Saved By Scandal's Heir

It was her own weakness that terrified her.

* * *

The next morning, Harriet woke late after a restless night. She arose and tugged on the bell rope to summon hot water before crossing to the window and twitching the curtain aside. The day was bright and clear and the snow that had clung tenaciously to the ground throughout the previous day might never have been.

The bedchamber was cosy, courtesy of the fire lit by a chambermaid earlier that morning. Harriet wondered what the kitchen gossips had made of the fact that the maid had to knock on the door and rouse Harriet before she could gain admittance. Together they had dragged the chest back to the foot of the bed, Harriet excusing her odd behaviour by saying she was scared of ghosts. The maid’s sceptical look had seemed to say, ‘But everyone knows ghosts can travel through doors and walls. A barricaded door is no protection.’

A tap at the door revealed a different maid carrying a pitcher from which steam spiralled.

‘I’ve been sent to help you dress, milady, if you are ready now,’ the girl said. She told Harriet her name was Annie. ‘Breakfast is set up in the morning room for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Harriet said, turning to the washstand to wash whilst the maid pulled back the covers to air the bed and then waited until Harriet was ready to don her dove-grey carriage dress. ‘Is Mr Poole... Has Mr Poole breakfasted yet?’

Please say yes. She could not face him after last night. When he had followed her up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps behind her had brought the terror and the anguish flooding back. What must he think of her? Had she managed to misdirect him with her talk of the past and their childish indiscretions?

And earlier, in the dining room—dear heavens, how she had been tempted, once again, to lose herself in his embrace, even after her loss of control over his provocation. How she had yearned for him, her body melting with desire. And that, she had thought, as she’d tossed and turned in her bed last night, her mind whizzing, was a near miracle considering how she had grown to abhor the marital act—she would not dignify it by thinking of it as making love—with Brierley. As recently as one year ago, her body might not have responded so readily to Benedict. But then she had set out to erase the memory of Brierley and his vile ways from her mind and her heart and...yes...her body. And she had succeeded, when she had, after great consideration and much soul-searching, taken a lover. And, with his help, she had overcome her fear.

‘Oh, yes, milady. Mr Poole is ever an early riser. Comes from living in foreign parts, Mr Crab—’ The maid stopped, her hand to her mouth, eyes rounded. ‘Beg pardon, milady, if I’m speaking out of turn. My mum always said I never know when to stop.’

Harriet laughed at the girl, relieved to learn she would not meet Benedict at the breakfast table. ‘That is quite all right, Annie. Now will you show me to the morning room, please?’

She had taken breakfast on a tray in her bedchamber yesterday and the house was so vast she had no confidence in finding her way on her own. Before they reached the morning room she had discovered that Mr Poole was once again perusing the estate ledgers with Sir Malcolm’s agent in the study.

The morning room was a beautiful sunny room with a view to the east, over lawns that curved away, down into a valley that Harriet remembered from her childhood. In her mind’s eye she saw happy, carefree days when the sun seemed to be forever shining and adults and their complicated world and rules barely existed, other than to provide food and shelter. Memories were strange things, she mused. From her adult perspective, she knew her childhood had also consisted of lessons and church, duty and chores, but those untroubled sunny days playing with her friends—and with Benedict—eclipsed all else. She pictured the shallow stream that gurgled along its stony bed at the bottom of the slope, with the choice of a wooden footbridge or stepping stones to cross it. As children, of course, they had always chosen to cross via the stepping stones, jostling and daring each other and, inevitably, someone had ended up with wet feet.

The opposite slope of the valley was wooded and stretched up in a gentle curve until, just beyond the far edge of the wood, a grassy hillock, bare of trees, jutted skywards. At the top of the hillock was the folly, modelled upon a ruined medieval castle complete with tower. Harriet’s stomach knotted. Here were memories she had no wish to dwell upon.

She finished her breakfast of toast and coffee and then went upstairs to visit Janet, to see how she fared. Janet was sleepy but out of pain; the housekeeper, Mrs Charing, had been dosing her with syrup of poppies in accordance with the doctor’s instructions.

After sitting with her maid awhile, Harriet decided to leave her to sleep. She would go for a walk, to blow some of the cobwebs from her brain. She wrapped up well in her travelling cloak, pulling the fur-lined hood over her head. It was a beautifully bright day, but there was still a cold easterly wind. Harriet strode out briskly enough to keep herself warm.

Almost without volition, her steps took her along the path to the valley where she had played as a child. The path down the slope was wet and rather slippery, but she negotiated it without mishap, right down into the valley and to the stream, which she crossed, by the bridge this time, as befitted a grown woman. She smiled at the thought of presenting herself back at Tenterfield Court with her half boots waterlogged.

She followed the course of the stream a short distance and then struck off up the lightly wooded far slope of the valley, driven by the urge to see if the folly had changed. Just to look at it from outside, she assured herself, as the slope steepened and her breath shortened.

At the top, she paused to rest, gazing up at the stone walls of the folly tower as they reared into the clear blue sky. The curved walls were broken by a single Gothic-style arched window on each floor. The door—solid oak, massive, punctuated by wrought iron studs—was closed. She wondered if it was now kept locked. It hadn’t been, back when she was young. Such memories. On the brink of walking on, she hesitated.

It was a foolish whim; one Harriet regretted the moment she entered the folly and realised she was not alone.

Chapter Six (#ulink_6f453049-050c-5a8f-8266-8e853461ddfc)

Harriet could feel Benedict’s gaze boring into her as she paused on the threshold, giving her eyes time to adjust to the gloom inside the tower.

‘This is the last place I expected to see you.’

Benedict spoke the words, but they could as easily have been spoken by her. The memories evoked by this place swirled around her, almost a physical presence. Did he feel them, too? Was his mind also bursting with images from the past? This had been their trysting place: the place where they could be alone, out of sight of prying eyes or wagging tongues to cry scandal.

Silly, trusting girl—thinking she was in control of her life when, in reality, all control lay with others. See where her trust had led her—to marriage with a man who disgusted her, and to unimaginable heartbreak as a consequence of his temper. She had vowed, after Brierley’s death, that she would never pass control over her life to another man.

‘I am not one to sit in idleness. I felt in need of fresh air and exercise, after being cooped up indoors yesterday.’ Harriet strolled with as much nonchalance as she could muster into the centre of the room. ‘And why should I not visit here? It was on my walk and I was curious to see if there were any changes.’

He moved too, giving Harriet a wide berth as he crossed to gaze out of the window. ‘For a medieval castle, it is in remarkably good repair,’ he said, his tone light and unconcerned. ‘But, then, it is only several decades old rather than several centuries.’

It had been a source of wonder and imagination when they were children and, with Sir Malcolm so rarely at home, they had played at knights and maidens and dragons and swordfights with other local children. Gradually, though, the other village children visited less and less frequently as the reality of their lives—the need to supplement their parents’ income by working—had intruded. But Benedict and Harriet had continued to meet here. And their play had, in time, taken a serious turn.

Her head had been full of love; his, full of lust. It was the way of men. She knew that now.

‘I am pleased Sir Malcolm has maintained the estate, despite his...’ She hesitated. It was not her place to criticise his kinsman.

‘Despite his notorious ways? I have scant respect for Malcolm, as you know, but he was no spendthrift. His proclivities veered more towards the flesh than gambling.’

Harriet suppressed her shudder. Her late husband had been cast from the same mould.

‘As you are here, it would be a waste not to go upstairs and admire the view.’ Benedict stood aside, indicating the studded door that led to the spiral stairs. The tower was cylindrical, built over four floors, and the view from the top, she remembered, was spectacular.

She said nothing, merely inclined her head, and walked past him to the door. It opened easily. Whoever cared for the estate must take their work seriously, to include greasing the hinges to a door in a folly that served no purpose. She paused.

‘I understood you to be in a meeting with Sir Malcolm’s agent,’ she said.

He huffed a laugh. ‘And so you thought yourself safe from encountering me on your walk? I regret disappointing you, my lady, but I, too, felt in dire need of a good dose of cleansing fresh air. Do you need any assistance on the stairs?’

‘Thank you, no.’

Harriet lifted her skirts high and climbed the stone stairs to the top floor. Here there were wooden benches, but she resisted the urge to sit and catch her breath. She would continue up to the battlements, admire the view over the Kent countryside and then be on her way.

Being here at the folly brought all those memories flooding back to Harriet. Knowing he still wielded that kind of power over her emotions and her body—despite the best efforts of her brain to stay in control—had kept her awake half the night. She had been oh-so-tempted by him. His lovemaking in their youth had been unpractised, as had hers. Now he, like she, would possess a certain skill. She wondered again how it might feel to lie with him, but did not dwell on the thought. It would surely bring regret. He had blood on his hands. Innocent blood. No matter how she might desire him, she could never forgive him.

She gazed across the landscape, dazzling in the sunlight—seeing it, but barely paying it the attention it deserved, all her senses straining for an awareness of Benedict’s whereabouts. After several tense minutes she heard the door that led onto the roof open. She had no need to look to know that Benedict had followed her: the rising hairs on her nape confirmed his presence, and the gooseflesh that skittered across her arms wasn’t purely caused by the chill wind. She sensed the gap between them narrowing, until she could hear the quiet sound of his breathing and she could feel the heat of his body warming the air between them and she could smell...him. Still familiar, after all this time.

She swallowed. A maelstrom of emotions buffeted her this way and that but she strove to stay calm, to stay in control.

‘It is as beautiful as I remember,’ she said. ‘I count it as fortunate the weather is so good today—it has afforded me the opportunity to see the wonder of the countryside again.’ She hugged her cloak around her as a gust of wind attempted to tear it open.

‘It is a spectacular sight,’ Benedict said, his deep voice close by her ear, raising another shiver. ‘But it is very cold up here. Come, you must not catch a chill, or you will be forced to endure even more of my company.’

She could hear the effort he put into that light-hearted remark. His tone did not quite ring true and it forced her—for the first time—to consider how her presence was affecting him. Did he feel guilt over his betrayal? Was there a pang of conscience over the death of the baby, born too soon, who’d never had the chance to draw breath? Was there any regret—a tiny speck, even if it was well buried? He had not even mentioned the child, seemed uninterested in whether it was alive or dead. Had he wiped his memory clear of the fact she had ever been with child?

Would that she could so easily forget. Her empty arms still ached, as did her heart, at the knowledge that she would never now experience the joy of motherhood, for never again would she risk marrying and placing such power over herself and her body in any man’s hands. And she resented—deeply—the fact that Benedict not only felt no guilt and had experienced none of her grief, but also that he was now poised to become a wealthy powerful man—and marry and have a family—whereas she...she was destined to remain loveless and childless for the rest of her days.

She swung away from the view and sidestepped around Benedict to head for the door but, as on the previous evening, he was there before her.

‘Allow me to go first,’ he said. ‘In case you miss your step.’

At Benedict’s words, an image rose to tempt her: that of her stumbling...of him catching her in his arms...of him lifting her chin and lowering his head. Her heart pounded and her breathing quickened as she took especial care in descending the spiral stairs, clutching with gloved fingers at the thick rope that looped from bracket to bracket all the way down. Back on the ground floor without incident, her breathing eased and her racing heart steadied as she straightened her cloak in readiness for the walk back to the house.

‘Harriet...’

Her name hung in the air.