He pulled out a chair for Harriet. As the night before, two facing places had been set, halfway along the long sides of the table. As Harriet sat down, Benedict’s hand brushed her upper arm, sending a shiver of awareness dancing across her skin. He rounded the table and sat opposite her.
‘Did you gain any experience of agricultural matters whilst you were overseas?’ Harriet asked as Crabtree served her a slice of roast beef and a spoonful of glazed onions.
‘No. My experience is all in trade. This is all new to me.’
Benedict fixed his green eyes on Harriet. ‘Tell me—’
‘How long have you been back in England?’ Harriet asked hastily, keen to keep the focus of the conversation away from her own life.
‘Three months.’
‘Was Sir Malcolm’s health the reason for your return?’ She then took advantage of Benedict’s distraction as Crabtree offered him a dish of potatoes in hollandaise sauce to say, ‘You mentioned before that you are the only family he has left.’
Benedict captured her gaze and quirked a brow, as if to say, ‘I know what you’re up to,’ and Harriet felt her cheeks heat. He took his time in finishing his mouthful of food before answering her.
‘No. I had no idea his health was failing until I landed in England.’
‘This food is delicious,’ Harriet said, somewhat desperately.
Benedict might be answering her questions, but he was doing nothing to ease the evening ahead with the light, inconsequential conversation that any gentleman accustomed to society would employ. But what else could she expect, she thought irritably, when he had spent half his life in foreign climes? His manners were bound to be rough compared to the gentlemen of the ton.
‘It is indeed,’ he replied. ‘Malcolm engaged a French fellow a few years ago—I suspect he relishes the opportunity to practice his art.’
He sipped his wine, studying Harriet over the rim of his glass as she cast around for another safe subject of conversation—in other words, anything that did not involve their past.
‘Do you enjoy the theatre?’
He grinned openly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Now, tell me, what happened to your father? I understand the Reverend Twining has been the pastor here for a number of years past.’
She’d known it was only a matter of time before he started questioning her. Her stomach knotted with guilt, as it always did whenever she thought of her father.
‘He died six years ago.’
Oh, Papa! Parson Rowlands, deeply shocked by his only daughter’s fall from grace, had barely spoken to Harriet during that dreadful time leading up to her marriage to Brierley. His disappointment in her would have broken her heart had it not already been in pieces after Benedict’s rejection. Then, after her marriage, she’d had no opportunity to heal the breach with her father because Brierley had discouraged—most strongly and very effectively—any interaction between Harriet and her parents. The mere thought of her late husband and his despotic ways prompted a swell of nausea and she forced it back down. She pushed her plate away, her appetite gone.
How she regretted that she’d had no chance to reconcile with her father before his death. She gripped her hands tightly together under cover of the table, willing her voice to remain steady as she continued, ‘After he died my mother moved to live with her sister in Whitstable.’
There was no security of tenure for the widow of a vicar. The rectory had been needed for the next incumbent. She risked a glance across the table. Benedict looked thoughtful, his green eyes locked onto her face.
‘She does not live with you?’
‘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