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He poured a cup for himself. He would not have Mrs. Snow thinking her efforts had gone to waste. He took several swallows, set the cup and saucer back on the tray, and then cleared his throat. “I’m certain it was obvious to you the other day that I have formed a . . . deep regard . . . for you.” He paused. His words sounded absurd, even to him.
“My dear friend, Rebecca,” he began again, although he wasn’t sure his second attempt was any better than his first thus far. “Circumstances brought us together in an unexpected way, and while I do have a deep regard for you, an”—could he really say the word without raising her expectations?—“an attachment, even, to you, of sorts, I am not, as you know, presently in the position to offer marriage. To anyone.” Blast. He was beginning to sound like he was stuttering.
She closed her eyes slowly and reopened them just as slowly. It was a rather mesmerizing blink, as though she had gone to sleep and reawakened with that brief, simple movement. “This house is so familiar to me,” she said quietly, looking about the room. “I often visited dear Mr. Arnold, especially when his health began to fail, and played the pianoforte for him. He owned—you now own—a lovely instrument, and it gave me a great deal of pleasure to play it and bring a bit of joy into his life.” She gazed straight at him. “I grieve that you suffered so much during your first marriage,” she said, her voice calm and direct and stabbing him through the heart. “And I grieve for the infant who will grow up without a mama—at least, as you said, for the present. My words were offered to you freely, but I will not press them upon you. They shall remain my own.”
She grieved for the infant who would grow up without a mama. How was Ben to explain to her that Rose would also be growing up without a papa? At least, without her real father, that was, for Rose was not his child. That realization had been the coup de grâce, the final blow, in a marriage that had already proven itself to be disastrous. Gemma had managed to use him and had fooled him—had fooled them all—until the bitter end when Ben had come to realize she’d given birth to a baby two months early but who had all the appearance of a healthy, full-term child.
“We must have miscalculated Lady Winton’s date of confinement,” thedoctor had somberly told him. “It happens sometimes. At least, in that regard, we can take a measure of comfort.”
Comfort. There had been no comfort it that knowledge at all.
No, the answer was Ben couldn’t tell Rebecca. Only Gemma and Ben knew—Gemma had known. Unless Rose’s natural father knew. That was something only the person in question could answer, and Ben didn’t know who that person was from amongst Gemma’s many gentlemen admirers.
He would not jeopardize Rose by sharing this secret. Not even with Rebecca.It was a disgusting, embarrassing secret he vowed to keep to himself.
Rebecca took a deep breath. “I admit I do not understand the depths of your wounds, but I hope, in time, they will heal. For now, allow me to personally apologize for the ill treatment my brothers gave you; they had no right to intrude, and they know full well of my disapproval of their behavior. In the meantime, I sincerely wish Susan and the Duke of Aylesham to arrive home to a celebration full of cheer and good will. Considering our last encounter, I thought you may need a more detailed explanation than a mere letter of invitation would convey in order for you to realize the importance of your being there.”
He loathed the distant politeness of her words but had no choice but to listen. He owed her that much.
“Since I have delivered my message, I must leave if I’m to return before I am discovered. I do not wish to experience a repeat of the tirade you just gave me from any—or all—of my siblings when I arrive home.” She took another hop.
“You expect to hop all the way to my phaeton, do you?” he said.
“To my horse, you mean,” she said.
“No,” he said. “To myphaeton.”
“If I return on my horse, I will be less noticeable. The mounting block will still be in the stable, as will my crutches, and so I will have no problem whatsoever on my own. Gettingonmy horse was more difficult than gettingdownwill be. If you insist on taking me in your phaeton, my family will be sure to notice.”
“How do you intend to get back on your horse?” He shook his head. “I amnotgoing to argue with you about this. As a gentleman, Irefuseto allow you to venture out on your own in such a dangerous way.”
She took a few little hops, apparently intending to let Ben know she was determined, but she wobbled, throwing her arms out a bit to help regain her balance. He sprang forward and wrapped his arms around her to steady her. “Iwill notallow you to attempt this on your own,” he said, relishing the feel of her in his arms again. “Pleaseallow me to do this for you. Were you to injure yourself further—” He stopped speaking to control his heightened emotions. “Were you to injure yourself further,” he repeated softly, “I couldn’t bear it. It would be too much.”
She refused to look at him, even though her face was right next to his. “Very well,” she said at length, sounding resigned.
He nodded, relieved that she had acquiesced.
He carefully swung her fully into his arms and carried her outside to the front courtyard, where MacKay had her horse and the phaeton at the ready.
“MacKay will follow us on your horse and return home with me afterward.”
She said nothing.
Ben carefully placed her on the seat of the phaeton they’d ridden in a mere few days ago, then walked around it to enter from the opposite side, taking the ribbons from MacKay. “MacKay, a pillow from the front parlor, if you please,” he said.
MacKay strode off and returned with a pillow. “Excuse me, Miss Jennings,” he said. “If you don’t mind lifting that foot of yours a bit.”
She obediently lifted her foot. MacKay carefully slid the pillow beneath.
“Off we go, then,” Ben said. He knew that riding in his phaeton had given her a bit of discomfort and wanted to assure himself that the same was not happening this time. “Are you having any pain?” he asked as they headed down his private lane. “It’s something we should address before we reach the public road.” His well-groomed lane would be much easier on her injury than the ruts in the public road would be.
“Not in my ankle,” she said.
* * *
Ofcourseshe was in pain. The moment he had once again lifted her into his arms, it had taken everything she had within her not to cry out from the agony in her heart. She had wished to deliver her message and leave, butnothinghad happened according to plan.
Visiting him had been impulsive and foolish, she realized now, chiding herself despite her earlier rationalizations. It had been easy to presume that she could simply deliver the news of Susan’s marriage and the celebration to be held at Alderwood and—she’d told herself—to assure him that his presence was not only welcome but necessary.
