Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

“I’m not cold,” she said.

“You’re shivering,” he said. He set to work arranging wood and kindling.

“I think it’s the shock wearing off,” she said.

“What shock?”

“Lord Northwick,” she said. “I never would have guessed he’d defy his father.”

“Northwick is not a child,” Benedict said. “A man in possession of sound moral principles will do what must be done. Ultimately he is responsible to his own conscience. As you have reminded me repeatedly, this is not the Middle Ages. Mandeville may want blind obedience, but Northwick is not obliged to give it.”

He focused on striking a spark.

“He did not need to let his wicked relative pollute his love nest with her presence,” she said. “And you know as well as I that it is a love nest. You heard the note in his voice when he spoke of his lady.”

Benedict blew gently on the tinder. A bit of flame rewarded him. Carefully he transferred the little fire to the kindling.

“I heard,” he said, his gaze on the sickly bit of flame. He’d heard the softened tone when Northwick said “my lady,” and he’d envied the man. “Perhaps my infinite perfections cancel out your infinite imperfections. Or perhaps Northwick noticed the languishing way you look at me, and took pity on you.”

“I do not languish,” she said.

Benedict glanced back at her, one eyebrow raised.

She came away from the window. “You have an overactive imagination,” she said, chin aloft. “I find you no more than tolerable.”

The kindling crackled. Flames leapt up to the wood and swiftly took hold. The fire began to dance, reaching up the chimney, snapping and popping. Meanwhile rain hammered on the roof and drummed against the windows.

“What a delicious liar you are,” he said. “It is like living with Scheherazade. I can never guess what amazing fabrication you will utter next.”

“It is not—”

“Behold, fair princess,” he said. He rose and gestured sweepingly at his handiwork. “I have made fire for you.”

She stared at the fire. After a moment, her beautiful mouth curved a little. “And what an elegant fire it is, Rathbourne. Wood, too. How extravagant.”

“This is a love nest,” he said. “Wood is more romantic. It smells better than coal. Nor is it as extravagant here as elsewhere. You noticed the plantations, I daresay.”

“I noticed everything,” she said. “I knew Throgmorton was a large property. I had not expected it to be quite so immense. It is like a small kingdom.”

“Most great properties are,” he said.

“I never rode over one in the company of an owner who told me its history and his plans for its future,” she said. “That changes one’s perspective.”

“Northwick has a feeling for the place,” Benedict said.

“Have you?” she said. “For your family’s property?”

“The pile in Derbyshire, you mean?” he said. “Yes, I cannot help it, though my life seems to belong to London. But in London, one simply has a house. In the country, the house is part of a greater world, one that stretches back for generations. Everywhere I look, I find my ancestors’ handiwork.”

“That is what struck me today,” she said. “Great estates always seemed like grand monuments before. I didn’t truly see them as living entities.”

“That is because you never had a chance to be part of one,” he said.

“But Edmund DeLucey was. Jack was.” She shook her head. “I had imagined I understood Edmund, because I thought I understood Jack. Each was a younger son, living in his brother’s shadow. Each knew he’d never rule the family’s kingdom. They were restless men, I thought, but too undisciplined for military life, where they might have done great things and become heroes. Instead they did something spectacularly shocking.”

“Now, however, you cannot comprehend why they would sacrifice all this.” Benedict nodded toward the window where, behind the rain-curtain, thousands of acres of property stretched.

“I don’t know what to think.” She moved to a chair near the fire and sat down, her countenance troubled. “If I had grown up in such a place, should I ever be truly happy in a poky pair of rooms in the shabby part of town? Or hurrying from one foreign place to the next, trying to outrun my creditors?”

“I should think it would depend,” he said, “on who shared the rooms with you or with whom you ran.”

She looked up and met his gaze. “You must not look at me like that,” she said.

He went to her and crouched before her. “Like what?” he said. He took her hand and cradled it in his.

“As though you would live that way . . . with me,” she said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t,” he said. “I couldn’t. It isn’t in me. I’ve always been the heir. I’ve been trained for a great deal, but not for privation. I’ve not been trained to run but to stand my ground. I’ve been trained for stability, you see, because so much depends on me.” He glanced toward the window again. “The place in Derbyshire. Our little kingdom. Hundreds of lives—and that’s not counting the livestock.”

She studied his face for the longest time. He hid nothing. He was not sure he could any longer hide anything from her, even if he wished to. Still, he knew she wouldn’t believe what she saw in his eyes.

Why should she, when he could scarcely believe it?

She gave up and, with a rueful smile, drew her hand away to lightly stroke his cheek. “No, you are too intelligent and responsible to make a shambles of your life and make your family wretched on account of a woman. That is one of the things I like about you, Rathbourne. Nonetheless, you have been rather more careless than makes me comfortable.”

He turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand. “Learn to count,” he said. “ ‘Intelligent’ and ‘responsible’ make two things. Tell me what else you like about me.”

She let her hand fall to her lap. “Certainly not. The list of your perfections is much too long. . . and I am too weary.”

Uneasy now, he searched her countenance. Had she been this pale all day? Before, she’d been shivering. Was she unwell?

“I thought you would have slept soundly last night,” he said. “I was not there to keep you awake.”

“You were there, nonetheless,” she said.

“You were fretting about me,” he said. “How many times must I tell you—”

“Do not tell me again.” She rose abruptly and moved away. “You are perfect, but you have an aristocratic blind spot,” she said. “I am not sure where it comes from. Perhaps it comes of others always smoothing the way for you. Perhaps it has to do with the wall between you and ordinary people. Wealth and privilege insulate even a philanthropist like you, Rathbourne.”

“I know that,” he said. “Did I not say so a moment ago? I am not equipped to live an ordinary life, let alone an impoverished or vagabond life.”

“You will be hurt!” she cried. “That is what you do not understand, and I do not know how to make you understand what it is like: the kind of desolation you will feel and the humiliation you will bear. I don’t want you to know what it is like. I don’t want you to be hurt because of m-me.”

“My dear girl.” He went to her and wrapped his arms about her.

“There, you see?” she said, her voice shaky. “You stupid man. You have let yourself care for me.”

“Perhaps a little,” he said.

“We are too compatible,” she said. “That is the trouble, improbable as it is.”

“That is true,” he said. “I like your company almost as much as I like your face and figure. That is a shocking development, certainly.”

She laid her head upon his chest. “I am not noble enough to resist you when you are near,” she said. “I should have resisted you weeks ago. I knew it. I knew you would be trouble. But I shall not cry over spilt milk.” She lifted her head and looked at him, blue eyes glittering with unshed tears. “That is what I told myself last night. What t

ruly matters now is that we have both been discovered, and nothing on earth will make us undiscovered. A scandal is inevitable. Yet I have thought of a way to reduce the damage.”

“I know what you are going to say,” he said. “Save your breath. It is out of the question.”

She pulled away from him. “The instant we find the children, I shall take Olivia and go away.”

“No, you will not,” he said.

“Be logical, Rathbourne,” she said. “The quicker I am out of sight, the quicker out of mind.”

“Not out of my mind,” he said.

“You are not thinking clearly,” she said. “Listen to me.”

He set his jaw. “Very well. I am listening.”

“Once our names are paired, most people will assume that you and I had an affair,” she said. “However, if I go away, it will be only a brief affair: in your case, a mere peccadillo; in mine, merely the typical DeLucey dreadfulness and general immorality. There will be a momentary flurry of gossip, which the next scandal will quickly supplant.”

She was too damned logical, curse her.