Chapter 6
BENEDICT TOOK THE stairs to the Whitmores’ quaint home two at a time. Mother had been thrilled to see him heading out the door that morning, but more than that, Benedict himself had felt rather excited.
No, not excited. Anticipatory. He had found a way both to help Miss Whitmore and keep his word to his mother, without charming or courting the young lady.
Now, if only he could ensure he would not be bored. Certainly, her frank way of speaking held an appeal, but he felt he already knew what sorts of things would be on her list, and they would not elicit any measure of adventure or excitement.
The butler granted him entrance, and again, Miss Whitmore and her mother met him in the drawing room. Mrs. Whitmore, after a twinkling look his way, left the two of them alone with the door ajar.
“Do you have your list?” he asked, stepping toward the young lady.
She stood just in front of the settee, a rather uncertain expression on her face as she pulled a paper from the folds of her skirt. The morning gown was becoming on her, with her trim waist above where the silhouette flared at the hips.
“Yes, I do.”
He stopped in front of her, only a step away, reaching out his hand. “May I?”
She hesitated only a moment, before handing it over.
He looked at her with a mixture of entertainment and curiosity. Why did she appear so wary? Was she regretting having him along on this little endeavor?
But then he unfolded the paper and let out a bark of laughter, which he stifled too late with a fist.
She moved closer, looking over his shoulder. Or rather, his arm. She was a good head shorter than he. “I know. My penmanship is atrocious. I’ve yet to ask my mother if it has always been that way… I admit I am rather terrified it might have been.”
Even worse though, once he tamped down his amusement, were the things written on the page. The very few things. He turned the paper over, but no further notes were written. There, written in a truly horrific hand, were six scrawled items.
-Embroidery, or mending
-Singing
-Cutting paper silhouettes
-Shopping and perusing fashion plates
-Reading—aloud or alone
-Open carriage rides
“Oh,” he said. It was all he could say. He’d never been so affirmed in his possibly hasty—but evidently not incorrect—assumption that Miss Whitmore was rather, well, boring.
“Yes,” she said, her voice strained. “It appears I do not need you, or two weeks to attempt some of my… favorite… things.”
That wouldn’t do. He needed some reason to continue to spend time with her. “Oh no, you will need someone to drive your carriage, and I am far more accomplished than a groom. And I’ll even allow you to cut my, ah, silhouette, if you wish it.”
She seemed to be holding back a smile as she sat on the settee, but it was hard to tell with that merry little mouth of hers. Such delightful lips truly did not match a woman who enjoyed mending and perusing fashion plates. “You do have a fine jawline. I imagine it would cut rather easily.”
“You make it sound as if it is I you wish to take a sharp instrument to, not the paper.” He sat across from her, leaning into the upholstery. He was surprised at the flush of pride he felt at her compliment, though.
Her smile broke free. “Never fear, my list includes nothing regarding surgical aspirations; your face is safe with me.”
He made a show of peering at the list in question. “I would not know, I can hardly read it.”
She laughed, and it was a pleasant sound. It seemed to settle in his chest for a moment before dissipating. He rubbed at the spot below his cravat before looking up. “Well, shall we?”
“I suppose so. If you are certain?” Again, wariness was on her brow.
“Immensely.”
She nodded. “Mother says I need a pencil, paper, and scissors of course. And it needs to be darker than it is.”
“Ah, yes, is this the wrong time then?”
“No, I shall pull the drapes. I think that will be enough. We need only a shadow.” But when the servants had been sent for the requisite items, and the drapes had been pulled, light still found its way into the room.
Shadows danced their way across the carpeted floors to where Benedict leaned against the fireplace, eyes on Miss Whitmore and fingers tapping against his leg.
He kept several feet of distance between the two of them.
Their mothers might be okay forcing a courtship between them, but Benedict was not.
Nor would he push her into a situation that might reflect poorly on her reputation.
The woman held up a candle in front of her face, the flame flickering and occasionally popping.
Her hand was between the light and the wall, as she attempted to project a shadow of her fingers, but it was fuzzy at best, and her cocked head and furrowed brow indicated it was not going as she’d hoped.
She turned and met Benedict’s eyes over the flickering flame, her nose scrunched up rather adorably.
He found that his mouth lifted of its own accord.
Strange that he was amused despite having simply stood in this particular spot for several long minutes.
How had he never truly noticed her before? She was so very handsome. Her smile so endearing.
“I am unsure if it is my memory causing problems here, or if the situation truly is not ideal for the activity,” she admitted, lowering the candle.
He stood, taking it from her to both help her and himself. His thoughts were wandering as greatly as his feet wished to be. “And nothing about it feels familiar?”
“Even less than most things.”
He twisted his lips. “Well, perhaps the carriage ride? I drove my phaeton here, if you would like a turn about the lane? The weather is unseasonably nice.”
“Yes.” She leaned toward him and sent a puff of breath into the flame he held, extinguishing it in favor of a long trail of smoke, then strode to the window and pulled back the drapes.
“If you do not mind?” She asked the last over her shoulder, and with the window behind her, her hair appeared golden.
He found his throat rather dry.
“Not in the least. I would appreciate exercising my—” He stopped himself. She would not want a bruising ride, or one intended to give much exercise to his horses at all. “Or rather, a quiet ride down the lane would be just the thing.”
For some reason, her mouth dipped in the briefest of frowns at that. “Thank you.”
The door, which had never been entirely closed, was pushed aside by a maid holding a tray laden with more supplies for their now-abandoned activity.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” Miss Whitmore said, crossing to the girl. “The light is not cooperating for any silhouette cutting today.”
“Perhaps you can stow the items in here for another time, though?” Benedict offered.
“Yes,” Miss Whitmore agreed. “The credenza will do just fine. Lord Ellison and I are going to go for a carriage ride, if you will inform my mother?”
“Of course, miss,” the maid replied, moving to put away her wares.
As the day before, Benedict waited for Miss Whitmore to dress for the outing before escorting her outside.
“You need not go to this extent,” she said as they approached the phaeton. “I am sure you could find several other ways to pass your time that are far more enjoyable than helping an invalid regain her memory.”
“I am enjoying myself just fine, Miss Whitmore.” And the statement rang true, to his own surprise.
She nodded, allowing him to help her into the conveyance.
It was not so sporty as the high-perch ones dandies drove around town, but it did well for his needs.
In moments, he had the reins in hand and set off at a sedate pace.
He’d not considered the seating arrangement when offering the drive though, and each minor jostle sent her bumping closer to him, her leg against his and her shoulder brushing his arm.
Uninvited, a surge of warmth began at the points of contact.
Blast it all. He would not be attracted to this woman—could not be after giving his word that he would pull the wool over her eyes for two entire weeks.
With a clearing of his throat, he did his best to surreptitiously add space between them.
It was not much, but when the crisp breeze touched his arm, it was a welcome change.
As they reached the end of the lane, he turned to her. “Which way, madame?”
“Right?”
“That sounds like a question.”
“It was.” She smiled. “I feel a little turned around. The details are there, but hard to pin down in my mind. What is to the right besides town? I believe your home is to the left?”
“Yes,” Benedict said. “As well as the Brooks’ and Darbys’. If you continue on long enough, you will eventually find yourself at the lane to Mile End. There are no homes between us and Upper Lambourn to the right.”
“Oh. Well, which way do you prefer?”
“If you enjoy pastimes such as shopping, we ought to go to town.”
She hesitated. Could she tell that he would far rather go away from the hustle and bustle of the village?
He went often, on estate business or errands for his mother or father, and it only ever brought him stifling small talk.
But this day was not about him. “Let us do that. We can accomplish two of your favorites and do a bit of browsing in the village.” When they inevitably made it through her entire list in only a handful of days rather than the full two weeks he’d promised Mother, he would only have himself to blame.
“A good plan,” she said. But her tone belied the words. There was a flatness there—a resignation, almost.
But theirs was no relationship—he was not sure he could even call it a friendship after only a handful of days. So he did not question, only spurred the horses on.
The day was nice, though a bit brisk, with winter winds hinted at in the autumn breeze. The lane was lined with trees that burst forth in various colors, and he actually did not mind the slower pace. It allowed him to take in the beauty of the countryside.
And to converse with Miss Whitmore, who, despite having rather uninteresting choices of leisure activities, was quite the conversationalist.