He had travelled the world these past eleven years and thought of himself as having permanent wanderlust in his blood, with no urge to put down roots. He never dwelt on the past. The past was done. It couldn’t be changed. Since his return to England, however, the time he had spent with Matthew and his new bride, Eleanor, had awoken something deep inside him—the urge for a family to call his own.
Benedict’s memories of his early life, before his parents’ deaths, were hazy. Seeing Matthew and Eleanor together, however, had gradually recalled those happy years and his plans for his future had changed. He and Matthew already had a trusted agent in India who would arrange shipments to England. There was no necessity for Benedict to return to India if he chose not to.
Silence settled over them as Harriet sipped at her tea and Benedict finished his brandy, then Harriet placed her teacup and saucer on a side table. She rose to her feet and he followed suit.
‘I shall retire,’ she said. ‘It has been a long day. Thank you for your hospitality, Ben... Mr Poole.’
‘You are welcome, my lady.’
Their gazes met, her violet eyes dark and unfathomable. Benedict stepped closer. Was it his imagination, or did her lips tremble? He saw the convulsive movement of her throat as she swallowed. Then she straightened and drew in what seemed to be an interminable breath.
‘Goodnight.’ With a swish of skirts she passed him by and headed for the door.
Benedict moved quickly. ‘Allow me,’ he said, reaching the door before her.
He grasped the handle but then hesitated. Slowly, his hand slipped from the handle and he turned to face Harriet, his back against the door.
Harriet had halted a few feet away.
‘Please let me pass.’
Her voice was low. She searched his face, her gaze uncertain.
‘Harriet...’
‘Mr Poole?’
But what could he say that would not risk unleashing all that anger and bitterness that scoured his insides? The past had happened. No amount of wishful thinking could change it and no good could come of stirring up all those raw emotions.
He spoke from the heart, but he spoke only of the present. ‘You are a very beautiful woman, Harriet.’
His voice had grown husky; blood surged to his groin; he took a pace towards her and breathed deep of her scent. She was close. So close. He reached out and fingered that errant curl and revelled in the whispered sigh that escaped those full, pink lips. He narrowed still further the gap between them, relishing the flush that suffused her skin. Molten-hot currents burned deep within him, making his skin tighten and his breath grow short.
He opened his fingers and released her curl, lowering his hand to his side.
He would not detain her. Her escape was clear, if she wanted it. She had only to step away—walk around him to the door. She did not. Her eyelids fluttered and lowered as her lips parted. He tilted his head, feathered his lips at the side of her neck, savouring her quiet moan, satisfied by the leap of her pulse as he laved that sensitive spot.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Please... I...’
‘Tell me to stop, and I will,’ he murmured as he licked at her lobe.
He blew gently across the moistened skin and she shuddered, swaying, her full breasts and pebbled nipples pressing into his chest for one brief, glorious moment before she jerked away.
‘No!’
Benedict, grown hard with desire, reined in his urge to grab her and kiss her anyway. He forced himself to remain still.
‘Why?’
‘I do not need to give you a reason.’
Head high, she met his gaze. He recognised the flash of vulnerability in her eyes...and something else. Fear? Of him?
‘What are you afraid of?’
With his attention fully upon her, he sensed the shift under her skin as she drew her defences in place. ‘I am not afraid.’
He wanted to doubt her. He wanted to believe her lips were saying ‘no’ when she meant ‘yes’. But he could not. She—for whatever reason—really did mean ‘no’.
He moved aside and watched as she left the room. His feet moved of their own volition, following her out the door into the hall to watch as she climbed the stairs.
Who is she? Who has she become?
He had no wish to revisit the past, but he could not help but be intrigued by the present-day Harriet. Her outer shell was well crafted: sophisticated, ladylike, at ease. And yet she had revealed some of her true spirit in that snowstorm, after he dismissed the post-chaise. Benedict suspected her calm exterior concealed hidden turbulence, much as the smooth surface of the ocean might conceal treacherous currents.
He wandered back into the drawing room to stand and stare into the fire, his mind whirling. He wanted to dig deeper, to find out more about her. Curiosity. It was dangerous, but that was no reason to retreat. She would be here for a few days yet—time enough to find out more. Perhaps testing those suspected undercurrents was risky, but he had never yet backed down from a challenge. And he wasn’t about to start now.
* * *
The following day was grey and cold, the land still dusted white. No more snow had fallen, but the weather did nothing to tempt anyone out of doors. Harriet spent some of her time sitting with Janet, and the rest of the day exploring Tenterfield Court. Despite growing up in the area, she had never set foot inside the house until today and she had not realised its true magnificence.
Sir Malcolm had lived, for the most part, in London. He would descend, with guests, for a few days of wild, disruptive parties—the kind that fuelled horrified gossip in the local community—and then would disappear again for months on end. He avoided all interaction with local society on the rare times he visited on his own and, as his dissolute reputation spread, the people in the surrounding area—including Harriet’s father, who was the local vicar—had in turn shunned Sir Malcolm.
Benedict, as his ward, had spent most of the school holidays alone at Tenterfield Court, mixing with the local children, including Harriet. Memories tumbled into her brain. He had been so tall and handsome—someone she’d liked and looked up to—and, as they had grown, so had their feelings. Now, looking back, Harriet knew those feelings to be a lie—the fanciful wishes of a naive young girl and the lustful desires of a boy on the verge of manhood.
As she changed her dress for dinner early that evening, she diverted her thoughts away from those past innocent—and not so innocent—pleasures and into the present. She was a woman grown now: experienced, wise in the ways of men, no longer a believer in love. The love she had once felt for Benedict Poole was no more, but she could not deny he was an extremely attractive man.
How would it feel to lie with him now?
That errant thought shook her. How could she even wonder such a thing after the way he had deserted her? Or was it natural to be curious about this past love of hers? Last night—and her blood heated at the memory—he had woven a spell of such sensuality around her that the temptation to succumb to him had near overwhelmed her. Thank goodness she had come to her senses in time.
A restless night had seen her up early in the morning with a vow to avoid Benedict as much as possible during her enforced stay at Tenterfield Court. Thankfully, Benedict appeared to share her reluctance for another encounter; according to Crabtree,