Saved By Scandal's Heir

‘No.’ After Brierley’s death Harriet had rekindled her relationship with her mother, but Mrs Rowlands had declined to leave her ailing sister. ‘My aunt Jane suffers from ill health. She benefits from the sea air and Mama felt her duty was to stay and care for her.’

‘I am sorry to raise what is clearly a painful subject.’

‘You were not to know.’

Silence reigned once again. Benedict continued to eat and Harriet fixed her gaze upon her half-eaten plate of congealing food. Her emotions were rubbed raw; everything...everything...was this man’s fault. How she wished she could just leave the table and return to the privacy of her bedchamber. Good manners, however, dictated she must remain. She must distract herself somehow—her mind was as brittle as ice, ready to splinter into a thousand sharp accusations at the wrong look, the wrong word. She cast around for a topic of conversation.

‘You mentioned yesterday that you intend to spend much of your time in London in the future,’ she said. ‘Is it your intention to take your place in society?’

She prayed the answer would be no. How could she bear it, knowing she might bump into him at any time? How could she endure the constant reminders of all that had happened?

‘Yes, it is,’ he said. Harriet’s heart sank. ‘I intend to restore the reputation of the Poole family name after Malcolm’s depredations.’

‘And how do you intend to do that?’ Even to her own ears, the question sounded waspish.

Benedict’s lips thinned and he frowned. Then he gestured at Harriet’s plate. ‘Have you had enough to eat? Might I pass you any fruit or sweetmeats?’

‘No. I have had sufficient, thank you.’

Crabtree and the footman in attendance began to clear the dishes.

Benedict waited until they left the room, and then continued, ‘To answer your question, I shall do it by example. I am conscious that my cousin made no provision for the future of the title and the estate but I shall not make that mistake. I will not allow the baronetcy to fail, nor do I relish the idea of the Poole estates reverting to the Crown to help fund the profligate lifestyle of Prinny.’ He pushed his chair back, then rounded the table to draw her chair out to enable her to stand. ‘I need an heir. I shall marry a respectable girl from a good family and have a family.’

His words stabbed at her heart. An heir! How can he be so cruel? How could he speak of having a child and not even show a flicker of interest in what had happened eleven years ago? Harriet tamped down her fury and distress as she rose, schooling her expression into one of polite disinterest before facing him.

‘I wish you well in your endeavour.’

He stared at her for a long moment before speaking again. ‘Perhaps you might help me in my search for a suitable wife?’ He searched her face, his eyes intent. ‘You must be acquainted with a number of young ladies.’

What does he want from me? Proof of the pain he caused? Tears? Harriet steeled herself to show nothing of what she felt.

With an effort, she raised her brows in a coquettish fashion. ‘Perhaps you might furnish me with a list of your specific requirements, sir?’

His laugh sounded forced. ‘Oh, I hardly think—’

‘But I insist, sir! How else am I to help you?’

She was beyond taking pleasure at his look of discomfort. He had clearly not expected her to react in kind.

‘Harriet—’

‘Or perhaps you have not yet considered the precise qualities desirable in your wife, sir,’ she rushed on. ‘That is a mistake, I assure you. Allow me to help.’

She faced him, one arm crossed at her waist, her other elbow propped on it as she tapped one finger to her lips.

‘Your bride... Now, let me see... You will require a girl of impeccable breeding. Her father should be no less than a viscount, I would suggest, in order to add to your consequence. She must have a substantial dowry, preferably of land, to increase your estates and wealth. What else?’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘She should be elegant, obedient, schooled in all the ladylike accomplishments. Oh! And, of course, it goes without saying she must be an innocent.’

Without intent, her voice had risen until she spat out the final word and Harriet silently cursed herself for rising to Benedict’s bait.

Chapter Five (#ulink_7025bf22-4f5c-5633-87c8-44fae31fdbae)

There was a beat of silence following Harriet’s outburst.

‘Harriet?’ Benedict put his hand on her shoulder, curling gentle fingers around it. ‘Why are you so upset?’ He crouched slightly to gaze into her face and cradled her cheek with his other palm.

How fickle could one woman’s body be? How treacherous? In the midst of her distress, she felt the undeniable melting of her muscles, the tug of need deep, deep inside and the yearning to lean into him and to feel his arms around her. To take his comfort.

She kept her gaze lowered. She could not bear to look at him, lest her weak-willed craving shone from her eyes. Harsh breaths dragged in and out of her lungs, searing her chest. What had she done? What would he think? Her mind whirled, looking for anything to excuse her behaviour.

‘It was the memory of Papa. I must be overtired, to allow it to upset me so. I am sorry if I have embarrassed you. Goodnight, sir.’

Harriet jerked away from Benedict and swept from the room with her head averted, blinking rapidly to stem the tears that crowded her eyes. She climbed the stairs on legs that trembled with a need that both shocked and dismayed her.

‘Harriet?’

She heard him call her, but she kept going. Then she heard the feet pounding up the stairs behind her. Coming closer, ever closer. Memories—dreadful, heart-wrenching memories—crowded her mind. Her heart beat a frantic tattoo and bile burned its way up her throat.

‘No!’ The breathy scream forced its way out of her lips as she scurried up the last few stairs, clutching at the banister for support. She reached the top. Not safe. Not here. Panic swarmed through her veins.

She stumbled across the landing and then spun round—panting in her distress—her back against the wall, well away from the wide open, threatening head of the stairs.

It’s Benedict. You are safe. He would never attack you.

It was his fault. It wouldn’t have happened if he had—

Harriet cut off that inner diatribe, but other random thoughts still hurtled around inside her head. She hauled in a deep breath, desperate to calm her terror, desperate to think straight. Benedict paused a few feet from her, his face flushed, his chest rising and falling.

‘Harriet? Why did you run? What is it? What are you afraid of? Me?’

Harriet shook her head. She did not want his pity; she did not even want his guilt for what he had put her through. ‘I am not afraid.’

‘That is what you said last night, too, but your eyes tell a different story,’ he growled as he stepped closer. She flinched and he moved back, frowning. ‘What kind of a man do you think I am? I might be my cousin’s heir, but I have not inherited his tendencies, you may rest assured of that.’

Harriet swallowed, her pulse steadying. ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I never thought you had. But...’

But it was complicated. She was afraid. Still. Oh, not in the way she had been afraid on the stairs, hearing those feet thundering up the stairs behind her. Chasing her. That had been blind panic. Her current dread, though... Words she could hardly bear to think, let alone speak, crowded into her mouth and she barricaded them behind clenched teeth and pursed lips.

What she feared, almost more, were the memories Benedict had awakened. She was afraid of her own body’s treacherous clamour for his embrace. She was terrified of where her weakness might lead.

She wanted him. So much. Even after everything.

But she could never forgive him.

‘But...?’

Harriet sucked in a deep, deep breath, noticing Benedict’s hot green gaze dip to her décolletage as she did so. That brought her to her senses enough to say, ‘But I believe the past should stay in the past. Last night...you would have...we would have...if I had...’ She swallowed. ‘I have no wish to revisit our childish indiscretions,’ she said firmly. ‘I shall bid you goodnight, Mr Poole, and I trust I shall have no need to rely upon your hospitality for much longer.’

She turned and walked away, another rush of tears blurring her vision. She did not allow herself to think. Like a wounded animal, she craved a dark corner and her instincts led her straight to her bedchamber, where she shut the door behind her. There was no key, no bolt. Desperate, Harriet grasped hold of the heavy wooden chest set at the foot of the bed and tugged it, inch by inch, until it was set in front of the door. She cared not what the maid might think in the morning, when she came to light the fire. All she wanted was to feel safe but, as she collapsed onto the bed and allowed the hot flood of tears free rein, she acknowledged it was not Benedict she feared.