A glass of port, Benjamin decided grimly, was what would suit him best just now.
Alone in the Bellords’ bookroom, Benjamin tipped the port he’d found into a glass, but when he went to lift it, instead he just stared down at the liquid and frowned. How was he supposed to act enamored of Miss Oakes if she was going to ignore him and make eyes at Cullman?
He felt his annoyance rising again, and told himself to concentrate on something else, anything other than Cyril Cullman and his contemptible ways. So what was the first thing to come to mind? Miss Oakes’s demeanor while he had kissed her, there in the horse stall at Tattersall’s.
Even now, hours later, the memory struck him nearly as hard as a blow. The startling truth was: Miss Oakes was eminently kissable. She slid into a man’s arms as smoothly as a counterpane settled atop a mattress.
When he had kissed her, her mouth had yielded to pressure, but not in a weak or frail way, but with an aspect of welcoming. Her lips had met his while slightly parted, an invitation almost as intoxicating as the body that had conformed and accommodated every tension he brought to bear against it. Her hips had tilted up toward his own, her breasts had been pressed without restraint to his chest, and when his arms had slid around her waist, she had drawn nearer yet, closing a paper-thin distance he hadn’t known had remained between them until that moment.
Yet there had ben something guileless in that kiss, despite all signs to the contrary. Her body may have longed to be held, and her lips had proved they had surely been tried before, but still Benjamin would swear Miss Oakes was an innocent, not quite sure of the fire with which she played. She promised so much with the way she allowed herself to be held, how she allowed him to test her mouth with his tongue. Yet when she had pushed away there had been only anger in her eyes, not fear. Anger at him for presuming, but not actually for what he had done, how he had touched her.
Miss Oakes had been designed for making, sharing, giving love—yet despite her own nature, remained an innocent. If asked, Benjamin would have to answer that he did not believe Miss Oakes had ever been in love, no matter how she blushed when Cullman threw his flattery her way. Curious! But Benjamin began to understand why Sir Albert had made him promise not to woo the woman—she was a plum ripe for the picking, and it would be far too easy for an unscrupulous man to bruise her, perhaps beyond redemption.
Benjamin took up the glass of port and sipped as he considered: Cullman was unscrupulous.
Why, not long after he’d handed the very same lady away in a card game, had Cullman come to call on Miss Oakes this morning? Did Cullman now regret having abandoned the woman? Was he as ruthless as Benjamin thought him to be? Could he be playing at some deep game, making one woman jealous of another?
Benjamin finished the port in his glass in one gulp.
“Lord Benjamin,” a voice interrupted his reverie, the last voice he wished to hear right now.
It was Cullman, standing just inside the bookroom door. A cool smile shaped his lips. “You have held up your end of the bargain. I am come to say I am contented.”
“I am not sure I understand you,” Benjamin said, putting down the glass and turning to face him.
Something in Cullman’s smile spoke of duplicity, of cunning, of amusement at another’s expense. The man did not even bother to hide his smugness.
In that moment Benjamin was certain he was right to despise the man. “Do you mean you approve my being so public in the matter of the betrothal with Miss Oakes?” Benjamin said, shoulders stiff with caution.
“I mean just that. Too, I am curious how you got her to agree, and so promptly. What threat did you use?”
Benjamin stared across the room at the man, marveling others could not see that beneath whatever appeal Cullman exhibited, the man was a snake.
“No threats. I just told her as much of the truth as I could,” Benjamin said with cold disdain.
“The truth? You told her you are all but penniless, with no expectations?” Cullman said, his amusement growing. “You have a unique courtship style, I will give you that.”
Cullman glanced over his shoulder, apparently satisfying himself that no one was at hand to hear. “Are you going to see this betrothal through? Do you crave her land? She did tell you about that worthless swamp she thinks she can manage a stud on, did she not?”
Benjamin looked sharply into the other man’s face. “Why do you say it is worthless?”
“Ah, so you are interested!” Cullman appeared pleased with his conclusion. “I understand. That land is half of why I asked for her hand in the first place. Then I went to see it for myself— I tell you, it is all but worthless! The girl has the most pathetic dowry known to man.”
Cullman must have seen something in Benjamin’s face that urged him to go on. “Her papa saves all his pennies for his gaming, not for his sons’ idle hours, limiting their allowances. Nor does he offer any cash money as part of his daughter’s dowry. She’s only to receive that water-logged patch she thinks will someday be tillable, that and a token strip belonging to her papa, atop the ledge that abuts her swamp. A small, narrow strip, mind you. Sir Albert’s not so foolish as to grant anything of size for the girl to mismanage. She could have a hundred acres of the estate, with him scarcely missing the revenue they’d generate, but he’s given her only three.” The man spoke with a cruel glitter in his gaze, evidently thinking himself clever to have escaped tying himself to Miss Oakes and her forlorn dowry.
Benjamin knew what it was to own no land; a woman who could bring land with her was a woman who would gamer a second glance from him. Land was equal to money and power. If land was not got through the wife, how then was a second son to gain any? Still, Benjamin liked to think, when he went to consider a potential wife’s earthly worth, he would not prove so thoroughly bankrupt of human feeling as Cullman clearly was.
“She claims the swampy part might be drained, but even the piece of land from Sir Albert that is usable is raw land. It is untilled, unbroken. Once worked, it will still be at least several years before Papa’s portion could yield any income, let alone the swamp below it.”
“But it always takes a few years for newly broken land to be of full worth,” Benjamin pointed out, perplexed by Cullman’s sneer. “Anyone who would farm knows success is measured in years, not months. And wet land can be drained and made usable, sometimes.”
“Are you a farmer then?” Cullman shuddered, as if something foul had crawled across one of his highly polished boots. “Well, / am not! I haven’t time to sit about waiting for what may or may not grow, dependent on the contrary weather and if a bit of bog can be drained.”
The dark-haired man hesitated, but then his scowl dispersed, replaced by a dawning comprehension. “Come to think on it, Lord Benjamin, I can see where a second son might crave any land he could get his hands on. Ah, yes! I see now that Miss Oakes might not be so poor a match for you after all! What / personally must deplore might not look so poor a match for you after all! What / personally must deplore might not look so poor an investment to such as you. I, on the other hand, crave the birthright of the firstborn. I find I can marry better, and richer, than Miss Oakes, and I shall.”
“You are blunt, sir.” Benjamin could not quite keep the sneer from his voice.
“When I wish to be.” Cullman laughed, not kindly. “And glib with honeyed words when they would better suit.”
“You have a gift,” Benjamin said, no longer even trying to hide his contempt.
“I do,” Cullman agreed with a flash of teeth.
“Why did you tell me this, about Miss Oakes’s dowry?” Benjamin demanded as he crossed to stand before Cullman.
Cullman just stared at him, one eyebrow lifted, perhaps in mirth.
“Do you w ant her back?” Benjamin asked, wanting to doubt his own question.
The man offered an elegant shrug, nonchalant, but there was humor in his eyes, and something darker than amusement.
“You want her back,” Benjamin said, si
ckened with understanding, “but not as your wife. You want to dally with her!”
“So would you, if you had ever kissed her,” Cullman said. “She was made for dalliance.”
Benjamin took a step back, as if the man had struck him. He knew exactly what Cullman meant, knew because he had held Miss Oakes close, their bodies fitting as one, had kissed her luscious mouth, a mouth made for kissing.
“You think to scare me off with tales of how poor her dowry is,” Benjamin accused. “You do not want this betrothal to become real, because then Miss Oakes would feel compelled to resist your attempts at seduction.”
“Yes, and yes.” Cullman did not even bother to look abashed. Indeed, he smiled at Benjamin as he put a hand to his own chest, as though to swear out a vow. “Although, to my credit, the bit about her dowry is all real. God’s truth, Whit- bury! I have never seen a more miserly portion set aside for the daughter of a man who clearly has funds at his disposal. I must have a liking for you to give you that information, and for free. I had to spend hour upon hour talking to every sapskull in Bexley to find out as much myself, Lord Benjamin. Think of it as a bridal gift, from me.” He grinned. “Or, rather, a nonbridal gift, because I know you could not want the girl now, knowing how useless her land is.”
“She will not have you,” Benjamin said, but even to his own ears doubt was evident in the words. He did not know Miss Oakes, except superficially. He could not predict what she might do—and she had already demonstrated a willingness to linger in Cullman’s company despite the fact she ought to have been in Benjamin’s. Her preference was clear, a preference Cullman would cultivate.. ..
Cullman shrugged again. “We will see if Miss Oakes will want me.' Enough, do you think, to share my bed if not my name? I happen to think so.” He cocked his head to one side, his smile erased. “But, then again, the girl is not really your concern, is she? She is not really engaged to you. She can do as she likes, particularly after a month.”
Benjamin took another step away, as if he feared catching a disease from the man.
Cullman reacted to a sound behind him, stepping back into the hallway outside the bookroom. He glanced back in at Benjamin. “Alas, our conversation must be at an end for the day. Miss Oakes and Miss Mansell have come to find me.” He deftly turned to greet the ladies. “Miss Mansell, Miss Oakes, your beauty assaults all my senses anew.”
Benjamin took a deep breath, struggling to stifle fury under a veneer of composure. He followed Cullman into the hall, and could feel the rigid set of his own shoulders.
“Miss Oakes, we should be going,” he said to her as soon as she met his gaze, obviously surprising her with the pronouncement. Perhaps she began to speak, but then she stopped herself. To his surprise, she did not argue.
He waited while she collected Miss Irving, and while the ladies made their adieux to Miss Mansell and Cullman, and then to the Bellords. After taking leave of their hosts himself, Benjamin promptly escorted Miss Oakes out the front door, a firm hand under her elbow.
After handing the chaperone and Miss Oakes up, Benjamin walked around the phaeton to its other side, contemplating in agitation the idea of telling Miss Oakes exactly what Cullman had said, what the man’s intentions were . . . but how could he? Perhaps once the chaperone had been dismissed for the night? But, even if they had a moment or two alone, what could Benjamin say? “I believe Cullman means to seduce you, and I am afraid you are likely to comply with his wishes?”
And in a way Cullman was right: It was no real concern of Benjamin’s what became of Miss Oakes. It was her father’s duty to protect her—and her own duty not to allow herself to be seduced. Cullman had an unfair advantage, in that Miss Oakes did not know he had coldly gambled her away, did not know that any affection she felt toward him was not reciprocated and never really had been—but her virtue was still her own to protect.
Miss Oakes’s future was not Benjamin’s problem. It was not his concern that she might fall into a dalliance with the very man who had abandoned her. Miss Oakes’s well-being, beyond the thirty days, was not a dilemma that Benjamin must solve....
But, by God, Benjamin vowed with sudden ferocity, for the time Miss Oakes was publicly known as his intended, he would protect her. He’d do all in his power to see that churl, Cullman, never had the chance to be alone with her, let alone seduce her. For thirty days, Benjamin would protect the foolish creature, even from her own desires.
“Can you tell me, Lord Benjamin, why we needed to leave the ball so suddenly?” Miss Oakes asked him after a long, strained silence in which the only sound had been the clopping of his horses’ hooves on the cobbles. “I did not get to dance even once.” Disapproval filled the already crowded phaeton.
“I have a headache,” he said. He’d sounded terse.
“Oh,” Miss Oakes said, only then glancing up into his face. He must look the part, for her tight-lipped displeasure lessened. “I am sorry,” she said. “It was a bit of a crush. No wonder you left the ballroom, to get some air.” She said the last with enough inflection to make it a question, and he nodded, allowing her to believe that was why he’d left her side.
That would change; there would be no more leaving her on her own, particularly not if Cullman were in attendance, not from now on. Benjamin would serve as a guardian to her, for these four weeks that he was pledged to her.
That decision made, Benjamin felt a sense of purpose displace the outrage with which Cullman had left him. Miss Oakes looked up at him with gentle concern, and he felt his shoulders begin to relax.
With an effort, Benjamin put aside any lingering testiness and did his best to engage her in conversation.
By the time they turned onto her street, he was faintly surprised to realize that he had not been bored, nor had to struggle for something to say. Miss Oakes was many things, but a tiresome companion was not one of them.
As soon as the phaeton rolled to a stop, Miss Oakes was already turned to face him. “Thank you, Lord Benjamin. I will see you tomorrow,” she said hastily, and just as quickly turned away from him. Without awaiting his assistance, she leaped down from the phaeton, a drop of some three feet. The effort clearly did not vex her at all, for she strode away without so much as a backward glance. Miss Irving of the other hand, gave an exasperated sigh and a shake of her head before allowing Benjamin to hand her down.
Small wonder all London called Miss Oakes a hoyden— leaping unaided from a high carriage! What if her dress had caught on something?
Benjamin opened his mouth to call after her and tell her next time she was to wait for him to come around and assist her descent, but then he pressed his lips together and smothered the comment. His only role, for one month in Miss Oakes’s life, was in keeping her safe from one specific danger: Cullman. All other choices were hers to make. He’d be wise to keep that ever in mind.
* * *
Katherine went straight up to her room, waiting until she saw Lord Benjamin’s carriage already halfway down the street before she opened her window. She leaned out, inviting the touch of the cooling night breeze.
Nature’s caress did as she’d hoped it would, giving her a kind of peacefulness in which to take one last look at all that had happened since early this morning.
Aside from all the madness of the false betrothal, there had been something else, after leaving the Bellord ball. There had been a shift of Lord Benjamin’s mood—or had he in truth just had a headache? He had seemed . .. discontented? Perhaps . . . determined? But determined to do what?
She could only guess he had not approved of how she’d leaped down from his phaeton unaided. He probably thought she did so all the time, even though skirts made it a poor choice. What if her hem had caught on something? She could end up with her chin on the ground and her backside in the air! But, from dawn to dusk, she’d been in this man’s company three times today. She’d suddenly wanted free of any attention from him. even something as expected and casual as his hand on hers as he helped her down from a carriage.<
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She sighed into the night as she considered that if he had not before, he must now be thinking her very gauche. She ought to have waited, tolerated, the few more seconds it would have taken to be helped from the phaeton—she’d only proven she was as mindless of decorum as all London had already claimed her to be. Truth be told, she could hardly argue the point.
She purposefully and with deliberate effort turned her thoughts from Lord Benjamin—only to recall yet another strange moment, although this one had been with Cyril: He had given her a wink as she’d bid him adieu tonight.
At first she had felt her lips part in utter surprise at receiving something so common as a wink from the most polished man she knew.
Since, she’d half wondered if she’d imagined it, for wondering was easier than deciding how to interpret its meaning. Flirtation? Connection? Thoughts of the future?
In the end, she had decided the wink was pure Cyril, another sign of his usual lighthearted self—a self that was capable of being just a bit unruly.
Like me, a bit unruly, Katherine thought, deciding she was glad she’d been given that wink after all. It reminded her that Cyril waited for her when all this nonsense was behind them.
Despite best intentions, Katherine’s thoughts wandered back to Lord Benjamin. She could not argue that she and he had accomplished something of what they’d set out to do this evening: letting London know about their supposed intent to wed. On the drive home, Lord Benjamin had made it clear he intended to do more to be sure that impression was firmly established.
“I thought of something public to attend tomorrow, during the day,” he had offered.
“What is that?” Katherine had asked.
“To see Fallen Angel race at Epsom Downs. Would you like that?”
She had been careful to keep her gaze fixed open, for she feared if she blinked, tears would form and fall down her cheeks. He was offering to take her to see her horse again? The one she’d longed to keep? The one that had slipped away before Katherine had possessed any reason to think she might soon achieve her dream of training racers?
The Bartered Bridegroom Page 13