The Scandalous Proposal Of Lord Bennett. Raven McAllan

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.

      Clarissa was so engrossed in deciding whether to reread Miss Austen’s Northanger Abbey or discover the delights of Mrs Davenport’s The Hypocrite that when a strong hand descended onto her shoulder and gripped it she screamed as if a banshee had approached. She spun around and dropped both books. Straight onto a pair of bare feet.

      The epithet that scorched her ears made Clarissa certain the hands belonged to a human, and hadn’t acted independently. No banshee would have such a wide and varied cuss word vocabulary, surely?

      ‘Woman, do you want to unman me?’ She looked into the anguished face of her husband, who actually hopped from one foot to another. What a play actor.

      ‘Highly unlikely unless your manhood is in your feet?’ She couldn’t help it, she let her glance slide over his crotch – did it always twitch when someone glanced at it? – before she looked at his allegedly abused digits.

      ‘What a performance over a little book on your toes. Mr Kean would be proud of it. The library today, Drury Lane tomorrow?’ Clarissa bent down and picked the volumes up. His soft whistle made her realise the actions stretched her gown tight over her rear. She itched to drop the books once more, with force and intention this time. And make them graze the stiffly outlined part of his body that stretched his pantaloons to the limit of their knit. Why on earth was he barefoot anyway? He’d had boots on earlier. What was wrong with house shoes like any sensible person?

      She bit her lip to stop the ready retort that sprang to mind. Really, this bite-your-tongue stuff was a load of nonsense. He didn’t hold back, so why should she?

      ‘I thought you wished to talk, not insult me,’ Clarissa said as she put the books on the table and dusted her hands. It wouldn’t augur well to have a shouting match with her husband on the first full day of married life. ‘Your carpet needs a good clean.’

      He bowed. ‘Tell your servants, my dear.’

       My servants? Oh lord, I’m the lady of the house now.

      She curtseyed in the same mocking way he had saluted her. ‘As you say. Did you want me for anything, my lord?’

      He chuckled.

      Clarissa clenched her fists as the ready colour she was cursed with heated her skin. ‘In your dreams, my lord. If … when,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘I give myself to a man it will be one who has proved himself to be worthy.’

      He whistled long and loud. ‘Now did I say anything about giving yourself, my dear?’ His tone was all innocence. ‘I trust you’ve found a tome to amuse you during those few moments I cannot? For we leave for my hunting lodge within the hour.’

      ‘Why?’ Not that she was averse to leaving for the countryside. Clarissa was never at ease in the metropolis, and much preferred the slower pace of life in the shires. But with Ben? Alone? When he could … well, whatever. She turned her thoughts into a cough.

      ‘Why? Honestly?’ Gone was the hungover bridegroom, to be replaced by the man she had secretly admired from afar. ‘Clarissa, whatever the circumstances, we’re married, and need to gain a modicum of knowledge and understanding of each other. We need to learn to at least be in each other’s vicinity without sniping. For that, I rather think we need privacy. Here we are too likely to be interrupted, by all and sundry.’

      Clarissa understood the truth in that. Even in the short time she’d spent in the library, the silence of the house had been