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“Of course,” she said faintly, hand still pressed to her cheek.

“I shall call upon you once the special license is sorted,” he said brusquely, already half turned towards the door. The sooner her flush and the heaving of her delectable bosom were out of his sight, the better. “Good day, Miss Rutley.”

And then the esteemed Earl of Moore turned and fled.

CHAPTER 10

Benedict walked home, relying on the chill of the foggy London morning to quell his lingering ardor from that ill-advised encounter in Miss Rutley’s front parlor.

This was effective, if unpleasant, given that the fog gave way to a freezing drizzle when Benedict still had some fifteen minutes of walking to do.

Little did he know, however, was that his soggy walk was far more enjoyable than what awaited him at home.

“Scandal!” shrieked his mother the instant he stepped through the front door. She flew at him, her face twisted into a mask of outrage, a fistful of papers clutched in her hand. For a moment, Benedict thought she’d discovered the stolen letters until he registered that she held that day’s copy of several of the gossip rags.

“Scandal!” she cried again, waving the papers so furiously and so close to his face that Benedict had to push her arm aside, lest he lose an eye. “What do I find in the papers this morning, butmyson embroiled in a scandal for debauching some wretched wallflower in a hallway?” She shook the papers again. “This is ridiculous, Benedict! Outlandish! Preposterous!”

She punctuated each synonym with another furious shake of newsprint.

Benedict was cold. He was wet. He was experiencing the unpleasant physical effects of unfulfilled lust, which was not a desirable experience at the best of times but even more so when one was conversing with one’s screaming mother. He felt that his mother’s characterization of Emily was quite unfair, and to top it all off, he was sick and bloody tired ofbeing shrieked at in his own home.

So, he felt that he could be forgiven for snatching the papers from his mother’s hand and throwing them to the floor.

“Stop that at once,” he ordered coldly as his mother gaped at him in affront. “Just stop. Stop the screaming and the hysteria. Stop.”

Most of the time, this was when his mother switched to her martyr routine. She would wail and cry about how cruelly Benedict mistreated her. Today, though, she reared up like a snake about to strike. The different tactic might have been interesting if Benedict didn’t know it was destined to be just as tiresome as her tears.

“You shall not tell me tostop, Benedict Hoskins,” she spat. “You are a hypocrite, always scolding me about discretion then turning around and tupping a spinster in the middle of a Society event. You should be ashamed of yourself. Ashamed!”

Benedict tugged off his sodden waistcoat, never mind the decorum of getting partially undressed in one’s front hallway—it was bloody past time that people started recognizing that this was his house, and he could do as he pleased. He was not, however, he noted absently, ashamed of what he’d done with Emily. It hadn’t been smart, he knew that. It had certainly created a mess.

But he wasn’t ashamed.

“Mother,” he snapped, “cease with your appalling language and infernal noise. I was not, as you so crassly put it,tuppinganyone. Miss Rutley—who is not a spinster, I might add—and I were found embracing.” His mother opened her mouth, probably do to more goddamned screaming, so Benedict cut her off. “And even if I owed you an explanation about any of this—which I do not—I would assure you that the situation has been handled.”

His mother still wore an injured look, but at least when she spoke again, her volume was less extreme. It was a wonder, Benedict thought, that he hadn’t been stricken deaf years ago.

“I don’t see that there’s any need for you to speak to me in such a tone, Benedict,” the Dowager Countess sniffed, as if she hadn’t been speaking to him in a far more aggressive tone. “But Isuppose I should be grateful that you have handled things before they got out of proportion.”

“Splendid,” he said curtly, brushing past her. He needed a hot bath—or possibly a cold one. He suspected Emily would creep back into his thoughts once he was alone again, and that would not do.

Priscilla Hoskins had never been one to give up her audience without a fight, however. She followed him.

“It isn’t that I object to you having a littlefun, Benedict,” she wheedled. “I am not so uptight as all that—you know that.”

Unfortunately, he did know that, far more than he wished. He kept walking.

“But for goodness’ sake, keep it to widows and actresses, and do endeavor to be behind a locked door when you cannot keep your trousers on.” Benedict resented every minute of this conversation. “There are rules about these things, and you cannot go about ruining and casting aside young ladies, even if they are positively ancient and unpopular.” She sniffed dramatically then tugged on his arm when he didn’t respond. “Benedict, are you even listening to me?”

He wasso closeto his bedchamber door. A little further and he would be free, but she was clinging to him like a limpet.

“Mother,” he said shortly, only half turning in her direction and shaking free of her grasp. “I told you. I have taken care of it. There is nothing further to say on the topic. It will not be an issue.”

He wasn’t sure what gave him away, but a dawning awareness bloomed across his mother’s face.

“Oh, dear God,” she muttered, clasping her hands against her chest. “You’re going to marry her.”

Benedict rolled his eyes.