedict looked toward it, the unease returning without explanation. Then he thought of Harriet waiting somewhere within the house and allowed the feeling to pass.