Page 36 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)

I t was a full two mornings later that Miss Priscilla Hurst was announced at the Fairburn household. Benedict was (unusually) awake already, and dressed, and indeed entirely prepared to meet his intended even at the unlikely hour of eleven o'clock in the morning.

His first thought, upon entering the drawing room, was that she did not look well.

Indeed, it put all other thoughts out of his mind.

He rushed to where she sat on the couch, dropped to one knee, and looked into her pale, wan face.

No, not only pale: Miss Hurst was by nature pale.

Now even her natural milky coloring seemed to have sallowed and her skin tightened over her bones until she looked pinched; her hair, well-arranged in suitable curls that ought to have flattered her face, was straw-like, all its luster gone.

The ice pink of her gown no longer looked suitable, but rather as if someone had played a cruel trick, deliberately choosing a hue one or two off from that which would flatter.

Even through gloves, her hands were cold.

Benedict raised them to his lips and in real concern, cried out, "My dear, whatever is wrong? "

Miss Hurst, unable to meet his eyes, turned her profile to him. With the new tightness of her skin, her perfect nose became too sharp and her lips disappeared in a thin, unhappy line. "I must tell you something, Mr Fairburn. Something that may change your affections for me."

Benedict thought instantly of Graham, his loathing roaring back to life. The cad had to be responsible in some way for his darling's misery, and he would have her happiness back if it came out of Graham's hide. "Nothing you could say will change my affections."

"I have no fortune."

Benedict wobbled upon his one knee, righted himself, then gave up and sat without dignity upon the floor to gape at his fiancée like a doe-eyed cow. "I beg your pardon?"

Pained embarrassment slipped over Miss Hurst's face as she glanced at Benedict, sprawled on the floor like a child. "Oh, do get up, Mr Fairburn, I cannot look at you like that."

Uncertain how well his legs would respond—they tingled dully, but had no other distinct feeling—Benedict rose slowly, making certain to keep one hand on the arm of the couch and then the back of one of the deeply winged chairs until he was able to ensconce himself in the chair.

"Not that your fortune affects my desire to marry you," he said as woodenly as the chair, "but what are you talking about, Miss Hurst? Your family is wealthy, and my mo?—"

A faint smile did little to restore Miss Hurst's beauty.

"And your mother was unable to root out even a hint of scandal?

Yes, my mother is exceedingly good at managing gossip, and even better at managing a household.

There is no outward sign of our ruin. Not yet, at least. My father and grandfather were both inclined to keep as much wealth tucked away in the salt cellar as in the banks, and so what has gone out has been steadily replaced, all in the manner of well-accounted business.

Those who watch these kinds of things might believe we are in a momentary dip, waiting for the ships to come in, but in a very little time it will become clear that the funds cannot be replenished. "

"But—what has happened?"

"My brother gambles."

Benedict fell back in his chair, gazing at Miss Hurst without seeing her. "I knew—I had heard," he said. "I had been given the impression that he had been—been cut off."

"He has now been," Priscilla said quietly. "Too late for the family fortune, but…as I said, my mother is exceptionally good at managing gossip."

"Yes." Benedict spoke without hearing himself, his thoughts aswirl.

Her lack of funds did not, he supposed, change anything, save that as a new husband he would likely be expected to save the Hurst family from ruin.

He did not, in truth, know if his aunt's estate would stretch that far, and said as much.

"Then they will have to retire to a more modest lifestyle," Miss Hurst said quietly.

"We—I— you —would not be expected to support my brother; that much has been made clear to him.

We…have harbored some hope of a commission for him," she admitted, still quietly.

"But that would be an act of generosity and not one I could expect of you. "

Benedict's gaze sharpened on her. "You might have asked that anyway. You might have married me without confessing to any of this. Why tell me, Miss Hurst? Surely your parents wouldn't want you to."

"No. But my grandfather would have. Never enter a business deal dishonestly, he would have said." Miss Hurst tried for another smile and failed. "But there is something more."

Graham, Benedict thought again, and braced himself.

"I've heard rumor, Mr Fairburn, that if you do not marry before she dies, your aunt's fortune will go elsewhere."

A knot formed between Benedict's eyebrows.

Miss Hurst was confounding this morning.

If that was a sign of things to come he would either spend his life in pleasant challenge or unpleasant frustration.

"Yes, it's true. She's in her dotage, I suppose, and has got it into her head that if I don't marry before her death that she'll leave the lot to a school for orphans. "

He might have struck her with lightning, so abruptly did she straighten. "So that is true ?"

"I'm afraid so. A terrible waste, so I admit it's hastened me along the road to marriage, but Miss Hurst, I cannot allow you to think that it has in any way bolstered my affections for you.

I should have been taken with you regardless, for your unconventionality and your honesty.

" Benedict spoke with enough conviction to nearly make himself believe it, but Miss Hurst only looked more troubled.

"I'm sorry to hear you say that, Mr Fairburn. If your affections were conceived for purely financial matters I should feel less dreadful over what I must say."

The breath stopped in Benedict's chest, his heart itself suspended between one beat and the next. His voice, when it came, was thin, though why he was so alarmed he could not say. "Pray, do not feel badly, Miss Hurst. Whatever it is must be said. Please. Do not leave me in suspense."

Miss Hurst gathered herself splendidly, color returning to her skin so that she looked at least healthy again, if never flushed.

"I am fond of you, Mr Fairburn, and I must marry for financial reasons and for the safety and health of my family.

But I do not have to marry you. Nor can I in conscience do so, when I know that our marriage could so profoundly damage the hopes and chances of those far less fortunate than even I, in my dangerous state, am.

I must, therefore, break our engagement, and I can only hope that you will not suffer too long from the disappointment. "

The thud of Benedict's heart matched the beat of every word spoken by Miss Hurst. Despite the blood rushing through him he felt slow and thick, his words measured by disbelief. "Do you mean to say that you refuse to marry me over a school of wretched orphans?"

"That is precisely what I mean to say." Miss Hurst was apologetic but firm, and failed to sound in the least bit heartbroken herself. "I hope you can eventually forgive me, Mr Fairburn. I believe I should depart now. I will show myself out."

"No, no, you must not." Benedict, somewhat surprised his legs would bear his weight, stood and wobbled toward the door with Miss Hurst on his arm.

Almost on his arm: they held the proper form, his elbow for her hand, but she did not so much as touch him, not even the most feather-weight of embraces.

He escorted her down the hall in this intimate yet remote manner, and at the door slid his hand under hers without touching her.

There was no effort on his part as she effectively lifted her own hand to just below Benedict's lips, where he murmured, "Miss Hurst," and allowed her to leave.

No sooner than the door closed behind her than did he fall upon it, his shoulders against its breadth, his chest heaving, his feet splayed wide to press his torso back so the door might support him when he no longer trusted his frame to do the job.

Great gasps tore his throat as emotion crashed through him, and he could not with any certainty name that emotion.

Sorrow? Relief? Anger? Disbelief? Shock?

Insult? All of those and more, he thought, though why anger and insult should lie as bedfellows with relief and delight was all but incomprehensible to him.

He could not rationally be both infuriated and glad to be released from his engagement, but then, this was an age of sensibility, not rationality.

Benedict's knees finally gave way and he slid down the door, his coat rucking up in the back.

He lowered his head into his hands, fingers knotting in his hair, and there he sat, wheezing with conflicting sentiment, until Amelia's startled voice cried, "Benny?

Dear heavens, Benny, are you well?" and his sister flung herself to her knees beside him.

"I do not know what I am," he replied thickly, and to his surprise felt thin tracks of water spill from his eyes as he blinked finally and lifted his gaze to meet Amelia's.

She grimaced at the sight of him, the brief expression conveying that he looked worse even than he imagined. "Benny, whatever has happened?"

"I have been jilted, Amy. Miss Hurst has broken our engagement."

His sister's lips parted in astonishment, then instantly pressed together in anger. "What a fool. She was never worthy of you, Benny. Forget her at once. Whatever could her reason be?"

A sharp laugh escaped Benedict's throat. "The demmed orphans, Amy. The same demmed orphans that Miss Dalton is so concerned with. What could they possibly matter to women of their class?"