Chapter 2
A KNOCK SOUNDED on the door to Benedict Ellison’s bedchamber, freezing him in the act of picking up his riding hat.
His fingers curled around the brim, eyes darting out the window as if it might provide escape.
He’d been bound for the stables to see after the stallion he hoped to stud come spring, but the noise at his door threatened a delay to his plans.
His mother had several knocks he’d come to know intimately over the years.
Her particular favorites included her frantic knock of several quick taps, her angry knock, which was no more than three hits to the wood, and her no-nonsense knock—two sharp raps.
This was the latter and generally meant she required something of him.
With a sigh that might have filled one of the Montgolfier brothers’ newfangled hot air balloons, he crossed to the door in the same moment that the knock sounded again.
“Come in,” he said, swinging it wide and retreating into the room.
He loved his mother, but heavens, sometimes a man did not wish to begin his day with requirements.
Most especially when the entirety of his day already held dozens.
Father expected Benedict to handle the steward’s meeting that afternoon, see to their investments, ride the west pasture, and report back to him.
Not to mention whatever else cropped up during the course of the day.
“Benedict.” Mother rushed in on a wave of ruffles and enthusiasm. “Grace Whitmore is returned.”
His brows lifted. “Oh? Has she a husband as anticipated?”
She shook her head, her dark hair swept up in an elaborate, voluminous style, and her gossamer cotton dress providing a contrast to the intensity in her eyes. “No. In fact, she has a head injury.”
“That is unfortunate. I do hope she will recover.” He crossed his arms; just what would be required of him in conjunction with Miss Whitmore’s return?
After the debacle the year before, he’d been plied by both sets of parents to chase after the woman and make amends, but it had been rather a moot argument as Miss Whitmore had already left the county.
“She may not, which is wonderful for us.”
He sat against the windowsill, blinking at her.
Mother had always been mercenary, but this was doing it rather strong.
For six months after Miss Whitmore had called off their betrothal, he’d endured many a reprimand, but always, Mother had placed the blame on him for losing them the heiress that would solidify their estate for generations to come.
Not to mention connecting them with a family whom Mother quite liked.
Yet now she was glad the girl had been injured?
“So you are… excuse me, you mean to say you are happy the girl has a head injury?”
Mother pierced him with a glare, to which he raised innocent palms. “Woman,” she corrected. “She is a woman only two years your junior. And on the night of your betrothal, she did not kiss another man!”
“Nor did I,” Benedict returned.
Her glare could have set the cold hearth beside him on fire. Come to think of it, he should have that lit. The autumn nights were beginning to be quite brisk.
“Very well,” he said in return to her withering stare. “On the night of my betrothal, she had likely been informed such an engagement would even take place.”
Unsurprisingly, her glare did not lessen.
Mother was as bullheaded as Father was soft; even when she knew she was in the wrong, she would not admit it.
She had explained that due to his, ah, capricious tendencies, she’d chosen not to inform him of the one thing that would alter the course of his entire existence.
She’d planned to tell him that he was to be wed, certainly.
About a minute before the announcement was made.
Unfortunately for his mother, half an hour before that he’d been accosted by another young woman intent on securing his title, and Miss Whitmore had seen, become offended, and refused to marry him.
“Benedict,” she said, crossing to him, that sour expression softening somewhat. Oh dear, she was about to ask her favor. And by ask, he meant demand. “There is no one so well matched for you as Miss Whitmore.”
“Meaning a woman with a head wound is all that will do for me?”
She ignored him. “She is kind, genteel, and very wealthy.”
Benedict’s hands tapped a rhythm on the windowsill, rebelling against his sitting still. “The hallmarks of a good wife. You know, we could simply economize instead of marrying me off to an heiress. Tomorrow, for instance. This harvest ball is entirely—”
“It is tradition, Benedict. It is expected of us.” She sounded exasperated.
Well, so was he. He had parents who wished him to act as if he were already the earl instead of his entirely healthy father.
He ran the estate without actually having a say in any of the decisions.
He went where they asked and did what they asked all day every day.
And yet they also wanted to take away the one choice that ought to be his?
Instead of finding a woman who would understand his love of horses and adventure, they only cared for how large her dowry was.
“Forgive me, but I do not believe tradition is worth running our estate into the ground.” He stood, unable to sit any longer.
“We need not, if you marry Miss Whitmore. And now…” She stepped in front of him, peering up into his face. He’d gotten his height from Father. “Now she does not recall the great insult you paid her. You have another chance.”
This time, he was fairly certain his brows had disappeared into his hairline. “You mean, she has lost her memory?”
Mother nodded.
“You ought not to look so happy about that.”
She waved off his words as if they were no more than an annoying pest. “Her mother wrote to tell me all. Grace recalls not a thing from the last several years, yet she is every bit the young woman she was before and is capable of forming new memories. The physician can hardly countenance it. He imagines the recollections will come back eventually… but… for now…”
Benedict stared at her. “What happened to her?”
“A fall at her aunt’s house. Near the Dover cliffs.”
“Not down them?” His tone was aghast. He was aghast.
“No no. At the beach. Down a small hill. Hit her head on a rock and… well, you need not the details. Only that she is nearly recovered… in everything but her memory. And now is our chance to secure the marriage you ruined a year ago.”
Benedict was frankly disgusted. “I will not take advantage of an injured woman.”
“She is not injured.”
This time, it was he who pierced her with a look.
“Truly, Benedict. I do not mean to make light of what she has suffered, but your father and I, and her parents, were devastated when the betrothal ended. We desire the connection between our families, and more than that, you know we need the funds.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.
“And she is fine in every way except her recollections. She is still the same sweet woman.”
That was nearly as bad. He’d been horrified to learn that he’d not only unknowingly hurt an innocent young woman, but also that his parents had betrothed him to Miss Grace Whitmore, whom he barely knew and had never cared to familiarize himself with.
Because what he did know was that she was… well… boring.
And Benedict Ellison had enough boring to fill his life. When it came to the choices he was able to make for himself, he would never, ever choose to be bored.
“Benedict, you have to do this. For me. For your father. For your future.”
He crossed his arms, pacing to the fireplace. “No, I will not pretend that I’ve not met this woman, and try to… what? Court her?”
She nodded. “Exactly. Benny, dear. You hurt her… In this way, you can atone.”
“By lying to her?”
“By treating her the way you ought to have in the first place.”
He narrowed his eyes. “She could regain her memory tomorrow.”
“And then she would have had the chance to know the real you, and to know that you would never have done what you did had you known.”
He paused at that, feet stilling. It would soothe his bruised pride to make atonements, even if the problem had not been his to begin with.
He had kissed that girl, though she’d nearly thrown herself at him.
He’d felt so stifled in his life and responsibilities that those kinds of thoughtless actions had been occurring more and more frequently.
When his mother claimed Grace Whitmore was a good fit for him, he saw it for what it really was.
She was no great fit, no match to him. She was, however, what his mother wished he would find himself attracted to.
Because she’d wanted him to settle down.
It was not enough that he’d forgone adventure and excitement to take over the estate far earlier than he ought to have.
But while he chafed to be censured, he would agree when in the wrong.
Though his mother had gone about it the wrong way, she had been correct that a change needed to be made.
A year before, he’d been slipping, almost unconsciously, into the wrong sort of life.
He’d been too careless with his and others’ reputations.
Kissing young women had not been an abnormal event.
Late nights with friends in his billiards room had been frequent.
Pushing at the boundaries he’d so resented had become no more than could be expected.
When Mother had come running to him that night of the ball, livid that he’d kissed Miss Lennox and ruined the betrothal no one had informed him of, he’d realized that the course he was on was one that would lead him to debauchery or worse.
He’d reined back. He’d learned that he could enjoy himself and his decidedly not boring life without being a cad.
He felt that he’d changed, and it rankled him that Miss Whitmore had experienced him at his worst.
His mother was watching him, leaning forward almost imperceptibly, hands clasped before her.
“I do not like it,” he said.
Her eyes turned mischievous. “I will convince your father to allow you to try your hand with a new mare next spring. You will be able to start that little endeavor you’ve been dreaming of.”
That was rather underhanded, but appealing.
Father, despite happily handing off all the day-to-day decisions and running of the estate, still held stubbornly to keeping things the way they’d always been.
And that was the real reason the estate was slowly failing: because they were not keeping up with the times.
If they would only give Benedict a chance to make some changes—perhaps to try his little endeavor of horse breeding, which he’d painstakingly planned out before presenting to his parents, only to be turned down flat.
If Benedict was to handle all the affairs his father ought to, he desperately wished for some control over the decisions.
He sniffed, unfolding his arms. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
Excitement flooded her face. “Allow her mother to introduce you tomorrow night.”
“That is all?”
“Well… no. I want you to court her, son. To actually try.”
“Indefinitely?” He raised a brow. “I will not lie to this woman, Mother. Most especially not forever.”
“Well, no, of course not.” She cast her eyes around, as if common ground could be found somewhere within his bedchamber. “A month.”
He balked. “That is far too long a charade.”
Her lips pinched, and her head tilted to the side in thought. “Two weeks, then.”
He rubbed a hand across his chin. He need not truly court her, just be kind to her.
And there was always the likelihood that she would recall him the moment she laid eyes on him. If not then, sometime in the next two weeks. He would get his chance to apologize for the past, and they could move on with their separate lives.
Because he did draw the line at marrying her. They would not suit.
“And if she recalls me? Will you still uphold your end of the bargain?” he asked, a brow raised.
“Yes.” She clenched her hands together in front of her stomach, a few spider-thin wrinkles etching themselves outward from her eyes as they focused on him.
“So long as you hold up yours. You cannot say you will court her, then take her on a single drive or walk about the garden and call it accomplished. Nor,” she added in a rush, “can you tell her of last year. That would undo any good this second chance may give.”
He rubbed his lips together, shaking his head a little. “I will spend time with her and let her know the true me, Mother. But I will not call it courting. It feels too duplicitous.”
Her nose scrunched in a sniff of displeasure, but she seemed to realize they’d found the only compromise possible. She nodded.
“Very well,” Benedict said. “I will do it.”