Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
Two days had passed since Benedict first entered Harriet’s chamber beneath the pretense of preserving the appearance of their marriage. Two evenings in which an hour had quietly become two, and neither of them had remarked upon the difference.
They had played chess the first night. Benedict had won, though Harriet remained convinced he had distracted her by disputing the wisdom of sacrificing a rook until she had forgotten the bishop lying in wait.
The following evening, they had abandoned the board in favor of their books.
Harriet had read while Benedict stretched his long legs toward the fire, and when the candles burned low, the darkness had loosened their tongues.
They had spoken of Everton, of Alderley and, eventually, of things that had nothing whatever to do with estates or mortgages.
Benedict had told her of the schoolmaster who had once locked him in a cupboard for insolence.
Harriet had confessed that she had broken the drawing-room window at Denham deliberately, although hiding beneath his bed afterward had been an act of cowardice rather than strategy.
Only when the clock upon the mantel struck two had he risen and sought his own chamber through the private passage.
Harriet had lain awake afterward, listening to the silence he left behind.
It troubled her that she had begun to anticipate those hours.
She spent each day knowing he would come to her when it ended.
The arrangement had been conceived as a deception for the servants, but servants could not hear them once her chamber door was closed.
There was no practical reason for Benedict to remain until the fire had fallen to embers or for Harriet to detain him with one more question whenever he made a motion toward leaving.
Yet she did.
It was this uncomfortable realization that occupied her mind even as she stood midway up a ladder in Everton’s library, attempting to read the title stamped upon the spine of a particularly neglected volume.
Leaning forward she attempted to brush away dust and cobwebs, but only came away with her own fingers smeared with dirt and the book appearing no cleaner.
The library had suffered more from time than any other room they intended to use.
Dust remained thick upon the upper shelves despite the servants’ efforts, and the books had been arranged according to a system known only to Benedict’s grandmother and, Harriet suspected, devised principally to prevent anyone else from finding them.
Sermons stood beside treatises upon horticulture.
A history of the Roman Empire had been wedged between two French novels of a nature sufficiently dubious that Harriet had placed them upon the desk for later examination.
She reached higher, steadying herself with one hand while she drew the volume free with the other. The ladder shifted faintly beneath her.
“If you mean to break your neck before luncheon, I should be grateful if you would postpone it until I have reviewed the household accounts.”
Benedict’s voice sounded from the doorway.
Harriet glanced over her shoulder and found him watching her, one shoulder braced against the frame.
He had evidently returned from the stables.
His boots bore a trace of mud, and the cool air had given color to his face.
The familiar sight of him produced a warmth she could not attribute to exertion.
“Your concern for my welfare is most affecting,” she said. “You may assure yourself that the accounts will be in perfect order before I expire.”
“The accounts are not in perfect order now. Therefore, I must insist that you descend.” He left the doorway and crossed the room, looking up at her with an expression of resigned disapproval. “There are servants whose employment includes climbing ladders.”
“There are presently too few servants whose employment includes everything. I will not summon a footman each time I wish to inspect a shelf.” Harriet turned back to the books. “Besides, I have climbed taller trees than this ladder.”
“You were twelve when you climbed trees, and you fell from half of them.”
“Only from the ones whose branches proved unequal to the burden of supporting me.”
“An important distinction, no doubt. I shall explain it to the surgeon. And given that ladder’s age and state of decay, I should think the branches were a likelier perch.”
Harriet ignored him and lifted the book toward the upper shelf. The movement drew her skirts against the narrow rung behind her. A fold of wool caught upon the brass fitting at the ladder’s side. She tugged impatiently, but the fabric held.
“Do stop fussing,” she said when Benedict placed one hand upon the rail. “You are making it move.”
“I am holding it still. Come down, and I will retrieve whatever indispensable volume has inspired this folly.”
“It is not folly. I am making a catalogue.”
“You are dangling above my head with your gown caught upon a ladder.” His gaze dropped briefly to the imprisoned fold of her skirt. “The catalogue may wait.”
Harriet attempted to free the fabric once more. The brass hook released it without warning. Her foot slipped from the rung, and the book fell from her hand. She heard Benedict say her name, sharply and without any trace of amusement. Then the ladder tilted away beneath her.
She did not strike the floor.
Benedict caught her with an arm about her waist and the other beneath her knees.
The force of her fall drove him back a step, but he held her securely against his chest. For one disordered instant Harriet could think of nothing beyond the speed with which the room had changed direction.
Her hands had closed upon his shoulders.
Her cheek rested near the open edge of his coat, and beneath layers of cloth she could feel the violent beat of his heart.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded.
She shook her head, though the movement brought her face nearer his. “No. I do not believe so.”
“You do not believe so?” His arm tightened as though she might fall again while already held against him. “Harriet, either you are injured or you are not.”
“I have only just ceased falling. You must allow me a moment to determine it.”
The answer ought to have provoked one of his customary retorts.
None came. Benedict continued to hold her while his gaze moved over her face, searching for some evidence of pain she had failed to identify.
Harriet became aware of every place their bodies touched.
One of his hands rested upon her side just beneath her arm, his fingertips dangerously close to the curve of her breast as he cradled her against him.
His other arm was a firm pressure against the backs of her thighs, that hand curling about her knee.
But above all else, she could feel the firm, steadiness of his body against hers, the heat of him even through layers of clothing.
She had been embraced before by her father, her sister and Mrs. Mercer.
Nothing in those innocent expressions of affection had prepared her for this.
There was nothing innocent in the way her body answered his nearness.
Heat unfurled low within her, swift and bewildering.
Her breath caught when his fingers shifted against her flesh.
Benedict’s face was very close, stripped of the easy confidence that so often provoked her.
Alarm remained in his eyes, but beneath it lay something darker and more intent.
She recognized it because she had seen a shadow of the same expression on their wedding night.
Desire. Not the impersonal expectation of a husband who had acquired a wife, but desire for her.
“You may put me down,” Harriet said. The words lacked the firmness she intended.
“I should,” he agreed.
He did not.
Instead, Benedict lowered her feet slowly to the floor while keeping one arm about her.
Harriet’s slippers found the carpet, but her knees had not recovered their reliability.
She remained against him, her hands still resting upon his shoulders.
Neither spoke. The old house seemed to settle into silence around them, the very air stilled by an awareness neither of them could pretend belonged only to the other.
His gaze lowered to her mouth.
Harriet knew what was about to happen. She had been kissed once, years before, by an earnest young gentleman who had spent so long requesting permission that curiosity had prompted her to grant it.
The result had been damp, awkward and wholly unmoving.
She had afterward concluded that kisses had been much exaggerated by poets and women of limited occupation.
She did not think Benedict’s kiss would resemble it.
His hand moved slide along the line of her back, down to her waist, where it rested upon the curve of her hip. He leaned nearer, slowly enough that she might turn away. Harriet did not. Her fingers tightened in the wool of his coat, and her eyes closed when his breath warmed her lips.
“My lord?”
Mrs. Mercer’s voice came from the doorway.
Benedict released Harriet so abruptly that she nearly stumbled.
He steadied her by the elbow, then stepped back.
Mrs. Mercer stood just inside the library with an expression of perfect composure.
Only the slight lift of one brow betrayed that she had observed anything beyond two people standing too near an overturned ladder.
“The gentleman from the London agency has arrived, my lord,” she said. “He has come regarding the position of butler and is waiting in the study for you.”
Benedict looked at Harriet. Whatever she had seen in his face moments before had vanished beneath the restraint he wore before others. “Thank you, Mrs. Mercer. I shall speak with him directly.”
“Of course, my lord.” Mrs. Mercer’s gaze fell upon the volume lying open upon the carpet and then moved to the ladder. “Shall I send someone to assist her ladyship?”
“No,” Harriet answered before Benedict could. “I have finished with the upper shelves.”
“She has,” Benedict said, his tone leaving little room for dispute. He righted the ladder and moved it away from the bookcase. “And she will not climb it again unless someone is present to hold it.”
Harriet ought to have objected. Under Mrs. Mercer’s observant eye, she could summon no argument that did not sound either childish or revealing. “You have an applicant waiting.”
“So I have.” Benedict bent to retrieve the fallen book.
His fingers traced the crease in its cover before he placed it upon the desk.
When he straightened, his attention lingered upon Harriet with an intensity that made the interrupted moment seem more present rather than less. “We will discuss the ladder later.”
He departed without waiting for her reply. Mrs. Mercer watched him cross the hall, then turned back to Harriet.
“The cook requires my attention,” she said mildly. “Unless you have need of me here?”
“No. None whatever.”
“Very good, my lady.”
The door closed behind her.
Harriet stood motionless until Mrs. Mercer’s footsteps faded. Then the strength left her legs altogether. She sank to the carpet beside the desk, heedless of the dust upon her skirts, and pressed one unsteady hand against her mouth.
Benedict had very nearly kissed her.
Far worse, she had very nearly kissed him in return. And she didn’t regret that it had nearly happened. She regretted that it had been interrupted before it could.
“This is an unexpected complication,” she muttered to the empty room. But there was no answer. Only continued dismay and the faint echo of his touch.