Chapter Eight

July 18, 1815

It had been ten days since she'd met Benedict and had been convalescing at his home for her strained ankle. In that time, the pain and swelling had gone down significantly, and she'd come to know at least some of what drove the marquess.

Oh, he still harbored secrets, but every day that went by, he crept more and more out of the fortress he'd built around himself. No longer did he take himself off to parts unknown to sulk or allow grief to have at him. For the past handful of days, he was everything charming and congenial that a host should be. He'd even invited her on short walks, or whatever her ankle would allow where they talked of nothing of consequence.

If the weather was fair, sometimes they took tea or luncheon outdoors, and with the company of the Earl of Traverston, it was a pleasant way to pass the time, even if it might have bordered on the scandalous. Then men seemed to enjoy teasing each other, but when they told stories relating to their school days or their time in the military, that's when Marjorie liked them both. It gave her a new perspective on Benedict's life, on how he used to be before multiple tragedies had struck.

Today, it was raining, which apparently wasn't strange for the Lake District, and just as she reached the staircase to go down to the drawing room, Benedict met her as he came up.

"Have you plans this afternoon?"

She shook her head. "I do not. In fact, I was on my way to the drawing room for some reading or perhaps conversation with the earl." When she peered up at him, met his stormy eyes, flutters filled her belly. "Do have another plan of interest?" Why couldn't she have enough of him?

"I wished to ask you to tour the portrait gallery with me, if your ankle allows." The grin he gave showed a bit of vulnerability, and that endeared him to her even more.

"Yes, of course. I would enjoy that." When he offered his arm, she slipped her hand into the crooked elbow. How courtly he was! Did that mean he was ready to talk about other parts of his life?

"Good, then we can take tea with Traverston if he's available." Then he guided her up the stairs and along the corridor. Midway through, there was a shorter hallway and that was were the portrait gallery was located.

Perhaps ten oil paintings were clustered on the walls, all hung in heavy gilt frames and all at least three feet in height. More than half depicted men while the others were of women. Though the people in those portraits weren't smiling, there was no doubt about the power and leadership they exuded.

"I assume these are your relatives?"

"Yes." He led her over to one of the paintings of a man seated in a winged back chair, garbed in evening dress and a gray wig which was apparently popular at the time. At his feet was a Corgi, and in his hand was a saber with the point planted in the floor. "This is my father. He sat for this portrait when I was in my early twenties."

"You have his looks." Marjorie went closer and marveled at the artist's strokes on the canvas. "However, his mouth is set in a hard line. I have a feeling he might not have been a very affectionate man."

"He was not." A muscle twitched in Benedict's cheek. "Everything that he was, he'd learned from his father. Image was everything and we were taught never to show emotion, for the beau monde shouldn't let anyone in, which made a man weak."

"You struggle with the same even today." It wasn't a question.

"Yes." As he moved to the next portrait on the wall, he clasped his hands behind his back. "It is a process to unlearn everything I thought as truth in my early life. When I married, Phoebe helped me to see that showing emotion wasn't the shame I'd been led to believe, but I have a difficult time letting people in or asking for help. It just isn't the English way."

"That doesn't mean you can't break from the mold. Perhaps you will be all the better for it." She followed him and studied the portrait of a dark-haired woman in a saffron gown. A rose was clutched in her hand with a basket of others at her feet and she stood near a Roman column, perhaps in the gardens on property gazing at the painter with a mysterious half smile that reminded her of Benedict's. "Is this your mother?"

"It is. Unfortunately, not long after I took the title, she died of complications from pneumonia she'd acquired that winter." He rested his gaze on the portrait. "She had the patience of a saint for being able to survive my father and grandfather's tempers and dispositions. Though she bore five children, only two of them reached adulthood." A sigh came from his throat. "My sister, unfortunately, perished in childbirth trying to give life to her firstborn."

"I'm so sorry for your loss." It seemed that they'd both suffered greatly in the course of their lives. "There are times when it feels as if the only thing that is true is someone dying."

"Indeed." He nodded. "Oddly enough, it brings a perverse comfort, I suppose, in its very familiarity." When he continued to stare at his mother's portrait, Marjorie remained silent in the hopes he would continue to talk. "Though I have difficulties in leaving the past behind, there are some moments, especially in the dead of night, when I grow weary of losing those I love."

"How well I understand that sentiment." She laid a hand on his arm. The muscles tensed beneath her fingertips. "Perhaps that is a good indication that it's time to lessen that tight hold you have on the past. Keep the memories but start living for your future."

"But how can I leave them, her…?"

She shrugged. "Not to be indelicate, but your family is gone, Benedict. They are dead, and they aren't coming back." There were times when the honest truth was simply the best way through. "That means, since you remain, there is much more living for you, and of happiness."

"What if I am not strong enough to linger or resist the maudlin?" In some agitation, he turned toward her, caught her by the elbows and peered into her eyes. "What if it was a mistake and I should have followed my wife into death, but I was too much a coward to do that?"

"Meaning?" The beating of her heart was far too fast as she awaited his reply.

His Adam's apple bobbed with a hard swallow as he moved past her to contemplate the opposite wall. "Phoebe took Henry's death more intensely than I did, apparently. That is not to say I'm not constantly wracked by guilt of his demise, but she was his mother. There was a special bond there."

"Of course. A mother's love goes far too deep to understand." Fearing what else he would say, Marjorie followed him, rested a hand on his back.

"Eventually, she stopped crying and was listless. She remained in bed for weeks, didn't take interest in anything she used to love." A catch entered his voice. "Then, one day she rose, bathed, donned her favorite gown, and as the sun was setting that night, she walked to Hummingbird Lake… and kept walking until the water went above her head. She didn't come out alive."

"What a horrible story." As her stomach dropped and her heart shuddered on his behalf, Marjorie encouraged him to turn about. "Your wife's death is not your fault, and no, you aren't at fault because you didn't follow her lead." Were there any words that would comfort him? "I can't imagine your pain as you've struggled for the last few years. No one should need to go through any of that, but you were alone during that time. Now, you're not."

Sorrow clouded his eyes. "Except you are only here as a guest. You have your own life. Once your ankle is fully healed, you—"

"Hush, Syn." She pressed a finger to his lips to stem his words. A tiny piece of her heart went into his keeping. What a ninny she was, for she was stupidly falling for a man who couldn't decide if he was firmly in the present or the past. "There is nothing I can say that might sway you either way if your mind is made up, but I am certainly hoping you will see the light soon… before you see the light." Oh, dear, she was babbling, and that joke wasn't even amusing.

"Believe it or not, there is a certain comfort in those words as well." Then he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and slowly he lowered his head to hers until their lips met.

As kisses went, it was far too sweet and different in tempo than the ones they'd shared before, and it brought tears to her eyes. She barely had time to curl her fingers into his cravat and immerse herself in that kiss when the sound of a masculine throat clearing filtered into her desire-soaked brain.

Benedict sprang away from her with a frown. "What are you doing here, Traverston?" A hint of annoyance rang in his voice.

"I didn't think I would interrupt something." The earl darted his gaze between them. "Shall I leave and come back?"

Clearly, he wished to talk with his friend. Marjorie shook her head. "No need. I was just headed down to the drawing room to see about tea." A twinge in her ankle made itself known as she eased around Benedict, and with a nod to the earl, she fled down the corridor as fast as she could.

Oh, dear. What am I to do now?

Bloody hell.

Once the widow departed, Benedict was left alone with his best friend, who wore a knowing grin that he didn't try to hide. Hard on the heels of the emotions that had been shared with Marjorie and her responses to them, he didn't want to have this conversation, yet Traverston wasn't going anywhere.

"Go ahead and speak. I know you have thoughts." He had them too, but for now, he wasn't ready to try and sort them, for that would mean he'd need to confront a few truths about himself.

"Oh, I have many thoughts." With amusement dancing in his eyes, the earl clasped his hands behind his back and grinned. "Can I assume that there is something between you and the delectable widow?"

How much to tell his friend? On the other hand, did it truly matter? They were both consenting adults and they hadn't broken any laws. Scandal was in the eye of the beholder, wasn't it? Perhaps Travertson could give him guidance. In a lowered voice, he said, "Marjorie and I have been... connecting on a physical level for a bit."

"So I can imagine." The earl's smirk didn't bode well. He waggled his eyebrows. "I can understand why you've chosen her. She's a real looker, and she's got spirit. Combined, that makes her nearly irresistible." Traverston dropped his voice. "And it has been a long time since you've relieved that particular itch by someone else's hand, hmm?"

Bloody, bloody hell.

"I suppose that's truth, but—"

"But what I'm more interested in was that tender kiss I just witnessed. What did that mean?"

"It meant nothing. Just a kiss."

Was that the truth, though? During that conversation, he'd been so damned relieved, had felt a tendril of hope blooming that he hadn't had before, that gratitude had winded through him for her presence. So he'd kissed her; it had felt as natural as anything else. She was there and he was there, and knew a strong urge of thankfulness at that point that had nearly removed the melancholy he'd been trapped beneath for far too long.

"Mmhmm." When the earl began to pace, Benedict shoved a hand through his hair. "Do you want to know what I think?"

"Not particularly." But the damned man was going to tell him anyway, no doubt.

The earl snorted. "I think you are coming to look forward to seeing her each day." He continued his pacing. "I also think she brings a certain warmth and light to your otherwise cold and dark existence. Furthermore, I believe you are finding yourself drawn to her because you truly don't wish to off yourself."

How to respond? Needing a few moments to ponder, he shoved a hand through his hair. Was it true that he was allowing Marjorie to pull him back from the brink? And if so, did that mean he was beginning to love or miss Phoebe less?

"I…" Why the devil was his cravat suddenly so tight? "She makes me feel… Well, she makes me feel again." There was nothing else to say, or rather nothing he wanted to share with his friend. That was between him and Marjorie.

"Well, I'm pleased with that development. It brings you back closer to the man I used to know." The earl came close and clapped a hand to his shoulder. "I'll refrain from teasing you about this for now, but I want you to know that Marjorie is a splendid match, if that is where this relationship is headed."

All of this was too confusing. "I don't know what it is we share, to be honest, and every time I think upon it or a future, I'm beset with maudlin thoughts and memories that invariably pull me right back into the pit I am trying—slowly—to climb out of."

Perhaps that was the most truth he'd uttered in recent years.

"That is understandable, but keep this in mind." Traverston stepped away and met his gaze. "There is no shame in carving out a new life for yourself. It doesn't mean you'll forget what you had, and it doesn't mean those that have gone on before no longer matter. But what it does mean is that you respect yourself enough to know that there is good still to be found in the future, because you do have one. And if that comes with a woman who keeps you vital and makes you feel alive, even better."

What he said made sense. Benedict nodded. "Thank you for that."

"You're welcome." The earl turned to leave.

"William?"

"Yes?" He glanced back with a frown.

"Thank you for not giving up on me over the years while I have been lost." The loyalty meant everything to him.

Traverston nodded. "While you're not quite out of that darkness yet, I believe there is finally hope that I'll soon have no cause to worry over you."

"That is debatable, my friend. I rather doubt I'm done being a nodcock."

"Well, that is true. For now, you can play host and serve me tea. I'm feeling rather like regaling the fair Marjorie with a few stories from our Oxford days. Who knows, perhaps she'll prefer me over you after those exploits come to light."

Benedict allowed himself a grin as knots of concern pulled in his gut. Nothing between him and the widow had been made permanent and promises weren't exchanged. Would she find the earl more charming?

Over my dead body. And he didn't make that vow lightly.