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Chapter Four
Benedict stared at the visitor who currently sat perched on the edge of a low sofa in his drawing room. Two minutes ago, she had entered Worthington Hall, this woman who’d managed to incense him and intrigue him only yesterday.
And now she’d managed to shock him again by requesting a sanctuary of sorts at his manor house. So, he ignored that part for the moment and allowed his mind to catch up. “I beg your pardon, Lady Anne, but did you say I was your last hope?” He couldn’t help staring, for her appearance was much different than when he’d seen her yesterday.
Now, clad in a violet gown, plain and unadorned, with her blonde hair swept back into a knot, she resembled every other lady of the ton. Except, this lady could never be likened to the usual. The creamy tops of her breasts kept drawing his notice as did the quick peek of a lace-edged petticoat and silk-clad ankle when she shifted position and arranged her skirting. To say nothing of the fact she’d arrived sans bonnet or the proper gloves a woman should have donned in order to pay a call. But then, the absence of such fit her personality, and somehow, he missed her unorthodox attire that had hugged her curves and sent his imagination soaring.
Get hold of yourself, Worthington. You’re not looking for a match, and even if you were, she is the opposite of a safe choice.
“I did.” The dulcet sound of her voice wrenched him from his near-scandalous thoughts.
“Ah.” He was prevented for inquiring further, for the butler brought in a tea tray and set it upon the low table that lay between Benedict and her. “Thank you, Hemsley. That will be all.”
Anne reached for the teapot the same time he did. That brief brush of their fingers sent tendrils of heat up his arm to his elbow from the point of contact. “What I need from you is a place to stay while I gather my thoughts and make plans.”
His lower jaw dropped as he accepted a cup from her, and he couldn’t say what had shocked him more—her words or his reaction to that touch. When she raised the sugar tongs, he shook his head. “I take my tea straight. Thank you.” A sip of the amber beverage restored his ability to speak with any sort of intelligence. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the reason for your flight, but I’m sympathetic. However, you can’t stay here. It’s not proper.” In his head, the calculable risks built like soap bubbles.
Lady Anne staying at the manor house would be tantamount to the worst sort of scandal, which would lead to horrible gossip and his obligation to make an offer for her even if they’d done nothing wrong.
Having a woman underfoot would mean his cowardice would no longer remain hidden.
He might go mad from the tempting picture she made regardless of what outfit she chose to wear, and he was unaccustomed to such distraction, which brought its own immeasurable outcomes.
Any aberration from his normal schedule meant complete chaos.
Plus, the ability to guess at what the lady would do was incalculable. Asking her to act like a proper lady was like trying to pin a cloud to the wall.
“I realize that, obviously.” She put a splash of cream into her tea as well as a lump of sugar. The slight tinkling of the spoon against the delicate china felt almost like a siren’s song, for he couldn’t stop staring at her. “Yet, I need time away from my parents and their opinions if I’m to succeed in my endeavors.” The tiny frown that pulled down the corners of her mouth captured his attention to the point that his teacup sagged in his suddenly lax hand. “They don’t support what I’m trying to do.”
At the last second, Benedict came back to himself and saved the tea from spilling from his cup. Swiftly, he brought it to his lips and took a rather large gulp. The hot liquid burned his throat and sent a prickle of moisture into his eyes. “Which is what?” he managed to gasp out.
Focus on her words, you nodcock. Not the lady herself.
“Make history, Lord Worthington.” Her cornflower eyes sparkled as she spoke. “To show myself that I’m destined for more than to be some man’s wife or his brood mare. That my dreams are just as valid as a male’s.” She shrugged as if she’d spent copious amounts of time giving the matter serious thought. “The list goes on.”
No doubt it did, and he saw her in a different light, had a bit of an inkling as to what drove her. It was… impressive and spurred him to analyze his own existence and fix his flaws. But that would need to wait until later. “Why me?”
“Why not?” She took another sip of her tea, and once more the thought of those lips beneath his distracted him. “You’re the only person who hasn’t laughed at me in recent memory. That goes a long way in cultivating trust.” From her matching violet reticule, Lady Anne pulled a creased and balled piece of a newspaper from The Sun. “This so-called article precipitated my annoyance today.” She handed the page to him.
After smoothing out the worst of the wrinkles, Benedict read the article as well as the less than flattering headline. In the court of public opinion, she’d been eviscerated, but she still managed to hold her head up high.
How, and could she teach him that secret so that he wasn’t constantly held hostage by fear?
Then the urge to retch came sharply over him when he read the byline. Mr. Davies, the hateful major in charge of his unit in the cavalry, the man who’d told him all the time how worthless he was during a fight, that it was disgrace for him to wear the uniform, that he should just run home with his tail between his legs, that he’d never amount to anything.
Oh, dear God. Memories flitted through his mind’s eye and the acrid scent of gunpowder invaded his nose. A thin sheen of sweat dampened his upper lip and plastered his shirt to his back. His stint in the military had been hell, much due to that man. Was it any wonder he’d given into fear most of the time?
“Lord Worthington, are you quite well?” The sound of Lady Anne’s voice seemed to come from down a long tunnel.
“Yes.” He forced the word from his tight throat as he struggled to tamp the emotions that went rapid-fire through him. No way could he show them in front of her lest he appear pathetic and weak—all the things Mr. Davies said he was. With a tight grip on his teacup, he brought it to his mouth and sipped. Needing a distraction, he focused on the sharp awareness of her growing within his person.
Why the devil did he have such a starting reaction to this woman, this veritable stranger?
Then he cleared his throat and set the paper down near the tea tray. “This sounds rather personal and quite vicious.” He glanced at her, met her calming blue gaze, and stifled a sigh of appreciation. “Do you know this man, this, Mr. Davies?” Merely saying his name aloud made his stomach muscles clench in terror.
“Unfortunately, I do. He’s a reporter, obviously, and the third son of a baron who’d shown a romantic interest in me a couple of years before.” Her shrug only lifted one shoulder. “I didn’t return his regard, so I rejected him out of hand.”
He snorted. “And knowing you, said rejection wasn’t easy nor subtle.”
