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