Page 36 of Their Wildest Dreams

But victory in law was not his only means of winning.

The allegation alone would create scandal. Harriet’s marriage would be discussed in every drawing room from the county to London. The intimate details of her bedchamber would become a matter for servants, lawyers and strangers. Lord Alderley could not afford another protracted dispute, and Denham would not welcome his family’s name dragged through it. Faced with that prospect, they might return the land rather than risk the consequences of refusing him.

First, Selby required proof.

The condition of a counterpane would not be enough. Nor would the speculation of maids, however eagerly repeated. Benedict could claim that he and Harriet shared her chamber and slept apart only upon occasion. Harriet would support him. She had already shown how readily she would lie by standing before God and promising herself to a man she had previously given every indication she despised.

Selby rose and carried the letter to the fire. The paper curled as the flame caught one corner, then blackened and collapsed upon the coals. He watched until Crandell’s careful script had disappeared.

There was one means of establishing Harriet’s continued innocence which neither Benedict nor Denham could easily explain away. A physician could examine her. And should that physician not find what Selby wished for him to, then perhaps financial inducement might sway the man to his way of thinking.

The difficulty of course would be getting Harriet to submit. She would never do so willingly, and approaching her with such a demand would alert Benedict before Selby obtained the evidence he needed. Once Benedict understood the risk, the remedy was simple and readily available to him. Selby could not rely upon the present estrangement lasting another day.

Then he would have to act before Benedict did.

Harriet traveled frequently between Everton and Alderley. She knew the roads and had spent her entire life believing herself safe upon them. Marriage had not yet taught her caution, and Benedict could not accompany her everywhere without making a prisoner of her. He would simply have to know when. To that end, he dashed off his own note to Crandell with instructions and called a footman to deliver it—discreetly, of course.

After, Selby went to the window. Beyond the glass, the road curved away from the house and vanished behind a stand of trees. The route from Alderley to Everton crossed a narrow stretch bordered by open fields on one side and woodland on the other. There were no cottages nearby, no tenants working close enough to hear a woman call out. A carriage stopped there would remain unseen from either estate.

It would not be difficult.

Once Harriet was in his keeping, a doctor could be brought to examine her and put his findings into writing. She would protest. She might fight. Neither would alter what was required. Selby had tolerated her temper when he believed she would one day become his wife, but indulgence had accomplished nothing. She had mistaken his patience for weakness and repaid it by marrying Benedict.

He would not make that error again.

If the examination proved she remained untouched, Selby would possess what he needed to challenge the marriage and the settlement. If it did not—if Benedict had already exercised the rights Harriet had denied him—then Selby would know there was no purpose in proceeding through the Lords.

That did not mean there would be no purpose in taking her.

Selby rested one hand against the cold glass and considered the road again. Benedict had deprived him of Alderley, of Denham and of the woman Selby had already fitted into his plans. It was time the future viscount learned that taking something from another man did not ensure he would be permitted to keep it.

Chapter

Eighteen

Benedict looked dreadful.

Harriet observed him from the breakfast-room doorway. He sat at the table with one hand wrapped about a cup of coffee and the other pressed to his temple. His cravat was tied with its usual precision, but his face was pale, his eyes shadowed and his expression sufficiently grim that no servant had ventured near him since placing the coffee at his elbow.

Whatever Harriet had expected after the previous night, it had not been this.

She entered the room. Benedict lifted his head at the sound of her skirts and immediately winced.

“Are you ill?” she asked.

“Not in any manner which is deserving of sympathy.”

“That has rarely prevented you from attempting to obtain it.” Harriet crossed to the sideboard and picked up a plate. “What is wrong?”

“I am suffering from a peculiar ailment of my own making. Its principal symptoms appear to be a splitting skull, an objection to daylight and the conviction that my valet polishes my boots at an unnecessary volume.”

Harriet looked from him to the decanter upon the sideboard. “You are foxed.”

“Not presently. Presently, I am paying for having been so last night.” Benedict took a cautious drink of coffee. “There is a distinction, though I admit it offers little comfort.”

She selected a piece of toast but did not place it upon her plate. “Why on earth did you drink so much?”

His gaze settled upon her. Even suffering as he plainly was, there was nothing dulled in the way he looked at her. Harriet remembered his mouth upon hers and nearly dropped the toast.