Saved By Scandal's Heir. Janice Preston

went downstairs, Harriet and the evening to come playing on his mind and churning his gut.

       Chapter Three

      Crabtree appeared, seemingly from nowhere, to open the drawing room doors for Benedict.

      ‘Has Lady Brierley come downstairs yet?’ Benedict asked the butler.

      ‘Not yet, sir.’

      Benedict was conscious of a sweep of relief. At least they would not have to make small talk before their meal—that would be strained enough, he was sure.

      ‘Please impress upon the rest of the staff that they must not reveal the presence of either Lady Brierley or her maid to Sir Malcolm,’ he said. ‘It will only agitate him to no purpose.’

      ‘Indeed I will, sir.’ Crabtree bowed.

      Benedict entered the room to await his dinner guest. Moodily, he poked at the coals in the grate, stirring them to life, pondering this spectre from a past he had long put behind him. He had been caught on the back foot—his feelings tossed and tumbled like a ship caught in a squall. Surely his reaction to Harriet was merely shock and, like a squall, it would soon pass. After all, what was she to him? She was just somebody he used to know a long time ago, when she was a girl. She must be all of seven and twenty by now, by God. Her betrayal—her marriage to Brierley—was ancient history. He was confident he would soon recover his equilibrium, and then he could treat her with the same detached courtesy he would employ towards any unexpected guest. Perhaps he should look upon this unexpected trial in the light of a rehearsal—an opportunity to put their past into some sort of reasonable perspective. In the future, should he happen to see her around town, maybe he could remember their shared past with dispassion and not with this angry bitterness that was eating away inside him.

      Voices from outside the door roused him from his thoughts. He turned as Harriet entered the room, his breath catching in his throat at her stunning beauty. She wore an elegant lilac gown that accentuated the violet of her eyes and the fullness of her breasts, despite the neckline not swooping as low as some of the more daring fashions Benedict had seen. Her blonde hair was pinned into a smooth chignon, exposing the creamy skin of her neck and décolletage.

      Battening down his visceral reaction, Benedict bowed.

      ‘Good evening, Mr Poole.’

      He straightened. Her gaze was both cool and distant, stoking his resentment. The grand society lady: graciously poised and certain of her superiority regardless of the circumstances. Had she forgotten her humble beginnings?

      ‘Good evening, my lady.’ His voice was smooth and assured—a stark contrast with his inner turmoil. ‘I trust your bedchamber meets with your approval?’

      ‘Thank you, it does indeed.’

      The door opened again, and Crabtree announced that dinner was served. Benedict gestured for Harriet to precede him to the dining room.

      ‘How is your maid?’ Benedict asked, once they were seated and the food had been served. ‘Janet, is it not?’

      ‘Janet, yes,’ Harriet said. ‘I’m afraid her ankle is broken. Dr Green has set the bone and seems optimistic it will heal well. I do hope that is true and she does not end up with pain or a limp. Her back is very painful, too—the doctor cupped her and will examine her again tomorrow, when he visits Sir Malcolm. He did warn me, however, that she should remain in bed until the bruising comes out and he can see if there is any further damage to her back.’

      ‘How long is that likely to take?’

      A faint crease appeared between her brows. ‘He did not say. A few days at the least, I should imagine, so I am afraid I shall have to impose on your hospitality a little longer.’

      A few days? With her as a house guest? Benedict clenched his teeth against a sudden urge to laugh. What a fool! He was aware Harriet lived in London and since his return to England from India, he had taken care to avoid any risk of bumping into her. His efforts had been in vain; fate, it would appear, did not like to be thwarted.

      ‘She may stay as long as proves necessary,’ he said with a shrug of indifference, determined to give her no reason to suspect he could care less how long she stayed.

      Harriet studied him for a long moment as she sipped her wine. She then put her glass down and leaned forward, trapping his gaze.

      ‘In order there is no misunderstanding between us, sir, I should clarify that I will not leave Janet here alone. I intend to remain with her until she is fit enough to travel to Brierley Place. It is only eight miles away, and she can remain there until she is able to undertake the journey to London.’

      ‘As you wish,’ Benedict said. ‘Heaven forfend your maid should be forced to undergo the privations of recuperating in these miserable surroundings.’

      A flush lit Harriet’s cheeks. ‘The point is that she will be happier surrounded by people she knows,’ she said. ‘And I shall not hesitate to leave her there whilst I return to London.’

      ‘Your maid will be perfectly safe here without your protection,’ Benedict said, smarting at yet another reminder of the past scandals that had tainted both Tenterfield and the Poole name. It would take time to restore the reputation of both but he was determined to do so, and the sooner the better.

      Harriet’s words prompted another thought: he had forgotten Brierley Place was quite so near. ‘I wonder, though, that you did not plan to stay with your family at Brierley Place, rather than at a public inn, after your visit to my cousin. Why?’

      Her gaze lowered. ‘I wish to return to London as soon as possible, and if I stayed with my stepson and his family they would expect more than an overnight visit.’

      Her hand rose to her neck, and she began to twirl a lock of hair that curled loose by her ear. That achingly familiar habit catapulted Benedict back in time. She was hiding something. It was the first reminder of the girl he’d once known. He studied her, wondering what currents were masked by that calm, ladylike exterior of hers.

      ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘my stepson is always up and down to London in his carriage. He will return Janet to me as soon as she is well. The carriage will be far more comfortable for her than a hired chaise.’

      ‘Indeed it will,’ Benedict said, ‘and, with that in mind, I shall arrange to pay off your post boys in the morning.’

      ‘Thank you. I shall, of course, reimburse you.’

      ‘Of course,’ he agreed smoothly. ‘And, when you are ready to leave, I shall put my carriage at your disposal.’

      Her brows rose. ‘Your carriage? Do you not mean Sir Malcolm’s?’

      Benedict’s anger flared in response to that challenge but he battled the urge to vent his feelings, telling himself that anger came from caring, and he did not care.

      ‘I am not so devoid of feeling as to step into my kinsman’s shoes whilst he is still alive,’ he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. ‘I have my own carriage. It is the use of that I offer to you.’

      A delicate flush swept up from her chest to tint her cheeks as she turned her attention to her food. ‘Of course. I apologise. I should not have cast such aspersions.’

      The conversation faltered, and the silence accentuated the lonely wail of the wind outside. The windows rattled with every gust, the wind forcing its way through the gaps in the frames to cause the red velvet curtains to billow into the room from time to time.

      ‘How long have you been here, at Tenterfield?’

      Benedict finished chewing and swallowed his food before answering, ‘A week. My cousin’s solicitor sent for me on the doctor’s advice.’

      ‘So there is no hope of a cure?’

      ‘None.’

      He