Page 77 of Bound By her Earl

Emily was, frankly, shocked at herself. Shocked, but not sorry. This was, without a doubt, the harshest she’d ever been with a person—and yet she could not help but believe her reaction fair, given the vicious insults that the Dowager Countess had thrown, entirely unprovoked, in her direction.

Despite the forcefulness of her words—and the full-throated anger with which she’d hurled them—Emily had not really expected them to have much effect.

She was thus doubly shocked when the Dowager collapsed onto a settee, buried her face in her hands, and broke into noisy, wracking sobs.

Emily paused, feeling quite at a loss on how to handlethisturn of events. She was nearly certain that she’d never seen someone of the Dowager’s age cry. Really, this was the kind of thing Diana was poised to handle—Diana’s mother was prone to this kind of histrionics.

“Um,” she said. Was she meant to comfort her? Normally, Emily would say certainly…but she had been the one to cause these tears. Also, she thought stubbornly, the older woman had deserved it.

In the end, however, her sympathy wore out over her reluctance. Feeling entirely unequipped to manage this spectacle—which was really saying something as Emily had managed no shortage of spectacles in her day—she gingerly sat down next to the Dowager, reached out a hand to pat her on the shoulder,there, therealready springing to her lips?—

Crack!

It all happened so quickly that the first thing Emily realized was that she was leaning back against the settee’s cushions. Her hand was touching her cheek which smarted and stung.

The bloody woman hadslappedher.

Another half instant and Emily was responding, entirely automatically. She took in the sneer on the Dowager’s face and thrust out her arm to protect herself against another blow, should it come, and?—

“What the hell is going on here?”

Benedict’s voice was a clap of thunder. And, like lightning, Priscilla’s expression morphed from one of rage to one of terror.

“Oh, Benny!” she cried. “Thank goodness you’re here! The little wretch attacked me!”

In horror, Emily took in the scene around her—the tears on the Dowager’s cheeks, the way her own arm was extended as if in aggression—and realized that, no matter how fraudulent, the accusation was compelling.

But not even the tiniest flicker of doubt entered her husband’s face.

“No,” he said flatly. “She did not. I do not believe you, and I am sick of your lies. You are no longer welcome here. You are leaving this house, and you will not return. Gather your things; I’ll give you an hour. After that, I shall have you removed—by force if necessary.”

“But, Benny,” the Dowager cried, reaching for her son, “you cannot cast me out into the streets?—”

Benedict knocked her hands aside, not roughly, but with clear intent, before his mother could grasp him.

“No,” he agreed. “Though I’m not sure you wouldn’t deserve it. You will live in the Dowager’s property from now on—as is appropriate. I would hurry, though; your hour has already begun.”

The calculation in Priscilla’s face was evident, the way she paused to consider the merits of trying another sympatheticapproach. Whether she decided against this by means of logic or by cause of emotional excess, Emily could not divine. Yet the transformation was clear. Gone was the sorrowful mother, begging for sympathy. Before them now stood a woman who felt herself unjustly scorned—and was spitting mad about it.

“Coward!” she screeched. “You’re a coward—just like your worthless father before you! Just like all men.” She grabbed a cushion from the settee and hurled it at Benedict, who deflected it easily. “You all think yourselves so powerful, sojustified, when you are nothing but abandoners. Abandoners!”

“You are acting like a child,” Benedict said coldly. This was true but had no effect.

“You will regret this!” Priscilla railed. Her face was red and splotchy and entirely unbecoming. “You don’t think I have any power; I see it in your eyes. But just you wait. Iknowhow to make men regret their sins against me.Just ask Theodore.”

Priscilla shouldered roughly past where her son’s broad frame took up most of the doorway, continuing to rant and rail as she stormed towards her rooms, presumably to pack her things.

A bitter, vindictive part of Emily almost hoped that her mother-in-law wasted her allotted hour though she recognized that this was a touch unfair. She wanted the woman out of the house, not wearing rags as she floated, alone through the house like a ghost from a story.

But Emily wouldn’t shed a tear if Priscilla didn’t get to keepallher favorite things. She felt that wasn’t too spiteful.

“Jesus Christ.” Benedict’s muttered swear caught Emily’s attention. In two long strides, he crossed the room to sit beside her. Careful fingers left the tiniest brush against her heated cheek. “God, Emily, you’ve a bloody handprint on your face. Are you all right? She didn’t harm you too terribly, did she?”

With a smile, Emily reached out and took his hovering hand and placed it against her cheek. The skin there did still smart a bit, but the tiny sting was worth the pleasure of his caress.

“No,” she reassured him. “More took me by surprise than anything. I’m quite all right.”

Benedict did not look convinced. He held her chin as if he feared she might break, tilting her head to the side to get a better look.

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