Usually, he looked forward to it. Tonight, however, when Benedict climbed down from the carriage, he gazed up at the pale facade of his family’s London house and wondered if there was any way to cry off. He was not in the mood for family gossip over roasted capon and Stilton cheese. His head was still too full of his last meeting with Madelene. When he’d thought she wasn’t going to come, he’d felt an irrational panic. Then, when he opened the door and she was there, he’d promised himself he would maintain the necessary professional distance between them. He would not force his feelings upon her. It was not fair of him to try. That resolve had lasted all of five minutes, if that long. Then he’d been terrified that she’d run away. Then he’d been terrified she wouldn’t. Then he had asked her if she would come back. How had sense and feeling become so twisted?
