Page 8 of A Kiss Gone Wylde
“He announced our betrothal,” Benny said. “That’s why he’s coming tomorrow. To make it official.”
Margeruite looked heavenward. “Thank goodness! I’m certainly glad one of you has shown some sense. Bed. Now. I want not a peep out of you until I can get my own temper under control… You could have been killed, Benedicta. Young ladies who go seeking adventure in London often never return!”
Her heart pounding in her chest and the feeling of Lord Wainwright’s hands pawing at her fresh in her memory, Benny ducked her head once more and murmured contritely, “Yes, Aunt Marguerite.”
Benny turned and left the drawing room, climbing the stairs. When she opened the door to her room, she found both Charity and Cordelia sitting on Delia’s bed waiting for her.
“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. Tonight… tonight I am just so tired,” Benny whispered. And it was true. She was exhausted. And she knew that her troubles were just beginning.
* * *
Payne entered his house but did not climb the stairs to his bedchamber. Instead, he made his way to his study. There, he poured himself a generous helping of brandy before retreating to his desk.
Seeing her perfect profile had been like a punch in the gut. He’d known. From the first moment he’d grabbed her, held her against him, smelled that delicate feminine scent of her—he’d known that she was trouble. But her face, with her impossibly wide gray eyes and high cheekbones, not to mention a perfect rosebud mouth, spelled disaster for him.
He should never have kissed her. It had been a terrible mistake. Not because he hadn’t enjoyed it. Not because the kiss hadn’t been completely perfect. But because it had been enjoyable. It had been perfect. Pleasure and perfection were not something he had permitted into his life. Not for a very, very long time. He had a debt of honor that needed to be discharged before he was entitled to any happiness of his own. Though with Miss Wylde’s temper, there was some question as to whether or not he would know any happiness while wed to her.
Opening the drawer, he retrieved a small brass case, roughly the size of a deck of cards. It was etched with a vine pattern; lacy and delicate. It was also engraved.To always remember me, Love Anne.
He didn’t actually need to open it. Every brush stroke, every slight variation in color and light that had been used to recreate her face, was committed to memory. Not from love. He could recognize that easily enough now. He’d been infatuated with Anne. Had they gone on to marry as planned, it likely would have deepened to real love over time.
No, it wasn’t such a fine tender emotion that had him staring at that miniature in the dim light of his study. It was the same emotion that prompted him to look at it every time. Guilt. Guilt for her death, guilt for his own selfishness that had contributed to it.
Anne had died horribly. Alone. Broken. Having borne the child of a man who had forced himself on her—and all of that had happened because he’d wanted one last adventure before settling into marriage. Not formally betrothed but with an understanding between himself, Anne and Anne’s father, Sir Henry Bardwell, it had been a mere formality to announce the betrothal and read the banns. But he’d wanted a time to see a little more of the world first. With Napoleon finally ousted entirely, the Continent had opened for them once more. So, not unlike Miss Wylde, he’d gone out seeking adventure and terrible consequences had been paid, but not only by him.
“My lord?”
Payne looked up to see Barrett, the butler, standing in the doorway. The man had aged considerably. He’d seemed old even when Payne had been a boy. Now, he knew it would only be a very short number of years, if that, until the man would have to retire. “Yes, Barrett?”
“Will there be anything else or shall I dismiss the servants for the night?”
“Send everyone to bed and take yourself there, as well. I’ll be fine on my own. I know perfectly well where the larder is if I am overcome by hunger,” he answered. “Oh, and Barrett?”
“Yes, my lord?”
Payne sighed. “There will be gossip. The servants are to say nothing and anything they hear they are to bring back in and report directly to you. I will be announcing my betrothal to Miss Benedicta Wylde in the next few days.”
“I see. And the events leading to this betrothal were… somewhat scandalous?”
“Irregular, at any rate. The lady was in a dangerous situation, and I assisted her. Unfortunately, we were caught out together—quite alone. Not a chaperone in sight.” With her in his arms and the taste of her still on his tongue. It seemed he and Miss Wylde could get along very well so long as they didn’t talk to one another.
Barrett nodded. “Well, it is very good of you, my lord, to see to the young lady’s reputation in such a way. Will you… is it a betrothal only for the sake of the scandal or will there be a marriage?”
Oh, there would be a marriage. Not a peaceful one, he was certain. But there would be a marriage. “Indeed, Barrett. I imagine it will be one for the ages.”
“The Baroness—”
“I’ll tell her in the morning. First thing. Do not let a single scandal sheet go up with her breakfast,” Payne instructed. The very last thing he needed was for his mother to get hold of the story before he had a chance to explain everything.
“Very good, sir. I will see to it all. And may I offer you my felicitations?”
“You may offer them, Barrett,” Payne agreed. The butler nodded and then backed out of the room, closing the door behind them. “You may offer them, but a fat lot of good they will do. Termagant.”
4
It was far too early to deal with his mother. Not that there was ever a particularly good time for her brand of hysterics and manipulation, but early in the morning after a very late night that ended with far too much brandy–well, it was a recipe for disaster. But there was no avoiding it. If he didn’t tell her someone else would and then the entire household would be in misery.
Payne reluctantly knocked upon the door to his mother’s suite of rooms. As with all unpleasant tasks, it was better to simply get it over with and out of one’s way. Dreading it would only make it worse.
