Chapter 4

The fury was coming off Amanda in waves, choking the air in the carriage. Rose's disapproval was only slightly less palpable.

Emily swallowed against the apology that wanted to jump to her lips for the dozenth time since they'd started for home. She wasn't sorry. If she was sorry for protecting Amanda tonight, then she'd have to be sorry for a thousand other things.

For delaying her debut to care for her sisters. For taking charge of their educations from childhood. For trying to mother them, as best she knew how, because Emily, at least, had gotten to know their mother for a little while—something the twins had been denied.

She would not apologize, not for any of it.

So even as Amanda crossed her arms so tightly under her bosom that it looked physically uncomfortable, Emily bit her tongue. She waited.

She did not have to wait long as it happened.

"I don't know why you were so dreadful tonight, Emily!" Amanda exclaimed less than five minutes into their ride through Mayfair. "I wasn't even being improper!"

Emily inhaled sharply. She hadn't considered that Amanda thought herself to be the problem.

"No, sweet, you were lovely," she said soothingly, deciding that now was not the moment to discuss the frog.

"Then why did you have to embarrass me like that?" Amanda all but wailed.

Emily clenched her jaw.

"Because I don't want you affiliating with unsuitable gentlemen," she explained as patiently as she could. "One's debut Season is a serious business?—"

"Serious business!" Amanda scoffed. "Goodness, listen to you! I know you think you're some sort of matronly figure, but might I remind you that you are only two and twenty, Emily!"

In conversations like these, Emily didn't feel two and twenty. Though she supposed that was precisely what Amanda was lamenting. That was one way she could connect to her sisters, she thought mirthlessly, though it was little balm when she so often felt so, so disconnected from them.

She hoped her frustration didn't show as she responded. "Yes, but dancing and courtships lead to marriage?—"

"Marriage!" Amanda cut her off again, her voice high and scornful. "Emily, tonight was my second ball ever. Do you really think I'm looking to marry already?"

"Ah," Emily said. She had, rather, thought that.

This was another moment where she felt the divide between herself and her sisters was vast, oceanic, continental. Amanda and Rose lived among the stars while Emily remained chained to the ground.

Because, from her very first ball, held a year after she rightfully should have debuted, Emily had been singularly focused on finding a match, not because she was particularly enamored of matrimony as a concept but because she wanted to serve as chaperone to her sisters.

She'd failed at that, of course, so perhaps there was some merit to Amanda's stance.

Not as pertained to the Earl of Moore, obviously—he still was clearly not worthy of Emily's little sister—but generally speaking.

Emily's pause must have gone on too long because Amanda gave a derisive snort. They were nearing Drowton House now, the London home of Lord Drowton and his daughters, and Emily couldn't tell if this was a good thing or a bad one. On one hand, this was as unpleasant a carriage ride as she'd ever taken. On the other, once they arrived at home, she'd lose the opportunity to have her sisters as a captive audience.

"You did think that!" Amanda was saying in a huff. She turned to Rose. "Can you believe this?"

Rose frowned, and it was something of a relief that Emily could see her inner struggle—she did still know her sisters, after all. Rose didn't want to quarrel with Emily, not when they'd already argued and made up earlier in the evening…but she agreed with Amanda. That much was clear.

"I don't think there's any real reason to rush…" she said carefully. Amanda jerked up her chin and shot Emily a triumphant look.

"I'm not saying there is," Emily returned, spreading her hands plaintively. "I just want you to understand that dancing with a gentleman is one thing; having him come to call upon you is another thing entirely. It suggests things. It will generate talk." They were pulling up in front of Drowton House now. Emily could hear the low murmur of the grooms who approached to settle the horses in for the night. "And you do not want your name being bandied about with that of the Earl of Moore. He is not going to call upon you."

The look Amanda shot her was wounded and not mollified in the least.

"No," she said bitterly, "not anymore, he won't. Thanks to you."

And she leaped out of the carriage with a huff and a flutter of skirts, not even bothering to wait for a servant to help her down. Rose shot Emily a look that was half sympathy, half recrimination, and followed her twin.

Emily did not immediately leave her seat. Instead, she sat for a moment, letting a small, grim smile cross her face.

Perhaps tonight had not gone at all according to plan. It had been messy, irritating, and her sisters would no doubt remain cross with her for days, but there was one thing that Emily had certainly managed.

There was no possibility of the Earl of Moore coming to call, not after everything that had happened.

Benedict was, to put it frankly, in a proper snit when he knocked on the front door of Drowton House the next morning. He'd arrived at the very first moment that could be considered a reasonable visiting hour.

This was, he told himself, because he was eager to get the matter of courtship and marriage sorted. It was not because he wanted to rub it in the face of the quarrelsome Miss Emily Rutley.

Not even if she deserved it.

And she did deserve it, he thought as he smoothed the front of his coat, waiting for a servant to open the door. For not only had she bumped into him, argued with him, and made a scene over his visit to her sister, but she had also left him in a highly uncomfortable situation after she'd stormed away.

He grimaced, recalling the stern, irritated look of the Duke of Hawkins, the highly intrigued look of the Duchess of Hawkins, and the alarmed look of Lady Frances after Miss Rutley had stormed off.

"Well!" the Duchess had said with evident relish.

"Quite the charm you have there, Moore," the Duke added dryly.

Resisting the urge to wince had been a challenge.

Benedict had long since learned that the best way to handle his mother's…indiscretions was to ignore them. This was, of course, easier said than done—even before his mother had taken up with a man who had turned out to be a bloody murderer. But though he tried not to reward his mother's outlandishness with the attention she so clearly sought, he had never quite managed to remain entirely ignorant of her actions.

Thus, he remained unfortunately aware that the man in front of him had been shot by a villain who had gained access to the ton via Benedict's mother's bedchamber.

It was, to put it mildly, a fucking mess.

Facing down this trio—well, two of them as Lady Frances' gaze hadn't left the floor—in the wake of a highly embarrassing alteration with a woman who was, apparently, their friend was therefore incredibly awkward.

Yet some perverse, proud part of him forbade him to apologize for something that was not, he maintained, his fault.

"Right," he said instead, hearing the echo of Miss Rutley's words a moment too late. "Well, please excuse me."

It hadn't been the most elegant of retreats, he'd allowed, but it had gotten the job done. He'd given up the evening for a loss and headed home to regroup for the next day.

In most other circumstances, he'd have given up the nascent courtship with Miss Amanda Rutley as well. It was no fault of her own; the girl was pretty enough, interesting enough, and likeable enough. Indeed, "enough" was, to Benedict, the perfect descriptor.

But he was looking for an easy courtship, not one that brought him into social contact with his mother's worst mistake. Not one that included a harridan of a sister by marriage in the deal.

It was, alas, this harridan that had made him cling to the idea of paying Miss Amanda a visit.

A stately butler with a thinning pate of hair answered the door.

"The Earl of Moore to see Miss Amanda Rutley," he announced politely and with only a hint of triumph.

He was not in the habit of letting persnickety misses get the best of him. He would not bow to the whims of Miss Rutley simply because she had decided—baselessly, he felt—that he ought not be allowed to call on her sister. It was absurd. She was being absurd.

And even if he did not get the chance to tell her so directly, he could at least show her that she was being absurd by showing up here and serving as a perfectly adequate suitor. And then, assuming all went to plan, an unobjectionable husband. Miss Rutley would change her tune, certainly, when her sister was a countess.

And if she didn't? Well, perhaps he could identify some Scottish lord in need of a wife. If the gentleman was rather hard of hearing, all the better. He wouldn't be able to hear Miss Rutley quarrelling.

"Just a moment, My Lord," the butler said, accepting Benedict's proffered card.

Benedict nodded then waited in the comfortable foyer, gazing idly around Drowton House. It was a nice enough place though something that Benedict could not quite put his finger on made it feel…impersonal, somehow. Strange, given that the eldest lady in the household was evidently Miss Emily.

He shook off the uncharacteristic thought. What did he care about a house's décor? He was here for the expedient acquisition of a wife, and that was it.

Yet somehow, it seemed that merely thinking of Miss Rutley had been sufficient to summon her, as if she were some sort of cursed apparition created to stymie his plans. Because it was not the younger Rutley sister who appeared in the hallway after a few moments; it was the eldest, her hands on her hips and her face a mask of disapproval.

"What are you doing here?" she asked peevishly.

Benedict felt a gleam of a smile cross his face. Apparently, he would get to tell Miss Rutley that she was being absurd. Marvelous.

"Why Miss Rutley," he said, feeling rather like the cat that had got the cream, "good morning to you."

Disapproval melted into a full scowl.

"Why," she said, coming closer, "are you here, My Lord?"

His title sounded like an epithet. It was very impressive.

"I am here to call upon your sister, of course," he said, feigning shock just because it was certain to annoy her. "I am quite sure I said as much last night. Do you not recall? Are you quite well, Miss Rutley?"

Her expression was murderous.

"I think rather," she said, tone acidic, "that it is you who is struggling with his memory as I very expressly forbade you coming to call upon Amanda."

She'd taken another few steps towards him—as had he, he was astonished to realize. They were standing practically nose-to-nose now, something that would not have been possible with any other woman of his acquaintance. She really was quite tall, this eldest Miss Rutley. Uncommonly tall for a woman.

Benedict had always stood head and shoulders taller than every other man in the room; women too often made him feel like he was some other species entirely, so high did he tower above them. Miss Rutley had to tilt her head back to look at him, but she did not have to crane her neck. He found he liked that.

Liked it, he hastily amended, because he could more effectively give her his sternest look, of course.

"You," he sneered, "do not have the authority to forbid me from calling upon your sister. You do not have the authority to command me in any way."

Her eyes widened—no doubt in irritation. She opened her mouth to argue; the motion drew his attention to her lips. The lower one was rounded, pouty in a way that struck him as incongruous with her stubborn personality. She bit against it in a quick, frustrated motion, and Benedict's mind flashed to the image of his teeth biting that lip and?—

He moved back so suddenly he almost stumbled. Christ, where was his head? He was here to court the sweet younger Miss Rutley, not the irksome elder one. This was likely just a sign that he was sensible to marry; it wasn't natural for a man to go so long without a woman's embrace. It had been too long since his last discreet liaison (one only had to meet Benedict's mother to gain an appreciation for the value of discretion), and he found the quick interludes with merry widows or winsome actresses dissatisfying.

The benefit of a wife was the convenience of the thing. And the social approval. Then a man could easily resolve his bodily needs and return to his regular business.

Which was why he needed to keep his mind focused on marriage.

He cleared his throat. Miss Rutley looked faintly surprised, perhaps at his sudden movement.

"In any case," he said, his voice thicker than it had been a moment before, "you shan't bully me?—"

"Bully!" Outrage supplanted the surprise; Miss Rutley gaped at him. "How dare?—"

"My Lord!"

A cheerful voice caused both Benedict and Miss Rutley to jerk their gazes upwards. There, on the landing, stood Miss Amanda Rutley, looking fresh and pink-cheeked, rather as though she had hurried to greet them.

When her welcoming smile turned briefly into a censoring look (this directed solely at her sister), Benedict decided that Miss Amanda had hurried—to break up the mounting argument.

A faint flicker of annoyance shot through him at the interruption. He'd not yet gotten to tell Miss Rutley what he thought of her antics. That was the only reason he disliked Miss Amanda's arrival, naturally.

He pasted on a genteel smile. No matter what the Duke of Hawkins had implied the night prior, Benedict could be charming.

"Good morning, Miss Rutley," he said to the younger sister as she descended the stairs. "You are looking well this morning."

"And you, My Lord," she said, curtseying as she reached the bottom floor. "I am so glad you were still able to call after our—" Eyes flashed towards Miss Rutley the elder. "—interruption yesterday evening."

"I wouldn't miss it," he said as Miss Emily fumed so intently that he could practically smell the smoke. "Shall we adjourn to the parlor?"

"Marvelous," Miss Amanda said, taking his proffered arm. "I am so looking forward to getting to know you better, My Lord."

"And I you," he returned. It was the prescribed conversation. Easy, obvious, proper.

Boring, a voice whispered. He ignored it.

They turned to exit the foyer but not before he caught a glimpse of Miss Emily's sharklike smile.

"And I shall be so pleased to accompany you," she said.

He was entirely certain it was a threat. And he could not help but think that he enjoyed it anyway.