Saved by Scandal's Heir

by Janice Preston

  Harriet had always loved the easy, informal atmosphere of picnicking but was quite unable to relax today, particularly with Benedict in her direct line of sight, sprawled at his ease next to Matthew and Eleanor. At least, now that there were others within hearing, Felicity and Eleanor had ceased to chatter about babies but for Harriet the damage had been done—the memory of her daughter and her despair at her loss were firmly centre stage amongst the countless issues that buzzed unendingly through her thoughts.

  She sipped her lemonade and tried to join in the general chat, her eyes burning with the effort of stemming her tears. Benedict’s occasional deep rumble vibrated through her until every nerve in her body felt as tightly strung as a piano wire. Her gaze kept wandering to him, despite her efforts to concentrate on others. His chiselled jaw, clean shaven today...those broad shoulders...his trim waist and those long, lean legs encased in skin-tight buckskin and highly polished top boots.

  ‘Are you all right, Harry?’

  Harriet jumped at the quiet question. Stanton had moved to sit next to her without her even noticing. She felt a flush rise from her neck to heat her face.

  ‘Yes, of course I am,’ she replied, a little sharper than she intended. She would be all right, as long as nobody offered her any sympathy.

  ‘Hmm, if you say so. Would you like some more lemonade?’

  ‘Yes. No. Thank you, but I think, if you will excuse me, I shall take a short walk. Sitting in the carriage for so long has turned me into a fidget.’ She smiled at him, determined to allay any concerns he had about her.

  ‘Would you like some company?’

  ‘I think that would be a bad idea, in view of those rumours,’ Harriet said, keeping her voice low in case anyone should overhear. ‘Have you heard any more?’

  ‘No, but no one is likely to say anything to my face, are they? Don’t fret about them, my dear. They will soon die down.’

  Stanton’s contented gaze was on Felicity as he spoke. Clearly the rumours gave him no cause for concern, but then he had no need to worry—a man of his power and connections could not be harmed by rumour and innuendo. Unlike Harriet. She longed to believe him but she knew the workings of the ton. People wanted to winkle out the truth, and some people would not rest until they did.

  Harriet bent her knees, ready to stand up, and Stanton rose smoothly to his feet and offered his hand to help. Once upright, Harriet shook out her skirts and then, about to thank him, she caught the significant look that passed between Lady Fenton and Barbara Barrington. The meaning of that look was simple to interpret, their interpretation of Stanton’s gentlemanly gesture all too clear. If she had been Felicity or Eleanor, no one would think twice about him assisting her but, because she was a widow and therefore always viewed with some suspicion by married ladies, they would happily think the worst of her, despite her best efforts to keep scandal from her door.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured to Stanton, careful not to meet his gaze in case he recognised her distress.

  ‘If you will not allow me to escort you, please ensure you do not wander out of sight,’ Stanton said. ‘Better still, take a maid with you.’

  ‘I shall only walk down to the brook,’ Harriet said. It was only about two hundred yards away. ‘I promise I shall not go out of sight.’

  She opened her parasol, angling it to shade her head from the sun, and walked down the slope towards the stream, feeling the tears come, helpless to stop them. Despite her friends—and she knew how lucky she was to have them—and despite Fanny and the children, she had never felt more alone in her life. She had no one to confide in. No one, apart from Janet and Edward, even knew about her baby. And even if they did know, surely they would think her mad for still grieving when so many babies and children tragically died in infancy. Her baby hadn’t even taken one breath.

  She had always prided herself on her self-control and yet lately it appeared to have deserted her. She sniffed, then reached into her reticule for a handkerchief, blew her nose and dabbed at her face, sucking in deep, calming breaths. She must tuck those horrid memories away again and be happy for her friends and their families. And she must continue to hold her head high, or those blasted rumours would keep gaining momentum, Edward would eventually hear them, and then being childless would be the least of her worries. She was sure she hadn’t imagined that exchanged look between Lady Fenton and Barbara Barrington when Stanton had singled her out. Sick apprehension churned her stomach. All she could do was continue to ignore the gossip and hope people soon moved on to the next on dit.

  And as for Benedict... A self-deprecating laugh huffed from her lips. How foolish and how naive she had been to think he might provide the answer to her prayers. He had not done so in the past and he appeared disinclined to do so now. The trouble was...she still wanted him. How would she bear it when he found a wife? But yet again, bear it she must. She hauled in a shaky breath, crouched down on the bank, dabbled her fingers in the cool, clear water of the brook and then patted her face with her wet hand.

  There. That is better. I must stop all this self-pity. I shall return—

  A shadow fell across her and she looked round and up, startled but not scared, for she was still in sight of the rest of the party. Benedict. Somehow she had known it would be. She straightened, and he cupped her elbow to steady her as she did so.

  ‘This is a pleasant spot, is it not?’ he said. ‘It is most refreshing to get out of London. I had an urge to explore. As did you, I see.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She gestured in the direction of the picnic party, avoiding his gaze. ‘I must return to the others.’

  ‘Harriet...?’ Benedict nudged her chin up with one finger. His eyes grew intent as they explored her face. He frowned. ‘Have you been crying?’

  ‘I... No! Why should I cry?’ Something akin to panic coursed through her. He must not guess how vulnerable she felt. She could not cope with probing questions right now. ‘If my eyes are red it is because they watered in the sunlight.’

  Benedict rubbed at his jaw, glancing back to the trees where the others rested and then down at Harriet’s open parasol, lying on the bank where she had placed it when she’d crouched to reach the water.

  ‘Is it because of what happened the other night?’

  ‘No! Why should something so trivial cause me to cry?’

  She could not bear for him to think she was upset over him. She tilted her chin and started to walk back to the oaks.

  * * *

  She’s lying. She has to be lying. Trivial indeed.

  As Benedict watched Harriet walk away she paused, glancing back over her shoulder.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Are you going to offer me your arm up the hill?’

  He retrieved her parasol—white with a blue ribbon trim to match her muslin dress and her bonnet—caught up with her and proffered his arm. Her eyes, their violet colour accentuated in the sunlight, exuded nonchalance and her brows were raised in haughty entitlement. But the still-pink tip of her nose and her puffy lids told their own story, and his gut clenched at the thought of her going off on her own to cry but he quelled his natural sympathy. Her tears could only, surely, be that her plan to shame him into offering for her had not worked. He understood enough about her situation to know that if Brierley carried out his threat to stop her allowance she would have no choice but to remarry. And he also understood that he would prove a familiar and convenient choice for that role.

  She had wanted nothing to do with him—they would be casual acquaintances, she had said—until those rumours had begun to circulate in earnest.

  He could see it with absolute clarity, looking back. She knew there was a risk Brierley would hear the stories sooner or later so she had considered her options and seen Benedict as her best bet. He could pinpoint the moment her attitude had changed—at the Barringtons’ rout party, after he had challenged her abo
ut having a lover and had then come across her and Stanton out on the terrace. He had suspected at the time that she was up to something. And he had been right.

  Then...at the masquerade...she had pursued him. He had known her at first glance, and he knew she had recognised him. She had deliberately pursued him and allowed herself to be thoroughly seduced. His anger and his jealousy had driven him to ignore his conscience and take what she had offered, after which, no doubt, she fully expected him to make an honest woman of her. She had been mistaken. He was not so green, nor so soft, as to fall for her game. He had taken her and then he had walked away, vowing to have nothing more to do with her.

  His every instinct had rebelled against being used in such a way and even though, having tasted her again, he still wanted her—desperately—he could never, ever trust her. She had married for riches before, and now she had targeted him for his wealth. Whilst he knew his wealth would be a lure for any girl he courted, with Harriet those old wounds ran too deep. He could not live every day for the rest of his life with the knowledge that he was only good enough for her now that he had wealth. Her betrayal would eat away at him and they would never be content together.

  ‘Why are you upset, if it is not about the other night? Is it Brierley? Has he threatened you again?’

  ‘I have not seen Edward. He is out of town on business and not due back until Kitty’s ball next week.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

  Her lips firmed and she remained silent, her nose in the air, face averted.

  Anger made him rash. ‘Did you expect me to offer for you? Was that your plan? It would never work, you know.’

  He regretted the words the instant he had spoken them but by then it was too late. High colour washed over Harriet’s cheekbones and her eyes flashed.

  ‘You flatter yourself, sir.’ She spoke the words through gritted teeth, her voice low as it vibrated with fury. ‘It meant nothing, and I harbour no inclinations in that direction, I promise you. Why did you follow me today if you have such a low opinion of me? It was clearly not from concern as to my well-being. If it was your intention to humiliate me with your insinuations and accusations, you may rest assured you have succeeded admirably.’

  She snatched her hand from his arm but revealed no further hint of agitation as she walked away. She settled onto a blanket, next to a few other ladies who had already begun to eat their picnic luncheon, exchanging a few words with those nearest to her. Was it his imagination, or did that woman dressed in green—he racked his brain...Lady Fenton, that was it—twist her shoulders to casually exclude Harriet from her conversation? Were those rumours about Harriet and Stanton—true or not—the cause?

  Benedict crossed to the other side of the group and sat down next to Matthew and Eleanor, where he could keep a surreptitious eye on Harriet.

  ‘Harriet looks very charming today, does she not, Benedict?’ Eleanor said as soon as the maids serving their food had moved out of earshot.

  ‘Indeed she does,’ he said. Harriet always looked charming to him, but he wasn’t fool enough to say that to Eleanor.

  ‘You have known one another a long time,’ Eleanor continued. ‘Were you close friends when you were young?’

  ‘Ellie...’ Matthew’s voice held a wealth of warning.

  Benedict switched his attention to his friend’s wife—and narrowed his eyes as he took in her wide-eyed, innocent expression.

  ‘We played together when we were children,’ he said, as repressively as he could.

  Eleanor smiled, a knowing sort of smile that set Benedict’s teeth on edge. He picked up a portion of pie from his plate and bit viciously into it, pretending he could not hear Matthew chiding Eleanor for being inquisitive.

  He was careful not to watch Harriet overtly but, as he ate and drank, he pondered her final diatribe. Why had he followed her down to the brook? He had known nothing good could come of any private exchange; his anger, his pain at being so cynically used and his sheer need were all too raw. The conclusions he had come to did nothing to vindicate him. She was right. He had wanted to provoke a reaction from her. When she had walked away from the picnic group on her own, he had seen his chance and he had taken it.

  He had succeeded in humiliating her and he was ashamed, vowing to avoid being alone with her in future. Nothing good could come of it and—if those rumours about Stanton were beginning to grow claws—he would be wise to keep his distance if he was serious about finding a suitable wife.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The following Wednesday, Harriet walked along Pall Mall with Fanny and Kitty, heading for Harding, Howell and Company, the linen draper. It was the day before Kitty’s come-out ball and Harriet’s step-granddaughter bubbled with anticipation. Harriet tried her best to share in the excitement, but found it hard to garner much enthusiasm for anything. Her worst fears had come to pass—since the day of the picnic, her name was being linked more and more with the Earl of Stanton’s and, increasingly, she intercepted sidelong glances and walked in on whispered conversations that were suddenly cut short. Edward was still out of town on business and so had not yet heard the rumours, and Fanny had said nothing, although could she really fail to be aware of them? Edward was due to return home this evening and Harriet was by now convinced it was only a matter of time before he carried out his threat. Her nerves were in shreds as a result.

  ‘Oh, I cannot wait until tomorrow,’ Kitty said, oblivious to her mother’s attempts to shush her. ‘Papa said someone of particular consequence is to lead me out in my very first dance. Do you know who he might be, Grandmama? Mama knows, but she will not tell me. It is to be a surprise.’

  ‘Well, if it is to be a surprise, Kitty, I could hardly tell you, even if I did know,’ Harriet said. ‘Or it would no longer be a surprise and your papa would, quite rightly, be very cross with me.’

  ‘Papa is always cross,’ Kitty said, swinging her reticule.

  ‘Katherine!’ Fanny caught hold of her daughter’s arm. ‘Do stop throwing your arms around. You are supposed to be a young lady, not a child of seven. And do not speak of your papa in such a way. It is most unbecoming. He has much on his mind.’

  Fanny’s gaze flicked to Harriet’s face, and Harriet felt a blush build from her neck. How much had Edward confided in Fanny about Harriet’s visit to Tenterfield Court? She appeared as warm as ever when she was with Harriet but what, deep down, was she thinking?

  ‘Your mama is right, Kitty. If you are not to sully your reputation, your behaviour must be exemplary at all times.’ She felt her cheeks begin to burn, half her mind on her own behaviour and those dratted rumours. She felt a hypocrite, but she still needed to help guide young Kitty. ‘There is nothing more likely to set tongues wagging than inappropriate behaviour in a young lady,’ she went on, ‘or, for that matter, unbecomingly forthright opinions.’

  Kitty subsided but soon perked up when she spied her particular friend, Lady Olivia Beauchamp, perusing the display in the draper’s window.

  ‘May I go and speak with Olivia, Mama?’

  ‘Of course,’ Fanny said. As soon as Kitty was out of earshot, Fanny whispered, ‘It is Lord Wincott. He and Edward have come to an agreement—Kitty and his lordship are to be betrothed before the end of the Season.’

  Harriet’s heart sank. ‘Wincott? But...is he not rather old for Kitty?’

  Fanny stiffened. ‘He is but two and thirty,’ she said. ‘I should not call that old.’

  Harriet had thought him older. ‘He is a little staid, surely, for a girl as lively as Kitty. Is she happy with the match?’

  ‘She does not know yet. We thought it best for them to get to know each other slowly. But it is a splendid match. He is a most moral, God-fearing man and you cannot argue with his consequence. He is wealthy, titled and his estates run alongside the land I brought to Edward as my dowry, so t
hey can form part of the marriage settlement. That is where Edward is now, touring the estates with Wincott. And, politically, the alliance between the Brierleys and the Wincotts will be advantageous. Kitty will be thrilled when Wincott leads her out for her first dance. A marquess, no less! That is quite a coup for a seventeen-year-old.’

  Harriet realised there was nothing she could say, no influence she could bring to bear. She would end up alienating Fanny, and that was the last risk she felt able to take. Poor Kitty—so open and loving, married to a pompous prig like Wincott. He was a man of a similar stamp as Edward—no doubt that was why both Edward and Fanny deemed it a good match. Harriet swallowed her indignation on behalf of Kitty. It was said that girls were happiest with men who reminded them of their fathers, so perhaps she was worrying over nothing. Fanny had stopped talking and was watching Harriet expectantly. What had she said? Harriet thought rapidly—something about Kitty’s first dance.

  ‘I am sure she will be proud to be led out by his lordship,’ Harriet said, keen to smooth Fanny’s ruffled pride, ‘for not only does he have a most impressive title, but he is also a delightfully elegant dancer, I recall. In fact, I wonder if I might persuade him to stand up with me—a lady cannot help but show to advantage with such an accomplished partner and, as a grandmother, I fear I need all the help I can get.’

  ‘Oh, Harriet, what nonsense—you always look beautiful, on or off the dance floor.’

  ‘At the risk of a set-down, I second that,’ interposed an amused voice. ‘And if he, whoever he is, is fool enough to pass you over as a partner, then I shall be delighted to stand in his stead.’

  Harriet spun on her heel. Benedict was right behind her. She could not quite meet his eyes as she tried to quash her surge of embarrassment triggered by their first meeting since the picnic, when they had not exchanged another word after their quarrel. His final words to her still stung—what a fool she had been to even hope he would contemplate marrying an impoverished widow when he might have his pick of well-born innocents. Since then she had tried to banish him from her thoughts but it had proved nigh on impossible.