Page 22 of Their Wildest Dreams

At Denham Park, she had slept in Benedict's chamber. Every object had reminded her that she occupied a space belonging to him. Here, the servants had carried her belongings into rooms intended for the mistress of Everton. Whatever uncertainty attended that position, no one could call her a guest.

Mrs. Mercer fastened the final button of Harriet's wrapper and looked at her reflection in the mirror. “It is a pleasant room. A little faded, perhaps, but that may be remedied when you have decided what you like.”

“I like that no one else has decided it for me.” Harriet touched the silver lid of a small box that had belonged to her mother. “Though I suspect Lady Denham selected the roses.”

“Then she chose wisely.” Mrs. Mercer gathered the discarded gown. She had asked no questions about the arrangement of the bedchambers, but Harriet had seen her notice that Benedict's belongings had been carried elsewhere. The older woman confined herself to saying, “Will you require anything more tonight, my lady?”

“No. You may go.”

Once the door closed, the quiet changed. During the day, the house had echoed with footsteps, voices and the movement of furniture. Now the servants had withdrawn belowstairs, and the silence revealed every creak of old wood and stir of wind against the windows. Harriet crossed to the hearth and held her hands toward the fire.

She ought to have been relieved. There was no enormous bed containing the suggestion of Benedict, no sound of him moving in a dressing chamber only a door away. His rooms lay across the short private passage. She possessed precisely the independence she had demanded.

It felt rather more like isolation than victory.

The thought irritated her. Benedict had spent the day avoiding any reference to the words with which he had ended their wedding night, and she had followed his example. They had spoken of Everton, servants, tenants and a dozen other matters without once acknowledging that he had invited her to alter the terms of their marriage—or that she had lain awake afterward wondering what answer she might have given if surprise had not stolen her tongue.

She moved to the window and drew back one edge of the curtain. Darkness had swallowed the lawn. Beyond it, the woods formed a deeper band of shadow beneath the clouded sky.

Selby had been there. Distance and the swiftness of his disappearance had allowed doubt to intrude, but Harriet no longer believed she had imagined him. She remembered the stillness of his horse and the fixed direction of his attention. He had watched her ride toward Everton. Whether he meant to intimidate her or merely satisfy his curiosity, the knowledge left her uneasy.

A knock sounded behind her.

Harriet dropped the curtain. For one startled instant, she expected Mrs. Mercer. Then the inner door opened, and Benedict stepped into the room.

He had removed his coat and waistcoat, though his cravat remained loosely tied. The informality of his appearance carried Harriet at once back to the previous night— their wedding night—the fire, his discarded clothes and the unmistakable strain in his voice. She tightened her wrapper and hated that he noticed.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“You appear to have done so.”

One brow lifted. “I knocked. When you did not answer, I feared you had not heard me.”

“I heard you. I was merely surprised.” Harriet let the curtain fall into place. “These are my rooms.”

“I am aware of it. Mine are through that passage, exactly where you instructed the servants to place them.” Benedict closed the door but did not advance farther into the chamber. “That is why we must speak.”

Harriet gestured toward a chair near the hearth. “If this is another complaint about the placement of your desk, I have already explained that the estate room belongs to the person most likely to use it.”

“It is not the desk.” He waited until she had seated herself before taking the chair opposite. The fire lay between them, lending the conversation a formality made absurd by the fact that she wore a nightrail beneath her wrapper. Benedict appeared conscious of the same contradiction. His gaze rested upon her face with unusual discipline. “We must decide how our domestic arrangements are to appear to the servants.”

Harriet's uneasiness returned. “You said this afternoon that they must believe our marriage ordinary.”

“Yes. At Denham, no one questioned my presence in my own chamber, even after yours was added to it. Here, every servant knows we have separate apartments. That is not remarkable in itself, but if I never enter yours after dinner, it will become remarkable very quickly.”

“Mrs. Mercer has attended me since childhood. She will say nothing.”

“I do not question Mercer. Nor do I question the servants we brought from Denham. But we must engage others, and the fewer people required to protect our secret, the safer it will remain. A maid cannot betray what she has no reason to suspect.” Benedict leaned forward, resting his forearms upon his knees. “I must come to your chamber in the evenings—at least on occasion. Not every night at precisely the same hour, as though we had established a schedule for deceiving the household, but often enough that my visits become ordinary. I can return to my rooms through the private passage after the house has settled.”

The proposal was entirely sensible. It also meant that this scene would repeat itself: Benedict entering after she had undressed, his coat and waistcoat discarded, the formal barriers between them reduced one garment at a time.

“How long must you remain?” Harriet asked.

“Long enough that no one waiting in the corridor hears me leave five minutes after I arrive. An hour, perhaps. Sometimes longer.” His mouth tightened before he added, “Nothing need occur during that time. We may talk, read or quarrel in subdued voices. The appearance of a normal marriage is all that is required.”

Harriet looked toward the connecting door. When she had demanded separate rooms, she had imagined safety in the distance between them. She had not considered that the secrecy it required of them would create its own kind of intimacy. It would bring him into her chamber regardless, nor that his presence there would feel more deliberate because he possessed another bed to which he might retreat.

“And if I wish to sleep?”