Raven McAllan - The Scandalous Proposal Of Lord Bennett

‘Of course, my lord,’ Clarissa said levelly. ‘Shall I ring for the footman?’

He shook his head and winced. ‘Argh, of all the idiotic, stupid … Sorry, no need. I’ll sit and die quietly until one appears.’

It was difficult not to let her lips twitch at the air of pathos that surrounded him, but she hardened her heart. Everything he suffered was self-inflicted. If she wasn’t careful he’d run rings around her, and Clarissa was honest enough to know that could only end in heartache. ‘As you wish.’

‘You’re all heart, my dear.’

She chose not to answer as the soft swish of a door opening caught her attention. A few seconds later a plate of eggs and slices of crusty bread were set in front of her, and a chocolate pot and cup placed to one side. She thanked the footman who bowed and turned to Ben.

‘My lord?’

‘I’ll have what my wife is having,’ he said.

The footman’s eyes widened. ‘Chocolate, my lord?’

Ben blanched and Clarissa hid her face with her napkin as he then turned green and got up so abruptly his chair crashed down behind him. He left the room in a hurry.

Clarissa turned to the footman. ‘I think he means the eggs, Timothy.’

Chapter Three

After parting company with all of the previous day’s food and drink, and probably that of the week before as well, Ben dunked his head under the pump in the tiny backyard and spluttered as his nose and ears filled with the liquid.

He pulled his head up much too sharply for someone suffering the afflictions he did, and groped for the towel he’d plucked from the washing line on his mad dash to get rid of the contents of his stomach.

‘Here.’ The towel was placed in his hands, and he lifted the coarse material to his cheeks.

Damnation and hellfire, I know that voice.

He scrubbed his face, dropped the cloth, narrowly missed the water trough and looked up into the eyes of his wife.

‘Thank you,’ he said stiffly. Her amused expression helped not one iota to reduce his embarrassment. ‘My apologies you have to see me like this.’

‘Really?’ One elegant eyebrow lifted almost to her hairline. The wind flirted with her curls, and the hem of her skirt drifted back and forth over the dusty ground. As ever her fringe was all over the place. She looked young, and now, sadly, disgusted.

How on earth can she do that and invest it with all the scorn and disbelief she obviously has? Which, he acknowledged, he deserved.

‘I had thought it was due to your having to rest your eyes on me; you decided that to drink yourself into oblivion was a better option.’ Clarissa surveyed him steadily, and Ben was sure his face was the colour of the roses she’d carried in her bouquet the day before. How on earth could she make him feel like a scrubby schoolboy so easily?

‘I’m sorry I gave you that impression.’ Try as he might he couldn’t lift his voice. It was hard not to scuff his boots in the dirt and kick a stone. However, in the state he was in he’d probably break a window or hit his wife on the head if he did.

‘Are you? If you say so.’

His hackles rose as she dismissed his apology so cavalierly. Really his wife needed lessons in manners. And I don’t? He dismissed the thought. It was too close to the truth to be contemplated at a silly hour.

‘I’ve instructed Timothy to take your eggs away and bring you a jug of ale, and barbaric though it sounds to me, red meat. According to Renwick, your major-domo, it’s the best cure for an …’ She chuckled and he caught a glimpse of a person he’d never met before. Bright eyes, young and amused. No adoration, no disgust, just an openness he loved. ‘An affliction such as yours.’

‘Thank you,’ he said gratefully. ‘Believe me, it works.’

‘Then perhaps you should return to your breakfast.’

Somehow he was sure it was not a suggestion. Had his wife got hitherto unrevealed depths? After all, what did he know of her? A fresh-faced schoolgirl who went red whenever he saw her, a young deb who held no interest for him, and now an unwilling bride, even if he had long held a desire to get to know her better. Who does she remind me of? That question had popped in and out of his mind over several years. He never discovered the answer.

Ben held his arm out to her.

She shook her head. ‘Unlike you, I have no desire to greet a red and rare steak over the breakfast table. I thought I might check your library to see if it negates a visit to Hookham’s.’

Hookham’s? The circulating library. Why on earth does a bride on her honeymoon need to visit there? His bewilderment must have been obvious, because his bride smiled, and elaborated.

‘To choose some reading matter. I have to have something to pass the time, and embroidery and tapestry don’t hold my attention for as long as a good book.’

‘We have a library next door if you wish to labour under the misapprehension you will need something other than your husband to occupy your time.’ Lord, he sounded pompous.

She curtseyed and, without bothering to give him a reply, turned on her heels, gave him a tantalising glimpse of her ankles once more – and disappeared through the door and in the direction of the library.

Ben made his way slowly into the breakfast room. He and the lady were long overdue a talk about what was required of a new wife, a honeymoon, and a marriage. The need to find a pastime, other than pandering to his every whim, wasn’t high on the agenda.

Why on earth had he thought that once they were wed all would be fine and straightforward? With Clarissa of all people. He might have admired her since she emerged from her schooling and took her place in the ton, but he suffered no illusions about her and her feistiness. When he saw Ferdy Pendragon attack her he’d seen red and all his chivalrous qualities had come to the fore. She deserved better. Yes, things had got somewhat out of hand, and his declaration had been as much of a surprise to him as it was to her. However, he hadn’t been displeased. It was time he wed, and Clarissa was someone he liked. He ignored the tiny voice in his battered head that scoffed and niggled … only like? He should have known it wasn’t going to be plain sailing.

He began to plot. Hookham’s indeed. If she needed to read, then she could read him.

****

Clarissa wandered around the library like a child in William Hamley’s Noah’s Ark toy shop. When she was a little girl, her godmother had taken her to the shop in High Holborn and allowed her to pick two toys. She’d chosen a whip and top, and an elegant rag doll, which her half-French godmother had christened Marguerite. The whip and top were buried deep in one of the outbuildings at her father’s country home, but Marguerite was in her portmanteau and would eventually sit on her bed.

When he chooses to tell me where it is. The night before she’d been ushered into a bedchamber, and left to await his arrival. Some arrival that had been. She had ached from the number of times her hand had been shaken or she’d curtseyed, and was tired and more than a little apprehensive about the coming hours. And she knew fine well only the upper servants had greeted them. The rest of the household would be made known to her on the return from their honeymoon. She had no idea if that was the norm or not but she was pleased it had been so. There had been enough new things and people to assimilate as it was.

Clarissa cast her mind over the previous night’s activities and remembered her first sight of a naked man. Now, she admitted, it was a sight well worth seeing even if previously she hadn’t been so sure.

Her less than amorous bridegroom had fallen onto the mattress and stayed where he landed for the rest of the night. So much for being introduced to the pleasure of the marital bed. She shook her head. If that was the delight awaiting her, he could keep it. It was best not to think of it. Instead she delved into the delights of a well-stocked library, with a plethora of books to choose from. If, as it seemed, reading did not feature on His Lordship’s list of pastimes, someone had thought it worthwhile creating such a perfect room. She decided there and then that during any visit to the capital she would use the library as her own private retreat. Ben could find somewhere else to drink his brandy and bemoan his fate.