Chapter Twelve The Offer #3
She did not need to reduce the choice to virtue and villainy.
Benedict was not lying about what he offered.
He would protect her. He would make social life easier.
He would probably be courteous in marriage, generous with money, disciplined in public, and entirely convinced that every boundary he drew around her existed for her own good.
Mary Beth knew that kind of prison. The wallpaper could be exquisite.
“No,” she said.
Benedict did not react at once.
“No to which part?”
“The proposal.”
The word seemed to surprise him more than anger him.
“You are refusing me.”
“Yes.”
“Because I said Tavener must leave?”
Mary Beth considered lying. It would have been safer for Ambrose and kinder to Benedict’s pride, but she had no appetite for either kind of protection.
“Partly.”
Benedict’s face lost warmth.
“Then there is something between you.”
“There is something between us whether or not I describe it for you.”
“You would refuse marriage for a man who will never be received as your equal.”
“I am refusing marriage to a man who has spent the last half hour explaining how much of my life would require his approval.”
“Because that is what husbands and wives do.”
“No. That is what you would do.”
He stepped away.
Benedict’s polish slipped far enough for Mary Beth to see disbelief rather than fury.
He had expected negotiation. He had expected resistance to individual terms. He had perhaps expected her to demand concessions and enjoy winning them.
He had not expected her to reject the prize.
“You are being reckless,” he said.
“Possibly.”
“Your reputation is improving because my family has stood beside you.”
“I know.”
“Credit has eased. Invitations have returned. The hospital committee received you. Do you imagine none of that can reverse?”
Mary Beth heard the threat and then wondered whether he had intended one.
A faint tightening appeared beside his mouth.
“Is that a warning?”
Benedict’s hand closed around the gloves.
“It is an observation.”
“A remarkably convenient one.”
“Do not make me petty because you dislike what I have said.”
“Then do not make my acceptance the price of your family’s decency.”
Silence stretched between them.
Benedict retrieved his gloves.
When he spoke again, his voice was composed.
“I will assume you are not ready to answer sensibly today.”
Mary Beth almost smiled.
“That is very generous.”
“I mean it. I will not press you now. Think for a week.”
“My answer will still be no.”
“A week can alter certainty.”
“So can a minute. Mine altered twenty minutes ago.”
His answer took a second.
Mary Beth crossed to the bell pull but did not use it. She would not summon a servant to witness the end of a proposal.
“I am sorry if I have hurt you,” she said. “I do not think you came here intending to insult me.”
That stopped him.
Some of the anger left his face.
“No,” he said. “I came intending to marry you.”
“I know.”
“And I would have been good to you.”
Mary Beth believed him, which made the sadness unexpectedly real.
“In the way you understand goodness,” she said.
Benedict’s mouth thinned.
“And Tavener? What does he understand?”
Mary Beth thought of muddy boots outside her morning room, survey sketches spread across a table, a man angry enough to be jealous and decent enough to apologize, laughter in her bed, a place card moved one chair to the left.
“He understands that I am capable of answering for myself.”
Benedict gave a short, humorless laugh.
“For now.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
He moved toward the door.
At the threshold he stopped.
“When the county decides what last night’s performance meant, you may discover that principles are more expensive than you imagine.”
“Then I shall receive the bill.”
He bowed.
“Good afternoon, Mary Beth.”
“Good afternoon, Benedict.”
The door closed softly behind him.
Mary Beth stayed in the drawing room until she heard his carriage move away from the house.
Only then did she let out the breath she had been holding.
On the table between the two chairs lay one of Benedict’s gloves.
He had forgotten it.
Mary Beth picked it up. Fine black leather, perfectly stitched, made to fit a hand that had never done quarry work or hauled a timber brace through mud. She carried it into the hall and gave it to the footman to send after him.
Through the tall window beside the door she could see the north field beyond the rain-dark trees. Men moved along the drainage cut in dark coats. Ambrose stood apart near the culvert, hat pushed back, studying something on a board balanced across his forearm.
He raised his head toward the house as though he had felt her watching.
Mary Beth stepped away from the window before he could see her clearly.
She was not ready to tell him yet. Refusing Benedict had been surprisingly simple once she understood the terms. The harder conversation waited outside with a survey board under one arm.
Ambrose had been careful not to ask what she intended to choose instead. Mary Beth could no longer pretend that his restraint relieved her of answering.