Page 48 of Her Wily Duke

Benedict followed him up the steps, annoyed by the tone in his voice. It sounded like Lord Hazelworth was blaming him for causing a scene by hanging back and defending his wife. Benedict would have argued the point, but Hazelworth was still holding the pistols, and he had already proven that he wouldn’t hesitate to use them.

The silence lasted until they reached Lord Hazelworth’s study.

***

“You keep saying it will get better eventually, but I don’t see how,” said Benedict. Lord Hazelworth had already warned him once to lower his voice, but he didn’t care who heard it. “Can you even conceive of the humiliations I suffered last night?”

“Having spoken to both you and Ariana, I think I have an idea,” said Hazelworth, absently smoking a cigar.

“I don’t think you really do!” Benedict cried. “In all my life I’ve never been as humiliated and rejected as I was last night — on my wedding night, of all nights! What’s the use of even getting married if my own wife is going to treat me like this?”

“Some might say it would be worth it, when you’re gaining another estate.”

They were talking in Hazelworth’s study, which was really more of a second sitting-room. Hazelworth was seated on a pale divan in front of the fire while Benedict paced near the windows, which were hung with crimson damask curtains, and through which a cold grey light was filtering into the room – the drizzle continued outside, making the day look as miserable as he felt.

Before Benedict could voice his caustic opinion of this latest suggestion, the door opened, and a maid entered the room carrying a tall pitcher of water, at the top of which floated several thin slices of lemon.

“Lemon water?” she asked, then added shyly, speaking to Lord Hazelworth, “Also, Lady Hazelworth wanted me to pass along a message.”

“What message is that?” Hazelworth sounded annoyed.

“She said to remind you that you aren’t supposed to be drinking. Physician’s orders.”

Hazelworth looked so furious that Benedict half expected him to throw his entire glass of madeira at her. But he said nothing to the maid, who quailed at his look, set down the pitcher, and left the room hurriedly.

“Now what were we talking about?”

Hazelworth was obviously intent on ignoring the entire concept of lemon water, despite whatever his physician might have said.

“I was trying to explain to you that Ariana obviously didn’t want to be married — certainly not to me, at least not yet, and maybe not ever. I keep trying to tell you this, but you don’t seem to be listening and I’m finding it incredibly frustrating.”

“Because I don’t see what there is to discuss.” Hazelworth took a long drag on his cigar with a look of enjoyment which was probably heightened by his wife’s disapproval. “We both got what we wanted — Ariana’s married and in time you’ll inherit the estate.”

“But Ariana!” Benedict had reached the end of his patience. “What about what Ariana wanted? Because it has become clear to me that it wasn’t this.”

“And like I told you before, she’ll get over it. She could have done a lot worse than marrying a man like you.”

“And I can’t help wondering whether you really have Ariana’s best interests at heart.”

Benedict knew from the moment that he said it that he had crossed an invisible line. Hazelworth glared at him coolly as though wanting to show him to the door.

“Be glad you’re my son-in-law,” he said in a voice of quiet menace. “Anyone else who spoke to me like that would be regretting it already.”

“Well, now that you’re paying attention, please listen to what I’m trying to tell you: Ariana doesn’t love me. I’m not sure that she could even be said to like me. I’m getting the impression that she acquiesced to the marriage because she didn’t feel that she had any other choice.”

“And I’m telling you, you place far too much importance on romantic love and freedom of will! The beauty of an arranged marriage isn’t how it begins, but what it becomes. Ariana might feel that she doesn’t love you now, but she’ll change her mind. What else is she going to do? Divorce you?” Hazelworth gave a harsh laugh, knowing full well that the cost, and the scandal, of a divorce put it totally out of the question. “Women have a remarkable gift for acclimating themselves to situations that they can’t get out of.”

Benedict sank down into one of the winged leather chairs opposite Hazelworth with a groan of exasperation. No matter what Benedict said, he was never going to convince Hazelworth that the marriage represented any kind of crisis. For Hazelworth, it appeared that there were no problems in a marriage which couldn’t be solved by the stern application of the husband’s authority.

“I knew a man once,” said Hazelworth. “A merchant who married a seemingly charming young woman. And she was a wayward, wicked thing with bright red hair and cold, conniving green eyes. And she used to sneak out of the house every night to go to see the dancing monkeys — they were these monkeys that danced and performed acrobatics, and one of them played the tambourine. Amazing creatures. Owned by a man who’d retired from a circus, and taken up a cottage nearby. Anyway, the merchant got tired of her going out every night.”

Hazelworth paused and sipped his madeira.

“And…?”

Benedict wanted to know where the man was going with his tale, as it seemed rather outrageous, and not relevant. Hazelworth set his glass down and went on.

“It didn’t sit right with him, as he had known other women who used various pretexts to sneak out and meet their lovers, and he was suspicious.”