Page 17 of Bound By her Earl

“Mother,” he said, “you are wearing a new gown right this moment.”

He knew this was the case because she had gone on and on about something to do with the lace trim and how Lady Something-or-Other had clearly stolen her ideas.

His mother could not have looked more shocked if he’d slapped her directly across the face.

“Benedict, don’t be ridiculous,” she gasped. “This gown ismonthsold.”

“Months,” he said flatly. He was nearly certain the shirt he was currently wearing was at least two years old, and while gentlemen’s fashion did admittedly change more slowly than that of ladies, he struggled to believe that a gown that was only a few months old could be as horrendously out of date as his mother had so clearly implied.

The Dowager either missed his tone or chose to ignore it.

“Yes!” she cried triumphantly. “Months! And you wouldn’t have me look the fool in front of theton,would you, Benedict?”

Benedict hadso manypotential responses to that.

He could point out that he knew, as an absolute matter of fact, that not all of the ladies of theton, not even all the ones considered fashionable, had new gowns on a monthly basis. He could point out that there were ways to alter dresses to suit new fashions rather than acquiring an entirely new frock and that this, too, was accepted practice among Society women.

He could point out that accosting people in hallways with outlandish accusations of them trying to drive one to madness over allowances was far more foolish than any gown could ever be.

He said none of this. There was no point. His mother had long since proven that she was not beholden to such forces as logic or reason.

Instead, he made his voice as cold and firm as it could go and said, “Mother. No, you are being ridiculous, and the allowance I give you is not paltry. Surely you realize the money of the estate has to go to more than satisfying your endless vanity.”

He hadn’t really expected it to work. It never worked. But it still felt like a piercing knife to his skull when his mother clasped her hands in front of her and let her lower lip quiver.

Her eyes, however, he noticed, were entirely dry.

“I see,” she said, voice wavering. It physically pained Benedict not to roll his eyes. “I see how you think of me. And why shouldn’t you disdain me? I am merely your mother, the only parent you have left living, and you are merely my only child. Why should I deserve your forbearance? I am but a woman, left to drift aimlessly in the world of men, entirely dependent on their sympathy and charity—such as it is.”

An agonizing headache was radiating from behind Benedict’s left eye. It could scarcely be later than noon, and he already felt that this day had gone on forever. He rubbed his temples and ignored his mother. Sometimes ignoring her was the best route to get her to stop her nonsense. Or if not thebestroute, the one that at least annoyed Benedict the least.

Today, however, his mother was in rare form.

“I’ve no husband,” she lamented, his lack of response not hindering her speech in the least. She’d produced a handkerchief from somewhere and was now dabbing furiously at her still dry eyes. “And I shall never have means of attracting one, now that I am fated to be dressed in rags for all my days.”

The Dowager had, Benedict knew, no intention of seeking a second husband; she’d scarcely been interested in the first. But logic would hold no sway when she got into this mood where her primary motivation was melodrama for melodrama’s sake.

Rags for all her days,he thought, not even resisting rolling his eyes.Honestly.What had he done to deserve this histrionic nonsense constantly being cast at his feet? He felt his lip curl in disgust at the bereft act his mother was putting on.

“I shall just be a lonely, dried-up old woman, cast aside by those to whom she gave her youth,” the Countess went on. “Unloved, unwanted?—”

“Mother.” Benedict had lost his patience. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stop, I beg you. I will increase your allowance if you just leave me in peace.”

Part of him hated to give in to her. Surely that would only make things worse, would only make her continue to act like a spoiled child who had been denied a sweet. But he simply could not take it anymore, the whining and the pretend tears.

It was all so bloodytypical,he thought scornfully. Why did women insist on thinking that men would be moved by their pathetic displays? Did they not realize it only generated irritation and disdain?

“Oh!” chirped Priscilla, face suddenly bright as morning.

So much for the tears, Benedict thought, shaking his head disgustedly. He didn’t voice the thought aloud, however; doing so would just prolong this miserable interview and that was the last thing he wanted.

“Well, yes, darling, that would be wonderful,” Priscilla went on cheerfully, as if the whole thing had been Benedict’s idea to begin with. “I do thank you, you know I do. I know just the thing that will suit. I have a wonderful outing planned with a gentleman next week, did I tell you about that? I will want to look my finest, naturally.”

This was the last thing Benedict wanted to hear. He held up a quelling hand.

“Mother, please,” he said. “I would prefer not to know about your…suitors. And do please try to be inconspicuous. I would hate to see our family name in the gossip columns again. Just…subtlety. It’s all I ask.”

Priscilla trilled out a little laugh, like Benedict was being charmingly clever.

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