“But you cannot solve a problem—not for either of us,” she said, “by creating a new one.”
“Marriage to each other would create a problem?” he asked.
“Of course it would.” She stretched her fingers and then curled them into her palms at her sides. They were tingling. “It would be very improper for me to marry only five months after the death of my husband. Besides, I do not wish to marry again. Not yet, at least. The fetters of my first marriage were tightly binding and I want to be free. And if and when I do marry, I want it to be to a man who … who had no connection with the wars. Forgive me, but I am tired of the wars and what they did to so many people. And as for you, it is nothing but sheer gallantry that has put the idea of marrying me into your head. By your own admission you are not yet ready to settle to your own life, Sir Benedict, let alone take on the burden of someone else’s. You are not ready for the bonds of marriage. Not with me, certainly, when I am as restless and needy as you are. We would drag each other down into a pit of unending depression if we were to marry.”
“Would we?” He was still smiling that crooked smile. “I find you very attractive, you know. And lest you think that not a very strong motive for marriage, I would add that you are the first woman to whom I have been attracted in six years.”
“I find you … personable too,” she admitted. Good heavens, how could she deny it? There had been that kiss, had there not? “But attraction is not everything, or even very much. I was attracted to Matthew … Oh, Sir Benedict, if we are only attracted to each other, then we should go to bed and have our fill of pleasure with each other. We ought not to marry.”
His smile had disappeared and his face had flushed. Oh, dear, had she really just said what she knew she had said?
“An affair?” he said. “That would not solve your problem, ma’am. Not unless, that is, you are suggesting that I set you up somewhere as my mistress.”
She doubted she had ever felt more mortified in her life. She stared at him and—laughed. And he stared back at her and laughed too.
“With a carriage of my own and four white horses to pull it?” she asked. “And diamonds as large as birds’ eggs for my ears and bosom, and a bed draped in scarlet satin with scarlet velvet curtains about it and at the windows? With such inducements you might be able to persuade me.”
“I believe,” he said, “I might find the four white horses a trifle vulgar.”
Incredibly, they both laughed again with genuine amusement.
And then that thought that had niggled at her a couple of minutes ago came to the forefront of her mind.
… some small country house I can afford.
She turned away sharply to the fireplace and stood with her hands on the mantelpiece, gazing into the unlit coals with unseeing eyes.
“Just a moment,” she said, holding up one hand.
There was the little cottage.
Perhaps.
Her mother had grown up with her paternal aunt in southwest Wales before running away at the age of seventeen to become an actress in London. Not long before she died when Samantha was twelve, word of her aunt’s death had reached her, and with it the news that she had been left her aunt’s cottage on the coast. That cottage had passed to Samantha on her mother’s death. She had not even realized it until, after her father’s death, John had sent on a letter from the solicitor in Wales who was managing it. Mr. Rhys had written to inform her that the people who had been renting the cottage for a number of years had left and that he would see to its maintenance, using the accumulated rent money, until he received instructions either to rent it again or to sell it. John had taken it upon himself, he had informed her, to reply with the instructions that the solicitor proceed as he saw fit. Matthew had been brought back from the Peninsula then, and they had just moved to Bramble Hall. He had been desperately ill, and she had been unaccustomed to nursing him. She had set the letter aside, as well as any annoyance she might have felt with John for interfering in her business. It had not seemed important business, anyway. Certainly she had never written to Mr. Rhys herself, as she might have and probably ought to have done.
Her mother, when she had learned of the bequest, had described the cottage with open contempt as a “heap” and a “hovel” that was best left to crumble to dust. That had been a long time ago, maybe fourteen years, and her mother had been remembering it from years before that. It might well have deteriorated to nothing by this time, especially without renters to look after it properly. Besides, the cottage might as well be at the other end of the world for all the good it would do her. Wales! And West Wales at that. It was not even close to the border with England. Samantha had never been there. She knew no one there. As far as she knew, there was no one to know. No one connected to her, anyway.
But it was a house. Perhaps. If it still existed. It had existed in some form five years or so ago, though, otherwise the solicitor would not have written that he would sell it or rent it again if she wished.
She was desperately in need of a home—and she already owned one. If it was still standing. And if it was habitable.
And suddenly its very remoteness became its chief attraction. It was far away from Leyland Abbey.
Sir Benedict Harper was still sitting on the sofa when she swung around to look at him. He was gazing quietly at her. Gracious heaven, he had just offered to marry her. How very noble he was, and how different from what she had thought the first time she encountered him.