“My deepest desire, Cedric, is that you remove yourself from my shop.” Harriet tried to extricate herself, but he had trapped her against the long side of the table.
“Nonsense. You have been a year without a man. A man is necessary for protection — and pleasure.”
Harriet fixed him with a stony glare. “You could not be more wrong. I must insist that you leave this instant.”
“A woman needs a man, none more than you. Why, look at you mucking about in this shop by yourself. ’Tis not safe.” With that, he closed what little space remained between them and tried to kiss her.
Harriet turned her face away.
“Do not pretend you are holding out for that pup Eustace,” he warned. “I know Monica Tanksley has been trying to match you up with her young fop, but you need a real man.”
He grinned, and put his wet lips on hers. Harriet fumbled blindly behind her, searching for anything that might serve as a weapon. Just as her fingers found the bowl containing the culture, she heard the door scrape open.
“What the devil is going on here?”
Harriet instantly recognized the deep voice. “Lord Westwood!” She did not bother to disguise her relief.
Cedric took one look at the tall figure filling the doorframe of the shop entrance and released her. Unfortunately, Harriet had bent so far backward over the table that when his arms fell away, she lost her balance and slid to the floor.
In the next instant Lord Westwood was pulling her to her feet. He regarded her assessingly for a moment, then turned to Cedric and slammed the squire against the wall. As the earl was a good deal larger and a head taller, the squire was clearly on the wrong end of the matchup.
“You struck her,” Lord Westwood growled.
“No, no!” Harriet protested as the earl’s hands went around Cedric’s throat. “I simply lost my balance.”
At her words, Lord Westwood turned toward her, a momentary lapse that allowed Cedric the opportunity to vent his own displeasure. He landed a blow on Lord Westwood’s jaw.
Instantly, the earl grabbed Cedric by the collar and yanked him upward. Cedric responded with a furious kick aimed at Lord Westwood’s midsection.
The two men crashed against the table, sending pans clattering to the floor. “Stop it!” Harriet cried. “Stop this very instant!”
Neither man paid her heed. Harriet feared for the fate of her shop. A pan of newly risen rolls awaiting a trip to the oven was among the casualties now strewn on the floor, a morning’s work lost. This simply would not do.
The bowl containing the sourdough culture was on the edge of the table, within her reach. Harriet picked it up and, in one motion, heaved the contents over the combatants.
With a collective roar, the men separated, which almost — but not quite — compensated for the loss of her precious culture.
“The devil!” Cedric struggled to his feet. His hands and arms were covered in the thick mass. He looked as if he wished to strangle her. But he only glared at her with pure fury, and marched out into the street. The door slammed behind him with such force the windows rattled in their frames.
Cedric had not gotten the worst of it, however. That unfortunate privilege belonged to the earl, whose head and shoulders were covered in her prized culture. It oozed over his black superfine coat and down what must have been a fashionable brocade waistcoat. It sank into the folds of the swath of linen tied at his neck.
Lord Westwood stood perfectly still, as if he could not believe what had occurred. His hair was covered in the culture, which also dribbled down the side of his face. Wordlessly, Harriet handed him the towel that had covered her rising rolls. But it had been dusted with flour to prevent the rolls from sticking, and when he brought it to his face, the flour only added to the pasty mess.
The culture’s pungent odor, which was to have imparted such a wonderful taste to her bread, brought a revolted expression to his features.
“What is this putrid muck?” he growled.
“An Egyptian sourdough culture,” she explained. “I am developing a special bread recipe...” Her voice trailed off as his expression darkened further.
He began to apply the towel to his head, but the fetid residue clung to his hair like thick glue. It was a hopeless task. Nothing less than a complete dunking in a hot bath would repair the damage. Harriet guessed he was staying at the Boar’s Head Inn, which was not known for hot baths — or any baths, the proprietor being notoriously stingy.
At all events, she could not imagine Lord Westwood presenting himself at the inn in such a state. He would be a laughingstock.
“It is still early in the day, my lord,” she ventured. “There is scarcely anyone about yet. Perhaps you would care to come back to my house. I will ask Horace to prepare a bath so you can repair your appearance.”
The rigid set of his jaw told her that slinking into her house for a bath was the last thing he wished to do. But he must also have seen that it was the only way.
For a long moment he did not speak. Harriet shifted uncomfortably. She had repaid his gallantry — misguided though it had been — by dousing his clothes and his person, and yet, at the time she had seen no other way to stop the fight. “My lord, I regret —”
“Enough,” he said in a clipped voice.
Harriet waited for a snarled reproach, a scathing denunciation. But he merely stood rigidly, keeping himself in check. She moved quickly toward the door.
“The gig is just out front.” Harriet tried to sound cheerful.
“Thank you,” he said, in a voice of unnatural calm.
CHAPTER THREE
Elias did not trust himself to speak. He remained silent during the minutes — which felt considerably longer — that it took the gig to travel to Lady Harriet’s home. And during the half hour he stood in her foyer as servants hurried to heat water for his bath.
As he stood there in his fetid clothes, his hair coated with the stinking substance that evidently was part of Lady Harriet’s culinary magic, his dignity suffered mightily. Most well-trained servants would have gone about their business without remarking upon his appearance, but Lady Harriet’s apparently had no thought of restraint. The servant whom Lady Harriet called Heavenly quickly fetched another woman from the kitchen. Putting their hands up to their faces, the two women stared at him, then dashed away, no doubt to collapse in utter merriment. Only the butler maintained some decorum, but it did not take a genius to read the gleam in the man’s eye.
Elias tried to suppress his chagrin. Thanks to Lady Harriet, he had become a putrid specimen of humanity, lost to odoriferous indignity. The very instrument of his humiliation now appeared in the foyer to summon him.
“This way, my lord,” Lady Harriet said in a cheerfully cajoling tone one might use with a recalcitrant child.
Silently, Elias followed her up an excessively ornate staircase and into a room that held a large copper hip bath. Steam warmed his nostrils. Staring at the enormous tub, he knew a faint glimmer of hope.
“Horace will fetch your clean clothes from the inn,” she said. “Are you traveling with a valet?”
What he would not give to place himself in Henry’s capable hands. But Elias had seen no need for the batman to accompany him on an errand that was to have occupied only a day at best. As a result, Henry was in London, enjoying a respite from his duties and doubtless draining his employer’s stock of French brandy.
“No.”
“Horace will serve in his stead. He has laid out a dressing gown for your immediate use, but you may be assured that he will return with your clothes as quickly as he can.” She paused. “Unless you wish him to stay and assist you in the bath.”
“No.”
“Yes, of course. Well, I will leave you now.” She turned and left the room.
With that, Elias ripped off his clothes and plunged into the steaming tub. He ducked his head under the water and let it wash away the morning’s indignities.
He had risen early, knowing that it was
her intention to work at the bakery. He had hoped to find her more receptive to his business proposal with the light of a new day — and, it must be acknowledged, to sample more of her meat pies, or anything else from her oven. Instead, he had encountered a florid-faced ruffian pressing his attentions on her — nay, mauling her — in a manner that left little doubt as to his ultimate intention. That Lady Harriet did not welcome the lout’s attentions was obvious, underscoring once again the foolishness of her habit of working in the shop alone. Had he not come by, God knows what might have happened.
Still, the episode had taken him into dangerous territory. He liked to think that most disputes could be settled without fisticuffs — though there was a time in his younger days when his temper controlled him rather than the other way around. Still, the ruffian had abused Lady Harriet and landed the first blow against him, so Elias did not overly regret his behavior. It was perhaps another reason, as if he needed one, to finish his business here and quit Lady Harriet’s troublesome company.
Sliding the soap over his skin, Elias detected the scent of lime — with a hint of cinnamon, of all things — and found himself wondering wildly whether Lady Harriet’s soap was edible. Even the soap in this household did wondrous things to his senses. As he sank into the comfortable oblivion of his bath, Elias could not help but wonder whether Lady Harriet was the regular recipient of such boorish advances. By paying no heed to the cautions necessary for one of her gender, she had made herself an easy target.
Nevertheless, he was not here to change Lady Harriet’s habits, however ill-advised they might be. It was enough to ponder how he would persuade her to relinquish her disastrous hold on his business. Though the answer had not yet presented itself, Elias had every confidence that he would ultimately prevail. His business would be his again.
To be sure, he had lost ground today. She doubtless would not soon forget the stinking spectacle he made as he stood dripping and oozing muck in her foyer — the very opposite image of a man of serious purpose. The bath was a godsend, however. He would eventually be presentable again. And then perhaps he would regain his dignity.
***
Harriet had caught the merest glimpse of Lord Westwood’s bare back as he plunged into the bath. She’d but lingered a moment out in the hall in the event he needed something that she had not foreseen, and had glanced quickly back into the room. Truly, she was only being a good hostess, she told herself. But the door was not fully closed when he ripped off his shirt. And though she ought to have been shocked and mortified, gratified more accurately described her reaction as she quickly averted her eyes and tiptoed away down the hall.
She had seen enough to realize that his superbly tailored clothing concealed a well-toned physique. Blushing deeply, she felt mortified at having spied on him, however inadvertently.
Freddy had not possessed rippling muscles. His physical assets suffered from inactivity and debauchery, and no one knew better than she how he had squandered his resources, masculine and otherwise. Harriet had not held that against him — she liked to think of herself as without prejudice. Still, to compare Lord Westwood with Freddy was, perhaps, inevitable.
Harriet willed that thought away. The man might be wrapped in an appealing package, but he was mired in rigidity, especially when it came to his notions about women. She could have handled Cedric, for instance. The man was harmless. Oh, perhaps she had taken a small — very small — pleasure in Lord Westwood’s rushing to her rescue, but she needed no Galahad. She was quite capable of managing her own affairs.
“I do hope your bath was restorative,” she murmured an hour later as she poured out coffee for Lord Westwood’s breakfast, then realized that was an exceedingly improper thing to say. One simply did not refer to a gentleman’s hygiene — certainly not when the gentleman was someone she barely knew.
But he accepted the coffee without a word, choosing neither to notice nor respond to her comment, to her relief. At least he could have no complaint about the food. The sideboard was laden with ham, kidneys, eggs with nutmeg sauce, and fresh bread. He would not have eaten so well at the Boar’s Head Inn.
When she asked whether she could fill his plate, he nodded his assent. Though his prolonged silence was disconcerting, Harriet told herself he simply preferred to concentrate on his food.
His hair still bore a faint sheen of moisture from his bath. In his fresh burgundy jacket with fawn trousers, he looked like a typical country gentleman finishing off a deeply satisfying breakfast. Indeed, he ate everything she set before him. But when he placed his napkin on the table and met her gaze, he looked anything but satisfied.
“Has that man struck you before?” he asked.
“Squire Gibbs?” Harriet eyed him in surprise. “He did not strike me. You mistook the situation. I merely fell because he released me so abruptly.”
“You were struggling with him.”
“Yes, but he would not have done me harm —” Harriet broke off. Perhaps she had been the tiniest bit afraid. For though she had known Cedric Gibbs for years, she also knew that in recent months he had become rather desperate in the matter of the mill.
Lord Westwood arched a skeptical brow. “Surely, you do not wish to convey that you welcomed his advances? That his appearance in the shop this morning was expected?”
“Certainly not!” Harriet replied indignantly. “I do not arrange rendezvous with men in my bakery. Or anywhere, for that matter.”
“And yet, you make a habit of working alone, where anyone might happen in.”
Harriet made a dismissive gesture. “I know everyone in the village and there is not one person who wishes me harm, Cedric included,” she insisted. “He only wants to buy back the mill Freddy won from him during a card game. He has exhausted all verbal means of persuasion, and I believe he has the misguided notion that if he seduces me, I will give him what he seeks. Despicable scheme, is it not?”
Lord Westwood did not respond.
“Some men cannot get it into their heads that women are better off without them,” she continued.
“Are they?” He regarded her over his coffee cup.
“Oh, yes. But you will be thinking me disrespectful of Freddy. I am not glad he is gone, my lord, but I have managed quite well by myself.”
“This morning was proof of that, of course.”
Was that sarcasm in his voice? “I was grateful for your assistance, Lord Westwood,” Harriet said quickly. “I have not thanked you properly.”
“You have done more than enough, madam.”
This time, Harriet had no trouble recognizing the ironic tone. She flushed. “I am sorry about the sourdough culture. I was simply trying to stop the scuffle while my shop was still in one piece.”
“Indeed.”
His expression was unreadable. Was he angry? It was not the first time she had failed to foresee the disastrous ramifications of her actions. She ought to have learned something from that very first disaster — her marriage to Freddy — but she had only grown more impulsive since then, not less. “I cannot say again how sorry I am. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”
“Sell me the remaining shares of my business,” he said.
“You are very blunt, my lord.”
“I like to put my cards on the table.”
“Very well,” Harriet said. “I will be frank, too. The shares are mine, and I intend to keep them to help the people of this community as their needs arise.”
He made an impatient sound. “I will pay you well. Then you may use the money to buy cows, or pigs, or anything you like.”
“It is not the same.”
“Damnation, woman,” he growled. “You are selling off my business for a pittance. And whoever is brokering the transactions is probably stealing you blind, having long ago figured out that you do not have the slightest idea what your shares are really worth.”
“Mr. Stevens was Freddy’s solicitor,” Harriet protested. “I am sure he is honorable.”
�
�Freddy’s solicitor?” Lord Westwood gave a scornful laugh. “Now there’s a recommendation.” He leaned forward. “I will pay you twice what those shares are worth just to have them in my control once more. My offer is more than fair.”
Harriet rose. “I do not wish to have my shares in your control. I do not wish to have anything of mine in a man’s control. I am my own mistress.”
She turned away, but he had risen as well and his hand touched her arm.
“So it is your much-vaunted independence that is the real issue,” he said. “Beware, madam. I will have them from you. I have never met a woman who possessed the business sense of a man. You are no exception.”
“And you are extraordinarily condescending,” Harriet retorted. “How like a man to think that he knows best. You are no better than Squire Gibbs.”
“There is no similarity between me and that ruffian.”
“No?” she challenged. “Both of you want something from me. The only difference between you is that he has the effrontery to think he can win the mill by seduction. At least you do not have that shameful notion.”
Harriet’s face flamed as she heard her own bold words. But she stilled at his reply: “Do not be so certain.”
She stared at him. The stormy seas in his dark eyes had given way to something more unsettling. “That, I am afraid, would be quite useless,” Harriet assured him. “I am quite immune to men.”
He arched a brow.
“I do not celebrate Freddy’s death, but I am my own person now,” Harriet said quietly. “I have no need of a man.”
Lord Westwood was silent for a moment. “That is quite a manifesto,” he said at last.
“Nay, ’tis simply the truth,” Harriet replied.
“Immune, you say?”
“Quite,” she assured him.
“Utterly without passion, I suppose?”
Harriet flushed. “I have passions, but they are not the sort you mean.”
“What sort are they?” His gaze was bland.
She hesitated. “Perhaps it sounds silly, but I am passionate about bread. Indeed, about anything I can create in my kitchen. And, I am quite passionate about ideas.”
Reforming Harriet Page 4