That man.
He was sitting in the pew across the aisle and one row back from hers. He must have been able to see her all through the service. He was still sitting, not jumping to his feet as soon as her eyes alit incautiously upon him, as any proper gentleman would have done, especially one who had treated her so ill. And it was not that he had not noticed her. His eyes were directly upon her.
How dared he?
He was not wearing his hat inside the church. His face was narrow and angular, as she had observed at their first meeting. He had a straight, finely chiseled nose and slightly hollowed cheeks, a firm chin and hard blue eyes beneath midbrown hair. He must have been exceedingly handsome in his youth. He was not a youth now, though. It was hard to guess his age, but his face bore evidence of having looked upon a great deal of hard living, perhaps of suffering. It was still handsome, however, she conceded grudgingly, perhaps the more so for not being boyish.
It would have been more satisfying if he had been ugly. All villains ought to look the part.
She would have looked away with deliberate disdain and continued up the aisle, but she had hesitated a moment too long, and the lady beside him, who was on her feet, spoke to her. She was Lady Gramley. Of course she was—this was her usual pew.
“Mrs. McKay,” she said kindly, “how do you do?”
“I am well, thank you, ma’am,” Samantha replied. She could feel Matilda’s hand firm on her back. Good heavens, was it improper for a grieving widow even to exchange pleasantries with her neighbors at church?
“Perhaps you will allow me the pleasure of presenting my brother, Sir Benedict Harper,” Lady Gramley said. “Mrs. McKay, Ben. And Lady Matilda McKay.”
And finally he considered getting to his feet, though he was in no hurry even now. He looked to one side, away from Samantha and Matilda, and picked up two canes, which he arranged on either side of him. They were not ordinary canes. They were longer and had handpieces partway down, with leather loops through which he slid his hands. They circled his arms as he grasped the handpieces and hoisted himself to his feet.
Had he fallen from his horse since she last saw him? Samantha wondered hopefully and unkindly. But no. Those canes must have been specially made. She had seen nothing like them before.
Even when he was slightly hunched over them, she could see that he was tall and thin. No, not thin. Lean. There was a difference. And his well-fitting, fashionable coat and pantaloons, over which he wore highly polished Hessian boots, emphasized his pleasingly proportioned physique. He was an attractive man, she admitted without feeling in any way attracted. She felt as irritated with him as she had been two days ago. More so, perhaps, because now she could see that he had had an excuse for not jumping from his horse to rush gallantly to her rescue on that day, and she did not want him to have any excuse at all.
“Sir.” She inclined her head with as much frosty hauteur as she could muster. She was aware of Matilda slightly curtsying and murmuring his name.
“Ma’am,” he said, inclining his head. “Lady Matilda.”
Benedict. It was far too pleasant a name for him. It sounded like a blessing—a benediction. She wondered if there was any profane word in existence that he had not used in that meadow. She doubted it.
“My brother has been kind enough to give me his company at Robland Park for a few weeks before I join my husband in London for the second half of the Season,” Lady Gramley explained. “Perhaps we may call upon you one afternoon, Mrs. McKay? I have not spoken to you since soon after your husband was laid to rest, and I would not have you feel that your neighbors are neglecting you in your grief.”
Samantha felt uncomfortable, for no longer than three weeks ago the Earl and Countess of Gramley had invited her and Matilda to dinner and Matilda had persuaded her that it would be unseemly to accept, that Lady Gramley ought not even to have suggested such a thing. Samantha had been surprised, but she had still been in the grip of lethargy and had allowed her sister-in-law to send a refusal, politely worded, she hoped. Even so, she thought it good of Lady Gramley not to have taken offense.
“That would be delightful,” she said, though she could have wished that the lady’s brother was not included. But perhaps she could suffocate him with courtesy if he came and show him what true gentility was. It would be a fitting revenge. It was more likely, though, that he would make an excuse not to come. “We will look forward to it, will we not, Matilda?”
“We are still in deep mourning, ma’am,” Matilda reminded Lady Gramley, as if their heavy blacks were not hint enough. “However, there can be no objection to receiving an occasional afternoon call from a genteel neighbor.”
Oh, good heavens. It was no wonder Matthew had been the black sheep of his family and had detested the lot of them, his sister included. Matilda was calling a countess a genteel neighbor as though she were conferring some great favor upon her.
Sir Benedict Harper had not removed his eyes from Samantha’s face. She wondered how much he could see of it. And she wondered if he felt embarrassed at seeing her again. Did he recall calling her woman? She recalled it, and she bristled at the memory.
Samantha inclined her head again and moved on. The whole encounter had taken less than a minute, but it had left her with ruffled feathers. Would he accompany Lady Gramley when she called? Would he dare?
She inclined her head civilly to a few other members of the congregation and offered her hand to the vicar and a comment on his sermon. Matilda praised him at greater length and with stiff condescension. And then they were in the gig and on their way home.