Before Matilda could answer, there was a shriek of laughter, and they all turned to see Bonnie dragging a grinning Jerome Cadogan onto the dance floor. There were tuts and murmurs of disapproval from the older generation, and Matilda frowned with unease.
“Oh, dear,” Prue murmured.
“I know,” Matilda replied. “I’ve spoken to her, and I know St Clair’s spoken to Jerome, but—”
“But they’re having fun,” Lady Helena said with a wistful sigh.
“The kind of fun that could ruin a young lady’s reputation,” Bedwin said, his expression dark.
“Oh, Robert, darling, couldn’t you speak to him?” Prue asked, clutching at his hand.
Bedwin stared at his wife in horror. “Damned if I will. It’s none of my affair. Besides which, it looks like your Miss Campbell is the instigator. You must speak to her.”
Prue scowled. “Oh, very well, but you should at least speak to St Clair. He’s your friend.”
“Miss Hunt just told you St Clair has already had words. What do you think I can do?”
“I don’t know,” Prue said, sighing. “Only it’s clear the poor girl is besotted with his brother, and I’d hate to see her get hurt.”
“She thinks it’s her last chance to have fun,” Matilda said, her heart aching for Bonnie.
She turned back and discovered Minerva, Prue, and Lady Helena all looking at her.
“Gordon Anderson,” they said in unison.
Matilda pulled a face and nodded. “The poor girl.”
They stood in silence for a moment, considering Bonnie’s fate, and the appalling Scot whom she’d described often and at length. He sounded ever more dreadful every time she spoke of him.
“I need some more punch,” Lady Helena announced, breaking the silence and giving her brother an appealing glance. “Please, Robert.”
She held out her empty glass to the duke, who sighed.
“You’re getting through that at a rate this evening, Helena,” he said, a suspicious glint in his eyes.
“Because it’s delicious,” Helena said, beaming at him. “Much better than the usual dull brew that’s offered. I usually spend all evening wishing I could drink champagne, but not tonight.”
She gave him a rather hazy smile.
Matilda watched as the duke’s suspicious expression deepened. He lifted the empty glass to his nose, muttered a curse, and upended the glass to allow the dregs to trickle onto his tongue.
“Damn me!” he exclaimed, outraged. “No wonder you’re enjoying it, that’s the most potent fruit punch I’ve ever tasted.”
“Robert?” his wife asked, looking at him in concern. “What’s in it?”
“What isn’t?” he replied, shaking his head. “But from the way all the young ladies have been consuming it, this should be a lively night.”
***
Harriet sipped at her punch, absently wondering why it tasted so much better than usual, and watching the colourful whirl of colours as the dancers flew about the ballroom.
“Care to dance, Harry?”
She stiffened at once, the familiar voice sending awareness skittering through her like hens scattering before a fox. How the devil had he found her? She’d thought this dark corner the perfect hiding place. Harriet forced herself to turn and look at Jasper.
Something that might have been panic rose in her chest as she noted the hopeful gleam in his eyes. It’s not real, she reminded herself, he looks like that for all the women. You’re nothing special.
“No, thank you, my lord,” she replied. Remembering her promise to be less awful to him, she strove to keep her tone light and pleasant. “B-But thank you for asking.”
There, that was perfectly civil.
“Oh, come on, Harry,” he wheedled. “You’ve not danced all night. Please… won’t you dance with me?”
See? muttered a little voice in her head. This was the problem with Jasper Cadogan. He couldn’t understand that every woman in the room wasn’t willing to fall into his arms at a moment’s notice.
“I don’t like dancing, Lord St Clair. I believe I’ve reminded you of that before now,” she said, before realising her voice had grown tart. She took a breath and forced a stiff smile to her lips before adding, “But thank you again for the kind offer.”
“That’s not true,” he said, his voice far too low, far too intimate. “At least, you always used to love dancing. You used to beg me to dance with you.”
To her intense frustration, a blush seared her skin. It felt as if it began at her toes and rose in a swift wave, until all the visible parts of her were a bright pink, almost the same colour as her gown.
“We were children then,” she said, doing her best to keep her tone calm and even. She would not lose her temper with him. Not tonight. She turned back to concentrate on the dancers again. “Things change.”
“I know that,” he said, and despite herself she looked up at him, taken aback by the sorrow in his voice. “You’ve changed, Harry.”
And whose fault is that? She wanted to rage at him, but she didn’t, couldn’t. She’d never let him know how badly she’d been hurt. She’d been made a fool of too thoroughly already, and she’d not live through it again.
“That’s Miss Stanhope, my lord,” she replied, lifting her glass to take a drink before discovering it empty. Without another word, she set off to fetch another.
“No, it isn’t.”
With irritation, she looked over her shoulder to discover Jasper following her.
“What?” she asked, threading her way through the crowd.
Jasper moved closer, taking her arm to stop her progress and leaning down to speak in her ear.
“It isn’t ‘my lord,’ and it isn’t ‘Miss Stanhope.’ For heaven’s sake, Harry, we’ve known each other since we were babies.”
Harriet tugged her arm free and opened her mouth to give him a set down, before remembering her resolution. Damn, but this was harder than she’d realised.
“Excuse me, my lord. I’m dreadfully thirsty.”
She curtsied and then hurried off again, not terribly surprised to arrive at the refreshments room and discover he was still following her. See, this was why she had to be rude to him, nothing else got through his thick head. There was the usual crush of people at the refreshments table, but Harriet pushed through to the huge punch bowl. The crush of bodies and the humid evening air had given her a raging thirst and—despite it being dreadfully unladylike—she downed one full glass of punch with a sigh of relief before refilling her glass.
She drank this one a little slower but remained where she was. Jasper’s attention had been taken by Matilda and he was trapped in the doorway. It was only a temporary respite, however, as Harriet couldn’t leave the room without going straight past him. Whatever Matilda was saying to him, Jasper didn’t look best pleased.
Good, she thought. Perhaps his brother was up to his usual tricks and Jasper would be forced to sort him out.
Heavens, but it was hot tonight. Harriet sighed and wished she’d brought a fan. Instead, she drained her glass and filled it again. Perhaps if she eased her way around the edge of the room, she could slip out behind Jasper without him noticing.
Her progress was slow and not entirely steady, and Harriet leaned against the wall for a moment to catch her breath. She felt a little giddy. No doubt the heat was making her feel faint. Fresh air, that was the thing….
Sadly, she made it to the doorway just as Matilda left Jasper alone. He turned to her at once, as though he’d been perfectly aware of her attempt to escape the whole time.
“Oh, go away, Jasper,” she said with a sigh. “I’m too hot and I don’t have the energy to fight with you.”
“Good,” he said, his expression rather fiercer than before. “It’s about time. Come along….”
Jasper grasped her arm, towing her behind him as Harriet held her drink aloft, trying not to spill it. Irritation simmered under her skin.
“Jasper!” she protest
ed, too annoyed not to use his given name. “Leave me be, you obstinate wretch.”
“Not on your life,” he shot back. “Not tonight. Tonight we’re going to talk.”
What?
Oh no.
That sounded like a dreadful idea.
“Let go of me, you… you elvish mark’d, abortive, rooting hog!”
That got his attention.
He stilled, turning back to look at her with amusement. “What did you call me?”
“A rooting hog,” she replied with dignity. “Among other things.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought you’d said.” His lips twitched. “Hmmm, Richard the Third, if I remember correctly. How many other Shakespearean insults can you remember?”
Harriet sighed, impressed that he was correct and wishing she’d kept her blasted mouth shut. It had been a game they’d played together as children, she and Jasper and Jerome and Henry, each of them abusing each other with the worst insults they could dig up. Harriet had astonished them all with her inventive curses until they’d discovered what she already knew, that Shakespeare was a marvellous source of material.
“All of them,” she said darkly.
Jasper chuckled and carried on his way, his grip on her hand firm and unyielding.
“Let me go,” she said in a harsh undertone. “People are looking.”
“They wouldn’t look if you weren’t making a scene,” he replied, perfectly cheerful.
Harriet gave up and followed him out into the garden. Perhaps she could escape him outside.
To her annoyance, he didn’t stop at the terrace but carried on, dragging her into the gardens.
“Jasper Cadogan, if you don’t let me go I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” he demanded, stopping at last in the seclusion of a dark corner. “Hate me forever? Never speak to me again?” He gave a huff of laughter. “I’m not sure how else you can punish me, Harry.”
There was something soft and bruised in the way he spoke, and Harriet acknowledged a stab of guilt. Perhaps Kitty had been right. Perhaps this had gone on long enough.
There was a taut silence as Harriet didn’t know what to say next. She was too afraid to give him an inch, to invite any kind of friendship between them. He was her weakness, her Achilles’ heel, and the only way she’d ever kept him at bay was to stay angry with him, to build an impenetrable wall of ice around her that he couldn’t cross. If she let that go, she’d be at risk, vulnerable, and she couldn’t allow that. Still, soon enough she’d be gone, and she’d not have to see him anymore. She could put him from her mind, and from her heart, for they’d hardly mix in the same circles then. She’d be safe.
Harriet let out a breath. She’d apologise, assure him she didn’t hate him, and then she’d go up to her room and write a letter. The sooner she was safely away from here the better. Her carefully made plans would have to be brought forward, that was all.
Before she could speak, however, Jasper beat her to it.
“What are you going to bet, Harry?”
A strange sensation, akin to ice water sliding down her back, snapped Harriet’s attention back to Jasper. His aquamarine eyes were intent, and something in his expression made her heart beat faster.
“W-What?”
“You have a dare to complete. To bet something you do not wish to lose.”
Kitty Connolly, I will wring your pretty neck!
“What of it?” Harriet demanded.
Her head was spinning again, her heart beating too fast. She was filled with the desire to do something reckless, to run away into the darkness and never be seen again.
She gasped, beyond shocked as Jasper caught her by the waist and pulled her close. Suddenly she was sixteen years old again and gazing at the boy she’d loved her entire life.
No.
No, she would not be that girl again. That stupid, stupid, girl.
“I dare you, Harriet,” he said, his voice low and so intimate the hairs rose on the back of her neck. She couldn’t breathe. “I dare you to stop hiding, from me, from life. I dare you to go back into that ballroom and dance and laugh and have fun. I dare you to dance with me, with an open heart and no pretence between us. I dare you to dance with me, look into my eyes, and tell me I mean nothing to you.”
Harriet stared up at him. Surely her heart ought not beat at this ridiculous pace. It could not withstand such punishment, and would burst at any moment…. Only it didn’t burst. It just kept on thundering, battering against her ribs like a panicked bird trying to escape a trap, and this was a trap.
“And what do I get if I win?” she asked, all too aware of the breathless quality of her voice.
“I’ll leave you be,” he said, his grip tightening on her waist. “You’ll never be plagued by me ever again. I won’t seek you out, won’t speak to you. You’ll be free of me, for good.”
“You m-mean it?” she asked, grasping at his words.
It was what she’d wanted, what she’d been planning for: a way to escape him, to put him behind her, and he was handing it to her. All she need do was pretend to enjoy herself for a few hours. She could manage that, surely?
“I mean it,” he said, his voice harsh. “But don’t forget your forfeit, Harry.”
There was a warning note there that she ought to have heeded, but the possibility of being free of this maddening connection that held her tied to her past was too tantalising.
“Which is?”
“If you fail—”
“Yes?” She watched him, trying to read his expression and wondering at the determination she saw there, or… was that desperation?
“You’ll give yourself to me.”
Harriet blinked, not understanding.
“I’ll…?” she began, frowning.
Jasper laughed, but it was not a sound she associated with him. It was darker, that desperate edge audible once more.
“You’ll show everyone the real Harriet, the one I grew up with, the one I knew was bold and brave and funny, and then, at midnight, you’ll dance with me. You’ll dance with me and you’ll look into my eyes and tell me how you feel about me. If you can tell me I mean nothing to you, if you can put your hand on your heart and swear that there’s nothing between us, that you don’t care for me… you’ll never see me again. But if you can’t… if you can’t, I will take you down to the summerhouse and make love to you. You’ll be mine, Harry, just like you were always supposed to be.”
Harriet stared at him. She wanted to tell him he was mad, she wanted to slap his face and kick him in the shins and stamp her feet and rage, but she couldn’t. The idea of Jasper taking her to the summerhouse and making love to her was so overwhelming she couldn’t even breathe, let alone move.
“Did I hurt you, Harry?” he asked. He cupped her face with his hand and stared down at her, his voice tender now. “I swear I never meant to.”
That was probably the only thing that could have snapped her out of the trance she’d fallen into. She pushed away from him, out of his arms.
“Of course not,” she said, striving to calm herself, to reach for the anger that protected her. If she could stay angry with him, she’d be safe. All she had to do was prove him wrong, and she’d be free of him, for good. “And I’m not hiding from anything, or anyone.”
“Prove it,” he said, with a gleam in his eyes that boded ill.
“Fine!”
She could get her dare done and rid herself of this wretched man once and for all. Then she could get on with her life in peace, knowing she was free of him.
“You’ll do it?”
“Why not?” she retorted, draining what remained of her drink and throwing the empty glass at him. Jasper caught it, deft as ever, blast him. “This will be easy, and you’d better keep your promise.”
“Oh, I’ll keep it,” he said, a maddening smile curving over his lips.
Drat the arrogant wretch, she’d make him pay for this.
“Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon,” she
threw back at him.
He frowned at that, considering. “King Lear?”
“Ha!” she said triumphantly. “Timon of Athens.”
Jasper rolled his eyes. “Time’s running out, love,” he warned.
“Argh!” Harriet replied and stomped off back to the ballroom.
Chapter 2
Dear Miss Stanhope,
Thank you kindly for the book by Watts which I greatly enjoyed. “Logic, or The Right Use of Reason in the Enquiry After Truth With a Variety of Rules to Guard Against Error in the Affairs of Religion and Human Life,” posed some interesting questions which I should be glad to discuss with you when we next meet. In anticipation of that meeting I enclose “Conversations on Chemistry,” by Mrs Jane Marcet, with whom I am acquainted. It is an introduction to the subject in which you have shown such interest and I hope you will find it a useful starting point.
―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Inigo de Beauvoir to Miss Harriet Stanhope.
Still the night of the St Clairs’ summer ball. 30th August 1814, Holbrooke House, Sussex.
Jasper stood in the dark of the garden and wondered what the hell he’d just done. He must be out of his bloody mind. Harriet was so damned stubborn she’d prove him wrong if it killed her. She’d go out there and be witty and lively and funny and everything he knew she could be, because she was all of those things, she’d just forgotten. The lurking suspicion that he’d caused that change made him feel sick.
How? How could he have done it?
For the thousandth time he remembered the year he’d truly noticed Harry for the first time. He’d been eighteen, and Harry sixteen. For all his life, Harry had adored him and he’d known it. She’d put up with being dragged through mud and playing the hapless heroine for him and both their brothers to alternately rescue or kidnap. Christ, they’d almost drowned her one year! She’d never complained, and had always stared at him with such admiration from behind those spectacles… until she’d turned sixteen, and then it had been Jasper’s turn to stare back.
It had taken him by surprise, so much so that he’d found it difficult to speak with her at all. He’d spent the entire summer getting up the nerve to kiss her, but when he had it had been perfect—more than perfect—and it had changed everything. It had changed him. With his usual hopeless timing, it had finally happened on the morning he’d left to go abroad, desperation at leaving without her having a clue as to his feelings giving him courage enough to take his chance. He’d not seen her again for over a year, when everything had changed in his absence. He still remembered the anticipation he’d felt at seeing her again, and the bewilderment when she’d cut him dead.
To Wager with Love (Girls Who Dare Book 5) Page 2