Page 23 of Their Wildest Dreams

“Then sleep. I will sit by the fire until it is safe to leave.”

“As you sat before the fire at Denham?”

The words escaped before she could recall them. Benedict went very still. His gaze lowered briefly to the carpet, and Harriet remembered him stretched upon the hard floor while she insisted there was room beside her.

“Not precisely,” he said. “I should prefer the chair to the floor. It’s marble and rather cold.”

Heat gathered beneath Harriet's wrapper. She rose and crossed to the mantel, putting the width of the hearth between them. “You have contrived an inconvenient solution.”

“The inconvenience is not of my choosing. Selby must not learn that our marriage differs from what the contracts presume it to be.” Benedict watched her. “If this arrangement causes you distress, say so. I will find another means.”

There it was again—the careful restraint that made refusal both easier and far more difficult. Had he presumed upon his rights, Harriet could have rejected him without hesitation. Instead, he sat in her chamber asking whether his presence frightened her and offering to protect the very boundary she had begun to regret.

“It does not distress me,” she said. “I am distressed that we must continue to that wretched man.”

That was not entirely the truth. Benedict tempted her. That was the truth she had avoided since their wedding night. She wanted to know what would happen if he ceased retreating each time the air between them changed. She wanted to understand why the sight of his bare throat could scatter thoughts she had managed perfectly well in the presence of fully dressed men. Was it only the nature of marriage and the implicit permission for such liberties that had prompted these sudden wanton thoughts?

And she was terrified of what wanting might cost her.

If she altered their agreement, there would be no returning to the certainty with which she had entered this marriage. Physical intimacy would not make Benedict love her, nor would it ensure that he continued to respect the independence he presently admired. Her mother's marriage had taught Harriet how deeply a woman might be cherished. Her father's grief had taught her what remained when such love was taken away. She did not know whether she feared Benedict's indifference more than she feared coming to depend upon his affection.

“You are very quiet,” he said.

Harriet turned from the fire. “I am considering the practicalities.”

“Naturally.” His expression revealed nothing, but she heard the faint dryness in his voice. “Practical considerations have governed every conversation we have ever had in a bedchamber.”

“We have had only two such conversations.”

“And both concerned where I was permitted to sleep. I begin to think my comfort exercises an unusual fascination for you.”

His teasing restored enough of the familiar between them that Harriet could breathe. “Your comfort concerns me only because you make your suffering so conspicuous. Had you borne the floor with dignity, I should never have mentioned the bed.”

“I did bear it with dignity. You objected to the manner in which I breathed.”

“You were breathing resentfully.”

“How precisely does one do that?” Benedict settled farther into the chair. Some of the tension left his shoulders, though his attention did not leave her. “Shall we attempt the illusion, then? I promise to breathe with perfect neutrality for the required hour.”

Harriet returned to her chair. The distance between them was unchanged, yet the room seemed smaller than it had before his arrival. “Very well. You may remain. But if this is to occur regularly, we must establish rules.”

“We already possess rules enough to govern a small nation. What deficiency have you discovered?”

“You are not to enter without waiting for an answer. If Mrs. Mercer is still here, you will wait until she leaves. And you are not to assume that permission to sit in my chamber is permission for anything else.” Harriet delivered each condition firmly, though the last required greater effort than the first two. “The arrangement is intended to satisfy the servants. Nothing more.”

Benedict regarded her for a long moment. Firelight warmed his face and caught in the loosened folds of his cravat. “I understand that the satisfaction of our servants is paramount.”

His ready agreement should have relieved her save for the dryness of his reply which seemed laden with a meaning she did not quite understand. Instead, disappointment moved through Harriet with such quiet force that she could neither deny nor explain it. She had demanded a marriage in name only, separate rooms and freedom from every obligation beyond public appearances. Benedict had granted each condition. Now she could not fault him for believing she still wanted precisely what she had asked for.

He reached toward the small table between them and picked up the book Mrs. Mercer had left there. “Poetry?”

“Give it to me.” Harriet held out her hand. “You dislike poetry.”

“I dislike bad poetry. I have not yet determined which sort you prefer.” He opened the volume before she could reclaim it and examined the marked page, his brows lifting in surprise. “It’s quite scandalous, Lady Everton. My grandmother would be appalled.”

“Your grandmother is no longer mistress of Everton.” Harriet leaned back in her chair and met his gaze. “I am.”

A slow smile altered his expression. “So you are.”