Saved by Scandal's Heir

by Janice Preston

  Benedict stood staring out of the window, silent except for the harsh sound of his breaths. Harriet rose from the cushions to go to him. She did not touch him; she did not quite dare, he was so stiff and unyielding.

  ‘Can you forgive me?’

  He spun round to face her. ‘Forgive you?’ He placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘Harry, how can you ask such a thing—there is nothing to forgive you for. It is I who should beg your forgiveness.’

  He kissed her fiercely, his lips and tongue possessing her mouth as he cradled her face.

  ‘I cannot forgive myself for all you have gone through. I am astounded you can even bear the sight of me, let alone... You are an amazing, beautiful, generous woman.’

  His words demolished the last remaining barrier around her heart, allowing a flood of hope and joy to cascade through her, filling her with wonder and love.

  ‘Now—’ he stepped back and looked at her, a teasing glow in his green eyes as his hands slid from her face, across her shoulders and down her arms to clasp her hands ‘—what is this nonsense about releasing me from our betrothal?’

  ‘It is not nonsense. It is another thing which I am not proud of, although I honestly did not plan to entrap you at Kitty’s ball... You were right...I did plan... I did intend... Well, it did not work—’ she caught at her breath, which was coming out in frantic-sounding gasps ‘—and you did not fall for my scheming at the m-masquerade...but I am still g-guilty and I cannot bear for you to be t-trapped into a marriage you do not want.’

  A light lit his eyes. ‘That masquerade,’ he said slowly. He tasted her lips again with a low, satisfied hum. ‘How could I ever forget?’

  ‘You do not want to marry me,’ Harriet said desperately. ‘You would have asked me then.’

  Benedict threw his head back and laughed. ‘Sweetheart, you do not understand me very well if you think I would ever allow myself to be trapped into making a proposal against my own wishes.’

  ‘B-but...you were forced into proposing after Kitty’s ball. You cannot deny it, and I cannot l-live with that knowledge.’

  ‘That is true,’ he said slowly, frowning. ‘And if you truly cannot live with the guilt that you have entrapped me, I must thank you for releasing me from any obligation to marry you. I accept.

  ‘Our betrothal, as of this moment, is over.’

  Harriet’s heart cleaved in two and tears blurred her vision. He might have forgiven her, but he did not love her.

  ‘Harriet. Look at me, please.’ She raised her eyes to his, feeling a tear slide down her cheek.

  Benedict lifted her hands to his lips. ‘My darling Harriet, will you please do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

  ‘But...’

  ‘You goose! Did you really believe I proposed to you against my will? I was relieved to be forced into it—I could then excuse myself from being a fool for trusting you again and pretend I was merely acting the gentleman.’ He hesitated then, his face suddenly serious. ‘You do want to marry me?’

  She gasped. ‘Of course I do. There is nothing I want more. I love you, Benedict Poole, with all my heart.’

  ‘Then, that is that,’ he said with a huge smile as he took her into his arms. ‘For I love you, too, with all my heart.’

  She tilted her face to his and silence reigned for several satisfying minutes.

  ‘Do you think you can learn to accept my friendship with the Stantons?’ Harriet asked when they eventually came up for air.

  He gave her a little shake. ‘Will you please stop fretting? Yes. If Felicity can live with what happened before she and Stanton wed, then I’m damned sure I can. I cannot blame either of you for what happened before we met again...and I thank God that we did meet again,’ he added, smiling down at her.

  ‘And I, too. And,’ she added, feeling decidedly naughty now her worries had been put to rest, ‘it turns out Brierley did me one favour.’

  She laughed as Benedict lifted a brow. A weight had been lifted from her and her life now stretched before her, full of hope and pleasure and love.

  ‘I have certain skills.’ She lowered her voice to a purr, half closing her eyes as she traced a path down Benedict’s chest to his groin and closed her fingers around his manhood. ‘Skills to please gentlemen.’ With her other hand, she pulled his head lower to flick her tongue in his ear.

  A strangled noise sounded deep in Benedict’s chest and he hauled her to him, capturing her lips in another passionate kiss.

  ‘Skills to please this gentleman alone,’ he growled. ‘You are my woman from now on. Mine alone. You are the breath in my lungs and the song in my heart.

  ‘I love you, Harriet. I’ve always loved you. It’s only ever been you.’

  Epilogue

  October 1813

  ‘Four...five...six.’

  Benedict slammed to a halt mere inches from the drawing room door, which stayed stubbornly closed, even in the face of his most ferocious glare. He spun on his heel and paced back across the room. Six lousy paces. He swore viciously under his breath. He had become accustomed to the screams. But there had been nothing but silence for ages. That was even worse.

  A hand landed on his shoulder.

  ‘You’ll wear a hole in the carpet if you don’t stop this,’ Matthew said. ‘Come and sit down. Ellie will come and tell you as soon as there’s any news.’

  ‘I can’t sit and do nothing. I’ve a mind to go up there and...’

  ‘Whoa! You’ll scandalise the whole neighbourhood if you go near Harry while she’s...while she’s...well...you know. It’s not men’s business. Why don’t we go to the club and have a drink? Take your mind off things.’

  Benedict turned and stared at his friend. ‘Take my mind off... Did you go off drinking whilst Ellie was going through this torture?’

  ‘Well. No. Now you come to mention it, I do believe I wore a track in our drawing room carpet, too,’ Matthew said, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘But it’s worth it. You’ll see. You’ll have a littl’un like our Thomas and life will be ten...no, a hundred times better than you ever thought possible.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Benedict muttered. Never in his life had he felt so utterly helpless. ‘Why’s it taking so long?’

  Matthew shrugged. ‘It always does. It’s nature’s way.’

  ‘As long as Harry is all right.’ Benedict’s throat squeezed tight at the thought of all the things that could go wrong. He gripped Matthew’s arm with sudden urgency. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if—’

  He broke off at a sound from the hallway. Running feet. Then the door flew open and Eleanor burst into the room, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, a huge smile on her face.

  ‘Come on, Papa Poole. It’s all over, barring the introductions.’

  Benedict was past her in a trice, across the hall and up the stairs two at a time. The bedchamber door was closed and, as he reached it, he hesitated, suddenly uncertain. The unmistakable mewl of a baby sounded from inside the room, shaking him from his momentary attack of nerves. His son. Or daughter. He opened the door. Walked in. There were others in the room but he had eyes only for Harriet.

  His Harriet. His beautiful wife—tired and flushed, but beaming.

  Her arms were full. He couldn’t... What? Benedict stared, his brain trying to make sense of the sight of his gorgeous, beloved wife and the babies in her arms. He looked again, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes.

  ‘Twins?’ he whispered.

  Harriet’s smile widened. ‘Twins,’ she said. ‘One of each. A boy and a girl.’

  Benedict crossed to the bed as if in a dream. He reached to stroke Harriet’s cheek. Harriet, who had made his life complete and who had banished all the hurt and loneliness of his past, and now... He reached out tentatively with one finger and touched the rounded cheek of the baby nearest
to him. How soft. How delicate. How perfect. He watched as the pink lips pursed and a tiny frown flickered across the babe’s forehead and his heart swelled, so full of love it felt as though it might explode. Wispy strawberry blonde curls peeped out from the edge of the white shawl it was wrapped in.

  ‘Your daughter,’ Harriet said. ‘Is she not perfect?’

  Benedict tore his eyes from his daughter to search Harriet’s face. Always sensitive to her moods, he caught the faintest whisper of pain in her voice. Pain for what might have been. He bent and pressed his lips to her forehead. ‘We will never forget our first girl, my love. Never. But we will give these two the most joyous, secure childhood they could wish for.’

  ‘We will,’ Harriet said as Benedict brushed a kiss on first his daughter’s head and then his son’s, his chest near bursting with pride and with love.

  ‘It is fortunate we selected names for both a boy and a girl, is it not?’ Harriet said with a weary smile. ‘William and Rebecca—they sound very well together, do they not?’

  ‘They do indeed.’

  Benedict reached for William, taking the tiny bundle of his son into his arms and cradling him to his chest as he perched on the side of the bed, unable to tear his gaze from his tiny hand as it waved in the air, fingers splayed. He tickled his palm with the tip of his little finger, amazed at how huge it looked, then gasped with delight as William closed his tiny fingers around his.

  His vision blurred and he blinked hard. A gentle hand touched his and he looked up into the glorious violet eyes of his wife, watching him with tenderness and love.

  ‘I love you, Ben,’ she whispered, and her eyes were now heavy with sleep. ‘So very much.’

  He leaned over and kissed her gently. ‘I love you, too, my Harriet. Sleep now. You need your rest.’

  ‘Will you stay with me...with us...awhile?’

  ‘For as long as you want, sweetheart. You have made me the happiest man on earth, and there is nowhere else I would rather be.’

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from RETURN OF THE RUNAWAY by Sarah Mallory.

  Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!

  Click here to Join Harlequin My Rewards

  http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010003

  Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!

  Do you want to earn Free Books and More?

  Join Harlequin My Rewards points program and earn points every time you shop.

  You can redeem your points to get more of what you love:

  Free books

  Exclusive gifts and contests

  Book recommendations tailored to your reading preferences

  Earn 2000 points instantly when you join—getting you closer to redeeming your first free book.

  Don’t miss out. Reward the book lover in you!

  Click here to sign up

  Or visit us online to sign up at

  http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010001

  We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Historical.

  You dream of wicked rakes, gorgeous Highlanders, muscled Viking warriors and rugged Wild West cowboys from another era. Harlequin Historical has them all! Emotionally intense stories set across many time periods.

  Enjoy six new stories from Harlequin Historical every month!

  Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

  Other ways to keep in touch:

  Harlequin.com/newsletters

  Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  HarlequinBlog.com

  Return of the Runaway

  by Sarah Mallory

  Chapter One

  Verdun, France—September 1803

  The young lady in the room at the top of the house on the Rue Égalité was looking uncharacteristically sober in her dark-blue linen riding habit. Even the white shirt she wore beneath the close-fitting jacket bore only a modest frill around the neck. She had further added to the sobriety by sewing black ribbons to her straw bonnet and throwing a black lace shawl around her shoulders. Now she sat before the looking glass and regarded her reflection with a critical eye.

  ‘“Lady Cassandra Witney is headstrong and impetuous,”’ she stated, recalling a recent description of herself. Her critic had also described her as beautiful, but Cassie disregarded that. She propped her chin on her hand and gave a tiny huff of dissatisfaction. ‘The problem with being headstrong and impetuous,’ she told her image, ‘is that it leads one to make mistakes. Marrying Gerald was most definitely a mistake.’

  She turned and surveyed the little room. Accompanying Gerald to Verdun had been a mistake, too, but when the Treaty of Amiens had come to an end in May she had not been able to bring herself to abandon him and go home to England. That would have been to admit defeat and her spirit rebelled at that. Eloping with Gerald had been her choice, freely made, and she could almost hear Grandmama, the Dowager Marchioness of Hune, saying, ‘You have made your bed, my girl, now you must lie in it.’

  And lie in it she had, for more than a year, even though she had known after a few months of marriage that Gerald was not the kind, loving man she had first thought him.

  A knock at the door interrupted her reverie. After a word with the servant she picked up her portmanteau and followed him down the stairs. A light travelling chaise was waiting at the door with Merimon, the courier she had hired, standing beside it. He was a small, sharp-faced individual and now he looked down his long narrow nose at the bag in her hand.

  ‘C’est tout?’

  ‘It is all I wish to take.’

  Cassandra answered him in his own language, looking him in the eye. As the bag was strapped on to the chaise she reflected sadly that it was little enough to show for more than a year of married life. Merimon opened the door of the chaise and continued to address her in coarse French.

  ‘Milady will enter, if you please, and I will accompany you on foot. My horse is waiting at the Porte St Paul.’

  Cassie looked up. The September sun was already low in the sky.

  ‘Surely it would have been better to set off at first light,’ she observed.

  Merimon looked pained.

  ‘I explained it all to you, milady. I could not obtain a carriage any sooner. And this road, there is no shelter and the days can be very hot for the horses. This way we shall drive through the night, you will sleep and when you awake, voilà, we shall be in Reims.’

  ‘I cannot sleep in here.’ Cassie could not help it, she sniffed. How different it had been, travelling to France with Gerald. She had been so in love then, and so hopeful. Everything had been a delicious adventure. She pushed away the memories. There was no point in dwelling on the past. ‘Very well, let us get on, then. The sooner this night is over the better.’

  * * *

  It was not far to the eastern gate, where Cassie knew her passport would be carefully checked. Verdun still maintained most of its medieval fortifications, along with an imposing citadel. It was one of the reasons the town had been chosen to hold the British tourists trapped in France when war was declared: the defences made it very difficult for enemies to get in, but it also made it impossible for the British to get out.

  When they reached the city gate she gave her papers to Merimon, who presented them to the guard. The French officer studied them for a long moment before brushing past the courier and approaching the chaise. Cassie let down the window.

  ‘You are leaving us, madame?’

  ‘Yes. I came to Verdun with my husband when he was detained. He died a week since. There is no longer any reason for me to remain.’ She added, with a touch of hauteur, ‘The First Consul Bonaparte
decreed that only English men of fighting age should be detained.’

  The man inclined his head. ‘As you say. And where do you go?’

  ‘Rouen,’ said Merimon, stepping up. ‘We travel via Reims and Beauvais and hope to find passage on a ship from Rouen to Le Havre, from whence milady can sail to England.’

  Cassie waited, tense and anxious while the gendarme stared at her. After what seemed like hours he cast a searching look inside the chaise, as if to assure himself that no prisoner was hiding on the floor. Finally he was satisfied. He stood back and handed the papers to Merimon before ordering the postilion to drive on. The courier loped ahead to where a small urchin was holding the reins of a long-tailed bay and as the chaise rattled through the gates he scrambled into the saddle and took up his position beside it.

  Cassie stripped off her gloves, then removed her bonnet and rubbed her temples. Perhaps now she was leaving Verdun the dull ache in her head would ease. It had been a tense few days since Gerald’s death, his so-called friends circling like vultures waiting to strike at the first sign of weakness. Well, that was behind her now. She was going home. Darkness was falling. Cassie settled back into one corner as the carriage rolled and bumped along the uneven road. She found herself hoping the roads in England were as good as she remembered, that she might not suffer this tooth-rattling buffeting for the whole of the journey.

  The chaise began to slow suddenly and Cassie sat up. For some time they had been travelling through woodland with tall trees lining the road and making it as black as pitch inside the carriage. Now, however, pale moonlight illuminated the window and Cassie could see that they were in some sort of clearing. The ground was littered with tree stumps and lopped branches, as if the trees had only recently been felled and carried away. She leaned forward and looked out of the window, expecting to see the lights of an inn, but there was nothing, just the pewter-coloured landscape with the shadow of the woods like a black wall in every direction.