Janice Preston - Saved By Scandal's Heir

‘Do you enjoy the theatre?’

He grinned openly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Now, tell me, what happened to your father? I understand the Reverend Twining has been the pastor here for a number of years past.’

She’d known it was only a matter of time before he started questioning her. Her stomach knotted with guilt, as it always did whenever she thought of her father.

‘He died six years ago.’

Oh, Papa! Parson Rowlands, deeply shocked by his only daughter’s fall from grace, had barely spoken to Harriet during that dreadful time leading up to her marriage to Brierley. His disappointment in her would have broken her heart had it not already been in pieces after Benedict’s rejection. Then, after her marriage, she’d had no opportunity to heal the breach with her father because Brierley had discouraged—most strongly and very effectively—any interaction between Harriet and her parents. The mere thought of her late husband and his despotic ways prompted a swell of nausea and she forced it back down. She pushed her plate away, her appetite gone.

How she regretted that she’d had no chance to reconcile with her father before his death. She gripped her hands tightly together under cover of the table, willing her voice to remain steady as she continued, ‘After he died my mother moved to live with her sister in Whitstable.’

There was no security of tenure for the widow of a vicar. The rectory had been needed for the next incumbent. She risked a glance across the table. Benedict looked thoughtful, his green eyes locked onto her face.

‘She does not live with you?’

‘No.’ After Brierley’s death Harriet had rekindled her relationship with her mother, but Mrs Rowlands had declined to leave her ailing sister. ‘My aunt Jane suffers from ill health. She benefits from the sea air and Mama felt her duty was to stay and care for her.’

‘I am sorry to raise what is clearly a painful subject.’

‘You were not to know.’

Silence reigned once again. Benedict continued to eat and Harriet fixed her gaze upon her half-eaten plate of congealing food. Her emotions were rubbed raw; everything...everything...was this man’s fault. How she wished she could just leave the table and return to the privacy of her bedchamber. Good manners, however, dictated she must remain. She must distract herself somehow—her mind was as brittle as ice, ready to splinter into a thousand sharp accusations at the wrong look, the wrong word. She cast around for a topic of conversation.

‘You mentioned yesterday that you intend to spend much of your time in London in the future,’ she said. ‘Is it your intention to take your place in society?’

She prayed the answer would be no. How could she bear it, knowing she might bump into him at any time? How could she endure the constant reminders of all that had happened?

‘Yes, it is,’ he said. Harriet’s heart sank. ‘I intend to restore the reputation of the Poole family name after Malcolm’s depredations.’

‘And how do you intend to do that?’ Even to her own ears, the question sounded waspish.

Benedict’s lips thinned and he frowned. Then he gestured at Harriet’s plate. ‘Have you had enough to eat? Might I pass you any fruit or sweetmeats?’

‘No. I have had sufficient, thank you.’

Crabtree and the footman in attendance began to clear the dishes.

Benedict waited until they left the room, and then continued, ‘To answer your question, I shall do it by example. I am conscious that my cousin made no provision for the future of the title and the estate but I shall not make that mistake. I will not allow the baronetcy to fail, nor do I relish the idea of the Poole estates reverting to the Crown to help fund the profligate lifestyle of Prinny.’ He pushed his chair back, then rounded the table to draw her chair out to enable her to stand. ‘I need an heir. I shall marry a respectable girl from a good family and have a family.’

His words stabbed at her heart. An heir! How can he be so cruel? How could he speak of having a child and not even show a flicker of interest in what had happened eleven years ago? Harriet tamped down her fury and distress as she rose, schooling her expression into one of polite disinterest before facing him.

‘I wish you well in your endeavour.’

He stared at her for a long moment before speaking again. ‘Perhaps you might help me in my search for a suitable wife?’ He searched her face, his eyes intent. ‘You must be acquainted with a number of young ladies.’

What does he want from me? Proof of the pain he caused? Tears? Harriet steeled herself to show nothing of what she felt.

With an effort, she raised her brows in a coquettish fashion. ‘Perhaps you might furnish me with a list of your specific requirements, sir?’

His laugh sounded forced. ‘Oh, I hardly think—’

‘But I insist, sir! How else am I to help you?’

She was beyond taking pleasure at his look of discomfort. He had clearly not expected her to react in kind.

‘Harriet—’

‘Or perhaps you have not yet considered the precise qualities desirable in your wife, sir,’ she rushed on. ‘That is a mistake, I assure you. Allow me to help.’

She faced him, one arm crossed at her waist, her other elbow propped on it as she tapped one finger to her lips.

‘Your bride... Now, let me see... You will require a girl of impeccable breeding. Her father should be no less than a viscount, I would suggest, in order to add to your consequence. She must have a substantial dowry, preferably of land, to increase your estates and wealth. What else?’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘She should be elegant, obedient, schooled in all the ladylike accomplishments. Oh! And, of course, it goes without saying she must be an innocent.’

Without intent, her voice had risen until she spat out the final word and Harriet silently cursed herself for rising to Benedict’s bait.

Chapter Five

There was a beat of silence following Harriet’s outburst.

‘Harriet?’ Benedict put his hand on her shoulder, curling gentle fingers around it. ‘Why are you so upset?’ He crouched slightly to gaze into her face and cradled her cheek with his other palm.

How fickle could one woman’s body be? How treacherous? In the midst of her distress, she felt the undeniable melting of her muscles, the tug of need deep, deep inside and the yearning to lean into him and to feel his arms around her. To take his comfort.

She kept her gaze lowered. She could not bear to look at him, lest her weak-willed craving shone from her eyes. Harsh breaths dragged in and out of her lungs, searing her chest. What had she done? What would he think? Her mind whirled, looking for anything to excuse her behaviour.

‘It was the memory of Papa. I must be overtired, to allow it to upset me so. I am sorry if I have embarrassed you. Goodnight, sir.’

Harriet jerked away from Benedict and swept from the room with her head averted, blinking rapidly to stem the tears that crowded her eyes. She climbed the stairs on legs that trembled with a need that both shocked and dismayed her.

‘Harriet?’

She heard him call her, but she kept going. Then she heard the feet pounding up the stairs behind her. Coming closer, ever closer. Memories—dreadful, heart-wrenching memories—crowded her mind. Her heart beat a frantic tattoo and bile burned its way up her throat.

‘No!’ The breathy scream forced its way out of her lips as she scurried up the last few stairs, clutching at the banister for support. She reached the top. Not safe. Not here. Panic swarmed through her veins.

She stumbled across the landing and then spun round—panting in her distress—her back against the wall, well away from the wide open, threatening head of the stairs.