Page 11

Chapter

Eleven

“ W ell, now that all is settled, I’m off for a glass of wine.

It’s past luncheon and I believe Ravensmere will join me should I persuade him,” his brother said with a laugh.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Without another word, Whitmore left them alone in the garden, unchaperoned apart from the gardeners working away behind them.

Still, Benedict hardly noticed the moment his brother disappeared down the gravel path. He was too aware of the quiet left in his wake—and of the woman still standing near him.

Lady Angelica.

She smoothed the front of her gown, her gaze dipping briefly before returning to the flower beds, but Benedict saw the hesitation in her posture. She was debating whether to stay.

He ought to let her go. Ought to turn and limp back into the house, shut the door to his bedchamber, and pray for strength to ignore the pull of her presence.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “You mentioned being nervous about the Season,” he said, his voice softer now that they were alone. “May I ask why?”

She turned to him, eyes wide with surprise. “I didn’t think you were listening so well, my lord.”

“I hear more than people think. Comes with being the second son—I’m used to listening.”

A smile touched her lips, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“It’s silly really. I’m two and twenty, hardly a fresh debutante.

Most ladies will be younger, bolder. I’ve never attended a London Season, and now I’m expected to make friends, attract suitors.

Blend into a world I’ve only heard of in letters and novels. ”

“You won’t need to blend in,” he said, his voice tinged with unexpected heat. “You’ll stand out.”

Her brows lifted, a faint blush painting her cheeks a pretty rosy hue.

He cursed himself inwardly. He was meant to offer reassurance, not flattery.

And yet, he continued. “You are intelligent, gracious, and thoughtful. You are already everything the ton pretends to value.” And more.

More than any other woman he had known. She unsettled him in a way that was both exquisite and terrifying.

“And yet I doubt they’ll see me that way,” she murmured. “I’ll be seen as an old maid.”

Benedict watched her closely. The sunlight glinted off her golden hair, gathered at the nape in a simple knot. A few tendrils curling loose around her ears and throat. She looked nothing like the simpering ladies his brother often tried to parade before him.

“They’ll see a woman who is kind and worth friendship,” he said finally. “And if they do not, they are fools.”

She smiled again, more genuinely this time, but there was still doubt lingering in her expression. “And what if I do not make friends? What if no one talks to me, or I say something wrong and they whisper behind their fans?”

“You worry too much,” he said, stepping closer, the ache in his leg protesting. “But if it brings you comfort, I shall make you a promise.”

She tilted her head, interest sparking in her pretty green eyes. “What kind of promise?”

“If ever I’m in the same room as you, I will ensure someone is speaking to you.”

She laughed softly, the sound warm and honest. “You’ll be the priest at the back of the ballroom, glaring disapprovingly at anyone who dares slight me.”

“Possibly,” he allowed. “Though I’ll have to leave the glaring to the dowagers for they will all be jealous of your presence. My duties will likely keep me away from the gaiety.”

Something in her smile faded.

The ache in his chest caught him off guard. He had meant to comfort her, to distract her. But her presence, her scent—roses and something softer, something purely her—was undoing him piece by piece.

“I should return inside,” she said, dipping into a slight curtsy.

She turned.

He didn’t think.

His hand shot out and caught her wrist—gently, but firmly enough that she stopped. Their eyes met, hers widened in surprise. “I—” He faltered, his heart hammering. “Forgive me. I simply…” He stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

“This isn’t proper,” she whispered.

“No,” he agreed. “But it’s honest.” Benedict drew her into his arms.

At first, it was only an embrace. A thank-you, he told himself. For her kindness, for her care, for the softness she had shown him when he’d been at his lowest. He held her gently, her body slight but warm against his chest, her breath a flutter against his collarbone.

But then—something inside him shifted.

It wasn’t gratitude burning through him.

It was fire.

Pure, consuming, and unholy.

His arms tightened. She didn’t resist.

This was not what a man of God should feel. This was not what a future priest should crave. But he did. He craved her.

He turned his face slightly, his lips grazing the skin just below her ear. A soft, sensitive patch that smelled of lavender and warmth. He half-expected her to pull away, to scold him, to remind him of his path.

Instead, she tilted her head, granting him more access.

Benedict’s restraint shattered. He pressed a kiss to her neck—slow, reverent, scandalous. His lips moved along her skin, savoring her. Her breath caught, and he felt the tremble pass through her as if it were his own.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though he didn’t know if he meant it. Didn’t know if he could pull himself from her arms.

Her fingers clutched his coat, keeping him near. “Don’t be.”

“You make me question everything,” he admitted, shamed, and yet the honesty also freed a part of him that had felt restrained for so long.

With Angelica everything was different, he was different, and while he did not know what that meant right now, he knew one thing for certain—he craved the woman in his arms and had never felt this way before in his life.

“And you,” she said, her voice barely audible, “make me believe, make me hope for something I should not.”

He swallowed hard. The weight of her words lodged in his chest like a brand. “I cannot promise you anything, Angelica. Not truly. Not yet.”

“I know.” Her gaze lifted, clear and steady. “But I also know what I feel.”

He released her slowly, as if pulling away from a dream. They stood in silence in the garden alive with the sounds of summer, of birdsong and wind in the hedges.

“I must leave,” he said, voice rough. “Not for my health or because I’m now well enough to travel, but because of what I’ll do if I stay. There is much to think about.”

Angelica nodded, as if she understood his quandaries. “And I must go to London to find a husband.”

Her words cut him like a knife. “But this moment,” he said, brushing his fingers over hers that held his lapels still. “I will remember.”

She smiled, just barely. “As will I,” she said, slipping from his arms.

Benedict watched her go, and every step she took felt like a nail being driven into the coffin of his conviction. And yet, somewhere deep within, he was no longer certain that coffin would hold.