The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) by Elisa Braden Page A
Authors: Elisa Braden
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Especially not Mother.
She gazed up at his father, her eyes sheened with tears. “For the sake of our son, Rutherford, please. Do not do this.”
“You may take the chamber in the east wing,” Rutherford said. Cold shivers ran down Benedict’s back.
Mother sobbed, tears spilling onto soft, white cheeks. “It means nothing, I swear it. If you only loved me, I would not need to seek comfort elsewhere. You have never loved me. You do not even love your own child.”
Benedict watched his father’s long legs stride closer. “Release the boy, Catherine.”
She smelled like flowers. The purple ones in the kitchen garden, powdery and cool. She squeezed him tighter, making it hard to breathe. “I gave you your son, Rutherford. I did. Not her. She gave you nothing. Left you with nothing but this bed and your pain. And still, you deny me the slightest scrap of your affection.”
Rutherford laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Yes, you gave me a son. Your duty is complete, as is mine. Now, obtain your affection wherever you prefer. The gardener. The stable boy. The footman. You have spent your last night in my bed. The east wing, Lady Rutherford. I shall see you at breakfast.”
His father left the room, the light gleaming on the polish of his boots. Mother’s arms fell slack against Benedict as she sobbed. She covered her face with both hands. A pain in Benedict’s heart and throat made him want to touch her. He reached for her hair, curled and soft and glowing nearly white. He stroked it, as his nursemaid had done when he was four. He’d liked that nursemaid very much. Rose, her name was.
Mother quieted and looked at him with wet, reddened eyes. Then, with two fingers, she pushed his hand away, got to her feet, and brushed her wide skirts. “Go find your governess.”
He stood for long seconds, gazing up at his beautiful mother, hoping she would take him in her arms again. They had been so warm.
“Go!” she snapped, wiping at her cheek and waggling her fingers in a shooing motion. “I have no need of such a useless boy.”
This was why he hadn’t wanted to return to Chatwick Hall. Too many miseries had soaked the walls, and now the vapors of their long-forgotten scent were being released.
With one shaking hand, he rubbed his eyes, banishing the memory. His father was dead, and he’d left his mother doing God-knew-what in London. That was where they should remain.
What he needed was sleep. He sighed then tested the two-layered mattress, which was covered in a large canvas sheet bearing a deep layer of dust. Promising, he thought, before peeling the canvas back and dragging it until it dropped with a whoof onto the floor. Blue indeed, the coverlet was still rich and undamaged. If rodents did not inhabit the innards of the mattress, he thought the musty smell might prove the worst of it. He grabbed one corner of the topmost featherbed and shook. As he did not hear a squeak, nor see insects scrambling, he decided to chance it. He needed sleep, by God. The light in the room was beginning to dance and waver.
As he lay down upon his father’s old bed and let the burning ache in his skin and muscles settle, the dank smell of mildew and dust assaulted his nose. But fatigue invaded with swift force, slamming into him so suddenly, he had no will to resist. The piercing light did not matter. The moldy smell did not matter. His trembling misery did not matter. Nothing mattered except sweet, dark oblivion and the tiny thread of satisfaction when he pictured Charlotte’s dismay.
The only bed in the house.
For the first time in weeks, Chatham fell asleep with a smile.
*~*~*
As the sun sank below the western horizon, Charlotte squinted through the windows of the drawing room and watched dust particles dance in the golden beams. She ached everywhere―her lower back, her shoulders, her arms and legs and hands―and it was splendid. After five days of confinement inside a coach, the residual pains of work
She gazed up at his father, her eyes sheened with tears. “For the sake of our son, Rutherford, please. Do not do this.”
“You may take the chamber in the east wing,” Rutherford said. Cold shivers ran down Benedict’s back.
Mother sobbed, tears spilling onto soft, white cheeks. “It means nothing, I swear it. If you only loved me, I would not need to seek comfort elsewhere. You have never loved me. You do not even love your own child.”
Benedict watched his father’s long legs stride closer. “Release the boy, Catherine.”
She smelled like flowers. The purple ones in the kitchen garden, powdery and cool. She squeezed him tighter, making it hard to breathe. “I gave you your son, Rutherford. I did. Not her. She gave you nothing. Left you with nothing but this bed and your pain. And still, you deny me the slightest scrap of your affection.”
Rutherford laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Yes, you gave me a son. Your duty is complete, as is mine. Now, obtain your affection wherever you prefer. The gardener. The stable boy. The footman. You have spent your last night in my bed. The east wing, Lady Rutherford. I shall see you at breakfast.”
His father left the room, the light gleaming on the polish of his boots. Mother’s arms fell slack against Benedict as she sobbed. She covered her face with both hands. A pain in Benedict’s heart and throat made him want to touch her. He reached for her hair, curled and soft and glowing nearly white. He stroked it, as his nursemaid had done when he was four. He’d liked that nursemaid very much. Rose, her name was.
Mother quieted and looked at him with wet, reddened eyes. Then, with two fingers, she pushed his hand away, got to her feet, and brushed her wide skirts. “Go find your governess.”
He stood for long seconds, gazing up at his beautiful mother, hoping she would take him in her arms again. They had been so warm.
“Go!” she snapped, wiping at her cheek and waggling her fingers in a shooing motion. “I have no need of such a useless boy.”
This was why he hadn’t wanted to return to Chatwick Hall. Too many miseries had soaked the walls, and now the vapors of their long-forgotten scent were being released.
With one shaking hand, he rubbed his eyes, banishing the memory. His father was dead, and he’d left his mother doing God-knew-what in London. That was where they should remain.
What he needed was sleep. He sighed then tested the two-layered mattress, which was covered in a large canvas sheet bearing a deep layer of dust. Promising, he thought, before peeling the canvas back and dragging it until it dropped with a whoof onto the floor. Blue indeed, the coverlet was still rich and undamaged. If rodents did not inhabit the innards of the mattress, he thought the musty smell might prove the worst of it. He grabbed one corner of the topmost featherbed and shook. As he did not hear a squeak, nor see insects scrambling, he decided to chance it. He needed sleep, by God. The light in the room was beginning to dance and waver.
As he lay down upon his father’s old bed and let the burning ache in his skin and muscles settle, the dank smell of mildew and dust assaulted his nose. But fatigue invaded with swift force, slamming into him so suddenly, he had no will to resist. The piercing light did not matter. The moldy smell did not matter. His trembling misery did not matter. Nothing mattered except sweet, dark oblivion and the tiny thread of satisfaction when he pictured Charlotte’s dismay.
The only bed in the house.
For the first time in weeks, Chatham fell asleep with a smile.
*~*~*
As the sun sank below the western horizon, Charlotte squinted through the windows of the drawing room and watched dust particles dance in the golden beams. She ached everywhere―her lower back, her shoulders, her arms and legs and hands―and it was splendid. After five days of confinement inside a coach, the residual pains of work
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