Page 46 of Her Wily Duke

“You might have said that, but how could I trust you not to touch me, if we were in the same bed?”

There was a sceptical tone in her voice - Benedict thought that he had never met anyone so mistrustful of others and their intentions. As he had in the carriage, he wondered if she was trying to provoke him deliberately.

Ariana turned fully over again, lying on her front at an odd angle so that her legs took up much of the remaining bed. There was no room left for another person to lie down, which must have been how she wanted it, making certain that he did not try to stay with her here.

Benedict felt his heart sinking into disappointment as he realised that he would be sleeping in his own room tonight, without her. There was no winning this argument, not now. It was the sort of thing which would be slowly settled over weeks and months of careful attentions, or not at all. Not unless he wanted to end all hope of any affection between them forever.

When Ariana had first recoiled from his kiss, Benedict had thought he would never be over it. Now, however, he felt his anger fading into exhaustion as he realised just how tired he was.

He turned towards the door without another word – there was no answer to her lack of trust in him but to simply leave her as she had asked.

Stirred by curiosity it seemed, Ariana sat up slightly in the bed.

“Are you leaving?”

“What choice do I have?”

“Where are you going?”

“Out.” He motioned to the window. “I may go for a walk in the gardens. I may just go to my bedchamber. I can’t stay here – you’ve made it abundantly clear that you want me gone from your presence.”

For the briefest instant he thought he saw something like contrition flash across Ariana’s face. But then her expression hardened into annoyance, as if she resented herself for having softened towards him.

“Are you coming back?”

“Tonight? No. But another night, yes. I’m not just going to leave you here, and abandon that part of our marriage. I will expect to see you at breakfast, and for us to get on with our lives, and move towards a night, very soon, when we do spend it in the same bed. Tomorrow afternoon, we will go to Hazelworth Hall.”

“Why?” she asked warily.

“Because I want to talk to your father. Now good night.”

Worry glittered behind her eyes, but Ariana said nothing as he turned away. It had reached the time of night when all further arguments and anxieties could wait until morning to be aired.

“Good night.”

Her voice was quiet, no longer even slightly petulant, and that gave Benedict a small grain of hope. He gave her a final sad, rather reproachful look before leaving the room.

He paused for a moment in the parlour, half-expecting, hoping, that she would open the door and invite him to come to bed. The clock on the mantel ticked on, counting the minutes of his failure as a husband, until he sighed.

She did not open the door. Instead, the faint light of her candle, which seeped through the crack under the door, disappeared, and deeper darkness filled the room.

Darkmire Abbey always returned to darkness.

Chapter Four

Benedict’s return to the Hazelworth estate on the following day ought to have been a happy one. He and Ariana were returning together, and they were married now. One day the estate would be his, although that day was not really one that he wished for, for that circumstance would only come about with Lord Hazelworth’s death. The family and staff ought to have been there to welcome them, but only a solitary footman stood waiting in the autumn rain, with an umbrella. At least the rain was warm, the year not having advanced too far yet.

And Benedict was tired. He had passed a miserable night in his own bed, painfully aware that Ariana was only two doors away from him – even though she might as well have been on the other side of the country.

He had expected his marriage to go better than this, but so far everything had been a disappointment. His back was stiff from the awkward position he had been in, when he had finally fallen asleep after tossing and turning for hours, his bones ached, and he could barely keep his eyes open.

But what made it was worse was that Ariana didn’t even seem bothered by the events of the previous evening. She hadn’t offered him so much as a ‘How are you?’ or ‘Are you well?’ since they had first seen each other that morning. In fact, she had barely spoken two words – which had been a grudging ‘good morning’.

Now, they moved across the damp gravel as his carriage drove off behind them, in the direction of the Hazelworth stables, and approached the marble steps which led up to the imposing door. At least there, they were protected from the rain by the portico. As they ascended those steps together, the uneasy silence was broken by a loud cry from behind them.

“You’re making a mistake!”

Startled, Benedict paused on the threshold. He turned to see a lonely figure leaning against the vast elm at the edge of the forecourt. The man presented a rather strange appearance – he wore what had once been a fashionable straw hat, which was the colour of a wheat field in summer, over hair of a matching tone. His beard was scruffy, as if he had no access to a skilled valet, even though his clothing, whilst rather in need of attention, was indicative of wealth and station. He carried a hip flask in one hand as he half-staggered forward, gesturing at Ariana with the air of a street-corner prophet, his pale blue eyes intent. Benedict concluded that the man was rather more than moderately foxed.