The Scandalous Proposal Of Lord Bennett

The watch had called six o’clock before she fell into an uneasy sleep. It hadn’t been many hours later before she was wakened by his groping arm and his … his … She shuddered. His thing. If she hadn’t been quite so worried what he intended, she could have sniggered over the list of names suggested for it. Staff, rod, cock … When her hand touched it, it wriggled, and reared up like an excited horse. Almost as if it had a mind of its own. It was one thing admiring it from afar, but close at hand – and hand was the operative word – it was something else.

Sniggering over caricatures and lithographs of a naked man and his appendages was not the same as seeing and feeling them unexpectedly. Last evening she’d been ready to become his wife and to touch and play as he directed. Now, in the cold light of day, and after his behaviour of the night before, she was less enthusiastic.

Clarissa sighed and hunted for her hairbrush. Really, this marriage business was a nuisance. Her maid had been told to leave them until she was called, as had Ben’s valet. So now Clarissa had to hook herself into her dress and try to do something with mahogany-coloured corkscrew curls that had a mind of their own. And the dratted fringe. Whatever she did it looked like a twig brush. It wouldn’t grow out tidily, and she had learned to live with it. However, she’d seen the looks gentlemen had given it, and Ben had been no different. Astonished and amused summed their expressions up perfectly. After a cursory tug and brush she ignored it. It would do as it preferred whatever she did. Eventually, she tied her hair back in a loose chignon, and pulled on a plain day gown with laces down the front. With a glance and a grimace in the mirror, she left the room and returned to the bedchamber. Thence to stop suddenly. Ben was sprawled across the bed on his back, naked as the day he was born. He’d kicked the covers down to his ankles and not one part of his front was hidden from view.

Oh, what a view.

Clarissa gulped and stared at the thick staff that stood proudly up from his body, and waved hello. Now she was able to study it carefully, and unobserved, she was both fascinated and, in a strange way, repelled. That was supposed to fit into her? Oh, it had felt large when she’d grasped it earlier, but not that size, and in the moonlight she had decided her vision emphasised the size rather than diminished it. Now she realised her mistake. There was no chance that could be accommodated inside a woman. Someone surely had their facts wrong?

‘Do you like what you see?’ Her husband was awake and watching her through hooded eyes. ‘Shall I show you more?’

Her hands went to her warm cheeks. Now was a time she could have done with a fan, and not for coy or flirtatious purposes either. His eyes, although still cloudy, had a look in them, which her governess would have called devilry, and Clarissa decided was studied wickedness. If she didn’t stand up to him now, she never would.

‘Why?’ She feigned nonchalance, and thought she may well have succeeded. ‘You have shown me nothing so far to make me wish to see more.’

His eyes cleared and dark lights of fire flashed. Then his mouth firmed in a straight line. ‘Really? I must be slacking.’

She shrugged. ‘Perhaps fine wines and brandy have that effect on you, my lord. Make you slack. You sampled enough to discover whether my words are true or not.’ Clarissa ignored his snort of outrage and his muttered oath and swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She wanted no more than to reach for the glass of water next to the bed. However, she knew enough about men to know Ben would see it as a sign of weakness, and pounce on it like a cat with a mouse.

To give herself time, and to rid the room of the noxious smell of stale alcohol, Clarissa walked over to the windows, pulled back the curtains, and pushed up the sash, thence to let warm, fresh air and sunshine fill the room. It was lucky this room overlooked a pleasant and tidy garden, filled with scented flowers and not the road, where the aromas would certainly not be fresh and sweet.

Ben groaned. ‘Woman, you are trying to kill me.’

‘Fresh air never killed anyone, my lord. And if you persist in smelling like a cast-off from a tavern, you’ll need the benefits. To put it bluntly, you stink worse than any privy.’ She dusted her hands together and after a brief, very brief glance down his body, stared at his face. Her words seemed to have little effect on his body. Clarissa willed herself not to blush.

‘I do, do I? My poor wife. How shall we remedy that?’ Ben jumped off the bed and stalked stiff-legged towards her.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed his gait made his cock wave about as if in welcome to her.

‘Perhaps you could bathe me and show me what’s needed?’ His tone was challenging.

Clarissa dug her nails into her hands. He would not trifle with her, and she would not rise to his bait. ‘Perhaps?’ She shrugged insouciantly. ‘But why should I bother? You have nothing to interest me, and on past showing, I have nothing that interests you. Why waste time? You drink yourself into oblivion, and I … I? I will …’ She ran out of words as he continued to move closer until he stopped a few inches in front of her. One more step and his body would touch hers.

‘You will?’ he asked silkily.

‘Go and have breakfast.’

Damn him.

She left the room at a most indecorous speed. His mocking laughter followed her as she headed down the stairs. Why on earth had she acted in that way? Oh yes, he’d annoyed her, and in truth intrigued her. Because if what she’d read happened, did happen, well …

Hot chocolate and a light breakfast should calm her, surely? And get rid of the strange tingles and shudders that had run through her when she’d stared at her husband. First, though, she needed to walk. Clarissa turned away from her original destination, and made her way along a narrow corridor to where a door led into the larger than average town garden. At least Bennett House had one. So many great town houses didn’t enjoy such a thing. The screech of the bolt which secured the door, as she withdrew it from its casing, made her think few people ever ventured into this outdoor space, even though it was there. She made a mental note to ask Ben to have the lock and bolt oiled, and inform the servants that the garden was for everyone. After all, how often would it be used otherwise?

The thoughts brought her up short. A wifely task? What was she thinking? She had no desire to act as a wife – complaisant or otherwise – hated town and had no intention of spending a minute longer in the metropolis than she had to. The niggly thought that perhaps she would have no say in the matter, she ignored. As she did the one that sneakily told her she’d love to be his wife … his proper, no-holds-barred, forsaking-all-others – for both of them – wife. Clarissa wrenched open the door and walked out into the fresh air.

The scents that wafted up into the bedroom didn’t do the garden justice. Or maybe they had no chance against stale brandy?

Why had she reacted to Ben in such a way? It was guaranteed to put his back up – and it seemed his staff. She giggled, her heart suddenly lighter. She could neither change her way of thinking than a leopard could change its spots. To be outspoken and forward-thinking was ingrained in her. Ever since her mama died, her papa had tried his best to be both parents to her. But as he had often admitted, the workings of a woman’s mind remained a mystery to him, as they did to most men. She loved him dearly, and was more than happy with the strength and independence he’d helped her gain. However, Clarissa would be the first person to admit that her attitude didn’t go down well with most of the ton. It had never bothered her before; in fact she had actively cultivated their view of her. Until Ben had shown his chivalrous side, that is, and she had started to wish he saw her as more than an encumbrance. She still hadn’t decided why he had come to her aid, although to be seen stroking her ankle could well have become the scandal of the decade.

Life was so complicated. Clarissa sighed and began to walk.

The garden was immaculate, but even so, she had the impression it wasn’t loved. No lady of the house came and picked the flowers or walked the lawns. No guests spilled out of the dining room or the ballroom to walk the terrace and enjoy the soft evening air. It was a pity, and Clarissa knew, even though there was now a mistress of the house, nothing would change. The thought depressed her in some strange way, and she retraced her steps inside, and thence to make her way to the breakfast room.

The footman looked at her strangely as she walked in alone, and at such an early hour, but he merely bowed.

‘My lady.’

Clarissa bit her lip. Although she’d been a Lady all her life there were ladies and there were ladies. As the married Lady Bennett she was of a higher echelon than the unmarried Lady Clarissa Macpherson. She’d have to find that hat and learn how to wear it. In her father’s house, once her rakish, but strangely staid, pompous and proper with regard to her, elder brother had moved out, she and her father had lived life very informally.

Tarnation, I can only be what I am. Stuffiness and pomposity didn’t sit well with Clarissa’s true nature. She smiled at the young footman. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

‘C … can I get you some breakfast, my lady?’ His voice squeaked and he blushed the colour of the deep red cushions on the chairs.

‘Just chocolate and a light meal, please.’ She ignored his embarrassment. He was new and no doubt scared. ‘Eggs, perhaps?’ What was his name? ‘Timothy.’ She remembered at the last minute and was glad she’d done so when his face lit up. ‘Of course, my lady.’

Nothing was said about Ben, and Clarissa chose not to mention him. Her mother had died when Clarissa was in leading reins, and she and her father always breakfasted together. Clarissa had no idea if that was the norm or not, but felt it best not to comment unless she was asked a direct question.

She waited until the man left the room, and stared at the twelve-foot-long table. If Ben did appear and they sat at either end, they would need to communicate by signs – did he know semaphore? – or a written note. For a family dining table it was ridiculous. How stupid did Ben feel when he ate alone?

As if on cue the man himself appeared. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and his normally immaculate hair appeared to have been in a fight with a hedge and lost. The cravat tied around his neck was more Belcher than Bennett, and all in all he looked, well, disreputable. She risked a quick peep downwards, but nothing hard spoiled the neat fit of his pantaloons. Clarissa wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed.

He took one swift glance at her and sighed. ‘How many apologies do I owe you?’

She shrugged. He looked like a little boy who had been caught red-handed tormenting the chickens, or trying to ride the family sow, and it was hard to keep a straight face. For the first time, Clarissa had an idea life was not going to be as straightforward as she hoped. ‘If you need to ask, then the answer is, of course, none.’

‘I was afraid of that. Several then.’ He essayed a grin. She didn’t respond and he rubbed his chin with one hand. ‘But as at this moment I have no recollections of my misdemeanours, I’ll save the specifics until I do. Until that time, please consider them given.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ Clarissa said levelly. ‘Shall I ring for the footman?’

He shook his head and winced. ‘Argh, of all the idiotic, stupid … Sorry, no need. I’ll sit and die quietly until one appears.’

It was difficult not to let her lips twitch at the air of pathos that surrounded him, but she hardened her heart. Everything he suffered was self-inflicted. If she wasn’t careful he’d run rings around her, and Clarissa was honest enough to know that could only end in heartache. ‘As you wish.’

‘You’re all heart, my dear.’

She chose not to answer as the soft swish of a door opening caught her attention. A few seconds later a plate of eggs and slices of crusty bread were set in front of her, and a chocolate pot and cup placed to one side. She thanked the footman who bowed and turned to Ben.

‘My lord?’

‘I’ll have what my wife is having,’ he said.

The footman’s eyes widened. ‘Chocolate, my lord?’

Ben blanched and Clarissa hid her face with her napkin as he then turned green and got up so abruptly his chair crashed down behind him. He left the room in a hurry.

Clarissa turned to the footman. ‘I think he means the eggs, Timothy.’

Chapter Three

After parting company with all of the previous day’s food and drink, and probably that of the week before as well, Ben dunked his head under the pump in the tiny backyard and spluttered as his nose and ears filled with the liquid.

He pulled his head up much too sharply for someone suffering the afflictions he did, and groped for the towel he’d plucked from the washing line on his mad dash to get rid of the contents of his stomach.

‘Here.’ The towel was placed in his hands, and he lifted the coarse material to his cheeks.

Damnation and hellfire, I know that voice.

He scrubbed his face, dropped the cloth, narrowly missed the water trough and looked up into the eyes of his wife.

‘Thank you,’ he said stiffly. Her amused expression helped not one iota to reduce his embarrassment. ‘My apologies you have to see me like this.’

‘Really?’ One elegant eyebrow lifted almost to her hairline. The wind flirted with her curls, and the hem of her skirt drifted back and forth over the dusty ground. As ever her fringe was all over the place. She looked young, and now, sadly, disgusted.

How on earth can she do that and invest it with all the scorn and disbelief she obviously has? Which, he acknowledged, he deserved.

‘I had thought it was due to your having to rest your eyes on me; you decided that to drink yourself into oblivion was a better option.’ Clarissa surveyed him steadily, and Ben was sure his face was the colour of the roses she’d carried in her bouquet the day before. How on earth could she make him feel like a scrubby schoolboy so easily?

‘I’m sorry I gave you that impression.’ Try as he might he couldn’t lift his voice. It was hard not to scuff his boots in the dirt and kick a stone. However, in the state he was in he’d probably break a window or hit his wife on the head if he did.

‘Are you? If you say so.’

His hackles rose as she dismissed his apology so cavalierly. Really his wife needed lessons in manners. And I don’t? He dismissed the thought. It was too close to the truth to be contemplated at a silly hour.

‘I’ve instructed Timothy to take your eggs away and bring you a jug of ale, and barbaric though it sounds to me, red meat. According to Renwick, your major-domo, it’s the best cure for an …’ She chuckled and he caught a glimpse of a person he’d never met before. Bright eyes, young and amused. No adoration, no disgust, just an openness he loved. ‘An affliction such as yours.’

‘Thank you,’ he said gratefully. ‘Believe me, it works.’

‘Then perhaps you should return to your breakfast.’

Somehow he was sure it was not a suggestion. Had his wife got hitherto unrevealed depths? After all, what did he know of her? A fresh-faced schoolgirl who went red whenever he saw her, a young deb who held no interest for him, and now an unwilling bride, even if he had long held a desire to get to know her better. Who does she remind me of? That question had popped in and out of his mind over several years. He never discovered the answer.

Ben held his arm out to her.

She shook her head. ‘Unlike you, I have no desire to greet a red and rare steak over the breakfast table. I thought I might check your library to see if it negates a visit to Hookham’s.’

Hookham’s? The circulating library. Why on earth does a bride on her honeymoon need to visit there? His bewilderment must have been obvious, because his bride smiled, and elaborated.

‘To choose some reading matter. I have to have something to pass the time, and embroidery and tapestry don’t hold my attention for as long as a good book.’

‘We have a library next door if you wish to labour under the misapprehension you will need something other than your husband to occupy your time.’ Lord, he sounded pompous.

She curtseyed and, without bothering to give him a reply, turned on her heels, gave him a tantalising glimpse of her ankles once more – and disappeared through the door and in the direction of the library.

Ben made his way slowly into the breakfast room. He and the lady were long overdue a talk about what was required of a new wife, a honeymoon, and a marriage. The need to find a pastime, other than pandering to his every whim, wasn’t high on the agenda.

Why on earth had he thought that once they were wed all would be fine and straightforward? With Clarissa of all people. He might have admired her since she emerged from her schooling and took her place in the ton, but he suffered no illusions about her and her feistiness. When he saw Ferdy Pendragon attack her he’d seen red and all his chivalrous qualities had come to the fore. She deserved better. Yes, things had got somewhat out of hand, and his declaration had been as much of a surprise to him as it was to her. However, he hadn’t been displeased. It was time he wed, and Clarissa was someone he liked. He ignored the tiny voice in his battered head that scoffed and niggled … only like? He should have known it wasn’t going to be plain sailing.

He began to plot. Hookham’s indeed. If she needed to read, then she could read him.

****

Clarissa wandered around the library like a child in William Hamley’s Noah’s Ark toy shop. When she was a little girl, her godmother had taken her to the shop in High Holborn and allowed her to pick two toys. She’d chosen a whip and top, and an elegant rag doll, which her half-French godmother had christened Marguerite. The whip and top were buried deep in one of the outbuildings at her father’s country home, but Marguerite was in her portmanteau and would eventually sit on her bed.

When he chooses to tell me where it is. The night before she’d been ushered into a bedchamber, and left to await his arrival. Some arrival that had been. She had ached from the number of times her hand had been shaken or she’d curtseyed, and was tired and more than a little apprehensive about the coming hours. And she knew fine well only the upper servants had greeted them. The rest of the household would be made known to her on the return from their honeymoon. She had no idea if that was the norm or not but she was pleased it had been so. There had been enough new things and people to assimilate as it was.

Clarissa cast her mind over the previous night’s activities and remembered her first sight of a naked man. Now, she admitted, it was a sight well worth seeing even if previously she hadn’t been so sure.

Her less than amorous bridegroom had fallen onto the mattress and stayed where he landed for the rest of the night. So much for being introduced to the pleasure of the marital bed. She shook her head. If that was the delight awaiting her, he could keep it. It was best not to think of it. Instead she delved into the delights of a well-stocked library, with a plethora of books to choose from. If, as it seemed, reading did not feature on His Lordship’s list of pastimes, someone had thought it worthwhile creating such a perfect room. She decided there and then that during any visit to the capital she would use the library as her own private retreat. Ben could find somewhere else to drink his brandy and bemoan his fate.

Clarissa was so engrossed in deciding whether to reread Miss Austen’s Northanger Abbey or discover the delights of Mrs Davenport’s The Hypocrite that when a strong hand descended onto her shoulder and gripped it she screamed as if a banshee had approached. She spun around and dropped both books. Straight onto a pair of bare feet.

The epithet that scorched her ears made Clarissa certain the hands belonged to a human, and hadn’t acted independently. No banshee would have such a wide and varied cuss word vocabulary, surely?

‘Woman, do you want to unman me?’ She looked into the anguished face of her husband, who actually hopped from one foot to another. What a play actor.

‘Highly unlikely unless your manhood is in your feet?’ She couldn’t help it, she let her glance slide over his crotch – did it always twitch when someone glanced at it? – before she looked at his allegedly abused digits.

‘What a performance over a little book on your toes. Mr Kean would be proud of it. The library today, Drury Lane tomorrow?’ Clarissa bent down and picked the volumes up. His soft whistle made her realise the actions stretched her gown tight over her rear. She itched to drop the books once more, with force and intention this time. And make them graze the stiffly outlined part of his body that stretched his pantaloons to the limit of their knit. Why on earth was he barefoot anyway? He’d had boots on earlier. What was wrong with house shoes like any sensible person?

She bit her lip to stop the ready retort that sprang to mind. Really, this bite-your-tongue stuff was a load of nonsense. He didn’t hold back, so why should she?

‘I thought you wished to talk, not insult me,’ Clarissa said as she put the books on the table and dusted her hands. It wouldn’t augur well to have a shouting match with her husband on the first full day of married life. ‘Your carpet needs a good clean.’

He bowed. ‘Tell your servants, my dear.’

My servants? Oh lord, I’m the lady of the house now.

She curtseyed in the same mocking way he had saluted her. ‘As you say. Did you want me for anything, my lord?’

He chuckled.

Clarissa clenched her fists as the ready colour she was cursed with heated her skin. ‘In your dreams, my lord. If … when,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘I give myself to a man it will be one who has proved himself to be worthy.’

He whistled long and loud. ‘Now did I say anything about giving yourself, my dear?’ His tone was all innocence. ‘I trust you’ve found a tome to amuse you during those few moments I cannot? For we leave for my hunting lodge within the hour.’

‘Why?’ Not that she was averse to leaving for the countryside. Clarissa was never at ease in the metropolis, and much preferred the slower pace of life in the shires. But with Ben? Alone? When he could … well, whatever. She turned her thoughts into a cough.

‘Why? Honestly?’ Gone was the hungover bridegroom, to be replaced by the man she had secretly admired from afar. ‘Clarissa, whatever the circumstances, we’re married, and need to gain a modicum of knowledge and understanding of each other. We need to learn to at least be in each other’s vicinity without sniping. For that, I rather think we need privacy. Here we are too likely to be interrupted, by all and sundry.’

Clarissa understood the truth in that. Even in the short time she’d spent in the library, the silence of the house had been disturbed by the loud peal of the doorbell several times. More than once there had been strident voices, one of which she was convinced was female, and then a definite slam of a door. It was all well and good knowing she’d upset several ladies upon her engagement; not so good to believe more than one didn’t see a wife as an impediment to anything. Clarissa might not want to be married, or a wife, but neither was she prepared to step back and let any other woman monopolise her husband. The operative words were, she thought, her husband. Hers. Perhaps he was right.

‘Then I’ll make sure I have everything I need. Does my maid know?’

‘She knows. She has packed. She will not accompany us.’

Clarissa blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No maid, no valet,’ Ben said. ‘I will play ladies maid.’