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Though her tone was kind, Benedict almost smiled at the tiniest hint of sharpness in the words. Either his mother had to agree with Emily—which she clearly didn’t want to do—or claim that she didn’t understand the value of thinking. She was a tactical menace, his wife.

Still, it rankled thathewas still receiving the cool, disaffected Emily as was evident when she turned to him and commented blandly, “The sauce is quite fine this evening, I think.”

“Quite,” he agreed stupidly.

Very well. She had not forgiven him. He thought back to their earlier conversation, the one that had just been dancing on the cusp of becoming a true argument when his mother had barged in. He stifled a wince as he ran back over the conversation. Hehadbeen a tad bit harsh with her. He simply hadn’t expectedher to be the type of woman to demand constant attendance at Society events.

His mind caught on his own phrasing. Thetypeof woman. It took him back to Emily’s earlier accusation, the one she’d made the night he’d first taken her to bed. Her claim that he had painted all women with the same brush as his mother.

He looked at the two women in front of him. There was his mother, petulantly refusing to touch her supper, her face twisted into a sneer. And then there was Emily, upset but not making those feelings a matter of public consumption.

His stomach lurched. Maybe his wife had been right. Maybe hewasbeing a hypocrite. The thought rankled. He’d long prided himself on his fair-mindedness, on the fact that he, unlike his mother, was not a creature of hysterics and emotional manipulation. But he had to now allow, perhaps he had let his own emotions towards his mother have more effect than he’d realized.

Fuck. He was going to have to apologize to his wife.

Now was not the time, though. For one, he would like to make such an apology in private—both in concession to his pride and because he hoped his wife would thank him in a manner that demanded they be alone—but also because his mother was speaking loudly.

“I suppose, then,” she said, her tone musing as though she was merely thinking aloud; the malicious glint in her eyesaid otherwise. “If you are such athinkingcreature—a proper bluestocking—that this means you admit you weretryingto trap my son into marriage when you seduced him in a hallway?”

Emily’s mouth dropped open. Benedict surged to his feet.

“Get out,” he said to his mother.

The smug look in Priscilla’s face morphed into offended shock.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Benedict,” she said. “After all, what can admitting it hurt now? She’s ensnared you in her little scheme; you are wed. At least, she can still claim a modicum of honor if she confesses.”

“I didn’t—” Emily stammered.

“No one thinks you did,” Benedict interrupted his wife, forcing his tone to softness despite his anger. He could not bear to see her suffer the indignity of having to deny such a thing. “Not evenshethinks you did,” he said, cutting a glare at his mother. “She’s merely stirring up trouble.”

“Why, I never!” Priscilla exclaimed with a hand pressed to her throat. “It is a mother’s duty to protect her child, Benedict!”

Benedict ignored her, keeping his eyes locked on his wife until she let out a small huff of air and nodded.

“I may not be perfect, Emily, but I shan’t stand to hear you insulted. Do you understand?”

This time her nod was preceded by the smallest of smiles. It made him feel as though he could lift mountains.

He did not need, however, to do anything so dire as all that. He merely needed to rid their home of a particularly bothersome nuisance.

“Consider this your last warning, Mother,” he said lowly.

“But she—” Priscilla began, pointing dramatically at Emily.

“No,” Benedict interrupted. “No one—andespeciallynot you, given your history, Mother—will cast aspersions against my wife’s character, morals, or virtue. If anyone behaved improperly that evening, it was I, not she. And I struggle to call it impropriety from this perspective when I have been gifted such an excellent bride for my poor behavior.”

He directed this last comment in Emily’s direction, and her small smile grew bigger.

“I fear to think what it shall do for your character, My Lord, to earn rewards for your malfeasance,” she teased quietly. He let out a wholehearted laugh at that, thrilled to see a hint of her playful side again.

“You’re making a mistake, Benedict,” Priscilla hissed.

Calmly, Benedict sat back down in his chair, spreading his napkin across his lap. “Perhaps I am, in giving you this last warning instead of throwing you out this very evening. I suppose we shall see.”

In a great fluster of dignity, Priscilla got to her feet.

“I cannot eat in these circumstances,” she huffed before storming out of the room. Emily and Benedict watched her go.