Читать книгу Saved By Scandal's Heir - Janice Preston, Janice Preston - Страница 11

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.