Chapter 16

Benedict could recognize that waiting up for his wife to return home was both impractical (giving birth was a protracted affair, was it not? He didn't know, he was a man, and that was women's business) and likely did not send the message he'd been trying to send to his wife in their conversation that morning.

Every time he tried to rouse himself from the library and put himself to bed, however, he found that he failed. He found an excuse to stay where he was, citing the book he hadn't processed a single word of or the correspondence he hadn't so much as opened.

He had plenty of things to do that weren't just sitting around waiting.

And he was doing them. He was.

In fact, he was highly annoyed at the interruption (and not relieved or happy, not a bit) when his wife's form passed by the open library door, her posture suggesting exhaustion. She brushed past the door before he could say anything, and then, before he could make up his mind to go after her (which he did not plan to do), she retreated into the doorway.

"There you are," she said, like she'd been looking for him and not gallivanting off to her friend's bedside.

Benedict reconsidered. Very well, that one had sounded unfair even in his head.

"Here I am," he agreed evenly.

He watched as she crossed to the low settee across from him, the one that he never used because it was too short for a man of his height, and dropped into it with none of her usual grace. He declined to comment. He didn't know what went on in birthing rooms—and, again, did not ever want to know, not beyond the broad sketch of things—but apparently it was as exhausting for the witnesses as for the mother.

"Is Her Grace well?" he asked when Emily blinked at the fire for a few long moments. "And the babe?"

She turned to look at him with a faint air of surprise, like she'd forgotten he was even there. Flattering, that.

"Oh, yes," she said with a distracted air. "Both. And the baby—she had a daughter. They've named her Grace." Her tone was already unmistakably fond.

Benedict's lips threatened to twitch in a frown. Not an heir, then. Though, judging by the way Hawkins looked at his wife, he'd not mind that overmuch and would likely look forward to trying for another.

Emily clearly saw his hastily suppressed reaction, for her absent air vanished, replaced by narrowed eyes. Her gaze flickered over his face for a moment, seeking something. Whatever it was, however, she apparently did not find it as she leaned back more heavily against her cushions, a defeated sigh leaving her lips.

He did not care for that, he found.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, more aggression than concern.

Emily squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, like she was trying to block out the world.

"What are we doing wrong?" she asked on a sigh, her tone so, so tired.

"What?" he asked, baffled by this turn. She opened her eyes, her expression as exhausted as her voice had been, and spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"I mean, really. Benedict. What do we plan to do here? We cannot mean to go on as we have been; it's been less than two days, we've spend most of them apart, and we've already had a massive quarrel that likely terrified the staff. If we keep it up, one of us will have an apoplexy before the year is out."

He should, he thought wryly, be glad she seemed to think that that was an unfavorable outcome. Marriage to him at least ranked higher than death.

"I don't want to fight," he said. It was the truest thing he could contribute.

It seemed, if Emily's sagging shoulders were any indication, still not sufficient.

"Me neither," she said. "At least that's something we can agree upon. It's as good a start as any." A smile flickered across her face at the weak joke, and Benedict mirrored the expression. She sighed again and looked away before continuing, "If it's truly a marriage of convenience you seek, I suppose I will see fit to provide it. After all, I should not want to ask for more than you are willing to give."

Benedict thought there was some deeper meaning lingering beneath those words, but he couldn't quite figure it out.

"But," she went on, no doubt saving him from saying the wrong thing yet again, "you must at least offer me the benefit of the doubt, Benedict. Not every concession can come from my side."

He frowned. "I can do that," he said. That was obvious.

From the way Emily frowned back at him, she did not think it was obvious at all.

"Can you?" she asked. "Because… well, I'm not sure how else to say it, Benedict, but you really seem to not like women at all."

He reared back like she'd lunged at him. "What on earth are you talking about? I like women just fine."

Their activities the night prior hadn't been advisable, but it should have at least proven that much.

"Not that way," she said, rolling her eyes, evidently detecting the less than innocent cant of his thoughts. "I meant more that you seem to not hold women in very high regard. You know, as people."

"I—" He wanted to argue, but they had just agreed that they would try not to fight. And Emily didn't look combative right now; that would have honestly been preferable. She just looked…sad.

"I respect women," he said carefully. "I know my, ah, indecorous behavior leading to our betrothal was not perhaps the most indicative of this. But you cannot think, Emily, that I would ever shame you by carrying on thusly with another woman. I already said that I do not intend to pursue any affairs outside of our union, and I meant it."

She looked disappointed in him. Benedict felt that sting more than he ought.

"That's not it, either," she said. "I mean, can you not really hear it? You're discussing gentlemanly behavior, and while I do appreciate that you don't intend to bed other women, nothing you've said suggests you see women as thinking, feeling creatures." He opened his mouth to protest, but she barreled on before he could. She sounded more annoyed than resigned now, which he preferred. "You spoke thusly when you talked about seeking a bride as well. You wanted a wife to be like a statue—there but silent. And honestly, I am not sure you are wholly to blame. You don't have any sisters; your closest friend is not married. And your mother strikes me as a bit…"

She paused, wrinkling her nose as if trying to gather what was the most tactful way to put this.

"Strident," she said eventually which impressed him both with its generosity and with its bite. "And I know she has been, er, prolific in the Society pages." Again, this was a masterclass of being both cutting and diplomatic. If Emily had been a tad more heartless, she'd have made a killing as a Society columnist herself.

"Well put," he commended when she paused, looking at him as if to check to see if she'd crossed a line.

"Right," she said. "Well, what I mean to say is, I can see where you might get the impression that we are all of a type. And I do not think your impression of that type is a positive one. But—" She spread her hands, showing the whole of herself which he looked at only cautiously, so as not to get caught up in the other way in which he definitely did appreciate women. "—I am my own person, Benedict. We are all of us our own people. And I need you—if this is to work between us, I need you to accept that. I need you to not ask me to pay for others' sins. I cannot do it. I will not."

She finished her statement with confidence, pinning him with a look that was not quite defiant. Something in that look arrested him. He'd seen her in her proper, obedient guise; he'd seen her argumentative and heated. He'd seen her, even, melted with passion.

But this was different. This was steady and sure but cool and calm. This was, he thought with a wild, almost giddy sense, the negotiation he should have had before they wed. Forget marriage contracts; this was what mattered.

Despite how acutely he knew this was important, however, his mind roiled over responses he did not know how to articulate. He did not know how to say that he did not want to believe her right, but thought she might be, anyway. He could not tell her all the frustration, exhaustion, and yes, often hatred that his mother inspired in him, nor could he speak of this unformed, insistent yearning that she just be better. He could not promise her anything, and he could not remind her that love was beyond his reach—could not caution her against trying to make him love her, both for his sake and her own.

He didn't know how to make the words work, so he stood, crossed the space between them, sat at her side, and took her hand in his.

"I will try my very best," he said, the words feeling like a sacrament. "I don't know—" He couldn't explain all that either, so he just repeated himself. "I will try my very best."

And finally—finally—it seemed like he'd said something right. Because Emily smiled at him, and that smile was like the first bloom of spring.

"Thank you," she said, squeezing his fingers. "That's all I ask."

Looking at her was too hard, so he looked down at their intertwined hands. She had, he noted absently, charmingly short fingers, a surprise on a woman who was otherwise so conveniently tall. She'd never be a master of the pianoforte, his Emily. He could not find it in him to consider this a criticism.

He flipped their hands, so her palm was facing upwards, then loosened his grip just enough, so he could press his thumb into her palm. He pressed more firmly when he got to the muscle at the base of her thumb. She made the tiniest noise of appreciation.

Small though the sound was, it made his eyes fly up to her face. She'd leaned her head lazily against the back of the settee, and her eyes were tired, half closed.

He could have borne all that. He really could, no matter how tempting a picture she painted.

But when the side of her mouth tipped up, offering a soft, casual smile, as if she'd gifted him the same expression a thousand times before, his restraint snapped. He'd spent far too long hungering for this woman before him without any relief. He could take it no longer.

He turned his hand slowly, deliberately, until he could reach and wrap his fingers around her wrist. He tightened his grip in an unmistakable message.

When he looked back to her face, her expression was hazy…but no longer from exhaustion.

Yes, he thought. She was so bloody perfect.

He let a note of slyness creep into his tone. "Tell me, wife," he said, tugging her grasped arm towards him slowly as he spoke. "Do you wish to go to sleep?"

He'd chosen his words carefully, but Emily, sharp as a blade, noticed. Of course, she did.

"No," she said, just as slow and deliberate as he. "But I do think that I'd like to go to bed."