Page 26 of Their Wildest Dreams

The door closed behind her.

Harriet stood motionless until Mrs. Mercer’s footsteps faded. Then the strength left her legs altogether. She sank to the carpet beside the desk, heedless of the dust upon her skirts, and pressed one unsteady hand against her mouth.

Benedict had very nearly kissed her.

Far worse, she had very nearly kissed him in return. And she didn’t regret that it had nearly happened. She regretted that it had been interrupted before it could.

“This is an unexpected complication,” she muttered to the empty room. But there was no answer. Only continued dismay and the faint echo of his touch.

Chapter

Twelve

Benedict disliked Mr. Crandell within five minutes of meeting him.

It was not an objection he could readily defend. The man’s clothing was sober and suitable to the position he sought. His speech was precise, his posture deferential without being servile, and the papers supplied by the agency described more than twelve years of employment in respectable households. He answered every question correctly. Indeed, his answers possessed such faultless propriety that Benedict found himself searching for the imperfection they concealed.

Under ordinary circumstances, he would have continued searching until he found it.

The present circumstances were not ordinary. Harriet’s body had been pressed against his less than a quarter hour earlier, and the imprint of it remained with a clarity that rendered rational inquiry nearly impossible.

He sat behind the desk in his study while Crandell occupied the chair opposite. The man was speaking of his familiarity with a country household, but Benedict heard only fragments. His mind supplied instead the sound of Harriet’s breath catching when he drew her nearer. He recalled the pressure of her hands upon his shoulders and the slight parting of her lips as he bent toward her.

Had Mrs. Mercer entered a few seconds later, he would have kissed his wife.

That fact ought not to have carried such force. A man did not require absolution for wishing to kiss the woman he had married. Yet Harriet had agreed to become his wife only after he promised that the title would give him no claim upon her person. For two days, he had entered her chamber beneath the assurance that nothing would occur there which she did not invite. In the library she had not invited him. She had merely failed to stop him.

The distinction was one a gentleman ought to observe before his mouth was almost upon hers.

“You were last employed in London?” Benedict asked, forcing his attention to the papers before him.

“Yes, my lord. The household was reduced when the family removed abroad.” Crandell’s expression remained impassive. He was perhaps forty, though the severe arrangement of his dark hair and the deep lines beside his mouth made certainty difficult. “The agency will confirm the circumstances.”

“I presume it already has.”

“Most thoroughly, my lord.”

Benedict glanced again at the letter bearing the agency’s seal. His father’s secretary had recommended the firm, and Denham had employed servants through it before without cause for complaint. That ought to have been sufficient. It would have been sufficient had Benedict not spent the previous afternoon warning Harriet that no stranger should be admitted to Everton without the closest examination.

He should ask why Crandell had left his earlier post after only eighteen months. He should send inquiries to each household named in the references rather than relying upon the agency’s report. The appointment need not be made today. Mrs. Mercer could continue directing the household, and Pritchard had promised to come from Denham whenever assistance was required.

But those sensible conclusions dissolved when Benedict remembered Harriet looking up at him with her eyes half closed.

The past two nights had afforded him little rest. Each evening he had sat in her chamber while the fire burned low and the household settled around them. Their conversations had begun cautiously, then wandered into the sort of confidences he had never imagined Harriet would offer him. She had spoken of her mother without the hard brightness she employed before others. He had found himself telling her things he had never thought important enough to repeat.

Then he returned to his own chamber, poured brandy and drank until sleep seemed possible.

It never proved peaceful. He dreamed of Harriet. Not as she appeared at dinner, armored in silk and armed argument, but with her hair unbound and the prim white nightrail clinging to curves modestly concealed by daylight. He had imagined what lay beneath it until the imagined woman and the real one had become dangerously difficult to separate. Each morning he woke exhausted, ashamed and no less tormented than before.

Now he no longer needed imagination to tell him how she would feel in his arms.

He knew the yielding warmth of her waist beneath his hand. He knew the slight weight of her body against his chest. He knew that when he lowered his mouth to hers, she had not recoiled. The knowledge had followed him from the library and seated itself between him and the man he was meant to judge.

“The household is not yet fully established,” Benedict said. “Mrs. Mercer serves as housekeeper, but several other positions remain vacant. You would be expected to assist her in examining applicants and establishing an orderly division of duties.”

For the first time, something altered in Crandell’s expression. It was gone too quickly for Benedict to name, perhaps no more than surprise that he would be expected share such responsibilities with a mere female. “Naturally, my lord. I have always found that a clear understanding between butler and housekeeper prevents disorder belowstairs.”

The answer was proper. Benedict disliked it nevertheless.