Page 45 of Bound By her Earl

It felt necessary, however. This was his role, now, to provide her the support she needed.

They walked past the gathered guests, a few of whom eyed the newly wed pair a bit more speculatively than Benedict liked. He would remember their names, that was for sure. When they reached the foyer where he’d spoken to Lady Frances—had it truly been less than an hour before?—Emily let out a long breath that was almost a laugh. Tension leeched out of her shoulders.

“You did well,” he said, the words springing, unbidden, to his lips.

He was immediately glad they had, however, for Emily gave him a smile, one that even hinted at the fire he knew lurked just beneath any proper veneer she placed upon herself. Good. He liked to see that, too.

“Thank you,” she said politely. But he knew now that politeness was just a game—especially when it was aimed at him. The other side of her mouth quirked up, and she nodded at the door in front of them. “Shall we?”

Inside the main church, rustling indicated that the assembled guests were getting to their feet, gathering their things. He wanted to be gone before any of them—by which he of course meant his mother, who had sat in the front row looking sour throughout the ceremony—caught up with him and his new wife.

“Let’s,” he agreed. He pushed open the door with his free hand, leading them, blinking slightly, into the weak spring sunlight.

Benedict let out a breath of relief when he saw that the crowd had, per his snapped instructions, departed. Perhaps they’d taken him seriously, or perhaps once he’d arrived, they had considered the marriagea fait accopmliand left, seeking other entertainments. He didn’t much care as long as they were gone, and Emily never saw them.

“Oi!”

Benedict stiffened at the cry. He considered for a wild moment simply tugging Emily along, using his grip on her arm to pull her away before anything more could be said.

But it was too late. She was already looking towards the sound, her brow furrowing in confusion.

It was the man who had spoken to Benedict earlier about his bet. He was now, unlike before, quite profoundly drunk.

“You!” he called, waving a flask in their direction. If it had any liquor left, Benedict would be astounded. “Y’owe me a guinea, mate.”

“What’s going on?” Emily asked him worriedly.

“It’s nothing,” he said. His carriage was only a few paces away. He tried to lead her in that direction, but her feet weren’t moving.

The drunk man kept talking. “Shoulda been a sure thing, weren’t it? But y’had t’go an’ ruin it.” His words were so slurred as to be nearly unintelligible—though unfortunately not unintelligible enough. The man leered at Emily up and down. “Though p’rhaps I can’t blame ye, man. Papers di’n’t say she were a looker, for all she’s tall.”

Benedict tugged more firmly on Emily’s arm. Where was a fucking constable when you needed one?

“If I’d’a known she looked like that, maybe I’d’a wagered on ye marryin’ ‘er after all,” he hiccupped.

Benedict saw the moment Emily put it all together. Her eyes flashed wide, her mouth dropped open, and though she quickly shoved her reaction beneath her mask of propriety, he saw the hurt.

He felt it as if it were his own. Not five minutes married, and he’d already failed in his role as husband. If that hadn’t ensured thatthe drunk man was going to receive Benedict’s fist to his face, his next words would have done so.

“Whaddya say ye let me ‘ave a go a’ ‘er, and we’ll call it even for the guinea, eh?”

Emily gasped. Benedict lunged.

And, he allowed, even if his hand ended up being broken, it would be worth it just to see the lout collapse into a puddle in the street.

CHAPTER 13

On the carriage ride to her new home, Emily wondered if it were possible to actually die of humiliation.

One part of her hoped so. If it were possible, that was certainly her imminent fate. And then she’d be too dead to worry about things like people taking bets on whether or not she would be left at the altar. That gossip columnist would probably lose a night of sleep or two over it, too.

Poor, dead Emily,everyone would say at her funeral.We should have been nicer to her.

A larger part of her (though at this particular moment it did not feelmuchlarger) hoped such a thing was impossible. Because, well, life. And her sisters. And friends. People who loved her even though she was a tragic figure who got appalling offers from drunkards in the middle of the streeton her wedding day.

Although she did manage toalmostsmile when she saw the way her new husband was shaking out his hand. It had been rather satisfying—flattering, even—to see him flatten the lout with a single blow.

It had been, additionally, impressive in a way that made Emily feel…things.

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