Page 24 of Their Wildest Dreams

The words held more than acknowledgment. Harriet felt it in the pause that followed and in the way his gaze moved over her before returning to the book. Temptation and fear remained in equal measure, neither strong enough to defeat the other.

Benedict began to read aloud. His voice settled into the quiet of the chamber, low and even, while the fire burned between them. They did nothing a husband and wife could not have done before a room full of guests. Yet Harriet was more conscious of him than she had been when they shared his bedchamber at Denham.

Separate rooms had not created the distance she had expected. They had only ensured that every moment Benedict spent in hers would be chosen.

Chapter

Eleven

Two days had passed since Benedict first entered Harriet’s chamber beneath the pretense of preserving the appearance of their marriage. Two evenings in which an hour had quietly become two, and neither of them had remarked upon the difference.

They had played chess the first night. Benedict had won, though Harriet remained convinced he had distracted her by disputing the wisdom of sacrificing a rook until she had forgotten the bishop lying in wait. The following evening, they had abandoned the board in favor of their books. Harriet had read while Benedict stretched his long legs toward the fire, and when the candles burned low, the darkness had loosened their tongues. They had spoken of Everton, of Alderley and, eventually, of things that had nothing whatever to do with estates or mortgages. Benedict had told her of the schoolmaster who had once locked him in a cupboard for insolence. Harriet had confessed that she had broken the drawing-room window at Denham deliberately, although hiding beneath his bed afterward had been an act of cowardice rather than strategy.

Only when the clock upon the mantel struck two had he risen and sought his own chamber through the private passage.

Harriet had lain awake afterward, listening to the silence he left behind.

It troubled her that she had begun to anticipate those hours. She spent each day knowing he would come to her when it ended. The arrangement had been conceived as a deception for the servants, but servants could not hear them once her chamber door was closed. There was no practical reason for Benedict to remain until the fire had fallen to embers or for Harriet to detain him with one more question whenever he made a motion toward leaving.

Yet she did.

It was this uncomfortable realization that occupied her mind even as she stood midway up a ladder in Everton’s library, attempting to read the title stamped upon the spine of a particularly neglected volume. Leaning forward she attempted to brush away dust and cobwebs, but only came away with her own fingers smeared with dirt and the book appearing no cleaner.

The library had suffered more from time than any other room they intended to use. Dust remained thick upon the upper shelves despite the servants’ efforts, and the books had been arranged according to a system known only to Benedict’s grandmother and, Harriet suspected, devised principally to prevent anyone else from finding them. Sermons stood beside treatises upon horticulture. A history of the Roman Empire had been wedged between two French novels of a nature sufficiently dubious that Harriet had placed them upon the desk for later examination.

She reached higher, steadying herself with one hand while she drew the volume free with the other. The ladder shifted faintly beneath her.

“If you mean to break your neck before luncheon, I should be grateful if you would postpone it until I have reviewed the household accounts.”

Benedict’s voice sounded from the doorway. Harriet glanced over her shoulder and found him watching her, one shoulder braced against the frame. He had evidently returned from the stables. His boots bore a trace of mud, and the cool air had given color to his face. The familiar sight of him produced a warmth she could not attribute to exertion.

“Your concern for my welfare is most affecting,” she said. “You may assure yourself that the accounts will be in perfect order before I expire.”

“The accounts are not in perfect order now. Therefore, I must insist that you descend.” He left the doorway and crossed the room, looking up at her with an expression of resigned disapproval. “There are servants whose employment includes climbing ladders.”

“There are presently too few servants whose employment includes everything. I will not summon a footman each time I wish to inspect a shelf.” Harriet turned back to the books. “Besides, I have climbed taller trees than this ladder.”

“You were twelve when you climbed trees, and you fell from half of them.”

“Only from the ones whose branches proved unequal to the burden of supporting me.”

“An important distinction, no doubt. I shall explain it to the surgeon. And given that ladder’s age and state of decay, I should think the branches were a likelier perch.”

Harriet ignored him and lifted the book toward the upper shelf. The movement drew her skirts against the narrow rung behind her. A fold of wool caught upon the brass fitting at the ladder’s side. She tugged impatiently, but the fabric held.

“Do stop fussing,” she said when Benedict placed one hand upon the rail. “You are making it move.”

“I am holding it still. Come down, and I will retrieve whatever indispensable volume has inspired this folly.”

“It is not folly. I am making a catalogue.”

“You are dangling above my head with your gown caught upon a ladder.” His gaze dropped briefly to the imprisoned fold of her skirt. “The catalogue may wait.”

Harriet attempted to free the fabric once more. The brass hook released it without warning. Her foot slipped from the rung, and the book fell from her hand. She heard Benedict say her name, sharply and without any trace of amusement. Then the ladder tilted away beneath her.

She did not strike the floor.

Benedict caught her with an arm about her waist and the other beneath her knees. The force of her fall drove him back a step, but he held her securely against his chest. For one disordered instant Harriet could think of nothing beyond the speed with which the room had changed direction. Her hands had closed upon his shoulders. Her cheek rested near the open edge of his coat, and beneath layers of cloth she could feel the violent beat of his heart.