Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
Harriet was not herself. Something had upset or troubled her in some way.
Benedict had known it when she took his arm at the church door. He had known it in the carriage, when she answered his father’s questions without once turning from the window. Whatever had disturbed her then had followed them through the visit to Denham and returned with them to Everton.
At dinner, she was too determined to appear ordinary.
Harriet did not ordinarily ask whether he preferred the pheasant to the beef or express polite interest in the progress of the roof repairs.
She stated what she thought, frequently before anyone had requested the information.
This careful conversation, with its pauses and sensible questions, required effort.
Benedict watched her push a piece of pheasant from one side of her plate to the other and wondered whether Selby or the events in the library were responsible.
He had seen Selby at the church. More importantly, he had seen Harriet’s expression when she saw him. She had looked afraid.
It was not an expression Benedict associated with her, and he had disliked it intensely. From childhood on, she’d seemed fearless to the point of recklessness at times.
He intended to ask her about it as soon as they were alone. But when dinner ended, Harriet rose before he could suggest that they remain in the drawing room and announced that she was tired. She went upstairs without looking at him.
Benedict remained at the table, staring at the chair she had vacated.
If she wished to avoid him because of what had nearly happened in the library the day prior, entering her chamber later would place her in the awkward position of having to send him away.
Yet if Selby had threatened her in some manner, Benedict needed to know of it.
Decision made, he rose from the dining table and sought his own chamber.
There, he undressed to a level of comfort, the level they’d both become accustomed to.
He allowed her enough time to prepare for bed, then crossed the private passage and knocked.
There was a long pause before she answered. “Come in.”
Harriet stood beside the fire in a pale wrapper, her hands clasped tightly before her. She had laid out the chessboard, though the pieces remained in their box. One look at her was sufficient to tell Benedict that whatever she meant to say would not be said over a game.
He closed the door. “You have been quiet since church.”
“Have I?”
“Painfully so.” Benedict moved toward the hearth but did not sit. “Did Selby say something to you?”
The question startled her. “No. Why would you think that?”
“Because you looked at him and then seized my arm as if you expected him to drag you from the church.”
“I did not seize you.”
“You came nearer to doing so than you have at any point in our long acquaintance. I noticed. I notice a great deal about you, Harriet.”
Her cheeks colored, but whether from the recollection of Selby or from his reference to their physical distance, Benedict could not tell. “He said nothing. I simply did not care for the manner in which he looked at us. It was… unsettling. But that is not what is pressing on my mind now.”
“Then what is?”
Harriet released her hands and immediately clasped them again. “Did you mean to kiss me yesterday?”
Of all the questions Benedict had expected, it was the one most certain to strip him of a sensible answer. He could deny it and make them both liars. He could apologize so profusely that she believed he regretted wanting her. Neither would serve.
“Yes,” he said.
Harriet frowned slightly, as if she had expected him to offer some defense she could argue against. “You admit it very readily.”
“You were there. A denial would be difficult to sustain.”
“You have not apologized.”
“If I frightened you or made you uncomfortable, then I am sorry for that. I should have put you down the instant I knew you were not injured.” Benedict held her gaze. “But I will not apologize for wanting to kiss you. I did want to. I still do.”
The last admission altered the silence between them. Harriet drew a breath and looked away. Benedict waited, though patience had become an increasingly difficult virtue where she was concerned.
“I wanted you to kiss me,” she said.
He was not certain he had heard correctly. “What?”
She turned back to him, her embarrassment plainly warring with irritation at being made to repeat herself. “I said I wanted you to kiss me. When Mrs. Mercer entered, I was not relieved at the interruption. In truth, I was quite perturbed by it.”
Benedict had imagined her making such a confession in at least a dozen sleepless variations. None had prepared him to hear it while standing only a few feet away.
“Harriet, do you understand what you are asking?”
“I am not asking for anything. Not yet.” She made an impatient gesture, then appeared to hear her own contradiction. “That is, I am asking you to kiss me. But only to kiss me. I have not decided upon anything beyond that.”
Only a kiss. It would be an act of exquisite stupidity. He had already spent every night since they’d wed drinking brandy in the hope of deadening his awareness of her, and yesterday’s embrace had rendered the effort useless. Kissing her would make every hour in this house more difficult.
He crossed the room anyway.
Harriet did not retreat. She stood very still as he reached her, watching him with an uncertainty she made no attempt to conceal.
“You may change your mind,” he said.
“I know.”
“At any point.”
“Benedict, if you continue speaking, I am very likely to do so.”
The familiar sharpness of her reply almost made him smile. Instead, he lifted one hand to her face, cupping her cheek while his thumb rested just beneath her lower lip. Harriet’s breath caught. The sound traveled through him with alarming force.
He kissed her gently.
For one terrible moment, she did not respond, and Benedict thought he had mistaken courage for desire.
Then her hand settled against his chest, her fingers tightening in the cloth of his shirt.
Her mouth softened beneath his. Like everything else about Harriet, it was not truly a surrender but merely an allowance.
He moved his mouth over hers experimentally, finding the exact pressure that made her sigh.
The angle which provided the most satisfying contact.
And then he tasted her, licking gently at the seam of her lips and tasting the wine she’d had with dinner.
Her gasp of surprise was an opportunity not to be squandered.
He swept inside, his tongue gliding against hers in a delicate dance that mimicked other activities he’d very much like to introduce her to.
And then she leaned in, sinking against him in a way that sharpened his already piercing desire for her.
The kiss never ceased to be gentle, but the edge of hunger crept in, quickening his movements, sharpening her indrawn breaths and leaving them clinging to one another in a way that neither could deny. Every restraint he possessed strained against that single movement.
He wanted to lift her into his arms and carry her to the bed. It stood only a few steps behind them, the curtains open and the counterpane already turned down. He could show her what lay beyond the kiss, and some part of him believed she would let him.
But she had asked for only this.
Benedict broke the kiss before wanting more became taking more. Harriet remained against him, her eyes still closed and her lips parted. He could feel her breath through his shirt where her hand rested upon his chest.
When she opened her eyes, there was a dazed accusation in them. “Why did you stop?”
“Because you told me to.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You said only a kiss.” His voice was rougher than he intended.
“I have kissed you. If I remain here, I am likely to become very persuasive about everything you have not yet decided. And I do not wish to wonder if I am in your bed because you want me there or because I’ve blinded you to reasons you might not. ”
Harriet’s gaze dropped to his mouth. “I see.”
He doubted that she did. Benedict scarcely understood it himself. He had always considered self-command one of his more reliable qualities. A few moments with Harriet in his arms had reduced it to something perilously thin.
“Good night,” he said.
She looked as though she might object, but in the end she stepped back. “Good night, Benedict.”
He paused to look back at her, noting her kiss-swollen lips and tousled hair. It was something he wanted to remember forever. Then he simply walked away.
His chamber was dark when he entered it.
The fire had been banked, and the bed awaited him with a neatness that made the idea of lying in it intolerable.
Harriet was on the other side of the passage.
He could return with three steps and one turn of the latch.
The knowledge would keep him awake until dawn.
The study was farther away. It contained ledgers, a decanter and none of Harriet’s belongings. Benedict decided it would have to suffice.
He opened the door to the corridor and nearly walked into Crandell.
The butler stood near the head of the stairs, beyond the circle of light cast by the wall lamp. He did not start at Benedict’s appearance. That, more than his presence, roused Benedict’s suspicion.
“What are you doing here?”
Crandell bowed. “I was making certain that no lamps had been left burning, my lord. Some of the maids are still unfamiliar with the house, and Mrs. Mercer expressed concern about carelessness.”
It was plausible. Everton had been empty for years, and a lamp left too near faded hangings which were little more than tinder could do more damage in an hour than neglect had done in decades.
But there was only one lamp in this corridor, and it was meant to remain lit until Benedict and Harriet retired.
“You have found no cause for concern,” Benedict said.
“No, my lord.”
“Then you may go.”
Crandell inclined his head and descended the stairs. Benedict watched him until he disappeared below. The man’s tread made almost no sound.
He looked back toward the private passage. Crandell had been close enough to see Benedict leave Harriet’s chamber and enter his own. Had Benedict remained there, the butler would have learned precisely what no member of this household could be permitted to know.
The agency might have vouched for Crandell. Benedict no longer considered that sufficient.