Page 31 of Their Wildest Dreams

Chapter

Fifteen

Harriet was not herself. Something had upset or troubled her in some way.

Benedict had known it when she took his arm at the church door. He had known it in the carriage, when she answered his father’s questions without once turning from the window. Whatever had disturbed her then had followed them through the visit to Denham and returned with them to Everton.

At dinner, she was too determined to appear ordinary. Harriet did not ordinarily ask whether he preferred the pheasant to the beef or express polite interest in the progress of the roof repairs. She stated what she thought, frequently before anyone had requested the information. This careful conversation, with its pauses and sensible questions, required effort. Benedict watched her push a piece of pheasant from one side of her plate to the other and wondered whether Selby or the events in the library were responsible.

He had seen Selby at the church. More importantly, he had seen Harriet’s expression when she saw him. She had looked afraid.

It was not an expression Benedict associated with her, and he had disliked it intensely. From childhood on, she’d seemed fearless to the point of recklessness at times.

He intended to ask her about it as soon as they were alone. But when dinner ended, Harriet rose before he could suggest that they remain in the drawing room and announced that she was tired. She went upstairs without looking at him.

Benedict remained at the table, staring at the chair she had vacated. If she wished to avoid him because of what had nearly happened in the library the day prior, entering her chamber later would place her in the awkward position of having to send him away. Yet if Selby had threatened her in some manner, Benedict needed to know of it.

Decision made, he rose from the dining table and sought his own chamber. There, he undressed to a level of comfort, the level they’d both become accustomed to. He allowed her enough time to prepare for bed, then crossed the private passage and knocked. There was a long pause before she answered. “Come in.”

Harriet stood beside the fire in a pale wrapper, her hands clasped tightly before her. She had laid out the chessboard, though the pieces remained in their box. One look at her was sufficient to tell Benedict that whatever she meant to say would not be said over a game.

He closed the door. “You have been quiet since church.”

“Have I?”

“Painfully so.” Benedict moved toward the hearth but did not sit. “Did Selby say something to you?”

The question startled her. “No. Why would you think that?”

“Because you looked at him and then seized my arm as if you expected him to drag you from the church.”

“I did not seize you.”

“You came nearer to doing so than you have at any point in our long acquaintance. I noticed. I notice a great deal about you, Harriet.”

Her cheeks colored, but whether from the recollection of Selby or from his reference to their physical distance, Benedict could not tell. “He said nothing. I simply did not care for the manner in which he looked at us. It was… unsettling. But that is not what is pressing on my mind now.”

“Then what is?”

Harriet released her hands and immediately clasped them again. “Did you mean to kiss me yesterday?”

Of all the questions Benedict had expected, it was the one most certain to strip him of a sensible answer. He could deny it and make them both liars. He could apologize so profusely that she believed he regretted wanting her. Neither would serve.

“Yes,” he said.

Harriet frowned slightly, as if she had expected him to offer some defense she could argue against. “You admit it very readily.”

“You were there. A denial would be difficult to sustain.”

“You have not apologized.”

“If I frightened you or made you uncomfortable, then I am sorry for that. I should have put you down the instant I knew you were not injured.” Benedict held her gaze. “But I will not apologize for wanting to kiss you. I did want to. I still do.”

The last admission altered the silence between them. Harriet drew a breath and looked away. Benedict waited, though patience had become an increasingly difficult virtue where she was concerned.

“I wanted you to kiss me,” she said.

He was not certain he had heard correctly. “What?”