Chapter 24

Benedict won, in the end.

"I find it best," murmured Doctor Forrester kindly as he dabbed at the scratch on Emily's collarbone while Benedict watched gloweringly on, "in the case of an overwrought husband, just to give in. Consider it my medical advice. Men do like to fuss when they are smitten, but they rarely have any practice in how to do it properly."

Emily, who had been focused on giving her husband a decidedly unimpressed look, startled and blinked at the doctor. "No, that's not—he isn't smitten."

"Hm," said the doctor. Then he pulled back. "There you go. It's too small to bandage, but I've cleaned it now, so you should be safe from any threat of infection." He glanced over his shoulder to where Benedict considered to glower.

The doctor cast his eyes to the heavens, as if seeking divine patience…but Emily noticed that he waited until Benedict couldn't see him to do so.

"Perhaps avoid any needlessly dirty locations until it's healed. Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after," he added with a clearly patronizing air.

Emily stifled her smile.

She could not help but gloat the tiniest bit, however, when Benedict ended up with orders to keep his shoulder in a sling for at least a week. Preferably two.

It was only her inherent grace and tact that kept her from rubbing that in her husband's face with far more force. The poor dear was injured, after all.

When Doctor Forrester left, looking like a man who did not at all consider his time well spent, Emily pasted on the expression of a doting, concerned wife.

"Oh, stop it," Benedict said. "I can see what you're thinking."

"Merely of your speedy recovery and good health, husband," she said sweetly.

He fixed her with a look.

"Come on, then," he urged, beckoning her forward. "I shan't rest until I've checked you out myself, never mind what that doctor said. I did not feel he was suitably concerned for your health."

She assumed this was a transparent excuse to get her to snuggle up beside him right up until she was snuggled up beside him, and he used his good arm to push her back, so he could probe delicately at her scratch with the fingers on his good hand.

"It doesn't hurt?" he asked worriedly.

Something about the tenderness in his face, the way his expression crumpled inward to peer with intensity, the way those heavy, dark brows became unspeakably soft as they looked at her—it made her heart shatter in a way she feared she'd never be able to repair.

"Stop," she said brusquely, pushing his hands away roughly. "It doesn't hurt. I'm fine." She stood, crossing to the small collection of decanters he kept to one side of his study. "It's been a difficult day. Shall I pour you a drink?"

"No," he said slowly, seeming confused. "Emily, what?—"

But he broke off when she poured a drink anyway then brought it to her lips and knocked it back without so much as a shudder at the sharp taste of whiskey.

"Emily," he said again, this time his voice heavy with concern. "Come back here. Please."

It was the please that did her in. She couldn't refuse him when he looked faintly hurt, when he held out his hand to her beseechingly.

She crossed the room and put her hand in his, even when it felt like the simple act ripped her in two.

"My darling," he murmured, drawing her again into his embrace. "What's wrong?"

She pressed her hand to her mouth, failing to stifle a sob. Benedict's expression quickly became alarmed.

"My sweet girl, what is it?" he pleaded, cradling her close. She put up a feeble resistance even as she sank into his embrace. And wasn't that the problem? That he gave her reason to hope even as he'd made himself quite clear…

"Please stop," she wept. "I can't bear it."

"Can't bear what?" he asked, reaching up to wipe tears from her eyes. "What's wrong? Tell me, please."

"Can't bear," she said, her voice catching and hiccupping as she tried to speak through her tears, "you coddling me and being so sweet when we have those wretched, blasted rules in place!"

Benedict's brows were at their most expressive today; now they were, again, painting a picture of confused concern.

"Rules?" he echoed.

"Yes!" she burst out. She was starting to feel rather angry, now, which she frankly preferred. It was easier than wading through the deep, sucking sadness that threatened to pull her underwater. "You forbade me to allow any love between us, and I cannot do it!"

For a moment, the words, which she'd practically shouted, hung between them, echoing through the space. Benedict, likewise, looked momentarily frozen, and Emily feared that this was the end of any loveliness between them. They'd return to that distant, stiff way of interacting with one another, would be husband and wife in name only.

And it would be so, so much more painful than it had been before since now she knew how good it could feel to have him close, to see his smiles, to know his mind.

Though perhaps she did not know his mind at all because when his surprise faded, he smiled.

"Emily, my love," he said, gazing at her with such warmth, "those rules are the bloody stupidest thing I've ever let leave my mouth."

This was plain English; the words themselves made sense. Yet Emily could not for the life of her parse their meaning.

"I—what?" she said. Confusion was a nice respite, she decided, from anger and grief. She oughtn't have asked him to clarify then she might have stayed pleasantly baffled forever.

"What I mean to say," he continued, his voice steady and calm, "is that I made those rules thinking I could not trust you because I had thought I could not trust any woman. You were right, what you said to me—I had allowed my mother's poison to affect how I viewed all women. That was unfair, as you said. And when I realized that I'd been wrong about that, it made me realize that I was wrong about other things as well."

He raised his uninjured arm, bringing his palm to cradle her cheek. And even though she wasn't yet certain what he was really saying, even though she still felt terrified that her heart was destined to be broken by this man, Emily could not resist leaning into the touch.

"I'll never trust my mother, darling. She's broken that—not only today but for years and years before that. But those are her crimes, her sins. And you—" He leaned in to press a lingering kiss to the cheek he wasn't still caressing. "You, my wonderful, marvelous girl, are nothing like her. You, I trust."

Emily's chest was heaving with exertion despite sitting still. His trust was not nothing—on the contrary, it meant the world to her. But it wasn't what she longed for, not what she truly needed.

"My heart knew it before my head did." He was stroking his thumb against her cheekbone. It made her want to cry. "When my mother accused you of attacking her, I knew instantly it wasn't true. My lazy mind got on board then," he said with a chuckle. "But it made me realize that my feelings for you go deeper than trust."

"They do?" she asked, the words the barest exhalation, as if speaking too loudly would blow away the feathery blossoms of hope that were beginning to sprout within her.

"They do," he confirmed. "You must know—and I know I'm remiss for not saying it before now—Emily, I love you."

And Emily burst into loud, noisy tears.

Benedict looked like he was on the cusp of apoplexy.

"What!" he yelped. "No, Emily, darling—it isn't bad! It's fine if you don't feel the same—well, not fine, I'd prefer if you did, of course—but you needn't cry?—"

"Of course, I love you too," she said through her tears. "I'm just so happy I can hardly stand it."

"You do?"

"I do," she sobbed.

"And so you're crying," he muttered apparently to himself. "I shall never understand women." Even so, he let her sniffle through her reaction for as long as he could bear—which was, ultimately, not very long indeed—before gathering her against him again.

"Come now," he soothed. "Enough of that."

Slowly, she managed to get herself under control then shot her husband a watery smile. "I love you," she said again, feeling that he deserved to hear it while she wasn't dampening his jacket.

"I love you, too," he repeated. "Now, come here, would you?" He grabbed her—with both arms—and tried to hike her onto his lap.

"Benedict, your shoulder!" she exclaimed.

"Fuck my shoulder," he said, settling her astride him. "I have more important things to worry about."

And then he kissed her soundly until arguing with him was the furthest thing from her mind.