Page 20 of A Devil in Silk
A curse hovered on his lips. He swallowed it down, drawing on years of excellent breeding, smiling rather than frowning, inclining his head respectfully rather than jabbing his finger at the door and telling them to get the hell out.
Looking composed and impossibly flawless, Miss Woodall’s golden hair caught the morning light, her beauty so classical it could have been carved in marble. Yet even the way she held her toast, with a peculiar pincer grip, annoyed him.
“There you are, Bentley.” His mother looked brighter than she had in years. She gazed at Miss Woodall with the pride of a jeweller unveiling his finest gem. “No doubt some important obligation kept him.”
“Punctuality seems to be a virtue of the working class,” Miss Woodall replied, barely glancing in his direction. “Not everyone can afford the luxury of being late.”
“Sacrifice comes in many forms,” he said, flicking his coattails and taking the seat at the head of his mother’s table. He nodded for the footman to pour the coffee, certain the next hour would be torturous.
“Yes, my daughter will have you up with the larks, my lord,” came Mrs Woodall’s witless remark. “I’m confident she will run your household with brisk efficiency.”
He didn’t want a matron in his bed. He wanted a woman who broke the rules, who chose a morning of passion over a schedule of social obligations. One who stole chocolate macaroons and ate them behind the curtains. A woman who laughed at decorum, not one who lived by its strictures.
“No one dictates the hour at which I rise, Mrs Woodall.”
He hoped his tone was cold enough to frost the windows. It was time the Woodalls learned exactly what sort of husband he would be. No one’s servant. No one’s fool.
His mother laughed while secretly glaring at him, tugging at the iron shackle she’d fastened around his neck at birth. “He’s teasing. Bentley knows the value of a woman’s opinion.”
He knew the opinions of those seated around the table were on par with Hamlet’s machinations. “Still, I demand the freedom to decide what happens in my own household.”
“Freedom and duty are not easily balanced,” Miss Woodall countered. “But we’re adults who know the importance of responsibility. I’m sure we will muddle through.”
Muddle through?
What the devil?
Why wasn’t she searching for a way out of this marriage instead of feeding his mother false hope? It’s not like the Woodalls needed his money. And Miss Woodall made no secret of her disdain for the peerage. So why this sudden display of dutiful compliance?
Although no betrothal had been officially announced, for the sake of appearances a gentleman had to give her the option to refuse. Until then, society would assume the match inevitable. And if she truly felt the same reluctance, would she not welcome the chance to admit it?
“Would you care to take a stroll in the garden, Miss Woodall?” He would tell her, in no uncertain terms, to stop playing games and end this nonsense.
The lady gazed at the window and turned up her nose. “The sun is rather bright this morning, and freckles are so unbecoming on pale skin.”
“You can take my parasol,” his mother offered.
Miss Woodall smiled, all civility and constraint. “That’s kind, but I’ve already walked this morning. I try not to overtire myself, not when I have important letters to write this afternoon in support of the Factory Bill.”
While his mother looked on with awe and admiration, he said, “Do you support the age limit or the reduced working hours? Reformers seem undecided which is more pressing.”
“Both.” She took a bite of her toast.
The crunch grated on his nerves.
“Then you must have an opinion on Lord Althorp’s latest amendment. Do you believe four inspectors will be enough to regulate every mill in England?”
“This is hardly talk for the breakfast table,” Mrs Woodall interjected. “I don’t mind Sarah having her hobbies, but I draw the line at ruining one’s appetite.”
Rebellion stirred in his chest like smoke before a fire. He would end this farce today before his mother sank deeper into delusion. Despite the burden of guilt, he could no longer keep up the charade.
He had to speak.
He had to speak now.
Just as he opened his mouth, a firm knock on the door broke through the tension. Doubtless fate planned to put its boot on his head and force him down into turbulent waters.
The butler entered, bowed to his mistress, and turned to Bentley. “I beg your pardon, my lord. There are two gentlemen at the door, an Inspector Mercer and a Sergeant Brown. The inspector is asking for you. He says it concerns the incident you witnessed last night at The Arcane Emporium in Rupert Street.”
