Saved by Scandal's Heir

by Janice Preston

  ‘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 th
e 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 s
orry 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.