Chase the Dawn

by Jane Feather

  “Does it matter what I think?” she asked softly. “Am I not tarred with the enemy brush, regardless?”

  “On occasion,” he answered frankly. “But I will learn to curb an irrational and unjust response if you will be patient with me.”

  They followed their noses toward the bakehouse. “There is more to this hatred than simply that of Patriot for Loyalist,” Bryony said, taking the bull by the horns. “Feelings run high, I understand that, but such a powerful detestation that I have felt and that you sometimes can’t separate from everyday matters, that has deeper roots, roots in the soul.” She waited and it seemed that she would wait forever. Scurrying figures cast them curious glances as they strolled across the cobbles, exchanging the rich aromas of the bakehouse for the soapy steam of the washhouse.

  “I’ll not argue with you, lass,” Ben said eventually. “Leave it at that.”

  “It has to do with your back, does it not?” Unwisely, she persisted, willing to risk rebuff rather than lose through cowardice an opportunity to pry loose one more crumb of confidence.

  “Did you hear what I said?” The tone was curt, the words clipped, and Bryony bowed to the inevitable. At least his refusal to deny her statement told her that she was correct. She must once again accept his right to privacy.

  “I heard you,” she said. “We should perhaps return to the house, since your presence is expected at the planning session, and I am sure you would not wish to miss the opportunity to do what you came here for.”

  “Is the sarcasm entirely necessary?” Ben inquired. “I freely admit that spying is not the occupation of a gentleman, but I ceased to lay claims to such a status quite some years ago. Except when it suits me,” he added with a grin, hoping thus to divert the gloom that threatened to descend upon the sunny morning. The attempt, however, was not entirely successful.

  “I wish it were not you, or, at least, I wish that you were not spying on my father,” Bryony declared. “I must sit in the library and listen to the deliberations, knowing that there is a spy in the room and that I am colluding in the deception.”

  Ben sighed. “I understand that it’s very uncomfortable for you, sweeting. But it can’t be helped, I am afraid. Why are you involved in the meeting?”

  Bryony shrugged. “My father would have it so. It pleases him to include me in matters that might traditionally be the sole province of men. He has done so since I was a little girl and proved that I would not prattle and could listen to good purpose.” She smiled softly. “I am, after all, the nearest to a son and heir that he has.”

  “You love him very much.”

  “Yes,” she affirmed simply.

  They had reached the terrace, and all conversation that was not suitable for general consumption had to be dropped. A select group of men were gathered in the library, Lord Dawson and Major Ferguson among the most prominent. They greeted the arrival of Benedict Clare without surprise, and Bryony realized that he must have been laying the ground for this apparent active participation in the Tory cause with great care. Knowing her own role, she took a seat in the corner of the room and settled down to listen, to form her own opinions—opinions that would later be sought by her father—and to keep an attentive eye on the needs of the men in the room. The ostensible reason for her presence was to ensure that their glasses were kept filled, the platters of salted fish, nuts, and olives passed around, to summon a servant if necessary without causing any disruption to the vital business being conducted by her elders and betters.

  At least she was allowed to remain in the room, Bryony reflected with an inner chuckle, unlike with the Indians, who expected their womenfolk to wait upon them from a distance. She thought with a little stab of nostalgia of that first time in the clearing when Ben had banished her to the cabin because her presence would offend his guests. She had had that curious sense of déjà vu then, as her irritation had blossomed at the assumptions of male superiority that lay behind the Indian rules. It was an irritation that she had often felt at similar assumptions at home, an irritation that her mother bewailed as being so unwomanly and indecorous. Her father simply laughed and encouraged his daughter to consider herself any man’s equal—so long as she kept such considerations to herself, of course. Bryony’s lips curved in a sardonic smile as she settled back to listen to the flowery rhetoric that seemed to be preceding any serious deliberations of the formation and deployment of Major Ferguson’s Tory forces.

  Ben kept his own expression well schooled, his eyes showing none of the contempt he felt at the elaborate compliments, the extravagant statements of commitment, the passionate trumpetings of loyalty and condemnation. Sir Edward, he noticed, was much more restrained than the others, and once or twice glanced at his daughter with an almost complicit, slightly weary smile, which Bryony instantly returned. Somehow, Benedict had given no thought to Bryony’s position when he infiltrated her family. The idea that she would have such an unusually close emotional bond with her father had never occurred to him. It was not an experience with which he was familiar. His own father had been with all his children a distant parent at best, a hostile one more often than not.

  Several times in the past, Ben had wondered who had taught Miss Bryony to be so independent and resilient, who had fostered that analytic turn of mind, who had ordered such a broad education. The answer was now clear, and he recognized with a pang of remorse that by forcing her to choose sides, he had put her upon the rack of divided loyalties. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, and he was obliged to admit, looking at her creamy beauty, the memory of her body imprinted on his own, that even had he realized, he would not have done otherwise. The temptation to see her again once the opportunity arose had been insurmountable. Now, wrapped in the selfish coils of passion and love, he didn’t know what to do, except let matters take their course.

  “May I refill your glass, Mr. Clare?” Bryony spoke softly against his ear, leaning over him, too close for either comfort or necessity, to reach his wineglass.

  “My thanks,” he murmured, inhaling the fresh rose-water fragrance of her hair and skin, resisting with the greatest difficulty the urge to run his hand over the provocative curve of her hips. Lying behind this risky teasing was that imp of mischief he had noticed before. It was the same imp that had led her to hide in the tree that last morning in the clearing, that had produced the wickedly suggestive remarks she had made in front of Dawson the previous day. This playfulness seemed to spring free when matters were at their most tense—an unconscious means of deflecting the tension, perhaps, or of rendering it manageable for herself.

  Whatever the reasons for it, Benedict decided that he would enter into the spirit. It had to be a better reaction than castigating her for childish pranks. He dropped his hand below the edge of the table and pinched her thigh through the muslin gown, all the while smiling with apparent interest at Lord Dawson across the table. Bryony squeaked and her hand shook, spilling claret on the rich cherrywood table.

  Pink-cheeked and muttering apologies, she mopped up the spill before hastily removing herself from the danger zone. Benedict continued to smile placidly as if he had noticed nothing, but both Francis and Sir Edward were eyeing Bryony with a degree of puzzlement as she resumed her seat in the corner of the room.

  Ben gave her ample opportunity throughout the rest of the day to recognize that when it came to mischief he was every bit as adept as she was. He never lost the opportunity for a surreptitious pat, stroke, or pinch, and Bryony was on tenterhooks lest another involuntary gasp or yelp should escape her. “Tormentor!” she hissed when for a moment no one was within earshot. “I am probably black and blue!”

  “Nonsense,” he scoffed. “You are not made of porcelain.”

  “Next time I shall scream,” she threatened, and Ben chuckled.

  “I promise I’ll kiss it all better as soon as I get the chance.”

  Sharp desire arrowed through her at the thought, and she felt color flooding her cheeks and her legs tu
rning to jelly. “Excuse me, but I think my mother wants me.” With as much dignity as she could muster, Bryony gathered up her skirts and fled his side, utterly outsmarted and knowing it.

  Ben grinned and picked up a copy of The Lady’s Magazine from a small table. “Not the most absorbing literature, Mr. Clare,” came Francis Cullum’s quiet voice. “Although one assumes that the ladies find it so.”

  “I daresay.” Ben flicked idly through the pages. “I suppose recipes and needlework patterns and maxims on conduct have their appeal.”

  “It’s generally considered that more difficult subjects might not only intoxicate weak brains but turn them,” Francis remarked solemnly. Ben glanced sharply at him, and they both laughed at their shared thought.

  “She has not been educated to believe in her mental inferiority,” Francis continued with the unquestioning assumption that his companion would know to whom he was referring. “But I expect you’ve already realized that.”

  “It would be a little hard not to,” Ben agreed neutrally. “It takes but little conversation to recognize an informed mind. And Miss Paget does not appear to subscribe to the precept that a woman’s learning should be kept a profound secret.”

  “Indeed not.” Francis chuckled. “Such want of delicacy, I take it, does not disgust you, Mr. Clare?”

  “Not in the least.” Benedict wondered how long this fencing would continue before Mr. Cullum decided to come out into the open with whatever was exercising him. “You are to be congratulated on the prospect of acquiring a wife who will partner you in the fullest sense.”

  Cullum seemed to shiver into absolute stillness, and his eyes narrowed into thin green icicles. Then he smiled and bowed in graceful acknowledgment. “I am aware of my good fortune, sir, every waking moment.”

  “Gentlemen, dinner will be served at half past four.” Eliza bustled over to them. “The ladies are retiring to change their dress.”

  “Then, perhaps we should do the same,” replied Ben with a small bow and a warm smile, which caused Lady Paget a little flutter in the general region of her heart. He was the most charming man!

  Bryony remained unconvinced of Benedict Clare’s charm as she dressed for dinner and the ball that was to follow. There was nothing charming about a man who deliberately put one in jeopardy because he felt like taking a game to its outer limits. And there was nothing charming about a man who could bring one to weak-kneed, liquid arousal by a wickedly unscrupulous suggestion in the midst of a crowded room. She had had absolutely no defenses all afternoon, and there were no guarantees that she would be spared this evening unless she could keep out of his way. Perversely, such a prospect seemed to afford little pleasure, and she sought out Eliza as soon as she had reached the drawing room.

  “Am I to escort Mr. Clare at dinner again, Mama?”

  Eliza regarded her daughter appraisingly and then straightened the lace fichu at the neck of Bryony’s turquoise satin gown. “I think that perhaps tonight you should, dear, although I am sure it is most irksome for you, and Francis is being very patient. But tonight is the most important event of the occasion, and I would not like to appear lacking in courtesy and respect to our honored guests. It would look a little strange if you were to abandon Mr. Clare now, when you have been attentive so far.”

  “Quite so, Mama.” Bryony curtsied dutifully. “But perhaps Mr. Clare has some preference … Sally Fordyce, maybe.” Bryony was not at all sure what devil was prompting this line of conversation, unless it was the idea that she should appear a little reluctant to perform her duties as regards Benedict Clare. It would never do to give the impression that she took an inordinate amount of pleasure in his company.

  Eliza gave the suggestion frowning consideration. “Well, of course, Sally is most personable, and unattached into the bargain. But I do not think Mr. Clare is hanging out for a wife at the moment.”

  “He doesn’t have to be to enjoy being seated beside an attractive and unattached young lady,” Bryony pointed out, quite unable to resist teasing her mother. “Why don’t you ask him, Mama?”

  “That would be most indelicate, Bryony. One does not expect a gentleman to make such a choice.”

  “But they do it all the time,” her obstinate daughter persisted. “The choices are made, and since women do not make them, one can only assume that such decisions, like so many others, are the province of men.”

  “This sounds a most fascinating topic, Miss Paget. Might I inquire as to the nature of these decisions that fall to the lot of my sex?” Ben’s soft, amused lilt came from behind her, and for the barest instant she felt his hand flatten against her hip. It was so swift she could almost have imagined it, except that her skin beneath the turquoise satin seemed to retain the warm handprint.

  “My daughter is inclined to have some fanciful notions, sir,” Eliza said, distinctly flustered. “I beg you will take no notice of her. It is merely playful.”

  “I was only speculating, sir, on whether you had a preference for a dinner companion,” Bryony said sweetly, blind to her mother’s distress under the lamentably selfish urge to indulge her quick wit in a little wicked fencing with Benedict. “There are many young ladies I am certain would be overwhelmed by the honor of being your choice.”

  Eliza whimpered a little but was quite unable to halt her outrageous daughter without creating an even more embarrassing scene. Ben smiled reassuringly at her, his gaze warm and containing not a trace of sarcasm. “Your daughter flatters me, ma’am, but I must confess to feeling chagrin at the thought that I am to be denied my customary partner.” He directed a mock bow at Bryony.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Clare, there is no question of any such thing,” Eliza hastened to correct this unfortunate impression.

  “I meant no discourtesy, sir,” Bryony interjected. “Quite the opposite. It was your pleasure that was my concern and it seemed possible that you might prefer a little variety in your companionship.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed, just so, just so …” stammered Eliza, patting at her towering coiffure with nervous hands. “I beg you will excuse me. Bryony, you will look after Mr. Clare.”

  “Of course, Mama.” Bryony curtsied at her mother’s departing back and cast a look brimming with mischief at Benedict. Only to suffer something of a shock. Mr. Clare did not appear to be in the least amused.

  “I fail to see what pleasure you can achieve from embarrassing the poor woman in that manner,” he said.

  Bryony’s jaw dropped. “Are you taking me to task?”

  “There was no call to make game of your mother in front of me,” he said shortly.

  Bryony began to feel distinctly uncomfortable, but she retorted, “How very pompous you have become, Mr. Clare. You hold my family and all it stands for in such disdain that I cannot imagine why a little filial teasing should produce this display of righteous indignation.”

  Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Do not confuse opposition with disdain. I hold neither of your parents in contempt for all that I am bitterly opposed to your father’s politics. If you must tease your mother, I suggest you do so in private.” With that final piece of advice, he strolled away from a thoroughly discomfited Bryony, who, even through her annoyance, was obliged to admit the justice of the rebuke. She had not been able to resist the byplay with Ben and had thus thoughtlessly embarrassed her mother.

  “Why so mournful, Bri?” Francis sipped a glass of punch and regarded her pensively over the rim.

  “I am a prey to self-reproach,” she returned with a little laugh. “My wretched tongue got the better of me, again, and poor Mama suffered, I fear.”

  “Not an unusual occurrence,” her companion observed. “Was Mr. Clare a witness to this unseemly display?”

  Bryony flushed slightly. “Why should you think so?”

  The color of his eyes deepened. “Don’t play me for a fool, Bri. I don’t know what is between you and that gentleman, but if it concerns us, then I should like to be told. I have the right, do I not?”

  “What possib
le reason can you have for imagining that there is anything between Mr. Clare and myself?” Bryony tried to infuse the question with lighthearted indignation, but she knew she had failed.

  Francis, however, merely shrugged. “It’s as plain as day for those with eyes to see. I suppose you’ll tell me in your own good time.”

  The gong sounded for dinner, bringing a reprieve, although for how long, Bryony could not guess. She was obliged to return her attention to the still grave Benedict, who offered his arm without a word as they joined the procession into the dining room.

  “May I help you to some salmon, Mr. Clare?” she asked with soft hesitancy once they were seated and she found the fish at her elbow.

  “Thank you.” He passed his plate, and for a while she was fully occupied in serving the salmon to all those near her who desired it.

  “If I might have a little of the curlew, sir,” she ventured when her own serving duties were in abeyance. Benedict took her plate and expertly dissected one of the little birds on the silver platter before him.

  “There may still be some bones,” he said solicitously. “Take care as you eat. I should not wish to be responsible for one becoming lodged in your throat.”

  “You are already responsible, sir, for the taste of contrition,” she murmured, “which does not enhance enjoyment.” She watched his expression out of the corner of her eye as she toyed with the meat on her plate.

  Ben smiled, his eyes warming, and moved one hand beneath the table, where it became lost in the stiff folds of the damask cloth until it found Bryony’s knee and her own hand, which had followed a similar path. A firm squeeze signaled that the matter was at an end, and Bryony, for one, felt an immense sense of relief. It was not at all pleasant to be at odds with Benedict, as she had discovered long ago, and most particularly not when she had been in the wrong.

  The dining room’s long windows stood open to the driveway, and Bryony heard the pounding hooves before the horseman came into view and swung his mount around the gravel sweep to pull up sharply before the steps leading to the front door. Several others whose seats also faced the windows looked curiously across the mahogany table with its handsome burden of silver and china, and the steady flow of conversation faltered. Neither Sir Edward nor Lady Paget made a move as sounds of commotion from the hall filtered unmistakably into the room. After a minute, the butler made stately, measured progress into the dining room, treading ponderously to where Sir Edward sat at the head of the table.