Chapter 14

Benedict sat, scowl firmly in place, at his breakfast table, not even able to enjoy the peace of knowing his mother was living elsewhere and therefore unable to barge in and disturb his peace with her squawking.

It was hard to enjoy things, after all, when one had made such an absolute, hideous, shuddering mess of things the way he had the evening prior.

He'd been up half the night, chastising himself over it.

Or rather, most of it had been self-denigration. Other parts had been…other self-inflicted torment, brought about by the memories of the way his wife had gasped for him, the way she'd trembled as she'd unraveled, the way her eyes had gone soft and hooded as he'd gripped her by the hair…

He stopped that line of thinking before it went too far.

He was very glad about this in short order as it was only a moment or two later that his new wife entered the room, looking proper, pristine, and a far cry from the well-pleasured jumble he'd tucked into her bed the night before.

Not that he was thinking of that, of course. The conversation they needed to have was not one for which he wished to be aroused. Especially since his furious arousal had caused this bloody problem in the first place.

"Good morning," she said with a polite smile that held just enough brightness to make him cringe. There was hope in that smile. Expectation. Exactly the things he did not need to see from her.

His return smile was the barest twitch of the lips.

"Good morning, Emily. Please sit." He nodded to the chair to his right.

Her expression flickered, just a bit, confusion taking momentary control of her face, and he swore inwardly. This was what happened when he was derelict in his duties, what happened when he let his passions—the word sounded fouler in his head than any of the epithets he'd just imagined—take control of his sense.

She sat with an easy elegance, and he admitted that, for all the nonsense that had led to their union and the uncomfortable conversation they were due to have, she would make a good countess.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, only polite concern in her tone. This was, he knew, complete shite. He could see through her all too easily now. She was trying to puzzle him out, and her confusion was quickly turning to worry.

"Of course," he said tersely. Better to get this over with, after all. "I merely thought, now that we are officially wed that we might have a frank and honest discussion about the terms of our marriage."

She blinked—just once. "The terms…?" she echoed. It was an opening, a generous one.

He wanted to go back in time to the day prior and kick his own arse for not having this conversation before he'd dragged her to bed. He'd meant to. It had been, in fact, very high on his list of priorities. But then his mother had, as usual, caused a disturbance, and then Emily had disappeared, and when he'd found her again, it just happened to be adjacent to their bedchambers.

He was only a man, after all. How could he resist, especially when she'd given him those wide, innocent looks, when she'd tried to show him that missish fa?ade that covered up a vixen…

He cleared his throat. He was meant to be speaking, not…remembering.

"Indeed," he said crisply. "I have always found that clear rules?—"

"Rules?" she interjected, apparently startled out of her propriety.

"—expectations," he amended seamlessly with a nod. "I have always found that clear expectations at the outset of an endeavor help matters go more smoothly for everyone involved."

She didn't respond right away, instead taking a long moment to gaze at him with wary, assessing eyes.

"Very well," she said eventually.

"Wonderful," he said dispassionately. Calm and collected. That was how he would get through this without anything so distasteful as feminine tears. Emily's tears, in particular, sounded abhorrent to him.

"First," he said, careful to keep his tone level, "no affairs."

"What?" she yelped. This time she wasn't just surprised—she was offended if the bright spots of color that leapt to her cheeks were any indication. "I beg your?—"

"This goes for both of us," he interjected. "It's not hypocrisy. I will remain faithful, but I demand the same from you as well." When she gaped furiously at him, he arched an eyebrow. "Do you have an objection to this?"

She scowled at him and some deep, wretched part of him adored it.

"I do not," she said primly. "I merely think you're being redundant; this was covered in the vows yesterday. Perhaps you should learn to pay better attention."

He grinned a sharp, vicious grin but stopped himself before he could get lured into sparring with her. That was the kind of thing that led him to pin her down on her bed, arms trapped behind her back while he touched her until she exploded for him.

Which was antithetical to his purpose here today. A purpose he cared about. A purpose he needed to see fulfilled.

"I prefer clarity to brevity," he said simply instead, refusing to take the bait. "Next, we shall always present a united front when in public."

She looked very distinctly annoyed, but she nodded. "Fine."

"No matter what is happening between us at home," he warned.

Her eyes narrowed, and he had the impression that now she was the one holding back from sparring with him.

"Fine," she repeated through clenched teeth.

He breathed in and out through his nose. This was going—well, it wasn't precisely going swimmingly, but it was fine as Emily had said. Or, at least, close enough to fine. But this last part was the most important—and he feared, the one she'd find hardest to swallow, given what he knew about women.

"And no love," he concluded firmly.

She didn't even bother to protest that time, merely stared at him in openmouthed shock.

Benedict was not about to lose that advantage, no matter how cowardly it seemed.

"Excellent," he said, preparing to stand. "That is all. I'm glad we understand one ano?—"

"What are you talking about?" she demanded, her voice shaking with a low, dangerous anger. He looked at her, and for a moment, he thought her eyes spoke of pain, but it was quickly replaced by a clear, pure rage.

He fought to not match her fire with his own. It never helped, he'd long since learned, to get emotional with an overemotional woman. His mother had shown him that again and again and again.

"I'm sure this is not a surprise," he said coolly. "You and I both know perfectly well how we ended up at that altar. This is a marriage of convenience. You got to save your reputation, and I got a countess. Convenient. Feelings are not convenient."

She'd returned to gaping at him, and again, he pressed the advantage.

"I must reiterate, Emily, I am not a hypocrite. I know there are men who would demand adoration from their wives while having no intention of returning that feeling in kind. That is not what I mean. Do not ask for love—and do not feel it, either. That will keep matters simple between us."

There. That was reasonable, wasn't it? After all, he wasn't asking for anything he wasn't prepared to offer in return. It was positively liberal-minded, frankly.

From the way his wife shot to her feet, scarcely seeming to notice as the chair almost toppled behind her, she did not agree with his assessment.

"I—" she began before cutting herself off with a sharp shake of her head. Her curls looked even wilder than usual, as if they were responding directly to her heightened emotions. The vibrant flush on her cheeks was annoyingly fetching.

When she spoke again, her tone was cold as ice.

"I should not be surprised at this—stunt." She practically spat the word, made it feel like the vilest epithet. "I really shouldn't. After all, you've shown yourself more than capable of surpassing my wildest imaginings of appalling behavior. But truly, this does outdo your previous efforts, Benedict."

Hearing her say his name like that, full of spite, felt like a slap after only ever hearing it moaned in pleasure. It struck him violently, knocking loose his last grasps of composure. He, too, rose to his feet.

"Don't be a child, Emily," he scolded, voice dripping disdain. "You can feign surprise, but it's nothing more than a game; you cannot fool me in that regard. I've seen how easily you wear a mask."

There it was again, that flicker of hurt in her expression. He felt his own matching flicker of regret, but her sharp words brushed away both his reaction and hers.

"A child," she repeated, humorless laugh grating. "That's what you see me as, isn't it?"

It really, really was not, but Benedict was trying not to think about all the ways he knew—intimately—that she was a woman, fully grown, and as tempting a one as he'd ever known.

"Because you meant it the way you said it first, I gather," she went on, staring defiantly up at him. "These are rules, rules you intend to lay down like I am some—some misbehaving schoolgirl who needs to be shown the error of her ways. Well. Allow me to explain some of my personal rules to you."

She stepped into his space, the movement a clear challenge. She still had to crane her neck to look up at him, but her height meant that she didn't need to do it with quite the acuity that another woman would have required.

"You are—and trust me when I tell you I get no pleasure from admitting it," she continued, "right about some things. You will have my fidelity. And I do not intend to do anything to sabotage this marriage—or my sisters' prospects for marriage—by making our private disagreements public. We will, as you say, present a unified face to the world."

Her words were conciliatory, but every single other thing about her made it more than clear that he was not going to like what she had to say next.

"But if you think—if you even presume to suspect—that you can tell me how I am or am not allowed to feel?" Her face melted into a sneer. "Well. I daresay, My Lord, that you are setting yourself up for a lifetime of disappointment. Don't say I did not warn you."

She was breathing heavily as though chiding him had taken a great deal of physical strength. It made her bosom heave over the neckline of her perfectly appropriate day dress—and damn him to hell for noticing it. His reluctant attention to her physical form sparked his irritation all the higher.

"I don't know why you're arguing with me, Emily," he snapped back at her. "Are you being stubborn just for the sake of being stubborn? Because if there is any other reason, pray, enlighten me—for I cannot see it. You know what I sought in a bride; you went into this with your eyes open. Do not now turn around and pretend like a blindfold has come off. It's ridiculous and unbecoming."

"Ridiculous and unbecoming," she scoffed. "Well, that's me told, isn't it? After a lifetime of being called a wallflower, a spinster, a nag, a giantess, a poor motherless dove—" Her gazes grew as incisive as a knife. "—a secret temptress hiding behind a polite fa?ade, well, yes, Benedict. After being called all those things, I am simply distraught at being thought ridiculous and unbecoming."

Benedict felt strangely caught between emotions. On one hand, he wanted to shake her. She was being ridiculous. It was unbecoming—at least, mostly. But he also wanted to slap himself for turning those comments about her tempting nature, which he'd made while his tongue was turned honest by lust, into weapons to be used against her.

And he wanted to do more than slap anyone else who had thrown careless cruelty in her direction.

This was about two and a half more feelings than he was comfortable experiencing at one time, so he tamped them down and gritted his teeth.

"Don't be melodramatic," he told her.

"Melodramatic!" she exclaimed, throwing up her hands melodramatically. She really did have a tendency to do that, he noted—to repeat his words and gesture outrageously—when annoyed. In this case, however, she was standing close enough that he was lucky he didn't lose an eye.

She stalked a few steps away from him as she continued to gesticulate (fortunate, that, for the state of his face) expostulating on his apparent absurdity to the empty breakfast room.

"I'm melodramatic?" she asked his untouched plate of eggs and kippers. "And this, coming from a man who solemnly sat me down to breakfast to announce what feelings I am and am not allowed to experience?"

She whirled on him again, the heat of her anger scorching. This was, he supposed, marginally preferable to her shouting at breakfast foods.

"Do you really not see how this is insane?" she demanded. "Or are you so wrapped up in self-importance that you truly, honestly believe yourself able to dictate the emotions of those around you?"

He took a step forward this time—because, damn it, he wasn't going to be perpetually retreating, not in his own house with his own blasted wife—bringing him within arm's reach of her.

"Do not insult me, Emily," he warned. "I won't stand for it."

"Why not?" she returned. "I thought you were not a hypocrite. And you have insulted me most dreadfully."

Again, there was that flicker, the one that looked like pain. She ducked her head—he didn't like it—and turned as if she was going to brush past him. He liked that even less. He reached out and grabbed her arm, staying her movement. She froze, even though his grip wasn't very tight at all, and looked back up at him.

He was, he realized, frankly horrified by it, going to kiss her.

This was obviously a very bad idea. Excessive kissing—and things beyond kissing—was what had gotten them into this situation in the first place. If he hadn't kissed her the first time, they'd not be married at all. (Benedict resolutely ignored the part of him that wondered if that was actually as preferable an outcome as he thought.) If he hadn't kissed her the second time, the first incident could have been disregarded as an outlier.

And if he'd kept his damned hands to himself the night prior, he wouldn't have generated any expectations. They could have calmly discussed their plans for their marriage then could have enjoyed a peaceful, appropriate marriage night, without any of the…additional nonsense that had left him tossing and turning all night long.

Kissing Emily had a proven record of mucking things up for Benedict. Well established. No evidence to the contrary.

He was going to do it anyway.

His hands were already reaching for her, his traitorous mind already wondering if she'd like behind grasped by her sweet, round arse as much as she'd liked being gripped by her hair. He could practically already feel the way she melted against him, soft and eager—and wasn't that so much nicer, for both of them, really, than this shouting and squabbling?

Maybe kissing her was a good idea after all.

In the end, however, the choice was taken from his hands—and not by anything Emily did. Frankly, she was no help at all, given that she was already sort of starting to softly sag into the grip on her arm which wasn't even tight enough to hold her up and was probably a good sign that he should grip her tighter.

But he didn't even get to decide to do that, either, because a soft, timid knock came from the doorway to the breakfast room. Benedict and Emily both swiveled their heads to look at a very unhappy maid.

"Begging your pardon, My Lord, My Lady," she said in a tone that suggested a lightning strike would not be unwelcome. "But there's been a message for Her Ladyship."

Benedict blinked. Of all the things?—

"Marked urgent," the maid continued. Oh, very well. "From the Duchess of Hawkins?—"

Emily tore free from his grasp, crossing to the maid in an instant. The young woman handed the note over with a distinct air of relief and left in a manner that said she was fleeing but trying very hard not to seem like she was fleeing.

Emily's eyes flickered over the note, quick and keen, and then she gasped.

"Diana's having her baby!" she exclaimed, this news sufficient to replace the previous anger in her eyes with excitement. "I have to go at once."

He took a lurching step toward her.

"Emily, we have to—" He didn't even know what he was going to say. Keep talking? Kiss until she melted beneath him? He'd prefer the latter option, obviously, but he could make do with a return to the former, so long as the kissing came after.

But she gave him a faintly harried look; her mind was already clearly elsewhere. Despite all this morning's evidence to the contrary, Benedict was not a stupid man. He knew when to retreat.

"Go," he said, resigned. "Give my felicitations to Their Graces."

He wondered if he was deluding himself when he thought that look in her eyes was gratitude. It was too quick to tell, certainly, for he'd scarcely finished speaking when Emily was gone.