Slowly, she raised her eyes to his.

Harriet could not read his expression in the dim light that filtered through the window, but she did see the muscle leap in his jaw. The air between them crackled with intensity, and her pulse responded with a lurch and a gallop. She licked at her dry lips as he moved closer. His gaze fastened on her mouth, sending desire sizzling through her. Pure instinct tilted her head, lifted her lips to his.

The most delicate of touches. Lip to lip…sweet, gentle…almost worshipping. Memories of love and laughter and pure joy. They had been so young. A shared future planned. They had followed the instinctive desires of their youthful bodies. She had felt so secure in his love for her. Before…

Author Note

Saved by Scandal’s Heir is the second of two linked books—the first of which, Return of Scandal’s Son, was published in October 2015. This is, however, a stand-alone title, and it’s not necessary to have read the first book in order to enjoy the second.

Benedict Poole, hero of Saved by Scandal’s Heir, is the friend and business partner of Matthew Damerel, hero of Return of Scandal’s Son, and both Matthew and his new wife, Eleanor, appear in this book. You might be interested to note that, as a peeress in her own right, Eleanor has not become Mrs Damerel but retains her title of Lady Ashby.

The heroine of Saved by Scandal’s Heir is Harriet, Lady Brierley, who first appeared in From Wallflower to Countess (April 2015) as the hero’s former mistress. The hero and heroine of Wallflower (Richard, Lord Stanton, and his wife, Felicity) also appear in this book.

I do hope you enjoy reading about the dire predicament Harriet finds herself in following Benedict’s reappearance in her life, and that you, like me, have fun revisiting old friends from my previous books.

Saved by

Scandal’s Heir

Janice Preston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JANICE PRESTON grew up in Wembley, North London, with a love of reading, writing stories and animals. In the past she has worked as a farmer, a police call-handler and a university administrator. She now lives in the West Midlands with her husband and two cats and has a part-time job with a weight management counsellor (vainly trying to control her own weight despite her love of chocolate!).

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To my wonderful editor, Julia, who first sparked the idea of rewarding Harriet with her own Happy-Ever-After.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Mid-February 1812

Harriet, Lady Brierley, paced the lavishly furnished drawing room at Tenterfield Court, mentally rehearsing the words she would say to Sir Malcolm Poole. If she had known the baronet was hovering so close to death, she would never have made the journey from London at this time of year. She had not known, however, and, now she had come all this way into Kent, she might as well ask the questions to which she sought answers. She had come to Tenterfield to find the truth of the past, in order to help her friend Felicity Stanton come to terms with her sister’s death...and Harriet was certain that Sir Malcolm held the key to that particular puzzle.

Felicity’s older sister, Emma, had been just eighteen—an innocent girl seduced and impregnated, who had seen no way out of her predicament other than to take her own life when the man she’d believed loved her had cruelly abandoned her.

Harriet suppressed her shiver. She could so easily have suffered the same fate. Was that why she had been so quick to come to Tenterfield? The empathy she felt for Felicity’s poor sister? There but for the Grace of God...

She crossed the room to stand again before the portrait of the baronet, painted in his younger days, although he was still far from being an old man even now. He gazed down at her, devastatingly handsome, with his lean aristocratic features, dark auburn hair and deep green hooded gaze. Harriet shuddered, partly at the knowledge of what this man was—or what he had been, in the past—partly at his resemblance to... Resolutely, she steered her thoughts in a different direction. This trip was bound to resurrect painful memories... She must rise above them...concentrate on—

‘Lady Brierley. To what do we owe this pleasure?’

Harriet froze. It could not be. Had she conjured him up in the flesh, just by allowing her thoughts one tiny peek at those memories? Moisture prickled her palms even as her mouth dried. She drew a calming breath, gathered her years of experience in hiding her feelings and turned.

He was framed in the open doorway.

Benedict.

After all this time.

He had the same long, lean legs and wide shoulders, but this was a man, not the youth she’d once known. His chin was just as determined but the high forehead under the familiar fox-red hair now sported faint creases. His lips were set in an uncompromising line and his leaf-green eyes pierced Harriet as he stared into her face, his gaze unwavering. A cat stalking its prey could not be more focused.

Harriet swallowed past the jagged glass that appeared to have lodged in her throat.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Poole.’ Had those composed words really come from her lips? She took courage. She had faced worse than this. ‘I apologise for calling uninvited. I did not realise your...’ What was his relationship to Sir Malcolm again? All she could recall was that he had been Benedict’s guardian. ‘Sir Malcolm was so very ill. I had hoped for a few words with him.’

‘He is my second cousin. I’m the only other Poole left now.’

‘I’m sorry.’

The platitude slid readily from her tongue. She wasn’t sorry. The world would be well rid of the Pooles. But she would remain polite. Let nothing of her bitterness show. Sir Malcolm had spent his life in pursuit of his own pleasures, a dissolute rake with not a care for the ruined lives he left in his wake. Felicity’s poor sister had been just one of his victims. And Benedict had proved himself equally as contemptible, equally as careless of the heartbreak he had left behind. Hardly surprising with Sir Malcolm as his only role model since childhood.

Benedict prowled into the centre of the room, nearing Harriet. The very air seemed to vibrate between them. She stood her ground, although she could not prevent a swift glance at her maid, Janet, who had accompanied her, sitting quietly on a chair near the beautifully carved stone fireplace. Benedict followed her gaze.

At least I am not alone.

‘Why are you here?’ The words were softly spoken. Benedict’s green eyes bored into Harriet’s. ‘Did you think to wed another wealthy man on his deathbed?’

‘Brierley was not on his deathbed! And I had no ch—’ Harriet shut her mouth with a snap. She’d endured over seven years with that lecher. Seven years of misery and disgust, empty arms and a broken heart, all because of Benedict Poole.

She had not in a million years thought to meet him here. He had gone overseas—right to the other side of the world. And even that was not far enough away for Harriet. Hatred for this man rose as the long-suppressed memories cascaded through her thoughts.

His lying words. His false promises. All of it.

She concealed any hint of her feelings. He must never know how her heart still ached for what might have been. She braced her shoulders and raised her chin.

‘If Sir Malcolm will see me, I should be grateful for a few words with him.’

She glanced at the window—the clouds had blended into a uniform white vista of nothingness and she saw a few snowflakes flutter past. The snow that had threatened all morning as she had travelled deeper into Kent had finally begun to fall.

‘I should like to leave before the weather takes a turn for the worse. If you would be so kind.’

Benedict bowed, and gestured towards the door. ‘Your wish is my desire, my lady,’ he said, his words flat and emotionless.

‘Thank you.’

She stalked to the door, passing close by him...too close... His scent flooded her senses...triggering such memories, arousing emotions she had never thought to feel again. His unique maleness: familiar, even after eleven long years, spicy, heady...and...brandy. Brandy? This early in the day? He was a Poole through and through. Nothing had changed.

‘Come, Janet.’

Harriet swept into the spacious inner hall, from which the magnificent polished oak staircase swept up to the first floor. The evidence of Sir Malcolm’s wealth was everywhere, from the exquisitely executed landscapes hanging on the walls to the elegant Chinese porcelain vases and bowls that graced the numerous console tables to the magnificent crystal chandelier that hung over the central circular table complete with its urn of jessamine, lilies and sweet bay. In February! For all his wastrel tendencies, Sir Malcolm had clearly not exhausted his vast wealth. And, presumably, Benedict would inherit it all. Plus the title. No wonder he was here, with his cousin at death’s door. He deserved none of it, but she would not allow him to sour her. Never again.

They spoke not another word as they climbed the stairs side by side, and walked along the upper landing, Janet on their heels. Harriet told herself she was pleased. She had no wish to exchange forced pleasantries.

They reached a door, which Benedict opened.

‘Lady Brierley, to see Sir Malcolm,’ he said, before ushering Harriet and Janet through, and closing the door firmly behind them.

It was baking hot in the room, which was not the master bedchamber, as Harriet expected, but much smaller, and decorated—tastelessly, in her opinion—in deep purple and gold. The fire was banked high with coal, blazing out a suffocating heat, and Harriet felt her face begin to glow. With an effort, she refrained from wafting her hand in front of her face. It was so airless and the stench caught in the back of her throat. How could anyone get well in such an atmosphere?

The huge bed dominated the room, the level surface of its purple cover barely disturbed by the wasted form of the man lying there. It was hard to believe this was the same man she had always known as strong and vital. He looked ancient but—she did a quick mental calculation—he could not be much more than eight and forty. Sir Malcolm’s face was skeletal, the bloodless skin slack, and yet his eyes were still alert, dominating his shrunken features. Those eyes appraised Harriet with the same cold speculation she remembered from both her childhood and from the times her path had crossed with Sir Malcolm’s during her marriage to Brierley. Disgust rippled through her.

‘Heard I was dying, did you?’ The voice was a dry, cracked whisper. ‘Thought you’d have another shot at snaring Benedict’s inheritance?’

‘I have no interest in your cousin,’ Harriet said. ‘I am sorry to find you in such circumstances, but I have come on a quite different errand. I did not know you were ill, and I certainly did not know Mr Poole was here, or I would have thought twice about crossing your threshold.’

He croaked a laugh. ‘That’s as well for you. His opinion hasn’t changed since the first time you tried to trap him. Even as a youngster, that boy was no fool. A Poole through and through. He could see straight through you then and he’ll see straight through you now. He’ll look higher for a wife than Brierley’s leftovers, that I can promise.’

Harriet bit her tongue against rising to his provocation. It seemed even the imminent judgement of his maker could not cork Sir Malcolm’s vitriol. She cast around for the appropriate words to ask him about Felicity’s sister. When she’d decided to come to Tenterfield, she hadn’t anticipated trying to persuade Sir Malcolm to tell her the truth on his deathbed.

‘Well, girl? What d’you want? I haven’t time to waste pandering to the likes of you. Tell me what you want and be gone. You hear, Fletcher?’ He addressed the servant standing by the window. ‘This lady is not to spend a minute more than necessary beneath my roof.’

The man bowed. ‘Yes, sir.’

Harriet tamped down her anger. ‘I wish to ask you about something that happened in the past. Do you recall Lady Emma Weston? She attended Lord Watchett’s house party at the same time as you, in the summer of 1802.’

Sir Malcolm’s lids lowered to mask his eyes. ‘How do you expect me to remember one chit out of so many?’

‘She was Lady Baverstock’s daughter. It was the year following Lord Baverstock’s death.’

His thin lips parted and Harriet recoiled as his tongue came out to touch his lip. ‘Ah. Yes, indeed. The golden angel.’

Nausea churned Harriet’s insides. Time had softened the memory of quite how contemptible Sir Malcolm had always been, despite his wealth and his handsome face. He had, however, been irresistibly charming to the young innocents he had targeted, and Harriet quite understood how a naive young girl could fall for his silver-tongued lies. She had been fortunate to be immune from his attempts to seduce her when she was young enough to appeal to his tastes. She had resisted, thinking herself in love with Benedict. Time had proved she was just as naive as poor Lady Emma, whom she was now convinced Sir Malcolm had seduced and impregnated and abandoned. Emma had escaped by taking her own life. Harriet had not been so cowardly—or, mayhap, so brave—when her heart had been broken, although...there were times during the years following her marriage to Brierley when suicide had seemed an enticing option.

‘So it was you,’ she said to the man in the bed. ‘She wrote to you, after the summer you met. She was in love with you.’

His head twitched to one side. ‘I said I met her. I admitted to nothing else.’

But Harriet knew, without a shadow of doubt, that Sir Malcolm was the man who had despoiled Felicity’s sister. He had been a rake of the very worst kind; she did not need his confession. She leaned in close, breathing through her mouth to avoid the sour smell emanating from the bed.

‘She killed herself! You seduced her and abandoned her, and she killed herself because she was carrying your child.’

He looked at her, his slitted eyes glinting. ‘Best thing for her. One less fatherless brat to worry about. Isn’t that so, my lady? Although you could not even manage that, could you? Lost it, as I recall. Careless of you.’

Harriet reared back, pain ripping at her heart. She must get out. Now. She should never have come. She suddenly realised this trip hadn’t just been about Emma but about her, too—an attempt to make sense of the path her life had taken since she had fallen in love with Benedict. And she saw that she and Emma were the same: gullible victims of men who used and abused them and abandoned their responsibilities.

‘I hope...’ The words dried on her tongue. No, she would offer no comfort to this loathsome man, dying or not. She marched to the door.

Outside, the door firmly shut again, Harriet leaned against the wall, dragging in deep, shuddering breaths. Janet fumbled in her pocket and offered smelling salts. She had been with Harriet since the very early days of Harriet’s marriage to Brierley, and had proved herself a loyal and protective friend to the young, bewildered bride. Harriet had long blessed the day the older woman had been appointed as her maid.

She waved the salts away. ‘No. I will not faint, I promise you. I am trying to calm my anger,’ she said, forcing a smile to set Janet’s mind at rest.

She glanced back at the closed bedchamber door. How could such a man have lived with himself all these years? She pushed upright and shook out her skirts, smoothing them.

‘Come. Let us go. We must get back to the Rose as soon as we can in case the snow begins to drift.’

She had reserved accommodation at the Rose Inn at Sittingbourne, a bare four miles from Tenterfield Court, on their way through from London. The plan was to stay there the night and return to London the following day, when Harriet would tell Felicity what she had discovered. She must hope the news would not prove too upsetting for her friend, who was now with child herself. Harriet ruthlessly quashed her ripple of envy that Felicity would soon be a mother.

She was thankful there was no sign of Benedict as they descended the stairs and went through the door to the panelled Great Hall with its ancient blackened stone hearths at either end. The butler sent word to the stables for their hired chaise and four to be brought round to the front door, and a maid ran to fetch their travelling cloaks, muffs and hats. It was cold outside and they had prepared well for the journey from London, with blankets and furs piled in the carriage.

‘The chaise is outside now, milady,’ the butler said. ‘Take care, it might be slippery. Cooper here will help you.’

A footman, well wrapped up, stepped forward and Harriet took one arm whilst Janet took the other. They emerged into a world transformed. The air swirled white and she could barely make out the trees that lined the sweeping carriageway that led from the house to the road. The easterly wind had picked up, gusting at times, and blowing the snow horizontal, stinging Harriet’s cheeks. The waiting horses stamped their feet and tossed their heads, blowing cloudy breaths down their nostrils as the hapless post boys hunched on their backs. Harriet hoped they had been given a warming drink in the kitchen; she did not doubt they, like her, would be glad to reach the inn where they were to spend the night.

Harriet clung tightly to the footman’s arm, feeling her half boots slide on the stone steps as they descended warily to the waiting chaise. She looked across at Janet at the very same moment the maid released Cooper’s arm to hurry down the last few steps, presumably to open the door ready for Harriet.

‘Janet! No!’

It was too late. A shriek rose above the howl of the wind as Janet missed her footing on the second to last step. Her feet shot from under her and she fell back onto the steps, one leg bent beneath her.

‘Oh, no!’ Harriet hurried as best she could to where the maid lay. ‘Janet? Are you all right?’

‘Yes, milady. I—’ Janet screamed as she tried to rise, a high-pitched, sobbing scream. ‘Oh, milady! My back! It—aargh! My leg! I can’t move it!’

‘Oh, good heavens!’ What if it is broken? Harriet remembered only too well the pain of broken bones, a pain that, in her case, had been numbed by a far greater agony. She thrust those memories back down where they belonged. In the past. ‘Can you carry her to the chaise, Cooper?’

The footman bent to lift Janet, but the maid batted him away. ‘No! Don’t touch me. It hurts!’

Harriet crouched down next to Janet, taking her gloved hand. ‘We cannot just leave you here in the snow. You’ll freeze to death.’

‘I can’t bear to move, milady. I can’t bear it. And I can’t go in that yellow bounder, not the way they drive. I cannot.’ Her words ended in a wail.

Now what was she to do? Harriet stared through the driving snow to where the chaise and four still waited. It was barely visible now. The weather was worsening. She must move Janet somehow.

‘Allow me.’ A hand gripped her shoulder as the deep voice interrupted her inner panic.

Benedict.

Her instinctive urge to shrink from his touch battled against her relief that help was at hand. She glanced round, taking in his hard eyes and tight-lipped mouth, and she clenched her jaw. Janet must be her only concern.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

Chapter Two

Benedict Poole had returned to the library after escorting Harriet to the bedchamber where the last remaining member of his family, other than himself, lay wasting away. He poured himself another measure of brandy and settled by the fire, broodingly contemplating the woman he had never thought to see again. He gulped a mouthful of the spirit and grimaced. She’d driven him to drink already and she’d been here, what? Half an hour?

A bustle of movement in the Great Hall some time later interrupted his thoughts—the unmistakable sounds of departure. He would not say goodbye. She had not afforded him that courtesy, all those years ago.

One last look. That’s all.

He crossed to the window and positioned himself to one side, shielded by the curtain, in order that a casual glance would not reveal him. Snow drove horizontally across the front of the house and he was all at once aware of the howl of the wind. He had been so lost in his thoughts he had not even noticed the deterioration in the weather. Three figures, well wrapped against the cold, appeared at the top of the steps, the smallest two clinging on to the arms of the taller central figure, presumably one of the footmen. That was Harriet, huddled in a hooded cloak of deep, rich blue, trimmed with fur. As he watched them gingerly descend the steps, the second woman—Harriet’s maid—suddenly let go of the footman’s arm and appeared to hurry ahead. Benedict jerked forward, ready to shout a warning even though there was no chance she would hear him, but, before he could utter a sound, the maid’s feet shot from under her and she fell.

He didn’t stop to think but ran to the door, through the hall and straight out of the front door. The cold air blasted icy spikes against his face as he hurried down the steps, almost slipping in his haste. The maid’s leg—it could be broken. She mustn’t be moved. Maybe he could straighten it... He had helped more than one ship’s surgeon set broken bones during his travels. He thrust aside any nerves, any doubts.

Harriet was crouching by the maid, who was shaking her head, her tearful voice begging no one to touch her. He reached for Harriet, who seemed about to try to pull her maid upright.

‘Allow me,’ he said.

Harriet turned and gazed up at him, her expression inscrutable, those eyes of hers, once so expressive, guarded. Her nose and cheeks were bright red but her lips, when she spoke, had a bluish tinge. ‘Thank you.’

‘Go inside and wait,’ he said. ‘Get yourself warm and dry. We’ll deal with your maid.’

‘Janet,’ she said. ‘Her name is Janet. It’s her back, as well as her leg. You...you won’t hurt her?’

‘I can’t promise that. We must move her but we must first straighten her leg. Ask Crabtree to bring some brandy and something to bind her leg. He’s the butler,’ he added as she raised her brows. ‘But be careful how you—’

She speared him with a scathing look. ‘I am not likely to risk falling, having seen what happened to Janet,’ she said.

The panic had melted from her voice, which now dripped contempt. Benedict mentally shrugged. Her moods were none of his concern. Harriet stripped off her cloak and laid it over her stricken maid before picking her way back up the steps.

Benedict glanced at the footman—Cooper, it was, he now saw. ‘That leg could be broken. Have you ever helped set a leg before?’ he asked.

‘I have,’ a new voice interposed. One of the post boys had dismounted and had joined Benedict standing over Janet, who was shivering violently. ‘I’m used to it,’ he added with a grin. ‘Always someone breaking somethin’ when horses are involved.’

‘Tell your mate to take the horses back to the yard and bed them down for the night,’ Benedict said. ‘The ladies will be going nowhere.’

‘Right you are, sir,’ the post boy said, signalling to his partner, who waved an acknowledgement before kicking his horse into motion.

Benedict crouched beside the stricken maid.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she shrieked. ‘It’s my back! I can’t stand it!’

‘Hush, now,’ Benedict said as the maid subsided into sobs. ‘We must find out if your leg is broken. It will have to be straightened before we can move you.’

The butler appeared at the top of the steps and gingerly made his way to where Janet lay.

‘Ah, Crabtree. Thank you.’ Benedict took the glass and held it to Janet’s lips. ‘Drink.’

Janet shook her head. ‘I never touch—’

‘Drink. It will help dull the pain when we straighten your leg. You need to be moved.’

Benedict tipped the glass up, pinching her chin to force her mouth open. This was no time for niceties. The cold had seeped through his clothes, chilling his flesh already. Janet must be in an even worse case, lying on the snow-blanketed stone steps.

‘What are you doing? How is she?’

His head jerked round. Harriet was back, peering over his shoulder at her maid.

‘I thought I told you to stay inside.’

‘Janet is my responsibility. I can help.’

‘If you want to help, go back inside.’

Her stare might have frozen him had he not already been chilled to his core.

‘Don’t leave me, my lady. Pleeeease.’

Harriet crouched by Benedict’s side and gripped Janet’s hands. The length of her thigh pressed briefly against his and he was aware she shifted away at the exact same time he did, so they no longer touched. Another footman appeared, carrying lengths of cloth and a wooden board, with the information that the doctor had been sent for.

Benedict pushed Janet’s cloak aside and raised her skirt, Harriet’s soothing murmur punctuating Janet’s whimpers. A close look at the bent leg raised Benedict’s hopes. The foot looked twisted, making a broken ankle a distinct possibility, but the leg itself appeared intact. A pink stain in the snow, however, suggested it was cut.

Benedict spoke to Cooper and the post boy. ‘If her back is damaged, we must move her carefully.’ He directed the men on how to tip Janet sideways, keeping her back as straight as possible whilst he moved her leg from under her, silently blessing the time he had spent with Josiah Buckley, the ship’s surgeon, on his recent voyage back to England from India. He might not know how to help Janet, but he did know how not to make things worse.

The next few minutes were hellish. Benedict gritted his teeth and forced himself to continue, gently straightening Janet’s leg and then, using a knife proffered by the post boy, cutting off her boot. Another snippet of knowledge gleaned from Buckley—that an injured foot or ankle will swell, making boots hard to remove. Not that the sailors wore footwear aboard the ship, but their discussions had been wide-ranging. Benedict distracted his thoughts from Janet’s screams by thinking of that voyage but then the shrieking wind recalled the storm that had almost foundered the ship, and he found his heart racing and hands shaking with the memory. He hesitated, squeezing his eyes shut as he gulped down his fear—It isn’t real. I’m here at Tenterfield, not on board—then jerked back to full awareness as a gloved hand covered his. He glanced round into familiar violet eyes.

‘You’re doing well,’ she murmured. He focused on her lips: too close...sweetly full...so tempting. ‘Do not lose your nerve now.’

Benedict dragged in a jagged breath and the icy air swept other memories into focus with a vicious stab in his temples. Not life-threatening memories such as that storm, but soul-destroying nonetheless. Memories of Harriet and her betrayal. His hand steadied and he continued to cut Janet’s boot until it fell apart.

They slid the maid onto the board then and, between them, Benedict and the post boy used lengths of linen to bind her to the plank and keep her still whilst they moved her to a bedchamber. Benedict rose stiffly to his feet as the two footmen lifted the board and carried Janet up the steps and back into the house. Benedict clasped Harriet’s elbow, resisting her attempt to tug free, and supported her up the steps and into the hall.

‘Why have you dismissed the chaise?’ she demanded as soon as the front door closed behind them, shutting out the swirling snowstorm. ‘I have accommodation bespoken at the Rose Inn.’

‘You will stay here tonight.’

‘I most certainly will not!’ Her voice rang with outrage. ‘Stay overnight at Tenterfield Court, with no chaperone?’ Harriet marched over to Crabtree, about to mount the stairs in the wake of the footmen carrying Janet. ‘Send a man to the stables, if you please, with a message to bring the chaise back round.’

‘Your maid cannot travel.’

Harriet pivoted on the spot and glared at Benedict. ‘I am well aware Janet must remain here,’ she spat. ‘I, however, am perfectly fit and well, and I will not stay where I am not welcome.’

‘I thought you were concerned for your reputation?’ Benedict drawled, the drive to thwart her overriding his eagerness to see her gone. ‘Yet you would stay in a public inn without even a maid to lend you countenance? My, my, Lady Brierley. I have to wonder if your reluctance to remain here at Tenterfield owes less to concern over your reputation and more to fear of your own lack of self-control.’

‘Oh!’ Harriet’s eyes flashed and her lips thinned. ‘How dare you?’ She spoke again to Crabtree, waiting patiently at the foot of the staircase, staring discreetly into space, the epitome of an experienced butler. ‘Is there a maid who might accompany me to the inn?’

Crabtree’s gaze slid past Harriet to mutely question Benedict, who moved his head in a small negative motion.

‘I am sorry, my lady,’ Crabtree said, ‘but with Sir Malcolm so ill and now your maid to care for, I am unable to spare any of my staff. And I am persuaded it would be unwise to venture on even such a short journey in this weather.’

The satisfaction Benedict experienced at frustrating Harriet’s plans glowed for only a brief few seconds. Her presence could only reopen old wounds. Why had he been so insistent that she stay?

‘Inform me when the doctor arrives,’ he bit out over his shoulder as he took the stairs two at a time, silently cursing himself for a fool.

In his bedchamber, he stripped off his wet clothes and shrugged into his banyan, then paced the vast room, his thoughts filled with Harriet.

The announcement of her arrival had nearly floored him. His heart had drummed against his ribs as his palms grew damp. She could not have known—could she?—that he was here, attending his dying cousin. That leap of hope, swiftly banished, had angered and unsettled him. Whatever her reason for visiting Malcolm, he didn’t want to know. He was only here himself from a sense of duty to his erstwhile guardian. He had no affection for Sir Malcolm but he was indebted to him for supporting him financially ever since the death of Benedict’s parents. Malcolm had ensured Benedict attended the best schools, followed by Cambridge University, and, for that, Benedict owed him some consideration.

He hadn’t needed to meet with Harriet at all—he could have relegated the task to one of the servants. He should have relegated it but, dammit, that would be tantamount to admitting he still cared. Besides—and he might as well be honest with himself—curiosity had got the better of him. He’d wanted to see what she had become, this jade who had so thoughtlessly betrayed him and his heart: who had pledged her love for him and then coldheartedly wed another man for the sake of a title and wealth.

Before facing her, he’d gone to the library to fortify himself with a glass of brandy from the decanter there. She hadn’t appeared to need any such additional support. He walked into the drawing room to find her—cool and elegant, an utterly gorgeous woman, with the same abundance of lustrous moon-pale hair he remembered only too well. His fingers had twitched with the desire to take out her pins and see her tresses tumble over her shoulders again. She was more voluptuous than he remembered, but then she had still been a girl when they had fallen in love. Correction, he thought, with a self-deprecating sneer, when he had fallen in love. And those eyes—huge, violet blue, thickly lashed; they were as arresting as ever. He had always thought of them as windows to her soul. He snorted a bitter laugh at his youthful naivety. Now, with the benefit of eleven more years’ experience, he could see that those eyes had lied as easily as that soft, sensual mouth with its full pink lips.

Such a pity so perfect an exterior disguised such a mercenary bitch.

* * *

Later, before dinner, Benedict visited Malcolm in his bedchamber, as had become his habit in the seven days since his arrival at Tenterfield Court. Malcolm’s breathing had grown noticeably harsher in the past week and Benedict was conscious that the air now wheezed in and out of his cousin’s lungs faster than ever, as if each breath failed to satisfy the demand for oxygen. He pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down. Malcolm’s eyes were closed, the thin skin almost translucent. A glance at Fletcher elicited a shake of the valet’s head.

Benedict placed his hand over the paper-dry skin of Malcolm’s hand where it lay on the coverlet. The flesh was cool to his touch, despite the suffocating heat of the room. Sweat sprung to Benedict’s forehead and upper lip, and he felt his neck grow damp beneath the neckcloth he had tied around his neck in deference to his dinner guest.

Damn her! Why did she have to come? And now she would be here all night, a siren song calling to his blood as surely as if she lay in his bed beside him. He forced his thoughts away from Harriet as Malcolm stirred, his lids slitting open as though even that movement was too great an effort for his feeble energy.

‘Water.’

Fletcher brought a glass and held it to his master’s lips, supporting his head as he sucked in the liquid. As Fletcher lowered his head back to the pillow, Malcolm’s eyes fixed on Benedict.

‘Going out?’

Benedict fingered his neckcloth self-consciously. Malcolm still had the ability to reduce him to a callow youth with just a single comment. He had been a careless guardian with little interest in Benedict, who had been a mere eight years old when he was orphaned. As Benedict had matured and developed more understanding of the world, Malcolm’s behaviour and reputation had caused him nothing but shame. Now, although he found it hard to feel any sorrow at Malcolm’s imminent death, he could not help but pity the man his suffering.

‘I dressed for dinner before visiting you tonight.’ The lie slid smoothly off Benedict’s tongue. He kept forgetting that, although Malcolm’s body had betrayed him, his mind was a sharp as ever.

‘Has that harlot gone?’

‘Harlot?’

‘The Brierley woman. She’s no business here... I told her... Fletcher? Has she gone?’

Fletcher glanced at Benedict, who gave a slight nod of his head. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘She left the house straight after she saw you.’

‘Good. Good riddance. Have nothing to do with her, you hear, boy?’

Benedict bit back his irritation at being addressed in such a way. He was a successful businessman. Yes, he was Sir Malcolm’s heir and would inherit both the baronetcy and Tenterfield, but he had no need of the man’s support or wealth. Not any longer. He was his own man.

It was strange to think he would soon be master of Tenterfield. When he had arrived a week ago, he had gazed up at the red-brick Jacobean manor house with a sense of disbelief that, soon, this place of so many memories would be his. He already felt the pride of ownership and had vowed to restore both its reputation and that of the Poole family name after the years of damage caused by Sir Malcolm’s disgrace.

‘I have no intention of having anything to do with her, you can rest assured on that,’ Benedict said. Then, curious, he asked, ‘What do you have against her? I thought Brierley was a friend of yours.’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it. I saw what her fickle behaviour did to you. She’s not to be trusted.’

Benedict felt his eyes narrow. Now Malcolm cared about his feelings? Or perhaps he knew more about Brierley’s marriage than he was saying. Had Harriet played Brierley false, too? He shoved his chair back and stood up.

‘You should rest,’ he said. ‘I will see you in the morning.’

He went downstairs, Harriet and the evening to come playing on his mind and churning his gut.

Chapter Three

Crabtree appeared, seemingly from nowhere, to open the drawing room doors for Benedict.

‘Has Lady Brierley come downstairs yet?’ Benedict asked the butler.

‘Not yet, sir.’

Benedict was conscious of a sweep of relief. At least they would not have to make small talk before their meal—that would be strained enough, he was sure.

‘Please impress upon the rest of the staff that they must not reveal the presence of either Lady Brierley or her maid to Sir Malcolm,’ he said. ‘It will only agitate him to no purpose.’

‘Indeed I will, sir.’ Crabtree bowed.

Benedict entered the room to await his dinner guest. Moodily, he poked at the coals in the grate, stirring them to life, pondering this spectre from a past he had long put behind him. He had been caught on the back foot—his feelings tossed and tumbled like a ship caught in a squall. Surely his reaction to Harriet was merely shock and, like a squall, it would soon pass. After all, what was she to him? She was just somebody he used to know a long time ago, when she was a girl. She must be all of seven and twenty by now, by God. Her betrayal—her marriage to Brierley—was ancient history. He was confident he would soon recover his equilibrium, and then he could treat her with the same detached courtesy he would employ towards any unexpected guest. Perhaps he should look upon this unexpected trial in the light of a rehearsal—an opportunity to put their past into some sort of reasonable perspective. In the future, should he happen to see her around town, maybe he could remember their shared past with dispassion and not with this angry bitterness that was eating away inside him.

Voices from outside the door roused him from his thoughts. He turned as Harriet entered the room, his breath catching in his throat at her stunning beauty. She wore an elegant lilac gown that accentuated the violet of her eyes and the fullness of her breasts, despite the neckline not swooping as low as some of the more daring fashions Benedict had seen. Her blonde hair was pinned into a smooth chignon, exposing the creamy skin of her neck and décolletage.

Battening down his visceral reaction, Benedict bowed.

‘Good evening, Mr Poole.’

He straightened. Her gaze was both cool and distant, stoking his resentment. The grand society lady: graciously poised and certain of her superiority regardless of the circumstances. Had she forgotten her humble beginnings?

‘Good evening, my lady.’ His voice was smooth and assured—a stark contrast with his inner turmoil. ‘I trust your bedchamber meets with your approval?’

‘Thank you, it does indeed.’

The door opened again, and Crabtree announced that dinner was served. Benedict gestured for Harriet to precede him to the dining room.

‘How is your maid?’ Benedict asked, once they were seated and the food had been served. ‘Janet, is it not?’

‘Janet, yes,’ Harriet said. ‘I’m afraid her ankle is broken. Dr Green has set the bone and seems optimistic it will heal well. I do hope that is true and she does not end up with pain or a limp. Her back is very painful, too—the doctor cupped her and will examine her again tomorrow, when he visits Sir Malcolm. He did warn me, however, that she should remain in bed until the bruising comes out and he can see if there is any further damage to her back.’

‘How long is that likely to take?’

A faint crease appeared between her brows. ‘He did not say. A few days at the least, I should imagine, so I am afraid I shall have to impose on your hospitality a little longer.’

A few days? With her as a house guest? Benedict clenched his teeth against a sudden urge to laugh. What a fool! He was aware Harriet lived in London and since his return to England from India, he had taken care to avoid any risk of bumping into her. His efforts had been in vain; fate, it would appear, did not like to be thwarted.

‘She may stay as long as proves necessary,’ he said with a shrug of indifference, determined to give her no reason to suspect he could care less how long she stayed.

Harriet studied him for a long moment as she sipped her wine. She then put her glass down and leaned forward, trapping his gaze.

‘In order there is no misunderstanding between us, sir, I should clarify that I will not leave Janet here alone. I intend to remain with her until she is fit enough to travel to Brierley Place. It is only eight miles away, and she can remain there until she is able to undertake the journey to London.’

‘As you wish,’ Benedict said. ‘Heaven forfend your maid should be forced to undergo the privations of recuperating in these miserable surroundings.’

A flush lit Harriet’s cheeks. ‘The point is that she will be happier surrounded by people she knows,’ she said. ‘And I shall not hesitate to leave her there whilst I return to London.’

‘Your maid will be perfectly safe here without your protection,’ Benedict said, smarting at yet another reminder of the past scandals that had tainted both Tenterfield and the Poole name. It would take time to restore the reputation of both but he was determined to do so, and the sooner the better.

Harriet’s words prompted another thought: he had forgotten Brierley Place was quite so near. ‘I wonder, though, that you did not plan to stay with your family at Brierley Place, rather than at a public inn, after your visit to my cousin. Why?’

Her gaze lowered. ‘I wish to return to London as soon as possible, and if I stayed with my stepson and his family they would expect more than an overnight visit.’

Her hand rose to her neck, and she began to twirl a lock of hair that curled loose by her ear. That achingly familiar habit catapulted Benedict back in time. She was hiding something. It was the first reminder of the girl he’d once known. He studied her, wondering what currents were masked by that calm, ladylike exterior of hers.

‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘my stepson is always up and down to London in his carriage. He will return Janet to me as soon as she is well. The carriage will be far more comfortable for her than a hired chaise.’

‘Indeed it will,’ Benedict said, ‘and, with that in mind, I shall arrange to pay off your post boys in the morning.’

‘Thank you. I shall, of course, reimburse you.’

‘Of course,’ he agreed smoothly. ‘And, when you are ready to leave, I shall put my carriage at your disposal.’

Her brows rose. ‘Your carriage? Do you not mean Sir Malcolm’s?’

Benedict’s anger flared in response to that challenge but he battled the urge to vent his feelings, telling himself that anger came from caring, and he did not care.

‘I am not so devoid of feeling as to step into my kinsman’s shoes whilst he is still alive,’ he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. ‘I have my own carriage. It is the use of that I offer to you.’

A delicate flush swept up from her chest to tint her cheeks as she turned her attention to her food. ‘Of course. I apologise. I should not have cast such aspersions.’

The conversation faltered, and the silence accentuated the lonely wail of the wind outside. The windows rattled with every gust, the wind forcing its way through the gaps in the frames to cause the red velvet curtains to billow into the room from time to time.

‘How long have you been here, at Tenterfield?’

Benedict finished chewing and swallowed his food before answering, ‘A week. My cousin’s solicitor sent for me on the doctor’s advice.’

‘So there is no hope of a cure?’

‘None.’

He read sympathy in those glorious eyes of hers. He had no need of it. She, of all people, should know he had no fondness for Malcolm. He would be no loss to humanity and Benedict would not pretend a grief he did not feel. His predominant emotion was impatience to return to London. His business—importing goods from the Far East—needed his attention and he had matters to discuss with his partner, Matthew Damerel, who was due back in town again shortly.

They finished eating and Benedict stood, saying, ‘Serve the brandy in the drawing room, will you please, Crabtree?’ He caught Harriet’s eye and added, ‘Would you care to join me?’

‘Thank you.’ She rose elegantly to her feet. ‘I shall wait for the tea tray and then I shall retire. It has been a somewhat exhausting day.’

Benedict had not proffered his arm to Harriet before dinner but now, mellowed by wine and bolstered by the certainty that he was in control of his temper, he waited for Harriet to round the table and reach him, then crooked his arm. She halted, her gaze fixed on his arm, then raised her eyes to his. She seemed about to speak, but then merely laid her gloved hand on his sleeve and allowed him to lead her from the room.

Every muscle in his arm tensed, even though her touch was feather-light. Her scent, sophisticated, floral and quintessentially feminine, assailed his nostrils and he found himself swallowing hard, trying to ignore the unaccustomed flutter of nerves in his belly. He gritted his teeth. He was a grown man, for God’s sake. This ridiculous reaction meant nothing; it was merely the spectre of the past playing games with him. Maybe he should take advantage of the circumstances that had thrown them together like this. Lay her and those ghosts at the same time.

‘Would you care for a glass of brandy?’ he enquired when Cooper, the footman, followed them into the drawing room carrying a silver salver, complete with decanter and two glasses.

‘Thank you, but I have no taste for spirits. A cup of tea will suffice.’

Cooper handed a glass of brandy to Benedict, then bowed to Harriet. ‘I will hurry the maid along with the tea tray, milady.’

She smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’ She settled on the sofa opposite the hearth and Benedict noticed her shiver.

‘Are you cold?’ He poked the fire, which had recently been refuelled and was therefore not emitting much heat.

‘Not really. It is the sound of that wind.’ When he turned to look at her, she was staring towards the window, one hand playing with the pearls at her neck. ‘I had forgotten, living in London, quite how desolate it can sound. Like a lost soul, crying into the void.’

‘Like a lost soul?’

She started, and then laughed a little self-consciously. ‘Oh! I do beg your pardon. I had quite forgot...that is...’ Her voice tailed away and her cheeks bloomed pink as her lips quirked in a wry smile. ‘I did not mean to spout such poetical nonsense. Please do forgive me.’

‘There is nothing to forgive. I confess there have been times, usually aboard ship, when the wind has conjured many superstitious imaginings in my own mind. I generally avoided voicing them out loud, however, for fear I might be thought to run mad.’

She laughed, a genuine laugh this time. ‘Goodness, sir. You put me quite out of countenance. You imply that I might be thought mad.’

Not mad, but bad. Why did you deceive me, Harriet?

The words pummelled his brain and battered at his tightly closed lips. It was a question to which he had long yearned for an answer. But he would never ask. What would be the point? She could mouth all the excuses in the world but she could never deny the truth. She simply had not loved him enough. She had broken her pledge of love for the promise of status and riches.

One of the maids came into the room at that moment with the tea tray. Relieved by the interruption, Benedict gestured at her to make the tea and he then crossed to the table to fetch a cup for Harriet. As he handed it to her he took advantage of her distraction in handling the delicate china to study her at close quarters.

Maturity had added to her beauty, not detracted from it. Her thick blonde hair was pinned up, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her neck and that sensitive spot below her ear where he had taken a lovesick youth’s delight in kissing her and teasing her with his tongue. With her eyes lowered, he could count every one of the long lashes that swept the peaches and cream of her skin. He committed to memory the faint fan of lines radiating from the outer corner of her eye; they only served to render her more enticing, more beautiful...vulnerable, even.

He was so very close he could even see the soft, fair down that coated her cheek. Against his will, his gaze drifted—sweeping again to her shoulder, where pale skin skimmed delicate bones, and then to her chest, to delight in the flesh that nestled within the neckline of her gown. His pulse leaped in response to the shadowy valley between her breasts and saliva flooded his mouth as he recalled the glory of her naked flesh.

Her scent enveloped him, leading him to wish the impossible...leading him to wish the past had been different.

With a silent oath, Benedict straightened abruptly and moved away to sit in an armchair, dismissing that momentary weakness. He crossed his legs to disguise his growing arousal, furious that he had allowed the fascination of the past to intrude upon the present. It was many years since he had believed a woman’s appearance was an indication of her true worth, and he would never forget that, however beautiful Harriet might be on the outside, she was rotten and mercenary to her core.

Bitterness still lurked deep inside him. It was under control for now, but it would not take much for it to break free—for him to fling accusations at her and to demand explanations. He would not visit that time. He must allow those memories to fade away, and only look forward. Never back.

‘Do you stay at Brierley Place often?’ he asked, needing the ebb and flow of conversation to distract him, afraid of where his fixation with the past might lead.

‘No, not often since I was widowed.’

‘Does the new Lord Brierley not make you welcome?’

‘He is very supportive in many ways.’ One hand lifted to toy again with that loose curl by her ear. The repeat of that girlhood habit made him frown.

What is she hiding? The thought prompted a desire to dig further; to discover the real woman behind that cool civility. He dismissed that desire with an impatient inner snarl.

‘What are your plans, Mr Poole? Will you remain here after...after...?’

‘After Sir Malcolm dies?’

She blushed. ‘Yes. I am sorry if that was an insensitive question.’

‘There is no need to apologise. I have a business to run, so I shall spend much of my time in London once my cousin’s affairs are in order.’

It was a prospect he viewed with little pleasure, but in the week since his arrival at Tenterfield—when he had realised for the first time exactly how little time Malcolm had left—Benedict had come to accept he would have no option but to enter society if he was serious about restoring the family name. He was aware he was unlikely to be welcomed into the top tier, but his title and the vast fortune he would inherit would be enough for many to overlook his links to trade.

He had travelled the world these past eleven years and thought of himself as having permanent wanderlust in his blood, with no urge to put down roots. He never dwelt on the past. The past was done. It couldn’t be changed. Since his return to England, however, the time he had spent with Matthew and his new bride, Eleanor, had awoken something deep inside him—the urge for a family to call his own.

Benedict’s memories of his early life, before his parents’ deaths, were hazy. Seeing Matthew and Eleanor together, however, had gradually recalled those happy years and his plans for his future had changed. He and Matthew already had a trusted agent in India who would arrange shipments to England. There was no necessity for Benedict to return to India if he chose not to.

Silence settled over them as Harriet sipped at her tea and Benedict finished his brandy, then Harriet placed her teacup and saucer on a side table. She rose to her feet and he followed suit.

‘I shall retire,’ she said. ‘It has been a long day. Thank you for your hospitality, Ben... Mr Poole.’

‘You are welcome, my lady.’

Their gazes met, her violet eyes dark and unfathomable. Benedict stepped closer. Was it his imagination, or did her lips tremble? He saw the convulsive movement of her throat as she swallowed. Then she straightened and drew in what seemed to be an interminable breath.

‘Goodnight.’ With a swish of skirts she passed him by and headed for the door.

Benedict moved quickly. ‘Allow me,’ he said, reaching the door before her.

He grasped the handle but then hesitated. Slowly, his hand slipped from the handle and he turned to face Harriet, his back against the door.

Chapter Four

Harriet had halted a few feet away.

‘Please let me pass.’

Her voice was low. She searched his face, her gaze uncertain.

‘Harriet...’

‘Mr Poole?’

But what could he say that would not risk unleashing all that anger and bitterness that scoured his insides? The past had happened. No amount of wishful thinking could change it and no good could come of stirring up all those raw emotions.

He spoke from the heart, but he spoke only of the present. ‘You are a very beautiful woman, Harriet.’

His voice had grown husky; blood surged to his groin; he took a pace towards her and breathed deep of her scent. She was close. So close. He reached out and fingered that errant curl and revelled in the whispered sigh that escaped those full, pink lips. He narrowed still further the gap between them, relishing the flush that suffused her skin. Molten-hot currents burned deep within him, making his skin tighten and his breath grow short.

He opened his fingers and released her curl, lowering his hand to his side.

He would not detain her. Her escape was clear, if she wanted it. She had only to step away—walk around him to the door. She did not. Her eyelids fluttered and lowered as her lips parted. He tilted his head, feathered his lips at the side of her neck, savouring her quiet moan, satisfied by the leap of her pulse as he laved that sensitive spot.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Please... I...’

‘Tell me to stop, and I will,’ he murmured as he licked at her lobe.

He blew gently across the moistened skin and she shuddered, swaying, her full breasts and pebbled nipples pressing into his chest for one brief, glorious moment before she jerked away.

‘No!’

Benedict, grown hard with desire, reined in his urge to grab her and kiss her anyway. He forced himself to remain still.

‘Why?’

‘I do not need to give you a reason.’

Head high, she met his gaze. He recognised the flash of vulnerability in her eyes...and something else. Fear? Of him?

‘What are you afraid of?’

With his attention fully upon her, he sensed the shift under her skin as she drew her defences in place. ‘I am not afraid.’

He wanted to doubt her. He wanted to believe her lips were saying ‘no’ when she meant ‘yes’. But he could not. She—for whatever reason—really did mean ‘no’.

He moved aside and watched as she left the room. His feet moved of their own volition, following her out the door into the hall to watch as she climbed the stairs.

Who is she? Who has she become?

He had no wish to revisit the past, but he could not help but be intrigued by the present-day Harriet. Her outer shell was well crafted: sophisticated, ladylike, at ease. And yet she had revealed some of her true spirit in that snowstorm, after he dismissed the post-chaise. Benedict suspected her calm exterior concealed hidden turbulence, much as the smooth surface of the ocean might conceal treacherous currents.

He wandered back into the drawing room to stand and stare into the fire, his mind whirling. He wanted to dig deeper, to find out more about her. Curiosity. It was dangerous, but that was no reason to retreat. She would be here for a few days yet—time enough to find out more. Perhaps testing those suspected undercurrents was risky, but he had never yet backed down from a challenge. And he wasn’t about to start now.

* * *

The following day was grey and cold, the land still dusted white. No more snow had fallen, but the weather did nothing to tempt anyone out of doors. Harriet spent some of her time sitting with Janet, and the rest of the day exploring Tenterfield Court. Despite growing up in the area, she had never set foot inside the house until today and she had not realised its true magnificence.

Sir Malcolm had lived, for the most part, in London. He would descend, with guests, for a few days of wild, disruptive parties—the kind that fuelled horrified gossip in the local community—and then would disappear again for months on end. He avoided all interaction with local society on the rare times he visited on his own and, as his dissolute reputation spread, the people in the surrounding area—including Harriet’s father, who was the local vicar—had in turn shunned Sir Malcolm.

Benedict, as his ward, had spent most of the school holidays alone at Tenterfield Court, mixing with the local children, including Harriet. Memories tumbled into her brain. He had been so tall and handsome—someone she’d liked and looked up to—and, as they had grown, so had their feelings. Now, looking back, Harriet knew those feelings to be a lie—the fanciful wishes of a naive young girl and the lustful desires of a boy on the verge of manhood.

As she changed her dress for dinner early that evening, she diverted her thoughts away from those past innocent—and not so innocent—pleasures and into the present. She was a woman grown now: experienced, wise in the ways of men, no longer a believer in love. The love she had once felt for Benedict Poole was no more, but she could not deny he was an extremely attractive man.

How would it feel to lie with him now?

That errant thought shook her. How could she even wonder such a thing after the way he had deserted her? Or was it natural to be curious about this past love of hers? Last night—and her blood heated at the memory—he had woven a spell of such sensuality around her that the temptation to succumb to him had near overwhelmed her. Thank goodness she had come to her senses in time.

A restless night had seen her up early in the morning with a vow to avoid Benedict as much as possible during her enforced stay at Tenterfield Court. Thankfully, Benedict appeared to share her reluctance for another encounter; according to Crabtree, he had spent the entire day holed up in the study with Sir Malcolm’s bailiff, and that suited Harriet perfectly. The less time they spent together the less likely she would be to reveal too much. Her pride would never allow him to know how much he had hurt her with his brutal rejection eleven years before.

Her customary calm had already deserted her once since her arrival. That he had been right to dismiss the post-chaise yesterday had not even entered her thoughts, and she had allowed her anger and her resentment of him to show. She must ensure such a lapse did not recur, and she vowed to redouble her efforts to stay in control of her emotions.

She delayed coming downstairs until one of the maids came to tell her that dinner was ready to be served. She headed straight for the dining room, and Benedict joined her a few minutes later.

He strolled in, supremely confident and at ease, starkly handsome in his evening clothes. He gave her a lazy smile. ‘Good evening, my lady. I trust you have occupied your time pleasantly today?’

Harriet ignored the tiny flutter of nerves deep in her belly. Don’t allow him to fluster you. Stay in control. After all, she was well practised in the art of concealing her feelings and opinions. Her late husband had schooled her well.

‘Yes, most pleasantly, thank you,’ she replied. ‘And you, sir?’

He grimaced. ‘I have been familiarising myself with the estate accounts,’ he said. ‘My head is reeling with facts and figures.’

He pulled out a chair for Harriet. As the night before, two facing places had been set, halfway along the long sides of the table. As Harriet sat down, Benedict’s hand brushed her upper arm, sending a shiver of awareness dancing across her skin. He rounded the table and sat opposite her.

‘Did you gain any experience of agricultural matters whilst you were overseas?’ Harriet asked as Crabtree served her a slice of roast beef and a spoonful of glazed onions.

‘No. My experience is all in trade. This is all new to me.’

Benedict fixed his green eyes on Harriet. ‘Tell me—’

‘How long have you been back in England?’ Harriet asked hastily, keen to keep the focus of the conversation away from her own life.

‘Three months.’

‘Was Sir Malcolm’s health the reason for your return?’ She then took advantage of Benedict’s distraction as Crabtree offered him a dish of potatoes in hollandaise sauce to say, ‘You mentioned before that you are the only family he has left.’

Benedict captured her gaze and quirked a brow, as if to say, ‘I know what you’re up to,’ and Harriet felt her cheeks heat. He took his time in finishing his mouthful of food before answering her.

‘No. I had no idea his health was failing until I landed in England.’

‘This food is delicious,’ Harriet said, somewhat desperately.

Benedict might be answering her questions, but he was doing nothing to ease the evening ahead with the light, inconsequential conversation that any gentleman accustomed to society would employ. But what else could she expect, she thought irritably, when he had spent half his life in foreign climes? His manners were bound to be rough compared to the gentlemen of the ton.

‘It is indeed,’ he replied. ‘Malcolm engaged a French fellow a few years ago—I suspect he relishes the opportunity to practice his art.’

He sipped his wine, studying Harriet over the rim of his glass as she cast around for another safe subject of conversation—in other words, anything that did not involve their past.

‘Do you enjoy the theatre?’

He grinned openly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Now, tell me, what happened to your father? I understand the Reverend Twining has been the pastor here for a number of years past.’

She’d known it was only a matter of time before he started questioning her. Her stomach knotted with guilt, as it always did whenever she thought of her father.

‘He died six years ago.’

Oh, Papa! Parson Rowlands, deeply shocked by his only daughter’s fall from grace, had barely spoken to Harriet during that dreadful time leading up to her marriage to Brierley. His disappointment in her would have broken her heart had it not already been in pieces after Benedict’s rejection. Then, after her marriage, she’d had no opportunity to heal the breach with her father because Brierley had discouraged—most strongly and very effectively—any interaction between Harriet and her parents. The mere thought of her late husband and his despotic ways prompted a swell of nausea and she forced it back down. She pushed her plate away, her appetite gone.

How she regretted that she’d had no chance to reconcile with her father before his death. She gripped her hands tightly together under cover of the table, willing her voice to remain steady as she continued, ‘After he died my mother moved to live with her sister in Whitstable.’

There was no security of tenure for the widow of a vicar. The rectory had been needed for the next incumbent. She risked a glance across the table. Benedict looked thoughtful, his green eyes locked onto her face.

‘She does not live with you?’

‘No.’ After Brierley’s death Harriet had rekindled her relationship with her mother, but Mrs Rowlands had declined to leave her ailing sister. ‘My aunt Jane suffers from ill health. She benefits from the sea air and Mama felt her duty was to stay and care for her.’

‘I am sorry to raise what is clearly a painful subject.’

‘You were not to know.’

Silence reigned once again. Benedict continued to eat and Harriet fixed her gaze upon her half-eaten plate of congealing food. Her emotions were rubbed raw; everything...everything...was this man’s fault. How she wished she could just leave the table and return to the privacy of her bedchamber. Good manners, however, dictated she must remain. She must distract herself somehow—her mind was as brittle as ice, ready to splinter into a thousand sharp accusations at the wrong look, the wrong word. She cast around for a topic of conversation.

‘You mentioned yesterday that you intend to spend much of your time in London in the future,’ she said. ‘Is it your intention to take your place in society?’

She prayed the answer would be no. How could she bear it, knowing she might bump into him at any time? How could she endure the constant reminders of all that had happened?

‘Yes, it is,’ he said. Harriet’s heart sank. ‘I intend to restore the reputation of the Poole family name after Malcolm’s depredations.’

‘And how do you intend to do that?’ Even to her own ears, the question sounded waspish.

Benedict’s lips thinned and he frowned. Then he gestured at Harriet’s plate. ‘Have you had enough to eat? Might I pass you any fruit or sweetmeats?’

‘No. I have had sufficient, thank you.’

Crabtree and the footman in attendance began to clear the dishes.

Benedict waited until they left the room, and then continued, ‘To answer your question, I shall do it by example. I am conscious that my cousin made no provision for the future of the title and the estate but I shall not make that mistake. I will not allow the baronetcy to fail, nor do I relish the idea of the Poole estates reverting to the Crown to help fund the profligate lifestyle of Prinny.’ He pushed his chair back, then rounded the table to draw her chair out to enable her to stand. ‘I need an heir. I shall marry a respectable girl from a good family and have a family.’

His words stabbed at her heart. An heir! How can he be so cruel? How could he speak of having a child and not even show a flicker of interest in what had happened eleven years ago? Harriet tamped down her fury and distress as she rose, schooling her expression into one of polite disinterest before facing him.

‘I wish you well in your endeavour.’

He stared at her for a long moment before speaking again. ‘Perhaps you might help me in my search for a suitable wife?’ He searched her face, his eyes intent. ‘You must be acquainted with a number of young ladies.’

What does he want from me? Proof of the pain he caused? Tears? Harriet steeled herself to show nothing of what she felt.

With an effort, she raised her brows in a coquettish fashion. ‘Perhaps you might furnish me with a list of your specific requirements, sir?’

His laugh sounded forced. ‘Oh, I hardly think—’

‘But I insist, sir! How else am I to help you?’

She was beyond taking pleasure at his look of discomfort. He had clearly not expected her to react in kind.

‘Harriet—’

‘Or perhaps you have not yet considered the precise qualities desirable in your wife, sir,’ she rushed on. ‘That is a mistake, I assure you. Allow me to help.’

She faced him, one arm crossed at her waist, her other elbow propped on it as she tapped one finger to her lips.

‘Your bride... Now, let me see... You will require a girl of impeccable breeding. Her father should be no less than a viscount, I would suggest, in order to add to your consequence. She must have a substantial dowry, preferably of land, to increase your estates and wealth. What else?’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘She should be elegant, obedient, schooled in all the ladylike accomplishments. Oh! And, of course, it goes without saying she must be an innocent.’

Without intent, her voice had risen until she spat out the final word and Harriet silently cursed herself for rising to Benedict’s bait.

Chapter Five

There was a beat of silence following Harriet’s outburst.

‘Harriet?’ Benedict put his hand on her shoulder, curling gentle fingers around it. ‘Why are you so upset?’ He crouched slightly to gaze into her face and cradled her cheek with his other palm.

How fickle could one woman’s body be? How treacherous? In the midst of her distress, she felt the undeniable melting of her muscles, the tug of need deep, deep inside and the yearning to lean into him and to feel his arms around her. To take his comfort.

She kept her gaze lowered. She could not bear to look at him, lest her weak-willed craving shone from her eyes. Harsh breaths dragged in and out of her lungs, searing her chest. What had she done? What would he think? Her mind whirled, looking for anything to excuse her behaviour.

‘It was the memory of Papa. I must be overtired, to allow it to upset me so. I am sorry if I have embarrassed you. Goodnight, sir.’

Harriet jerked away from Benedict and swept from the room with her head averted, blinking rapidly to stem the tears that crowded her eyes. She climbed the stairs on legs that trembled with a need that both shocked and dismayed her.

‘Harriet?’

She heard him call her, but she kept going. Then she heard the feet pounding up the stairs behind her. Coming closer, ever closer. Memories—dreadful, heart-wrenching memories—crowded her mind. Her heart beat a frantic tattoo and bile burned its way up her throat.

‘No!’ The breathy scream forced its way out of her lips as she scurried up the last few stairs, clutching at the banister for support. She reached the top. Not safe. Not here. Panic swarmed through her veins.

She stumbled across the landing and then spun round—panting in her distress—her back against the wall, well away from the wide open, threatening head of the stairs.

It’s Benedict. You are safe. He would never attack you.

It was his fault. It wouldn’t have happened if he had—

Harriet cut off that inner diatribe, but other random thoughts still hurtled around inside her head. She hauled in a deep breath, desperate to calm her terror, desperate to think straight. Benedict paused a few feet from her, his face flushed, his chest rising and falling.

‘Harriet? Why did you run? What is it? What are you afraid of? Me?’

Harriet shook her head. She did not want his pity; she did not even want his guilt for what he had put her through. ‘I am not afraid.’

‘That is what you said last night, too, but your eyes tell a different story,’ he growled as he stepped closer. She flinched and he moved back, frowning. ‘What kind of a man do you think I am? I might be my cousin’s heir, but I have not inherited his tendencies, you may rest assured of that.’

Harriet swallowed, her pulse steadying. ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I never thought you had. But...’

But it was complicated. She was afraid. Still. Oh, not in the way she had been afraid on the stairs, hearing those feet thundering up the stairs behind her. Chasing her. That had been blind panic. Her current dread, though... Words she could hardly bear to think, let alone speak, crowded into her mouth and she barricaded them behind clenched teeth and pursed lips.

What she feared, almost more, were the memories Benedict had awakened. She was afraid of her own body’s treacherous clamour for his embrace. She was terrified of where her weakness might lead.

She wanted him. So much. Even after everything.

But she could never forgive him.

‘But...?’

Harriet sucked in a deep, deep breath, noticing Benedict’s hot green gaze dip to her décolletage as she did so. That brought her to her senses enough to say, ‘But I believe the past should stay in the past. Last night...you would have...we would have...if I had...’ She swallowed. ‘I have no wish to revisit our childish indiscretions,’ she said firmly. ‘I shall bid you goodnight, Mr Poole, and I trust I shall have no need to rely upon your hospitality for much longer.’

She turned and walked away, another rush of tears blurring her vision. She did not allow herself to think. Like a wounded animal, she craved a dark corner and her instincts led her straight to her bedchamber, where she shut the door behind her. There was no key, no bolt. Desperate, Harriet grasped hold of the heavy wooden chest set at the foot of the bed and tugged it, inch by inch, until it was set in front of the door. She cared not what the maid might think in the morning, when she came to light the fire. All she wanted was to feel safe but, as she collapsed onto the bed and allowed the hot flood of tears free rein, she acknowledged it was not Benedict she feared.

It was her own weakness that terrified her.

* * *

The next morning, Harriet woke late after a restless night. She arose and tugged on the bell rope to summon hot water before crossing to the window and twitching the curtain aside. The day was bright and clear and the snow that had clung tenaciously to the ground throughout the previous day might never have been.

The bedchamber was cosy, courtesy of the fire lit by a chambermaid earlier that morning. Harriet wondered what the kitchen gossips had made of the fact that the maid had to knock on the door and rouse Harriet before she could gain admittance. Together they had dragged the chest back to the foot of the bed, Harriet excusing her odd behaviour by saying she was scared of ghosts. The maid’s sceptical look had seemed to say, ‘But everyone knows ghosts can travel through doors and walls. A barricaded door is no protection.’

A tap at the door revealed a different maid carrying a pitcher from which steam spiralled.

‘I’ve been sent to help you dress, milady, if you are ready now,’ the girl said. She told Harriet her name was Annie. ‘Breakfast is set up in the morning room for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Harriet said, turning to the washstand to wash whilst the maid pulled back the covers to air the bed and then waited until Harriet was ready to don her dove-grey carriage dress. ‘Is Mr Poole... Has Mr Poole breakfasted yet?’

Please say yes. She could not face him after last night. When he had followed her up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps behind her had brought the terror and the anguish flooding back. What must he think of her? Had she managed to misdirect him with her talk of the past and their childish indiscretions?

And earlier, in the dining room—dear heavens, how she had been tempted, once again, to lose herself in his embrace, even after her loss of control over his provocation. How she had yearned for him, her body melting with desire. And that, she had thought, as she’d tossed and turned in her bed last night, her mind whizzing, was a near miracle considering how she had grown to abhor the marital act—she would not dignify it by thinking of it as making love—with Brierley. As recently as one year ago, her body might not have responded so readily to Benedict. But then she had set out to erase the memory of Brierley and his vile ways from her mind and her heart and...yes...her body. And she had succeeded, when she had, after great consideration and much soul-searching, taken a lover. And, with his help, she had overcome her fear.

‘Oh, yes, milady. Mr Poole is ever an early riser. Comes from living in foreign parts, Mr Crab—’ The maid stopped, her hand to her mouth, eyes rounded. ‘Beg pardon, milady, if I’m speaking out of turn. My mum always said I never know when to stop.’

Harriet laughed at the girl, relieved to learn she would not meet Benedict at the breakfast table. ‘That is quite all right, Annie. Now will you show me to the morning room, please?’

She had taken breakfast on a tray in her bedchamber yesterday and the house was so vast she had no confidence in finding her way on her own. Before they reached the morning room she had discovered that Mr Poole was once again perusing the estate ledgers with Sir Malcolm’s agent in the study.

The morning room was a beautiful sunny room with a view to the east, over lawns that curved away, down into a valley that Harriet remembered from her childhood. In her mind’s eye she saw happy, carefree days when the sun seemed to be forever shining and adults and their complicated world and rules barely existed, other than to provide food and shelter. Memories were strange things, she mused. From her adult perspective, she knew her childhood had also consisted of lessons and church, duty and chores, but those untroubled sunny days playing with her friends—and with Benedict—eclipsed all else. She pictured the shallow stream that gurgled along its stony bed at the bottom of the slope, with the choice of a wooden footbridge or stepping stones to cross it. As children, of course, they had always chosen to cross via the stepping stones, jostling and daring each other and, inevitably, someone had ended up with wet feet.

The opposite slope of the valley was wooded and stretched up in a gentle curve until, just beyond the far edge of the wood, a grassy hillock, bare of trees, jutted skywards. At the top of the hillock was the folly, modelled upon a ruined medieval castle complete with tower. Harriet’s stomach knotted. Here were memories she had no wish to dwell upon.

She finished her breakfast of toast and coffee and then went upstairs to visit Janet, to see how she fared. Janet was sleepy but out of pain; the housekeeper, Mrs Charing, had been dosing her with syrup of poppies in accordance with the doctor’s instructions.

After sitting with her maid awhile, Harriet decided to leave her to sleep. She would go for a walk, to blow some of the cobwebs from her brain. She wrapped up well in her travelling cloak, pulling the fur-lined hood over her head. It was a beautifully bright day, but there was still a cold easterly wind. Harriet strode out briskly enough to keep herself warm.

Almost without volition, her steps took her along the path to the valley where she had played as a child. The path down the slope was wet and rather slippery, but she negotiated it without mishap, right down into the valley and to the stream, which she crossed, by the bridge this time, as befitted a grown woman. She smiled at the thought of presenting herself back at Tenterfield Court with her half boots waterlogged.

She followed the course of the stream a short distance and then struck off up the lightly wooded far slope of the valley, driven by the urge to see if the folly had changed. Just to look at it from outside, she assured herself, as the slope steepened and her breath shortened.

At the top, she paused to rest, gazing up at the stone walls of the folly tower as they reared into the clear blue sky. The curved walls were broken by a single Gothic-style arched window on each floor. The door—solid oak, massive, punctuated by wrought iron studs—was closed. She wondered if it was now kept locked. It hadn’t been, back when she was young. Such memories. On the brink of walking on, she hesitated.

It was a foolish whim; one Harriet regretted the moment she entered the folly and realised she was not alone.

Chapter Six

Harriet could feel Benedict’s gaze boring into her as she paused on the threshold, giving her eyes time to adjust to the gloom inside the tower.

‘This is the last place I expected to see you.’

Benedict spoke the words, but they could as easily have been spoken by her. The memories evoked by this place swirled around her, almost a physical presence. Did he feel them, too? Was his mind also bursting with images from the past? This had been their trysting place: the place where they could be alone, out of sight of prying eyes or wagging tongues to cry scandal.

Silly, trusting girl—thinking she was in control of her life when, in reality, all control lay with others. See where her trust had led her—to marriage with a man who disgusted her, and to unimaginable heartbreak as a consequence of his temper. She had vowed, after Brierley’s death, that she would never pass control over her life to another man.

‘I am not one to sit in idleness. I felt in need of fresh air and exercise, after being cooped up indoors yesterday.’ Harriet strolled with as much nonchalance as she could muster into the centre of the room. ‘And why should I not visit here? It was on my walk and I was curious to see if there were any changes.’

He moved too, giving Harriet a wide berth as he crossed to gaze out of the window. ‘For a medieval castle, it is in remarkably good repair,’ he said, his tone light and unconcerned. ‘But, then, it is only several decades old rather than several centuries.’

It had been a source of wonder and imagination when they were children and, with Sir Malcolm so rarely at home, they had played at knights and maidens and dragons and swordfights with other local children. Gradually, though, the other village children visited less and less frequently as the reality of their lives—the need to supplement their parents’ income by working—had intruded. But Benedict and Harriet had continued to meet here. And their play had, in time, taken a serious turn.

Her head had been full of love; his, full of lust. It was the way of men. She knew that now.

‘I am pleased Sir Malcolm has maintained the estate, despite his...’ She hesitated. It was not her place to criticise his kinsman.

‘Despite his notorious ways? I have scant respect for Malcolm, as you know, but he was no spendthrift. His proclivities veered more towards the flesh than gambling.’

Harriet suppressed her shudder. Her late husband had been cast from the same mould.

‘As you are here, it would be a waste not to go upstairs and admire the view.’ Benedict stood aside, indicating the studded door that led to the spiral stairs. The tower was cylindrical, built over four floors, and the view from the top, she remembered, was spectacular.

She said nothing, merely inclined her head, and walked past him to the door. It opened easily. Whoever cared for the estate must take their work seriously, to include greasing the hinges to a door in a folly that served no purpose. She paused.

‘I understood you to be in a meeting with Sir Malcolm’s agent,’ she said.

He huffed a laugh. ‘And so you thought yourself safe from encountering me on your walk? I regret disappointing you, my lady, but I, too, felt in dire need of a good dose of cleansing fresh air. Do you need any assistance on the stairs?’

‘Thank you, no.’

Harriet lifted her skirts high and climbed the stone stairs to the top floor. Here there were wooden benches, but she resisted the urge to sit and catch her breath. She would continue up to the battlements, admire the view over the Kent countryside and then be on her way.

Being here at the folly brought all those memories flooding back to Harriet. Knowing he still wielded that kind of power over her emotions and her body—despite the best efforts of her brain to stay in control—had kept her awake half the night. She had been oh-so-tempted by him. His lovemaking in their youth had been unpractised, as had hers. Now he, like she, would possess a certain skill. She wondered again how it might feel to lie with him, but did not dwell on the thought. It would surely bring regret. He had blood on his hands. Innocent blood. No matter how she might desire him, she could never forgive him.

She gazed across the landscape, dazzling in the sunlight—seeing it, but barely paying it the attention it deserved, all her senses straining for an awareness of Benedict’s whereabouts. After several tense minutes she heard the door that led onto the roof open. She had no need to look to know that Benedict had followed her: the rising hairs on her nape confirmed his presence, and the gooseflesh that skittered across her arms wasn’t purely caused by the chill wind. She sensed the gap between them narrowing, until she could hear the quiet sound of his breathing and she could feel the heat of his body warming the air between them and she could smell...him. Still familiar, after all this time.

She swallowed. A maelstrom of emotions buffeted her this way and that but she strove to stay calm, to stay in control.

‘It is as beautiful as I remember,’ she said. ‘I count it as fortunate the weather is so good today—it has afforded me the opportunity to see the wonder of the countryside again.’ She hugged her cloak around her as a gust of wind attempted to tear it open.

‘It is a spectacular sight,’ Benedict said, his deep voice close by her ear, raising another shiver. ‘But it is very cold up here. Come, you must not catch a chill, or you will be forced to endure even more of my company.’

She could hear the effort he put into that light-hearted remark. His tone did not quite ring true and it forced her—for the first time—to consider how her presence was affecting him. Did he feel guilt over his betrayal? Was there a pang of conscience over the death of the baby, born too soon, who’d never had the chance to draw breath? Was there any regret—a tiny speck, even if it was well buried? He had not even mentioned the child, seemed uninterested in whether it was alive or dead. Had he wiped his memory clear of the fact she had ever been with child?

Would that she could so easily forget. Her empty arms still ached, as did her heart, at the knowledge that she would never now experience the joy of motherhood, for never again would she risk marrying and placing such power over herself and her body in any man’s hands. And she resented—deeply—the fact that Benedict not only felt no guilt and had experienced none of her grief, but also that he was now poised to become a wealthy powerful man—and marry and have a family—whereas she...she was destined to remain loveless and childless for the rest of her days.

She swung away from the view and sidestepped around Benedict to head for the door but, as on the previous evening, he was there before her.

‘Allow me to go first,’ he said. ‘In case you miss your step.’

At Benedict’s words, an image rose to tempt her: that of her stumbling...of him catching her in his arms...of him lifting her chin and lowering his head. Her heart pounded and her breathing quickened as she took especial care in descending the spiral stairs, clutching with gloved fingers at the thick rope that looped from bracket to bracket all the way down. Back on the ground floor without incident, her breathing eased and her racing heart steadied as she straightened her cloak in readiness for the walk back to the house.

‘Harriet...’

Her name hung in the air.

Slowly, she raised her eyes to his. She could not read his expression in the dim light that filtered through the window, but she did see the muscle leap in his jaw. The air between them crackled with intensity and her pulse responded with a lurch and a gallop. All moisture seemed to have been sucked from her mouth, and she licked at her dry lips as he moved closer. His gaze fastened on her mouth, sending desire sizzling through her. Pure instinct tilted her head, lifting her lips to his.

Aah. The most delicate of touches. Lip to lip...sweet, gentle, almost worshipping. Memories of love and laughter and pure joy. They had been so young. A shared future planned. They had followed the instinctive desires of their youthful bodies. She had felt so secure in his love for her. Before...

Harriet switched her thoughts away from the past and into the present. A kiss. Why should they not? It was just a kiss.

She leaned into him, raising her hands to his shoulders, broad and strong. A man’s body, reminding her he was no longer a youth. A silent sigh for what might have been echoed through her, and tears sprang to her eyes.

He deepened the kiss, his arms coming around her, moulding her to him as his tongue swept into her mouth and tangled with hers. His groan vibrated through her core and she could feel the steady thump of his heart as he tightened his hold, raising her onto her toes. His arousal pressed against her, and anticipation tugged deep inside her. Her own heart thudded in tandem with his as she explored his shoulders and back. She stroked his neck and threaded her fingers through his hair, knocking his hat to the floor. The thought surfaced that her gloves must go but, before she could act on that thought, he changed, urgency taking control.

Her toes barely scraped the floor as he lifted her higher, and backed her against the wall. She couldn’t breathe. Panic mushroomed out of the past, bringing it all back—the pain, the disgust—and she swung her head in denial, wrenching her lips from his, grabbing his hair to jerk his head away. He grunted a protest, seized her wrists and raised her arms, stretching them up, above her head, trapping her between his body and the wall, and tasted her again, invading her with his tongue.

She could not move. She was trapped. A scream built inside. She had learned to submit, but this was not Brierley. He was gone.

Harriet twisted her head to one side. ‘No!’ She panted with the effort not to scream. ‘No!’ Louder. More forceful.

Benedict stilled. Raised his head to look at her with dazed eyes. ‘What...?’

‘Let go of me.’

He released her. Stepped back. Frowned. ‘Why?’

Harriet stared at the blurry floor. Wiped her mouth with a shaking hand. ‘I cannot. I am—’

‘Don’t say you’re sorry,’ he said in a savage voice. ‘I don’t want to hear your excuses.’

He swung away and slammed through the door, crashing it shut behind him, leaving Harriet alone, trembling with the memories that she had tried so hard to put behind her.

* * *

Benedict strode down the hill, away from the tower, his blood pounding with fury and unquenched desire. How weak-willed could a man be? After her rejection—twice—still he had left himself wide open for another blow. His brisk pace did little to assuage the urge to lash out and, as he entered the Home Wood, on the path that led back to the house, he snatched a fallen branch from the ground to slash at last season’s dried-up undergrowth as he passed.

His instinct was to leave. Return to London. Bury himself in his work and his plans for the future or jump on the nearest ship and seek out new adventures. Anything rather than stay here and suffer any more of her games, leading a man on and then freezing him out.

The house came into view. He slammed to a halt. Considered. Then changed direction.

He strode into the barn, then slowed so as not to spook the horses in the stalls. Heads turned enquiringly to watch his progress along the passageway, and he breathed in the familiar, calming smell of horses, leather and hay, pausing to pat one or two gleaming rumps as he passed.

A groom’s head popped out from the end stall. ‘Morning, sir,’ he called. ‘Was you going out?’

‘Yes.’ The question spurred him into a decision. ‘Saddle the bay, will you, Tom?’

A long, fast ride would do him the power of good. It would douse both his temper and his lust and, hopefully, blast away the confusion that had beset him ever since Harriet had reappeared in his life. He swept his hand through his hair, realising he had lost his hat somewhere. No matter—his appearance would make no difference where he was going.

* * *

It was dark before Benedict returned to Tenterfield Court, weary and slightly foxed after an afternoon spent in the Crossways Inn in the village. He left his horse at the stables and walked towards the house, conscious that his steps were beginning to lag. He entered through a side door and met Cooper, the footman, in the passage. He must ask. He had no wish to bump into her unprepared.

‘Where is she?’ Hellfire! That didn’t come out as he intended. ‘Lady Brierley,’ he added. ‘I’m late. Has she eaten?’ It was past the customary time for dinner in the country. With any luck she had already gone upstairs, as keen as him to avoid another encounter.

Cooper frowned. ‘She’s gone, sir. Lord Brierley came and took her off in his carriage.’

Benedict felt himself sway. Must’ve drunk more than I realised. He inched closer to the wall and propped his shoulders against it.

‘When?’

‘Soon after her ladyship came back from her walk, sir. His lordship was already here. He’d had her bags packed all ready, and been up to see Sir Malcolm and then, when her ladyship arrived, he dragged her off to his carriage.’

Dragged? The image unsettled him, but it also raised a hope he didn’t want to feel. ‘Lady Brierley didn’t want to leave?’

‘No, sir. First she said she wouldn’t leave without her maid...’

Ah, of course. Her maid. Janet. She was the cause of Harriet’s reluctance. Stupid to imagine it could be anything else. Benedict shook his head, trying to clear it and order his thoughts.

‘And then,’ Cooper continued, clearly relishing being the one to tell him the story, ‘his lordship said Janet must go, too, and the doctor was here and he said as how she shouldn’t really be moved, and his lordship said he wouldn’t leave her here in this den of...den of...something...’

Iniquity, Benedict thought, his head reeling as his temples began to throb.

‘...so we had to carry Janet downstairs and prop up her leg on cushions and all the while his lordship was looking like thunder—’

‘Had he come to visit Sir Malcolm?’

‘No, sir, but he did go up and pay his respects. He said something about a letter, sir, and more scandal, sir. Just like that. More scandal!’ Cooper paused for breath.

‘And her ladyship was happy to go?’

‘Well, yes and no, I should say, sir.’

Benedict bit down the urge to bark, Get on with it, man. ‘I’m waiting, Cooper.’

‘Well, she seemed happy enough to go, but she wanted to go back to London, she said. Only his lordship wouldn’t budge, even when her ladyship pleaded with him. He said as how she was to come home with him and explain herself properly if she knew what was good for her.’

What was good for her? She’s his stepmother, for God’s sake. What the blazes did he mean by that?

‘And then he said as how he would stop her allowance if she didn’t do what he said.’

‘And so she went with him?’

‘Yes, sir. But she wasn’t happy.’

Benedict told himself it was for the best. He told himself it was a relief, but then why did his throat ache and why had his stomach twisted into knots?

‘Thank you, Cooper. That will be all.’

Benedict levered himself away from the wall and headed towards the back stairs on decidedly unsteady legs.

‘Please inform Sir Malcolm I am unwell and unable to pay him my usual visit. I am going to bed.’ He flung the words over his shoulder at the footman.

‘Her ladyship found your hat, sir.’ Cooper’s words floated up the back stairs after Benedict. ‘Mr Crabtree brushed it and put it away.’

His hat! A vague memory surfaced of Harriet dislodging it during that kiss. Benedict stumbled as he reached the top of the stairs and turned in the direction of his bedchamber. He cursed under his breath, praying he would not meet any other servants in his current state.

Never again would he touch the ale at the Crossways. It was clearly tainted.

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