Some Like to Shock (Mills & Boon Historical) (Daring Duchesses - Book 2) (16 page)

‘Nothing of any consequence,’ Benedict dismissed impatiently as he moved away abruptly and placed his hands behind his back, annoyed with both himself and Forster for making him sound as if he were a jealous schoolboy in regard to any other men who might currently be in Genevieve’s life. ‘But you say Dr McNeill is more than satisfied with your progress?’

‘Yes.’ Genevieve had no interest in discussing the progress, or otherwise, of her injured wrist, knowing by the remoteness of Benedict’s expression that she had been right to be filled with apprehension earlier when she saw William Forster deliberately engage him in conversation. ‘Benedict, William is—’

‘I have no wish to discuss William Forster with you, now or at any other time. The man is a complete bore—’

‘But he is a vindictive bore,’ Genevieve put in softly. ‘And he obviously said something earlier which has … disturbed you.’

‘Not in the least,’ Benedict dismissed tersely as he stepped impatiently towards her. ‘And as you seem no more interested in engaging in light conversation than I, perhaps we should just go straight upstairs to your bedchamber?’

‘Benedict!’ She took a shocked step back.

He gave a seductive smile as he came to a halt inches in front of her. ‘You do not enjoy having your own directness of conversation returned?’

Genevieve had absolutely no problem with Benedict being as direct as she was herself, it was the tone in which he made those comments which now bothered her. Unemotionally. Practically. Disrespectfully …

And Genevieve had no doubts exactly whom she had to thank for the latter! ‘William’s conversation obviously contained its usual lack of niceties in regard to myself?’

Benedict shrugged his broadness of shoulders. ‘As I said, the man is a complete bore.’

Genevieve looked down at her hands as she clasped them together in front of her. ‘Perhaps you are right and we should talk of something else.’ She forced a smile as she looked at the vase of roses on the low coffee table in front of the chaise. ‘I received these beautiful roses from the Prince Regent on the morning following our dinner at Carlton House.’

Benedict’s brows rose. He had noticed the vase of fifty or so yellow roses earlier—it was difficult to miss seeing them when they sat in pride of place in the centre of the room! From Prinny. He should have guessed that the Prince Regent would not pass up an opportunity to pay his respects to a young and beautiful widow. Benedict supposed he should feel grateful Prinny had at least had the good sense not to send Genevieve red roses!

‘Very nice,’ he dismissed drily.

‘Four-dozen yellow roses.’ Genevieve nodded. ‘I did not mistake them for anything more than the politeness they are, of course,’ she said softly. ‘But I appreciate his having sent them, just the same,’ she added as she gazed at them with telling wistfulness.

A gentle reminder, perhaps, that Benedict, unlike so many of her admirers, had not sent her any flowers during their own short acquaintance?
Even though he had told her he would not.

Damn it, he never sent flowers to a woman he was bedding, so why would he have sent flowers to Genevieve, whom he was not?

As yet, at least …

He gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘I have already told you, if you are expecting to receive flowers from me, Genevieve, bearing insincere messages, then I am afraid you will be disappointed.’

She arched delicate brows. ‘Did I say that I thought you lacking in some way?’

His mouth firmed. ‘The implication was there.’

‘No, Benedict, it was not,’ she spoke softly. ‘And, unless I am mistaken, we are well on the way to having yet another disagreement. By your own design, perhaps?’

He stiffened. ‘Exactly what do you mean by that?’

Genevieve sighed, knowing she was not imagining Benedict’s confrontational manner and demeanour. Some of which she had no doubt she owed to William Forster’s conversation with Benedict earlier. As for the rest …? She felt sure that was of Benedict’s own doing.
Because he did not wish to be here with her at all? Did not wish it, and resented it?

She smiled sadly. ‘I have much appreciated and enjoyed our friendship, Benedict, but if you do not wish to continue with it, I will quite understand.’

He began to pace the room. ‘You make no sense, woman—’

‘I make every sense, Benedict.’ Her smile once again became wistful. ‘You do not act, or speak, as if you wish to be in my company. Much as I am pleased to have seen you again, I am now giving you leave to go, with the assurance of there being no bad feelings between the two of us. On my part, at least.’

‘On my part, either,’ he bit out between clenched teeth.

‘There.’ She gave a gentle nod. ‘We are agreed, you will leave now, and even though we shall not be alone together like this again, we shall remain on good terms with each other, if only from a distance.’

Benedict gave a terse shake of his head. ‘I have absolutely no idea what that means!’

Genevieve gave an exasperated sigh, wishing that Benedict would depart if that was what he wished to do, before she could no longer maintain this air of quiet dignity. Before
she gave in to the emotions simmering beneath her calm demeanour. Rage at William Forster, for one. Disappointment in Benedict, for another.

William, she knew, was vicious by nature, in word as well as deed, and enjoyed nothing more than hurting her. But Benedict—Benedict should know better than to listen to the opinions of a man he did not even like. Especially in regard to a woman he claimed he did like. A woman, he had shown on more than one occasion, he also desired.

She sighed. ‘I believe it means that, when we meet again at the wedding of our mutual friends, we shall be polite to each other, if nothing else—’

‘I am not feeling very polite at this moment!’ Benedict’s eyes gleamed as black as jet as he glowered down at her.

She gave a rueful shake of her head. ‘I am only too aware of that. But perhaps in time—’

‘Time! Genevieve, I have spent the past two days battling my desire for you, to absolutely no avail!’

She blinked up at him. ‘You have?’

‘I have,’ he confirmed grimly. ‘And I do not expect that doing so for another two days—

two weeks even!—will have any greater effect!’

Benedict had stayed away from her because he was trying to deny the desire he felt for her?

Genevieve looked up at him searchingly, at last knowing the reason for the lines of strain beside those beautiful black eyes and sensually sculptured mouth, the nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw and the tension in his shoulders, arms and thighs.

Her expression softened. ‘If you genuinely feel that way—’

‘I do.’

‘Then why are we arguing?’

Why indeed?

But Benedict knew exactly why he had battled against his desire for this woman. Against Genevieve herself. Because, although he might try to deny that, too, he knew that she touched that part of him he had thought long buried. Ten years buried. In the same crypt where his parents’ bodies lay lifeless and still.

Genevieve reached inside him to the Benedict who had once seen the world with the same wonder and pleasure as she now did. The Benedict who had basked in his parents’ adoration of him, as well as the adoration of
every young and beautiful woman he met. The Benedict who had been young and happy, and without the cynicism or ruthlessness which were both now such a part of him.

That
was why he fought against this desire he felt for Genevieve. Why he fought against and mocked the wonder and enjoyment she seemed to find in everything and everyone. Well … almost everyone—the one exception was William Forster and their dislike of each other was undoubtedly mutual.

Because Forster genuinely disliked Genevieve? Or could the other man’s dislike have more to do with the fact that his father had remarried again so late in his life, to a young woman who was not only beautiful, but also of childbearing age, and in doing so had threatened William as being sole heir to the Woollerton fortune, if not the titles?

Whatever his reasons, Forster’s dislike of Genevieve had very little to do with Benedict’s own contradictory feelings towards her, inasmuch as he wanted to push her away at the same time as he wished to have her so close to him that he had no idea where he stopped and she began!

He gave a self-derisive smile. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he admitted heavily.

Genevieve did not believe Benedict for a moment, had watched the emotions he had been unable to hide as they flickered across his usually unreadable face. Anger. Frustration. Resignation. Not the usual emotions one associated with a lover, she felt sure, but he at last seemed to be at peace with himself when he reached that state of resignation.

She held out her hand to him. ‘Then shall we, as you suggested earlier, go upstairs to my bedchamber?’

‘Even though I was extremely boorish, and something of an idiot in the way I suggested it?’

Genevieve smiled ruefully. ‘Even then.’

Benedict’s fingers were firm about her own as he at last took her hand and the two of them left the salon together, to walk through the deserted silence of the entrance hall and ascend the stairs to her bedchamber.

Not laughing together, or filled with excitement as they rushed impatiently up the stairs, as Genevieve had envisaged in both her daytime imaginings, and her night-time dreams, about this particular man. Instead they moved slowly, neither of them making a sound, as if to do so might bring an end to even the tenuous
and tense peace that now existed between the two of them.

Which indeed it might when Genevieve’s nervousness increased with each step they took, her heart pounding rapidly in her chest, a fine sheen of perspiration on her brow, even breathing becoming difficult as they walked down the hallway leading to her bedchamber.

Because she was not just nervous in regard to what was about to happen—she was terrified! For fear that this time with Benedict might turn out to be just as much of an ordeal as her wedding night had been. And if it should be, if she disappointed Benedict because of what Josiah had done to her—

No, no,
no
!

She must not think about Josiah. Must not allow even the briefest of memories of him, of the horror of her wedding night, to intrude upon this time with Benedict, a man she had come to trust this past week.

She could not allow the past to affect her future, knew now that not all men could be as monstrous as her husband had been, that Benedict certainly was not a monster. She had known only pleasure in his arms, in his touch and his caresses, and there was no reason to suppose she would not do so again.

Dear God, please do not let me fail in this
, Genevieve prayed inwardly as the rapid pounding of her heart, to her at least, grew even louder.
I will be good. I will be kind. I will not ask—expect—anything else from You. Just please, please let me have this one time at least, with Benedict, that I may look back on with pleasure rather than pain …

‘Can you be having second thoughts …?’

She turned to look at Benedict once they had entered her sunlit bedchamber and he had closed the door behind him, his expression as unreadable as she hoped her own was as he looked at her beneath hooded lids, and knowing that he must have sensed her trepidation, if not her fear. ‘Why on earth should you think that?’ She infused a lightness to her tone which she was far from feeling, the sun shining brightly in the windows adding to her nervousness.

It had been late evening when Benedict had made love to her at Vauxhall Gardens, with only the golden glow of the lanterns overhead to see by; what if Benedict did not like her naked body in the daylight? If he saw some blemish there that he found unattractive and unsightly?

‘Possibly because,’ Benedict answered
her ruefully, ‘you are now looking at me as if you expect me to rip the clothes from your body and ravish you where you stand—Genevieve …?’ His tone sharpened as he saw the way her eyes had widened with apprehension. ‘I trust you know me well enough to realise that I would never behave in such a loutish fashion towards a lady?’

‘Of course.’ Genevieve forced the tension to ease from her body as she smiled up at him, knowing that it was too late for her to be concerned as to whether or not Benedict would still like her body in the daylight. Far too late … ‘I was merely fearful for my new gown,’ she dismissed softly. ‘It is very pretty and only arrived from the dressmaker this morning, and I should not like to lose it quite so soon!’

Benedict smiled indulgently. ‘In that case, I suggest you allow me to remove it, and put it to one side, before we progress any further?’

She moistened the dry stiffness of her lips before answering him. ‘I believe I should like that.’ She turned her back obligingly.

Benedict knew he would ‘more than like it’, that he had been anticipating, aching, for this moment since he arrived at the house almost two hours ago!

Even so, he was surprised to note that his hands were actually shaking slightly as he moved to stand behind Genevieve and began to slowly unfasten the buttons down the length of her spine, pushing the material aside to reveal that she wore a gossamer-thin white camisole beneath the gown, which did little to conceal the creamy delicacy of her pearly skin, thin ribbon straps crossing over the slenderness of her shoulders.

‘Benedict …?’ Genevieve voiced her uncertainty as Benedict paused, arrested by the vulnerability of her nape as she bowed her head slightly forwards.

He stepped close behind her, warmed by the heat of her body as he bent his head slightly to touch his lips against that delicate vulnerability. She tasted of a heady combination of flowers and honey. ‘You are so beautiful, Genevieve …’ His hands rested on the slenderness of her hips and he pulled her back against him as his lips now travelled the length of her throat.

Genevieve quivered as a multitude of sensations swept through her; relief that Benedict did not find her unsightly so far, hot and cold shivers running up and down the length of her spine at the feel of his lips against her heated
flesh, causing her skin to tingle, the fine hairs on her arms to rise and a dampness to her palms as she fought her rising trepidation.