Chapter 10

Benedict walked home, relying on the chill of the foggy London morning to quell his lingering ardor from that ill-advised encounter in Miss Rutley's front parlor.

This was effective, if unpleasant, given that the fog gave way to a freezing drizzle when Benedict still had some fifteen minutes of walking to do.

Little did he know, however, was that his soggy walk was far more enjoyable than what awaited him at home.

"Scandal!" shrieked his mother the instant he stepped through the front door. She flew at him, her face twisted into a mask of outrage, a fistful of papers clutched in her hand. For a moment, Benedict thought she'd discovered the stolen letters until he registered that she held that day's copy of several of the gossip rags.

"Scandal!" she cried again, waving the papers so furiously and so close to his face that Benedict had to push her arm aside, lest he lose an eye. "What do I find in the papers this morning, but my son embroiled in a scandal for debauching some wretched wallflower in a hallway?" She shook the papers again. "This is ridiculous, Benedict! Outlandish! Preposterous!"

She punctuated each synonym with another furious shake of newsprint.

Benedict was cold. He was wet. He was experiencing the unpleasant physical effects of unfulfilled lust, which was not a desirable experience at the best of times but even more so when one was conversing with one's screaming mother. He felt that his mother's characterization of Emily was quite unfair, and to top it all off, he was sick and bloody tired of being shrieked at in his own home.

So, he felt that he could be forgiven for snatching the papers from his mother's hand and throwing them to the floor.

"Stop that at once," he ordered coldly as his mother gaped at him in affront. "Just stop. Stop the screaming and the hysteria. Stop."

Most of the time, this was when his mother switched to her martyr routine. She would wail and cry about how cruelly Benedict mistreated her. Today, though, she reared up like a snake about to strike. The different tactic might have been interesting if Benedict didn't know it was destined to be just as tiresome as her tears.

"You shall not tell me to stop, Benedict Hoskins," she spat. "You are a hypocrite, always scolding me about discretion then turning around and tupping a spinster in the middle of a Society event. You should be ashamed of yourself. Ashamed!"

Benedict tugged off his sodden waistcoat, never mind the decorum of getting partially undressed in one's front hallway—it was bloody past time that people started recognizing that this was his house, and he could do as he pleased. He was not, however, he noted absently, ashamed of what he'd done with Emily. It hadn't been smart, he knew that. It had certainly created a mess.

But he wasn't ashamed.

"Mother," he snapped, "cease with your appalling language and infernal noise. I was not, as you so crassly put it, tupping anyone. Miss Rutley—who is not a spinster, I might add—and I were found embracing." His mother opened her mouth, probably do to more goddamned screaming, so Benedict cut her off. "And even if I owed you an explanation about any of this—which I do not—I would assure you that the situation has been handled."

His mother still wore an injured look, but at least when she spoke again, her volume was less extreme. It was a wonder, Benedict thought, that he hadn't been stricken deaf years ago.

"I don't see that there's any need for you to speak to me in such a tone, Benedict," the Dowager Countess sniffed, as if she hadn't been speaking to him in a far more aggressive tone. "But I suppose I should be grateful that you have handled things before they got out of proportion."

"Splendid," he said curtly, brushing past her. He needed a hot bath—or possibly a cold one. He suspected Emily would creep back into his thoughts once he was alone again, and that would not do.

Priscilla Hoskins had never been one to give up her audience without a fight, however. She followed him.

"It isn't that I object to you having a little fun, Benedict," she wheedled. "I am not so uptight as all that—you know that."

Unfortunately, he did know that, far more than he wished. He kept walking.

"But for goodness' sake, keep it to widows and actresses, and do endeavor to be behind a locked door when you cannot keep your trousers on." Benedict resented every minute of this conversation. "There are rules about these things, and you cannot go about ruining and casting aside young ladies, even if they are positively ancient and unpopular." She sniffed dramatically then tugged on his arm when he didn't respond. "Benedict, are you even listening to me?"

He was so close to his bedchamber door. A little further and he would be free, but she was clinging to him like a limpet.

"Mother," he said shortly, only half turning in her direction and shaking free of her grasp. "I told you. I have taken care of it. There is nothing further to say on the topic. It will not be an issue."

He wasn't sure what gave him away, but a dawning awareness bloomed across his mother's face.

"Oh, dear God," she muttered, clasping her hands against her chest. "You're going to marry her."

Benedict rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Mother," he said. The words came out impatiently which he felt was still better than she deserved. "I am going to marry her. That is what a proper gentleman does when he compromises a young lady's reputation."

"Proper," she scoffed. "Who cares about proper?" This, Benedict supposed, was at least consistent with her character, if not her earlier objection to his being named in a scandal. "I suppose that father of yours put this nonsense in your head."

Benedict's blood turned to ice. "Do not," he said in a deadly tone, "discuss my father." He would not hear anything negative about the one parent who had loved him—and certainly not from the lips of a parent who only sought to use him.

Priscilla barely noted his admonishment, however, as she was already onto a new subject.

"No, Benedict, this won't do at all. I don't know the chit, obviously; I don't associate with the unpleasantness of washed-up wallflowers, but clearly, she is an unacceptable choice. Do not proceed any further. Call off whatever farce of a betrothal you have concocted. There shall be scandal, of course, but we shall weather it, and then you shan't end up shackled for life to some unwanted, discarded old maid."

This relentless barrage of insults against Emily killed the remaining dregs of Benedict's patience. Not only did Emily not deserve such comments for her own sake, but he did not deserve to hear such disrespect regarding the woman he had chosen to be his wife, no matter the circumstances that had gotten them there.

"Enough!" he roared. He so rarely raised his voice with his mother—her penchant for screaming had left him disdainful of shouting, and honorable men, his father had always taught him, did not shout at women. Benedict felt, however, that his father would understand that sometimes exceptions needed to be made.

And, God help him, it worked because his mother stopped speaking, turning instead to stare at him in openmouthed shock.

Benedict did not shout when he spoke again, but the words were no less forceful.

"I will not," he said, anger thrumming through him, "hear any such comments about Miss Rutley from this moment forward, Mother. I am marrying her. It is decided. I shall obtain a special license, and in a week's time, she will be my wife—and mistress of this house. If you wish to continue living in this house, I suggest you find a way to show her the respect she deserves."

And then, for the second time that day, Benedict turned on his heel and departed—only this time, he was left with the satisfaction that he had, for once, gotten the last word.

"Oh my goodness, Emmy, why on earth are you wearing that monstrous bonnet?"

Emily met Amanda's horrified expression through the mirror of her dressing table.

"It's not that bad," she said.

This was, if you took an extremely, technical look at things, not a lie.

Because the bonnet wasn't that bad. It was worse.

But Emily didn't care about what the bonnet looked like—or, at least, she didn't care much. She wasn't entirely without her vanity.

But looking attractive was not her primary goal that morning. It was, in fact, potentially antithetical to her main goal which was, no matter what happened, to not kiss the Earl of Moore again.

"It's terrible," Amanda said flatly, inviting herself into Emily's bedchamber. "Though I don't think it's terrible enough to make everyone forget about the scandal that led to your betrothal if that's what you're thinking. It just might make them think you also have scandalously bad taste in headwear."

Emily peered critically at the hat, then her sister, then the hat again before snatching it off her head with a huff. She hadn't considered the potential for further scandal. And while that would probably help her no kissing quest, it would also doubtless irritate the persnickety earl.

The wretched, annoying, stupidly good at kissing earl who had not been on Emily's mind these past few days. Why would she think of someone who had kissed her, bullied her into an engagement, kissed her again, and then run off like she was on fire?

She wouldn't. Obviously.

And she wasn't, moreover, worried, nervous, or upset in any way about her upcoming promenade in the park with the man. Obviously.

And if she patted her curls in a way that suggested she was nervous, that was merely because her hair was very annoying.

To wit, Amanda came up behind her, hands gentle and already armed with pins. "Here, let me," she said, tucking in the locks that had come loose during Emily's careless bonnet removal.

Emily sighed and slumped back, letting her sister fix that one spot on the back of her head that Emily could never properly reach. The sisters had a maid, of course, to help with such things, but Emily's curls misbehaved so frequently that if she went running for a servant every time one came loose, she'd never have time to do anything else. The twins had learned to help, too, out of necessity.

Besides, Emily had shooed her maid off in an (evidently pointless) effort to answer any ugly hat-related questions.

"If he's really that bad," Amanda said quietly, "you know Rosie and I will help you, right?"

Emily looked up at her sister with such sudden, wide-eyed surprise that she nearly caused Amanda to yank out a fistful of her hair.

"What?" she asked.

"The Earl," Amanda said. Her eyes, usually gleaming with mischief, were uncharacteristically serious. "If he's so terrible, we'll help you find something—some way of fixing it."

Emily's heart twisted in her chest. God, but she did love her sisters. Yes, they drove her mad, and she was already afraid to look too closely at her own hair, lest they had already given her gray hairs.

But she loved them, she really did.

"No, sweetheart," she said with a soft smile. "He's not that bad. Everything is fine."

Amanda, bless her, looked disappointed.

"Very well," she said with a sigh. "Though I feel I could have done a splendid job figuring out how to get rid of him. I suppose my talents shall be wasted again."

Emily chuckled along with her sister even as she felt the steel return to her spine. Amanda's offer was precisely why Emily couldn't indulge in any further scandalous behavior—including wearing hideous hats. She had spent a lifetime acting as the perfect role model for her sisters, and they still tended to pursue chaos at the slightest provocation. She'd let herself get caught up in…sensations twice now. She would not do so again.

She would not make another decision that could compromise her sisters' futures.

She would be proper, she reminded herself. She would be perfect.

She repeated this to herself like a prayer as she politely greeted the Earl as he arrived at Drowton House, and as they rode together to Hyde Park, their silence only occasionally interrupted by the odd comment about the weather or other passersby.

It was, Emily allowed, a tad boring. But it was proper. Perfectly so.

It was, in fact, so perfectly proper that she did not even notice that the Earl was looking fine in his well-tailored jacket or that the crisp line of his trousers made his tall, strong form look even taller and stronger. Who even knew what his cravat looked like? Not Emily because she had not so much as glanced at his throat, which might have tempted (in a less perfect person, of course) thoughts of the way he had nibbled against her throat.

When they arrived at the park, she, of course, had no choice but to touch him when he offered his arm. But that, too, was proper.

"Miss Rutley," murmured the Earl after they'd gone a few moments with Emily exhibiting a truly marvelous level of self-control, "could you please look a bit less like I've abducted you?"

Her mouth dropped open, and she whipped her head around to look at him.

"I—that's not what I look like!" she protested hotly—but quietly. Impropriety didn't really count if nobody overheard it.

"It really is," he said grimly.

"It was an expression of serenity!" she objected.

"It really was not," he returned.

Her perfection slipped; she blew out an irritated huff. Her eyes must have been deceiving her when she thought she saw the Earl's mouth twitch as though he were tempted to smile. He drew them to the side of the path, so they could confer quietly.

"Listen," he said, and it sounded more like exhortation than command, "I understand that this situation is…unexpected. And I further recognize that I have not, perhaps, behaved in the most gentlemanly manner possible during our previous…encounters."

If he referenced the incidents—God help her, it was now incidents, plural—she was going to die right here on Rotten Row. Fortunately, he made no further allusions to anything untoward.

"But," he added, and she recognized that he was putting in considerable effort towards sounding reasonable, "the best way to cut off the circulation to the gossip is to act like nothing is amiss. We must act as though we lo—" He cleared his throat. "Like one another."

"Right," Emily said, ignoring how ugly it felt that he couldn't even say the word love. This was the height of foolishness since it wouldn't apply to them in any case. And really, liking one another—or even pretending to—was ambitious enough. "I can do that."

The Earl looked unflatteringly doubtful.

It was thus a matter of pride when Emily made her next, ill-advised decision.

She thought about what it would be like if she did like the Earl. Hell, she thought about what it would be like if she even loved him. She thought about the incidents and the way she felt when he held her. And then, for good measure, she thought about other things she loved, too, like the feeling of being tucked tight into bed, snug and safe, like the patter of rain against a windowpane, like that pure feeling of home when the people you loved surrounded you.

She took all those emotions, and she channeled them into the smile she shot in the Earl's direction.

He looked like he'd been slapped.

"Right," he said. "Good. Let's carry on, then."

And so they did.

It took Emily only a few moments to realize that she'd made a grievous mistake. Because, having allowed such feelings to turn on, she found it difficult to turn them back off. Or rather—not the feelings themselves but the idea of them.

Emily had never expected to marry for love. She'd been seeking a husband for her sisters' sake, not her own. But now, knowing that she would never have that love, would never look around her house and feel it was a true home…

Well, it stung rather more than she'd expected.

And, even worse, despite her convincing performance as someone who adored the Earl (and the resulting turmoil it had offered her), the assembled members of the ton were looking at her like she was…

Well. Emily was too much a lady to even think it. But there was definite scorn there. Disgust, even. Enough to make Emily, unaccustomed to such censure and not at all suited to it, want to shrink against the Earl's side.

"Ignore them," he murmured silkily, tilting his head down towards her. To anyone else, they would have looked like conspiratorial lovers whispering sweet nothings.

"That's easier said than done," she returned, hating how nervous her voice sounded. "They all seem so…angry."

"It's a performance," he said, even as one matron fully craned her neck to continue glaring in Emily's direction as she passed. "It might be one that convinces even themselves, but it's a performance. By deciding that you have done wrong, they make themselves feel better, more powerful. It's a tactic of the weak."

"I did do something wrong," she reminded him.

He paused their walk then, putting a gentle finger under her chin to lift her eyes to his. She had the strangest feeling that he was looking right through her.

"Emily," he said, and she was immediately taken back to the last time he'd used her given name, "ignore them. Or else I shall devise another way to distract you."

His dark eyes flashed with wicked intent.

You are not, she reminded herself, going to kiss the Earl.

Her mental voice did not sound very forceful. She wished she'd worn the stupid bonnet.

"Moore!" cried a friendly voice, freeing Emily from the Earl's hypnotic gaze.

She looked toward the voice to find Evan Miller, Grace's brother and the Marquess of Ockley, approaching them, a hand raised in greeting.

Despite the way her heart still raced—ridiculous as the Earl had only touched her with one finger—she shot the Marquess an easy smile.

The Earl looked a bit less pleased to see him. "Ockley," he greeted.

Evan's grin widened. It seemed he was familiar with the Earl's moods.

"Good day, My Lord," Emily said politely, dropping a quick curtsey.

Evan snapped up her arm before the Earl could take it again. "None of that, Miss Emily," he scolded. "Think of how Grace would shriek if she heard you My Lord-ing me." His smile grew tight around the edges when he mentioned his sister. Emily gave his arm a comforting squeeze which he subtly returned.

"You, Sir," she said teasingly, "are trouble."

"The best kind," he added with a wink, making her laugh.

The Earl was looking at her carefully as though something had just started to make sense. "You knew Lady Grace," he said, the words not quite a question.

"Yes," Emily agreed, knowing her own smile was just as fragile as Evan's had been at the mention of her lost friend. "The four of us—myself, Grace, Diana, that is, now the Duchess of Hawkins, and Lady Frances Johnson were all quite close."

The Earl nodded. "I see." It did sound, rather, as though he did see something—though what he saw, in particular, was not clear. Emily stifled a sigh. The man she was to marry was as opaque as tar.

Still, Evan kept up a cheerful patter as they strolled down the path.

"Yes, and Grace used them like her own little troops to torture me. Do you know what a man, just home from university, wants most to have around his home? Well, I don't either, but I assure you that it is not a passel of debutantes."

"Oh, hush," Emily mildly. "You were just as much in her thrall as the rest of us; don't even deny it. How many times did she bully you into practicing dancing with us? If any of us can do a passable waltz, it's thanks to you."

"Except Lady Frances," he said. "She always declined."

This was a polite way, Emily thought, of saying that Frances was far too shy to dance with Evan, even if he was Grace's brother.

They chatted pleasantly for another minute or two, the Earl doing absolutely nothing to contribute to the conversation, until Evan stopped.

"Well," he said brightly, loud enough for others to hear, "it's been splendid. I can't wait to see you both again though no doubt it'll have to wait until after the wedding, eh?" Then, in a lower voice, he said to Emily. "There. That should help with the snobs a bit. Sometimes being a future duke has its uses."

"Sometimes?" she asked, even as gratitude washed over her.

He gave her a grin and a quick kiss to the back of her hand before heading off, long legs eating up the path before him at far more rapid a pace than any of the fashionable strollers.

And then Emily was left with her betrothed. It was, she couldn't help but notice, much more serious company.

Still, she tried to keep a pleasant look on her face as they kept walking. They rounded a bend in the path, taking them to a comparatively private stretch of park where the nearest people were too far away to identify. The Earl came to a sudden halt.

"I have to tell you something," he said as if he were forcing the words out. "I realized you knew the Duchess of Hawkins of course, but?—"

She waited, surprised. It was unlike him to stumble. Even when they'd been at one another's throats, he'd been quick with a quip.

"I didn't realize you were close with Lady Grace, as well," he said lowly. He had been looking out over the park, but now, he met her eye. "I have letters," he said, gaze probing. "Between my mother and Dowling."

This had not been what she'd expected him to say. She'd assumed they would never, ever touch the topic of his mother's connection to Grace's murderer.

"Oh," she said.

"I think you should have them," he said firmly. "I haven't read them all the way through, but I think—" He broke off again. "You should have them," he said after a long pause. "You should read them and decide what to do about whatever they say."

Emily was confused, but she also very much wanted to see those letters and didn't dare push him into changing his mind.

And it was very considerate, wasn't it, for him to offer? It hinted that she, as his wife, might deserve some…loyalty or perhaps respect. It was a sign that he valued her in some way, wasn't it?

"Thank you," she said softly.

He nodded. Again, he was looking away.

"And maybe," he said. "Maybe it will improve things. Maybe it will…make amends."

Emily's heart sank. This wasn't a gesture of respect. It was a bribe. An apology, perhaps, for the kisses he so clearly regarded as a terrible mistake. The thought made her want to fight with him again, to claw at him, to shout—never mind the publicity and never mind propriety.

But she wanted those damn letters.

So she didn't. She held her tongue as they finished their promenade, got back into his carriage, and rode silently back to Drowton House.

At least, she thought with a slightly hysterical inner laugh as they rode in uncomfortable silence, you didn't kiss him. Perhaps she even ought to thank him, come to think of it, for making it so abundantly clear what he really thought of her.

Yes, his behavior today had clearly put to bed any amorous thoughts she might be having about her future husband. Which was surely a relief.

Yet when the letters arrived at her house that evening, neatly bundled and conveyed with a note that said, You deserve these. –B, she couldn't help but let her fingers linger over the curve of that one initial and wonder.