Chapter 15
BENEDICT KNEW WHAT Mother’s rap on the door meant.
It was unhurried. Two slow taps. Her conversational knock—she was here simply to pass the time in the morning.
Benedict did not have a moment for it, yet his valet opened the door as he finished tying his own cravat.
“I am going out, Mother. Did you need something?”
“Off to see Miss Whitmore, are you?” Her tone was sly as she settled on a chair beside his desk.
“Yes,” was all he said. His throat was tight. He’d received no word from the Whitmores, and though it was early, he could wait no longer. He needed to know how she was.
She inched forward on the chair. “Was I not right? She is perfect for you.”
“You were.” His valet came over to help him into his coat. “But it is the side of her you did not know that is perfect for me. And if you’ll excuse me, she was injured yesterday, and I need to know how she fares.”
He strode for the door, and Mother jumped to her feet. “Injured? What happened?”
He did not want to delay, but his mother deserved an explanation. “A riding accident. She hit her head.”
Mother pressed a hand to her lips. “Poor dear.”
Benedict’s hand closed around the door handle. “Mother, please. I need to be going.” His tone was agonized. He was agonized. Guilt coursed through him with every movement he made. Fear for Grace was never far behind.
Mother waved her hands. “Yes, yes of course.”
He saddled the horse himself and rode off at a gallop to their neighboring estate. Would there be lasting effects from Grace’s second fall? Was she awake? Would her headaches increase?
His hands tightened on the reins, heels digging into the stallion. Would she hate him, now she knew the truth?
His knuckles grew white. Please, no.
Gravel sprayed up beneath his horse’s hooves as he cantered down the Whitmores’ drive. He dismounted in seconds and took the front steps two at a time.
The butler answered, the only evidence of his surprise a slight lift to his brow.
“I wish to see Mr. or Mrs. Whitmore, if you please?” He tapped his hat on his leg.
“Yes, my lord, if you’ll follow me, I will see if they are at home to visitors at this hour.”
The servant deposited him in the drawing room and was nearly gone before Benedict added, hand reaching out for the departing butler, “And is there word on Miss Whitmore? How is she?”
The man focused on Benedict’s cravat. “I am afraid I am not at liberty to discuss that, my lord.”
Benedict’s jaw was tight as he nodded his understanding. Understanding did not mean he was contented, though. Far from it. He knew it was his fault Grace had been hurt, but could they not tell him how she fared? Even the smallest bit of information?
He was left to pace the drawing room, thinking of all the times he’d been in here over the past fortnight. Had it only been that long?
The door opened, and he spun.
“Lord Ellison, I am surprised to see you. We did plan to send you word of Grace’s condition,” Mr. Whitmore came into the room as he spoke, shaking Benedict’s hand.
“And? How does she fare?”
“Well enough,” the man said, eyeing Benedict with pursed lips. “Excuse me for being surprised that you care overmuch, my lord. Just last night, my wife informed me of the farce they have enacted, and I do not support it. I am surprised you did.”
Benedict wrung the brim of his hat. “I understand your censure. I am ashamed of myself, sir. But please know that I have told her everything. And I wish to apologize as soon as possible.”
The man raised a single brow in challenge. “Do you? Would you do so now? This very minute?”
“I can see her?” Benedict had not expected to be so lucky.
The man’s look was still appraising. “Against my better judgment, yes. But only because she has asked after you.”
Benedict stepped to the door, his feet moving of their own volition, attempting to bring himself closer to Grace.
She wanted to see him? No, that was not exactly what her father had said, only that she asked after him.
He froze, worry for her state stopping his feet.
“She cannot be brought down here; that may injure her head further.”
“No, indeed not. You must go to her room. Chaperoned, of course.”
It was still highly improper, but he was not about to question it. It was the best-case scenario he could have expected. “Thank you, sir,” he said, infusing his words with all the solemnity he could.
“I will send word up to her maid.” He stepped into the hall for but a moment before returning and closing the door. “We ought to give them a quarter of an hour to prepare for your visit. The perfect amount of time to solidify your intentions toward my daughter.”
Benedict planted his feet, meeting the older man’s eye.
“I do not need a quarter of an hour. I want to marry your daughter, Mr. Whitmore, but I will not propose until she is prepared to move forward. I do not want her to feel rushed, and I think she would like to have her memory returned before as well. If possible.” If she would even consider his suit now.
Something glinted in the man’s eye. “Yes. I do believe she would.”
An awkward degree of conversation ensued until the appointed time came when Benedict was ushered to the door he’d carried Grace through the day before.
And then an entirely new awkwardness engulfed him as he stepped over the threshold.
In the heat of the moment yesterday, he’d not felt the seriousness of his being here.
He felt it with extreme clarity this time.
Sunlight filtered in between half-drawn curtains, silence blanketed the room, and Grace lay on the fainting chaise at the foot of her bed, dressed in a light-yellow morning gown, her hair loosely gathered at the nape of her neck and spilling over her shoulder in golden curls.
She was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld.
“How is your head?” he asked, coming to sit on a chair that must have been brought in for him.
It was set half the room’s length from her, which would have made him chuckle if he’d been in a less anxious state.
The only other chair was occupied by her maid, in the corner, head bent over some sewing.
“Better than last night,” Grace said. Her expression was guarded.
“I am so sorry, G—Miss Whitmore. I am horrified to have been the cause of your pain.”
Her eyes were sad, and her smile tight. “You acted as you saw fit. And likely saved me from a greater injury.”
He nodded, his jaw working. Her father might not allow them much time, and he could not waste any of it. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands locked together. “Do you recall what we were speaking of when the accident occurred?”
Her fingers fisted the fabric of her dress then smoothed it out. “I do, yes.”
He rubbed his hands down his trouser legs, his palms hot.
“I cannot apologize enough for the falsehoods I paid you, Miss Whitmore. I swore to myself I would come clean before now, and you cannot know how deeply terrible I feel. How much I… I beg your forgiveness for keeping the truth from you. But I selfishly kept it to myself, not wishing to jeopardize the relationship we had begun to build. Not willing to end my time with you as I was sure I would have to when you knew.”
She did not say anything, and he found himself rushing on. Wanting to defend himself though a defense was pointless.
“It is an excuse, yes, but I swear to you I did not know. That night, I had no clue we were to be wed; my mother kept it from me, but I was a selfish man even still. I understand if you cannot forgive me, but I must beg. Because I need… I need you in my life, Grace Whitmore. I cannot be without you.” His speech was inelegant and inadequate. But he had nothing else.
Her elbow propped beside her as she struggled to sit, and without thought, he rushed to her side to aid her. The maid shifted in the corner of the room, but her eyes remained downcast. Grace pressed a hand to her head, wincing, then met his gaze.
They were a hand’s length apart now, him on his knees in front of her. And he could not make himself move, even though he ought to.
His voice was low. “I am deeply, terribly sorry. I will spend my life atoning for the pain I’ve brought you, if you will let me.”
There was a crease between her brows. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “You did not know?”
“No.”
“Well… That… I…”
His hands braced either side of her seat, tensing on the chair as he awaited her words.
“Did you… that is… did our mothers force you to court me? My mother confessed her part in it all this morning. Was that all this ever was to you? A favor to our parents?”
He winced. “No. It started that way, yes, but since that first day… Grace, I have fallen in love with you.” He felt vulnerable the moment the words left him, but he did not wish them back. She had the power to crush his heart with or without the full knowledge of his feelings.
Her lips bit together, her eyes darting down then back up to him.
“Yesterday. When I fell,” she said, “I… I looked at you and it all came back.”
His brows lifted. “Your memory?”
She nodded, gaze moving between both of his eyes.
“I admit to being… hurt. Devastated? Yes, that is a more apt description. I was devastated by your falsehoods and by the past. But then I dreamt of you.”
“You dreamt of me?”
“Do not look so pleased. I dreamt that you were gone. That I went back to the life I begged my mother to give to me the night I saw you and Annabelle. And it was horrid. Lifeless. And something else…”
He held his breath. Waiting.
“I had been excited to marry you, you know. Last year.”
He shook his head, doing his utmost to tamp down the hope that had begun to rise within him like a growing fire. “No, I had no idea.”
Her lips quirked up. “I hardly knew you, but I was excited because of how free you appeared. How fun. I felt that maybe, as your wife, I could be more free myself. That I could lessen the facade that had become second nature to me.”
Equal parts pain and elation were slowly bleeding into him. Elation that she did not seem angry, and pain that he’d lost a year with her by his actions.
Her hands, feather light, brushed his face. “You have freed me, Benedict. While I will happily allow you to atone for—your life, did you say?—you need not. I wish you had not lied, but I can forgive it for the sake of our future.”
He looked heavenward, certain divine intervention was shining on him. “Grace, I asked to court you yesterday.”
Her lips twitched. “You did, yes. I thought I was the one with the head injury, my lord.”
His hands came to her knees, squeezing as he held back a chuckle. “And court you I will… for as long as you wish. But would I be entirely out of line to ask you to marry me?”
Her nose scrunched, but a smile spread across her lips. “Could you not wait until I can kiss you? I should hate to accept your proposal only to be parted without even a token of your affection, all because I am an invalid.”
He sputtered a bit at that, his mind in a whirlwind. “I do not see what is stopping us.”
She glanced to the maid, who pointedly turned to face the wardrobe.
Grace blinked after her, then let out a small laugh. “Well, after that show of solidarity, I do believe I owe Tilly an upgraded position. Perhaps as dresser to the wife of Lord Ellison?”
“Does that mean I can kiss you?” he asked in an undertone.
“Gently, if you please. I know I appear very strong and capable just now, but I must admit, my head hurts abominably.”
“You are strong and capable, my dear,” he said. Then slowly, carefully, he leaned toward her, pressing soft lips to hers. Her chin lifted at the contact, and her hands constricted on his face. Heat shot through him, and he desperately wished for more.
But he was a gentleman, and she was hurt. So he pulled back. Or tried to.
Her hand slipped around his neck, drawing him again to her smiling lips. “I was not done, Benedict,” she whispered against his mouth, and warmth shot across his chest and down each limb.
He needed no other invitation. With restraint he’d not known he possessed, he slipped hands around her waist, splaying fingers across her back, feeling the laces of her dress.
His head tilted to the right, lips returning to hers.
Gads, but the feeling of her mouth against his was intoxicating.
The combination of her kiss with the relief of confessing everything was nearly lethal.
His lips explored hers, tracing every corner, taking care not to jostle her overmuch.
When a light groan sounded in her throat, he pulled back to ensure he’d not hurt her.
But her eyes were creased. Her cheeks flushed.
The shifting creak of the maid’s chair was the only thing to keep him from reclaiming her lips with his own.
“Let us do that again when my head does not pound, shall we?” she murmured.
He gave a sharp nod, sitting back on his heels if only for a little distance. His hands wanted to reach for her again already. His lungs struggled to fill enough for his needs. “I will be here daily until such time.”
“My father might not allow you into my room each day,” she warned. “And being that my vision is already beginning to spin, it will likely be several days until I see you again.”
“Then I will send you flowers and tea and get to know your siblings and parents better until you are freed from your cage. I wish to know everything about your life, Grace. Every bit.”
“It may be rather boring. I know how you hate to be bored.” She leaned forward and brushed back a stray curl against his forehead.
“Nothing connected to you, my love, is boring.”