Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
Benedict spent the ride to Denham attempting not to think of Harriet waiting for him at Everton. He might as well have elected to simply stop breathing. The tasks would have been equally impossible.
Regardless that his father might have fallen arse over end in the stable yard, still Benedict could feel Harriet standing in the breakfast room, offering to release him from the vow which had kept them apart.
He had imagined hearing those words often enough to know that his imagination had failed him.
In none of those fantasies had she been uncertain.
She had come to him knowing precisely what she wanted and spared him the fear that she might regret it afterward.
The real Harriet had offered no such comfort.
She was uncertain and curious and determined to proceed despite both.
While that prompted caution, it did not alter the course of his actions.
He wasn’t certain anything short of her telling him she’d changed her mind yet again could keep him from her.
He wanted nothing more than to turn his horse around, ride back to Everton and carry her upstairs before another messenger, another accident, natural disaster or family emergency could intervene.
By the time he reached Denham Park, impatience had sharpened his temper. He found his father in the library with one side of his face scraped, his right arm in a sling improvised from a silk scarf and a glass of whisky in his uninjured hand.
“Your wife—my mother— sent for me because you refuse to see the physician,” Benedict said.
The earl scowled. “Your mother sent for you because she has mistaken a tumble for impending death.”
“You were thrown from a horse you have owned less than a week… and from the looks of you, thrown with significant enthusiasm on the part of said beast.”
“I was not thrown. The brute shied at a pheasant, and the saddle slipped.”
“That distinction will be of great comfort if your arm is broken or your shoulder is out of joint.” Benedict turned toward the servant waiting near the door. “Send for the physician.”
“I have already said there is no need.”
Benedict had no patience for his father’s natural aversion to physicians. “And I have decided not to heed you.”
His father’s expression would once have been sufficient to silence the entire household. Benedict was in no mood to be impressed by it. “You may dismiss the doctor after he examines you. Until then, you may sit there and complain loudly and at length about my insolence.”
His father grimaced more with irritation than pain. “Marriage has made you intolerably authoritative.”
“Marriage has had nothing to do with it. I learned from you.”
Lady Denham, who had entered behind him, concealed a smile with her hand. “Do stop arguing. You will make your head ache worse.”
“My head does not ache,” the earl protested.
It did by the time the physician arrived, though Benedict suspected the pain had less to do with the fall than with being contradicted by both his wife and son.
The examination revealed no broken bones and no injury more serious than bruises, abrasions and a badly wrenched shoulder.
The earl received this vindication with great satisfaction and ignored the doctor’s observation that the outcome owed more to luck than judgment.
Benedict left the moment he was assured his father would survive.
He rode back to Everton at a pace which did nothing to improve the aching in his own head. Harriet’s carriage was absent from the drive when he arrived. Mrs. Mercer informed him that she had gone to Alderley as planned and was expected home before four.
It was not yet three.
Benedict attempted to occupy himself in the study. The accounts failed to hold his attention. He read the same column of figures until they ceased to resemble numbers, then abandoned the ledger and went to the window. The drive remained empty.
He reminded himself that Harriet had promised only to continue their conversation. Whatever hope he had attached to her words, she remained free to reconsider them. She might return from Alderley convinced that curiosity was not reason enough to alter their marriage. If she did, he would accept it.
He would not like it. He might require a great deal more brandy. But he would accept it.
At half past three, he checked the clock again.
Harriet left Alderley later than she intended.
Her sister was a magpie, as always, chattering nonstop.
And all her questions had been about what it was like to be married.
Harriet had worked very hard to divert each one.
Her father had wanted to know everything about Everton, though his questions carefully avoided Benedict and the state of their marriage.
The sky had darkened while she was inside.
Heavy clouds pressed low above the fields, and the wind sent the last lingering leaves skittering across the lane.
Harriet settled into the corner of the carriage and wondered if Benedict had returned from Denham yet.
Further, she wondered what she would say to him when she reached Everton.
Her bold proclamations that morning had stunned them both.
There seemed little left to say. She had declared the previous agreement void. He had kissed her in the breakfast room with enough certainty to demonstrate that he understood precisely what she meant. Still, the prospect of facing him again made her stomach tighten.
Having now been kissed by him on two separate occasions she could state with certainty that it was unlike the clumsy kiss she’d shared with a previous suitor.
And she was desperately hoping for a repeat of it once she arrived back at Everton.
She had just begun to imagine that first moment when the carriage slowed.
Harriet glanced through the window. They had reached the narrow part of the lane where a thick copse of trees bordered the field and a low stone fence bound the carriage to the narrow lane. There was no gate or turn there. There was nothing which should have caused the coachman to stop.
The slow crawl suddenly jolted to an abrupt halt that nearly sent her sprawling to the floor.
Harriet caught the strap beside the window to keep from being thrown forward. “What is it?”
No answer came from the box.
She heard men’s voices, too low to distinguish, followed by a scuffle and a muffled cry.
Highwaymen. They were not unheard of in the county, but they’d have no reason to be on a narrow lane between neighboring estates rather than on the main road.
Harriet reached for the opposite door. Before she could open it, the handle turned from outside.
Selby stood just beyond it, a satisfied smirk upon his face.
Behind him, two men dragged the coachman from the box.
The groom who had ridden behind the carriage was already on the ground, his hands bound.
One of the men forced the coachman into the carriage through the door opposite Harriet.
His wrists had been tied behind him, and a cloth was knotted across his mouth.
Harriet backed away. “What are you doing?”
“Preventing an unnecessary scene.” Selby looked past her at the coachman. “He will not be harmed if he ceases struggling.”
“You have stopped my carriage upon a public road and assaulted my servants. There is no version of this which does not become a scene,” she snapped.
Selby smiled. It was the same smile she had seen at the church, stripped now of the distance which had permitted her to question its meaning. “You continue to speak as though your indignation carries some authority. It does not.”
Harriet seized the handle behind her and flung open the other door.
She jumped before anyone could circle the carriage to stop her. Her boots struck the rutted edge of the lane. She gathered her skirts and ran toward the open field.
Selby shouted. Harriet did not look back. The field had been plowed after harvest, and the uneven ground dragged at her shoes. She stumbled, recovered and kept running. If she could reach the hedgerow at the far side, she might find a gap and conceal herself among the trees beyond it.
Footsteps pounded behind her.
A hand caught the back of her cloak and jerked her to a halt. The fastening tightened painfully across her throat. Harriet twisted, driving one elbow backward. It struck Selby somewhere near the ribs. He cursed and seized her arm.
“Release me!” She kicked at him, no longer caring where the blow landed. “Benedict will have you hanged for this.”
“Benedict is not here.” Selby tightened his grip. “And whether he has any right to call himself your husband remains to be seen.”
Harriet stopped fighting for one stunned second. “What are you talking about?”
“You know precisely what I mean. Denham’s precious heir visits your chamber and then creeps back to his own bed. A curious arrangement for a bridegroom.” His gaze moved over her with an insolence that made her feel unclean. “Unless, of course, you are not truly his wife at all.”
Fear struck harder than his hand. He knew. Somehow, Selby knew enough of their private arrangement to use it against them.
“You are mad.” Harriet wrenched at her arm. “Whatever occurs between my husband and myself is none of your concern.”
“It became my concern when your father used a fraudulent marriage to deprive me of land which was lawfully pledged.” Selby dragged her nearer. “There is a simple means of determining whether the marriage is genuine. Once a physician has examined you, we will know which of us is correct.”
For an instant, Harriet could not comprehend him. Then the meaning of the words became clear.
Revulsion overwhelmed fear. She struck him across the face with her free hand. Selby’s head snapped to one side. His grip loosened, and Harriet tore herself away.
She managed three steps.
Selby caught her about the waist. Harriet twisted violently, clawing at the arm locked around her. Her heel slipped in the loose earth. The force of their struggle carried them both toward the stony edge of the field.
The hard earth seemed to rise up to meet her.
The side of her head, just above her temple, struck something hard. Pain burst through her skull, bright and terrible, and the gray sky wheeled above her.
Selby’s face appeared over her, blurred at the edges. Then there was nothing.