Chapter 19

Benedict guided Saxon onto the drive leading to Farwell Hall. Rain was falling, coating the road, the grass, and the foliage so that they glistened. The moisture had yet to fully penetrate his jacket, but occasional drips fell off the rim of his hat. Caroline sat on the saddle in front of him, her back pressed against his chest. It was the only place that afforded her any warmth, but she had not once complained about the inclement weather.

If the ride were much longer, they'd both be fighting significant chills, yet as they approached the house, Benedict could not help but feel a tinge of regret that it was ending. He wanted to keep her beside him. His heart told him she belonged there.

"Look." She raised one hand and pointed. "There's a carriage parked outside the house."

Two matching grays were harnessed to a black landau trimmed with gold. The driver's seat was empty. The fellow had undoubtedly chosen to wait indoors.

"I don't recognize it," Benedict said, straining to identify the elegant vehicle through the rain. "It likely belongs to a business associate of my father."

"Whoever it is did not wait long to visit. Your parents are only just returned."

"It's always the same," Benedict said. "They rarely have a full day to settle in before someone comes calling."

He reined Saxon to a stop behind the glossy black carriage. Immediately, the front door opened, and someone wearing a hooded cloak over his footman livery hurried down the stairs toward them. Benedict dismounted and raised his arms to Caroline. "Come," he said. "You must get in out of the rain."

This time, she set her hands upon his shoulders without prompting. And when he lifted her down, she did not pull away. Grateful, he smiled at her. Her shy answering smile sent a rush of longing coursing through him.

"Shall I take your horse, my lord?" Wesley's question brought him back to reality with a start.

"Yes, thank you." He offered the young footman his reins. "And, Wesley, after you've taken Saxon to the stable, would you locate Giles? He should be in the milking parlor. Tell him two pints of milk must be delivered to the Simkinses' cottage before dark."

"I'll make sure he knows, my lord."

"Good lad."

Setting his hand on Caroline's elbow, Benedict guided her quickly up the steps and into the great hall. The butler met them with a bow.

"My lord. Mrs. Granger."

Benedict handed him his hat, and Caroline fumbled to untie the ribbons beneath her chin.

"Is my mother in the blue salon?" he asked. It was her favorite spot in the afternoon because of the way the sunlight brightened the room.

"She is, my lord." Stokes accepted Caroline's wet bonnet and set it beside Benedict's hat on the nearby table.

"Excellent. Thank you, Stokes." Taking Caroline's elbow again, he led her across the hall to the second door on the right. He knocked lightly and then entered the room.

It was easy to see how the blue salon came by its name. White cornice molding ran atop pale-blue walls. The heavy velvet curtains hanging at the windows were a slightly darker shade of blue and matched the two sofas situated in the center of the room. More blues appeared in various cushions, paintings, vases, and rugs around the room. Indeed, the only truly contrasting colors in the parlor were found in the gowns of the room's current occupants. His mother was as elegant as always in pale yellow. On the opposite sofa sat Mrs. Mary Flockton. The opinionated wife of a foxhunt-obsessed neighboring baron was dressed in lavender. Her two vapid daughters, who were seated on either side of her, were in white and cream respectively.

"Blast it all." Benedict's muttered exclamation was surely loud enough for Caroline to have heard it, even if the other women in the room had not.

"It seems we have found the owner of the mysterious carriage," Caroline whispered.

"I'm afraid so." Kicking himself for being in such a hurry that he'd not asked Stokes about their visitors, he summoned a polite smile and raised his voice to a normal level. "I beg your pardon, Mother. I did not realize you had guests."

"Benedict." His mother welcomed him rather too warmly. "And, Caroline. How lovely to see you. Do come in. You must join us for tea." She gestured at the other sofa. "You remember Mrs. Mary Flockton and her daughters, Miss Marjorie Flockton and Miss Ruth Flockton. Ladies, this is Reverend Moore's daughter, Mrs. Caroline Granger. She is recently returned to Leyfield from Portsmouth."

The ladies had come to their feet. Benedict bowed, vaguely aware that Caroline had dropped into a curtsy beside him. "It's very nice to see you again," he lied.

"It has been far too long, my lord." Mrs. Flockton's smile set his teeth on edge. "You have not attended any of the recent dinners or dances in the area, even though your mother tells me you have been in residence at Farwell Hall for months."

It was an all-too-familiar accusation, and Benedict was not willing to take the bait. Indeed, he was not even willing to continue the pointless small talk. "I'm afraid Caroline and I cannot stay, Mother. We must speak to Cook about a rather urgent matter. We shall come back when you are free."

"You wish to speak to Cook?" His mother appeared suitably confused.

"Yes." He bowed and offered Caroline his arm.

She set her hand upon it, obviously as ready as he was to leave.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Flockton was disinclined to let them go. "Do you intend to stay long in Leyfield, Mrs. Granger?" she asked.

It was the first time the lady had addressed Caroline, so Caroline turned to face her. "I have no fixed plans at present, ma'am."

Mrs. Flockton's response was an audible gasp. "Oh, you poor dear! Your face has been completely ravaged."

Benedict had completely forgotten that Caroline was without her bonnet. Perhaps since her focus was on their quest to help the Simkinses, it had slipped her mind too. But with this jarring reminder, her fingers dug into the damp fabric of his jacket sleeve, and like puppets responding to the marionette master's tug, the Misses Flockton's heads swiveled to openly stare.

"How terribly difficult it must be for you to venture out in public with your appearance so badly altered," Mrs. Flockton continued. "I am very sorry for you."

Indignation burned through Benedict's veins. There was no true sorrow in the condescending woman's heart. No one with an ounce of tender feeling would say such things to a young lady she barely knew.

"I confess," Caroline said, "it was hard at first. But I recently met some rather wonderful people who have taught me that whether my skin is smooth or scarred is not truly important. After all, few of us have the luxury of choosing our outward appearance." She raised her chin a fraction, and when she spoke again, there was an extra measure of strength to her voice. "I daresay you were not born with gray hair, Mrs. Flockton. A friend who has not seen you since your youth, however, may be shocked at the change in you.

"If she is wise enough to realize that the color of your hair does not define the person you are within, she will likely say nothing about it. If she takes the time to recognize that your gray hair signifies years of experiences, she will perhaps ask what you have learned since the change occurred. If, however, she is small-minded enough see your gray hair as something lesser than brown or blonde, she may choose to draw attention to it as a way of elevating herself or simply because she has nothing of more value to say."

It was all Benedict could do not to cheer. He refrained. Not because he considered it the right thing to do but because one look at his mother's face told him that he needed to hold his praise for a few moments longer.

"Well!" Mrs. Flockton said in tight-lipped fury. "I must say, I am surprised that you consider it your place to moralize so freely, Mrs. Granger."

"I am the daughter of a vicar, ma'am. I have far too much respect for his work to consider myself worthy of teaching others anything so personal in nature. Basic kindness and decency, however, is something that I hold in high esteem. If, by sharing my thoughts with you, I have veered from that path, I apologize." She turned to Benedict's mother. "Please forgive me for interrupting your tea, my lady. It will not happen again." And then she lifted her hand from Benedict's arm and walked out of the room.

"Well, I never!" Mrs. Flockton's face had turned an ugly puce.

"Never?" Balling his fists, Benedict fought against his mounting anger. "An excellent word choice, ma'am. I daresay you have never exhibited the bravery of Mrs. Granger. Nor the poise, grace, or quiet strength it takes to move forward after a life-threatening battle with an insidious disease." He flexed his fingers. He had to make this short, or there was no accounting for what he would say. "Might I suggest that before you point out another's flaws in so public and unkind a manner again, you take a moment to consider your own. They may not be so visible as a scarred face, but I assure you they are there."

Mrs. Flockton's complexion turned from maroon to alabaster. She emitted a choked gasp. Beside her, her daughters stared at him with eyes wide and mouths agape. He'd said enough.

Turning his back on the odious woman, he bowed to his mother. "Excuse me, Mother. I must attend to our other guest."

"Thank you, Benedict." He had been abominably rude to Mrs. Flockton, but unless he was very much mistaken, he saw pride shining in his mother's eyes. "Please tell Caroline that I shall join you both shortly."

He exited the room without looking back.

When there was no sign of Caroline in the entrance hall, Benedict knew a moment of panic. A quick glance at the nearest window confirmed that the rain had yet to abate. Surely she had not left the house.

Stokes was standing at the front door, and Benedict made directly for him. "Have you seen Mrs. Granger, Stokes?"

"Yes, my lord. She was just here."

"Did you call for a carriage?" Benedict asked.

"I offered to, my lord, but she refused it."

Benedict took a step toward the door. If Caroline had left on foot, he was going after her. Inclement weather aside, after how hard she'd worked in the Simkinses' kitchen, she could not possibly have sufficient strength remaining for another long walk. "I need my hat and cloak, Stokes. Right away."

"Yes, my lord." The butler reached for Benedict's hat. It was on the table, exactly where he'd set it when Benedict had returned to the house. Right beside Caroline's.

"Wait!" Benedict pointed to Caroline's bonnet. "Did Mrs. Granger leave without her hat?"

"No, my lord. She chose to stay indoors a little longer with the hope that the weather would improve."

Benedict spun around, his gaze crossing the large entrance hall again. "Then where the deuce is she?"

"Last I saw her, my lord, she was taking the servants' stairs toward the kitchen."

* * *

Caroline had made it only halfway down the servants' stairs before the trembling set in. Heaven help her. What had she done? Lady Farwell had always shown her every consideration, and Caroline had repaid her kindness by insulting her guest and walking out of her parlor without so much as a thank-you or a curtsy. And she'd left Benedict to clean up the mess. Pressing a shaky hand to her mouth to stifle a sob, she stumbled down the remaining steps.

The door at the bottom opened into a narrow passage. The smell of roasting meat filled the air, coming from the kitchen up ahead, and a hum of voices and clatter of pans suggested that the servants were busily preparing the evening meal. Cook would be there, too, and Caroline needed to speak with her. But not until she had her emotions in check.

Immediately to her right, a small door led to the maids' closet beneath the stairs. In the middle of the day, the tiny room was rarely accessed, and during the many games of hide-and-seek that Caroline had played at Farwell Hall, it had been her favorite—and most successful—hiding place.

She opened the door. The space within seemed smaller now than it had when she was young. Mops and brooms leaned against the wall in one corner, a stack of pails beside them. A shelf of dusters and bars of soap hung above a collection of coal scuttles. Lifting her skirts to avoid the dusty scuttles, she stepped inside and softly closed the door.

Now darkness encompassed her. She took a few deep breaths, attempting to stem her tears. Her emotions were so muddled she hardly knew why she was crying. Today, for the first time, she'd allowed herself to feel something when she was with Benedict. To feel something for Benedict. Like a flower that had been starved of sunshine and had finally been offered light, she had turned to him and had experienced warmth and the promise of a new bloom. But then Mrs. Flockton had spewed her poison.

A month ago, Caroline would have crumbled at such unkind words. Today, she had uncovered a new bravery. She'd stood up to Mrs. Flockton. But at what cost? After so blatantly offending Lady Farwell's guest, she would likely never again be welcome at Farwell Hall. Her heart ached, and another tear trickled down her cheek.

Above her head, the sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs echoed through the small cupboard. If Stokes was returning to the kitchen, the occupants of the blue salon must have decided to ignore her outburst and take their tea. Had Benedict stayed in an effort to smooth things over?

The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs. The door into the passage opened. She stood perfectly still and watched the thin sliver of light beneath the cupboard door. Dark shoes, smudges against a white strip, came and went as the footsteps moved away from the staircase toward the kitchen. A man's voice, muffled by the cupboard door and passage beyond, was followed by a female voice. But before Caroline could contemplate relaxing her tense position, the footsteps were coming back. They stopped, the shoes blocking a portion of the strip of light beneath the door two heartbeats before the handle turned and the door swung open.

Caroline blinked, her heart sinking as the tall, dark-haired gentleman before her came into focus. Not Stokes but Benedict.

How did she even begin to explain her presence in the cleaning cupboard? "I didn't..." She shook her head. There was nothing she could say that would make this any better.

"Confound it all, Caroline." He ran his fingers through his hair. "You are the—" He swallowed, and Caroline felt another tear fall. She had let him down.

"Forgive me." Her voice broke.

With a groan, he stepped into the cupboard. She stumbled back a half step, hitting one of the coal scuttles with her heel. It clanged. She winced at the pain and the sound. But there was nowhere to go. He filled the space, and then his arms were around her, drawing her nearer.

"Before we talk of forgiveness, may I finish what I started to say?" he asked.

Her pulse quickened. What was he doing? If they were to be found like this, the embarrassment of her actions in the blue salon would fade to nothing in comparison.

"If you must," she said.

"I must." His hands moved up her arms, along her shoulders, and followed the curvature of her neck until they were cupped around her damp face. "Caroline, you are the bravest, kindest, most beautiful woman, and—"

"How can you say such a thing when I—"

Benedict's thumb slid over her mouth. "You said I could finish what I was going to say."

She nodded mutely, but he did not fully remove his thumb. Instead, he ran it gently across her lips, sending a quiver racing down her spine.

"And yet," he continued, "you are hiding in the cleaning cupboard under the stairs, asking for forgiveness." He sighed. "I may need to add humble to the aforementioned list."

"Benedict." Her voice broke. "Please do not tease me. My heart cannot take it. I was dreadfully rude to your mother and her guest. She will never wish to speak to me again."

"First," he said, "you were not dreadfully rude. That label belongs—in its entirety—to the self-centered Mrs. Mary Flockton. Second, if you believe my mother would condemn you for the masterful way you set Mrs. Flockton in her place, I fear you'd better brace yourself for disappointment. I fully expect you to receive Mother's deepest thanks for what you did. Mrs. Flockton and her daughters arrived uninvited one day after my parents' return to Farwell Hall. The visit was inconsiderate, at best, and her cruel treatment of you pushed it well beyond that. Third, if by some unimaginable reason, my mother chooses to never speak to you again, she will, by default, never speak to her oldest son again either."

"You cannot say such a thing."

"I most certainly can." He was so close that he could surely feel the pounding of her heart. She met his eyes, and even the dim lighting could not hide the sincerity shining there. "If I were forced to choose between the two of you, I would choose you, Caroline."

A lump formed in her throat. Fred had chosen his life at sea over her. Benedict's words were a salve to wounds she'd long since given up any hope of healing. But this could not be. She was not the carefree young lady she'd once been.

"Please, Benedict," she whispered. "Do not torture me further. You are Lord Benning. One day, you shall be an earl. I am the daughter of a country vicar—a scarred, virtually penniless widow with a child."

"How could I possibly dwell on the fading scars on your skin when your blue eyes and smile are so captivating?" His thumb had moved from her lips to wipe the moisture off her cheeks. "If you were anyone but the daughter of our local vicar, who enjoys being on the farm and racing boats on the river as much now as she did as a child, I would not have spent the most enjoyable days I've had in years these past weeks. If you were not recently widowed and the caring mother of one of the dearest children I know, you may never have developed the strength and selflessness you can now claim. Indeed, without those very aspects of your life, I likely would not have fallen so fully in love with you."

Caroline's heart stuttered. "You... you have fallen in love with me?"

"Irretrievably." He studied her in the half light, the sincerity in his dark eyes now coupled with gentleness. "I would rather stand in the cramped cleaning closet with you than be elsewhere with anyone else."

Caroline's heart swelled, and a small smile tugged at her lips. "It is the very best hiding place in the whole house."

A matching smile appeared on Benedict's face. "It is, indeed." He shifted slightly, one hand leaving her face long enough to reach for the door handle behind him. In one swift movement, he pulled the door closed. Instantly, darkness engulfed them.

"Benedict, what are you doing?" she gasped.

He did not immediately reply. Instead, his hand found the back of her head. Carefully, he tilted her head upward, and she felt his position change, sensed his lips hovering above hers. "Kissing you," he whispered. "Without any risk of an audience." And then, before she could say another word, his lips met hers.

He kissed her softly, the tenderness of his touch causing her to ache for more. Unbidden, her arms lifted. They snaked around his neck, her fingers finding his hair. She buried them in the thick, silky strands, and with a faint moan, he slid one hand onto the small of her back and pressed her against his chest. She went willingly. His kiss deepened, and all sense of time and space departed.

It was the tap of light footsteps on the stairs above her head that finally penetrated Caroline's conscious mind. The sound echoed through the tiny cleaning closet. The closet! With a start, Caroline pulled back. If they were to be discovered in this wholly compromising situation... She swallowed against a dry throat, unable to finish the thought.

"Benedict!" she whispered. "Someone is coming."

"So I hear." He held her close, his mouth against her ear. "Stand completely still, my love."

Caroline pressed her cheek to his chest, the steady thuds of his heartbeat a welcome distraction from the rapid tapping of slippered feet. The door at the bottom of the staircase opened and closed. The footsteps passed the closet door and continued on toward the kitchen.

"As loath as I am to leave this place, now might be the time," he whispered.

She nodded. He must have felt the movement because he released his hold upon her, and before she had time to register the loss, he'd opened the closet door a crack. Female voices reached them from the kitchen.

"The coast is clear," he murmured. "Now is our chance." Pulling the door open wide, he stepped into the passage. Caroline followed. As soon as she was out, he closed the door behind her and offered her a boyish smile. "All those years ago, why didn't we ever play hide-and-seek as a team?"

Her cheeks flooded with warmth. "It would have been a very bad idea." Almost as bad as it had been to share the cupboard today. She smoothed her unsteady hands over her gown's crushed fabric. "You would never have let me climb onto the milking parlor roof."

Benedict chuckled softly. "Absolutely right. And Giles would have thanked me for it."

"How very strange." The female voice cut off any retort Caroline may have made. "They gave me the distinct impression that they wished to speak with you."

Caroline stood completely still. "It's your mother," she whispered. "Hers were the footsteps we heard coming down the stairs. You told her we wished to speak with her and Cook?"

"I did." He met her eyes. "Can you manage it now?"

Swallowing her trepidation, Caroline nodded. "We must." They'd come to the house to obtain help for the Simkinses. No matter her current emotional turmoil, she could not allow her personal feelings to interfere with procuring the aid they needed.