Page 59 of Bound By her Earl

She looked disappointed in him. Benedict felt that sting more than he ought.

“That’s not it, either,” she said. “I mean, can you not really hear it? You’re discussing gentlemanly behavior, and while I do appreciate that you don’t intend to bed other women, nothing you’ve said suggests you see women as thinking, feeling creatures.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she barreled on before he could. She sounded more annoyed than resigned now, which he preferred. “You spoke thusly when you talked about seeking a bride as well. You wanted a wife to be like a statue—there but silent. And honestly, I am not sure you are wholly to blame. You don’t have any sisters; your closest friend is not married. And your mother strikes me as a bit…”

She paused, wrinkling her nose as if trying to gather what was the most tactful way to put this.

“Strident,” she said eventually which impressed him both with its generosity and with its bite. “And I know she has been, er, prolific in the Society pages.” Again, this was a masterclass of being both cutting and diplomatic. If Emily had been a tad more heartless, she’d have made a killing as a Society columnist herself.

“Well put,” he commended when she paused, looking at him as if to check to see if she’d crossed a line.

“Right,” she said. “Well, what I mean to say is, I can see where you might get the impression that we are all of a type. And I do not think your impression of that type is a positive one. But—” She spread her hands, showing the whole of herself which he looked at only cautiously, so as not to get caught up in theotherway in which he definitelydidappreciate women. “—I am my own person, Benedict. We are all of us our own people. And I need you—if this is to work between us, I need you to accept that. I need you to not ask me to pay for others’ sins. I cannot do it. I will not.”

She finished her statement with confidence, pinning him with a look that was not quite defiant. Something in that look arrested him. He’d seen her in her proper, obedient guise; he’d seen her argumentative and heated. He’d seen her, even, melted with passion.

But this was different. This was steady and sure but cool and calm. This was, he thought with a wild, almost giddy sense, the negotiation he should have had before they wed. Forget marriage contracts; this was what mattered.

Despite how acutely he knew this was important, however, his mind roiled over responses he did not know how to articulate. He did not know how to say that he did not want to believe her right, but thought she might be, anyway. He could not tell her all the frustration, exhaustion, and yes, often hatred that his mother inspired in him, nor could he speak of this unformed, insistent yearning that she justbe better. He could not promise her anything, and he could not remind her that love was beyond his reach—could not caution her against trying to make him love her, both for his sake and her own.

He didn’t know how to make the words work, so he stood, crossed the space between them, sat at her side, and took her hand in his.

“I will try my very best,” he said, the words feeling like a sacrament. “I don’t know—” He couldn’t explain all that either, so he just repeated himself. “I will try my very best.”

And finally—finally—it seemed like he’d said something right. Because Emily smiled at him, and that smile was like the first bloom of spring.

“Thank you,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “That’s all I ask.”

Looking at her was too hard, so he looked down at their intertwined hands. She had, he noted absently, charmingly short fingers, a surprise on a woman who was otherwise so conveniently tall. She’d never be a master of the pianoforte, his Emily. He could not find it in him to consider this a criticism.

He flipped their hands, so her palm was facing upwards, then loosened his grip just enough, so he could press his thumb into her palm. He pressed more firmly when he got to the muscle at the base of her thumb. She made the tiniest noise of appreciation.

Small though the sound was, it made his eyes fly up to her face. She’d leaned her head lazily against the back of the settee, and her eyes were tired, half closed.

He could have borne all that. He really could, no matter how tempting a picture she painted.

But when the side of her mouth tipped up, offering a soft, casual smile, as if she’d gifted him the same expression a thousand times before, his restraint snapped. He’d spent far too long hungering for this woman before him without any relief. He could take it no longer.

He turned his hand slowly, deliberately, until he could reach and wrap his fingers around her wrist. He tightened his grip in an unmistakable message.

When he looked back to her face, her expression was hazy…but no longer from exhaustion.

Yes, he thought. She was so bloody perfect.

He let a note of slyness creep into his tone. “Tell me, wife,” he said, tugging her grasped arm towards him slowly as he spoke. “Do you wish to go to sleep?”

He’d chosen his words carefully, but Emily, sharp as a blade, noticed. Of course, she did.

“No,” she said, just as slow and deliberate as he. “But I do think that I’d like to go to bed.”

CHAPTER 17

Fortune favored the bold, indeed, Emily thought giddily as her husband practically dragged her down the hall to her bedchamber. All her earlier tiredness had fled as had the anxiety she’d felt over the lingering argument with her husband. Benedict hadn’t promised her anything, not really, but in a way, that felt even more comforting than any grandiose vows of perfection might have done.

He said he would try. And somehow, she believed him.

And when the practiced voice of prudence warned that she might be convinced more out of lust than logic, she hushed it. She’d been cautious and careful for far too long. She was tired of it.

Maybe she would never have love. That was fine—she’d never had it before except for the begrudging love her sisters offered, tempered as it was by their continual frustration with her. And her friends loved her, but that was different. And besides—they always would.

So yes, maybe she had to resign herself to a future where the tender scene she’d witnessed in Diana’s rooms was never echoed in her own home.

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