Sometime later, as his coachman maneuvered through packed streets to Berkeley Square, Elias’s mood grew darker and darker. Part of him wished mightily he had simply turned the whole matter over to his solicitor and taken her to court, no matter how long the process might take. Yet the plan she offered could be achieved in a matter of weeks. Logic and his finances demanded he do as she wished so that his company would be his again as quickly as possible.
And so he would allow himself to be paraded before her friends like a circus animal so that she could improve her knowledge on the subject of desire and therefore fend off an entire gender and triumph with her prized independence intact.
Since the disaster of his own previous engagement, Elias had determinedly steered clear of those members of the fair sex who might consider him an eligible parti. He preferred a different sort of female, one who understood that intimate congress between the sexes was a capricious pursuit — and certainly not one that led to permanence. It was meant to be enjoyed wholeheartedly, but with the heart left entirely whole.
Yes, Elias much preferred to keep the game between the sexes as just that: a game. Lady Harriet’s unorthodox proposal had merely provided a new playing field.
He pondered that. He thought about her eyes, blue as a tropical sea on a cloudless day. Her errant auburn curls, dusted with flour. That apple green gown — or any gown that wasn’t dreary bombazine.
For the first time since arriving in London, Elias felt the beginnings of a smile. If Lady Harriet wished to learn about desire, perhaps she would get more than she bargained for. In the interest of the game, of course.
***
“Corruption. All around. In this very room, if I may be frank.” With a smile, Oliver Hunt met Harriet’s gaze, then turned to those gathered around him. “Beware the rich aristocrats in Parliament who profess to be in sympathy with the plight of the downtrodden.”
As many of those same aristocrats now stood in Harriet’s parlor, a few nervous titters echoed around the room. Harriet frowned. She did not mind Mr. Hunt’s radical oratory; her parlor had seen its share over the years. What disturbed her was the portentous smile he had bestowed upon her all evening. And though he had offered felicitations over her betrothal, he had eyed Lord Westwood with ill-concealed disdain.
Mr. Hunt’s visage was normally stern, as befitted a revolutionary. He was a man with a cause, and his cause — just or no — consumed him. He ought not to be smiling at his hostess in quite that way, as if they shared something special. Harriet had seen him a time or two since Freddy’s death. Once he had even come to visit her in Worthington on his way to a political gathering. But nothing had transpired sufficient to generate that very odd warmth in his eyes.
Perhaps, Harriet thought, she was reading too much into his behavior. The man did have a compelling presence, which was necessary in his work. He bore a shock of fiery red hair and a wide brow that might have been modeled on sculpture of a Roman emperor. His eyes gleamed with the passion of one who believed his cause was not only just, but divinely inspired. As he spoke, he made eye contact with every member of his audience and, in the way of skilled orators, used his smooth, rumbling baritone to mesmerizing effect.
It was likely, Harriet thought, that she was mistaking the effort Mr. Hunt put forth to captivate an audience for something more personal aimed at her. That was one more example of her utter ignorance of masculine ways.
“What is the cause of the want of employment?” he demanded, lifting his voice heavenward, as if her townhouse were the vast vaulted nave of Westminster. “What is the reason our streets are filled with idle, able-bodied men?”
He paused dramatically, then pointed his finger at his audience. “Taxation! Taxation is the cause of the country’s decay.”
Mr. Hunt’s energetic fervor doubtless accounted for his appeal to young men like Eustace, who had been eyeing him worshipfully all evening. But Mr. Hunt commanded the attention of older men as well. His audience included Tories and Whigs, along with some of the leading opinion writers of the day. Though most were accustomed to inflammatory rhetoric and absorbed his words equably, Eustace seemed truly affected.
As did Lord Westwood. But while Eustace regarded Mr. Hunt with open adoration, the earl could barely contain his irritation. He stood by her side, rigid and stern as Mr. Hunt spoke.
Her betrothal had caused quite a stir, and everyone had been eager to meet the earl. He accepted the many congratulations graciously enough, though somewhat stiffly. And while he had pronounced her almond cheesecakes excellent, he nevertheless held himself a bit apart from her. Truth be told, Harriet was not at ease around him, either. They were nearly strangers, after all. Pretending to be betrothed cast an artificiality between them that served to make their interactions all the more awkward. Strangely, Harriet was also acutely aware of another undercurrent, this one generated by a deeply masculine force in him that made it difficult for her to concentrate on her hostess duties.
She could not but admire his commanding appearance. He wore a close-fitting dark blue jacket, cut in the military style, over a plain waistcoat and black trousers that elongated his already considerable height and underscored his dark eyes and hair. The overall effect was severe, if forceful.
“And what is the cause of taxation?” Mr. Hunt continued, his voice swelling. “Corruption. The same corruption that enabled our leaders to wage expensive wars against Napoleon.”
Beside her, Lord Westwood tensed. She saw him gather himself, as if for battle.
“If Napoleon had ridden up to Whitehall,” Lord Westwood said in an icy tone that knifed through the room and brought instant silence, “doubtless you would have kindly held his horse for the dismount.”
Mr. Hunt’s startled gaze flew to the earl. The man’s oratory skills were such that only the intrepid dared to challenge him. Even as Harriet watched, a slow smile spread over his features. It was the smile of a man who has spied an easy prey. He nodded in Lord Westwood’s direction.
“A former military man,” he said in a knowing tone, winking at the audience. “They tend to take offense when I challenge the cause that sent them into the devil’s arms. Some are simply barbarians, of course. But others — poor fellows — never realized they were pawns in a rich man’s game.”
Lord Westwood leveled an unflinching gaze at his attacker. “Not pawns. They chose to fight to save England.”
“Hear, hear!” came the approving cries. People moved closer, sensing a rousing debate.
“Save England?” Mr. Hunt regarded him in mock surprise. “Why, I wonder? So that the royalty can fatten itself on the backs of the people? Did you know that the Prince has just asked for another fifty thousand pounds to pay his debts? That Parliament, in its infinite wisdom has just expanded Princess Charlotte’s allowance to sixty thousand pounds to support her lavish spending and that of her husband? And that if Leopold should outlive his amiable consort, he may even still draw from our taxes fifty thousand pounds a year?”
Lord Westwood remained silent. Mr. Hunt’s lips curled cynically. “Tell me, sir: Are we to have the pleasure of forever footing the royals’ outlandish bills?”
People shifted nervously. Though harsh, Mr. Hunt’s accusations were nothing more than truth. Even the most conservative among them thought the Prince’s debts excessive.
“We did not fight for the royals,” Lord Westwood replied quietly. “We fought so that our mothers and fathers and children could retain their freedom.”
“Freedom?” Mr. Hunt scoffed. “The freedom to subject ourselves to forced taxation!”
“No,” Lord Westwood replied calmly. “The freedom that allows you to stand here tonight and spout such nonsense without having your head removed from your shoulders for treason.”
The room erupted in laughter. Someone applauded. Others joined in. The tension immediately dissipated as the audience regarded Lord Westwood approvingly. Mr. Hunt looked decidedly nonplussed.
“It seems that Lady Harriet’s bet
rothed disagrees with me.” His mouth pulled into an expression of mock dismay as he tried to salvage his position. “I hope that does not mean that my presence here will be unwelcome in the future.” He shot Harriet an ingratiating smile.
Harriet opened her mouth to assure him that it did not, but Lord Westwood spoke first. “Lady Harriet’s friends will always be welcome,” he said. “Indeed, they will receive my undivided attention.”
It was a clear warning. Hunt’s face reddened. Without another word, he turned to address some of his youthful admirers. For the moment, at least, a crisis had been averted.
Still, by the time her guests took their leave, Harriet was more than ready for them to go. Her head throbbed from the tension of the evening. She realized she had been on edge all night, burdened by the artificiality this arrangement imposed on her and the earl.
“You can relax now.”
Harriet nearly jumped. Lord Westwood had barely spoken since the exchange with Mr. Hunt, and now he stood next to her, watching the last of her guests depart.
“I am perfectly relaxed,” she insisted. “I enjoy these evenings immensely.”
“That is why your head aches like the devil.”
Harriet closed her eyes, unable to deny the obvious. Her head was pounding. She had not realized her tension showed.
“Did I disappoint, madam? Perhaps I should have upended the furniture or smashed Mr. Hunt’s overactive jaw. Is that what you expected?” His sardonic tone added to the painful drumbeat in her head.
“Certainly not,” Harriet said, regarding him warily. “Indeed, I should have been most displeased.”
“Despite what your Mr. Hunt insinuates, I am not a barbarian.”
“I never thought so, my lord.”
“No?” His gaze narrowed. “How else do you regard a man you hired to try to seduce you?”
She flushed. “You know that is not true!”
“And yet, consider that our masquerade is a pecuniary bargain aimed at persuading the world that we are, or will soon be, lovers. Consider, moreover, that it has as its goal enhancing your knowledge of the amorous arts.” His dark eyes bored into her. “Do you know another means to achieve such an end?”
“My lord, you are exceedingly blunt,” Harriet said faintly. “I would never have described our arrangement in such crass terms. Indeed, I hope you may be persuaded that my intentions are not so mercenary or scandalous.”
He bent toward her from his very great height, and Harriet felt a sense of alarm. But he merely spoke in a low voice into her ear. “Had you considered, madam, that it is not wise to toy with desire?”
Harriet eyed him uneasily. “That was not my intention. I regret that you have such a low impression of me, my lord.”
“Ah. Then my opinion does matter?” His dark gaze was unreadable. “I would not have thought that part of our bargain.”
Harriet clenched her hands at her sides. “You are twisting everything. Please believe me when I say I seek only to move on with my life without duplicating my past mistakes.”
Lord Westwood crossed his arms over his chest. “Do not direct your anger at me. It is more properly laid at Freddy’s door. He is the one who used you ill. You ought to have thrown the bounder out.”
His words, along with the cumulative strains of the evening, filled her with anguish. “I bear my husband no anger,” she said. “He is not here to defend himself, at all events. Besides, you know nothing of my marriage, of the cost —”
“The precise root of the matter,” he said.
Harriet looked up at him in confusion.
“’Tis obvious that your marriage cost you dearly. And that you are determined not to admit that.”
Harriet shook her head in denial. But tears threatened and she turned away from him. She would not let him see the effect of his words.
Dimly, she was aware that he was holding something out to her. It was a folded napkin that had lain unused on one of the serving tables. “And you are still paying the price, are you not?” he asked softly.
Harriet took the cloth and dabbed at her eyes. “I do not know what is wrong with me.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “I am never overset.” She took a calming breath. Finally she met his gaze — with equanimity, she thought with some satisfaction.
But her composure vanished in the next instant as he reached out and captured a tendril of her hair and coiled it around his fingertip. He studied it for a moment, then returned his gaze to hers.
She wanted to look away, but those dark, compelling eyes would not permit it. And so she stood there, mesmerized, as his gaze drifted lower, to her mouth. Harriet was suddenly aware that they stood all alone in the foyer and that their closeness was such that his toying with her hair was the least of the personal intimacies to which he might avail himself. The thought did not alarm her so much as render her immobile. The air between them felt charged.
Lord Westwood released her hair, but his hand did not retreat. Instead, his fingertip trailed lightly along her jawline before withdrawing. So intently was she focused on his touch that Harriet could scarcely breathe. She felt herself lean toward him.
His mouth curved upward in a slow smile that betrayed the beginnings of a dimple before vanishing into something infinitely more sensual. He bent toward her, and Harriet felt his warm breath on her neck.
“Primrose,” he murmured.
It took her a moment to understand. “I…mix it with a few crushed thyme leaves and distill the essence into an oil for fragrance,” she stammered. “It is —”
“A flower that grows by the side of the road,” he said softly, “wild and free, daring anyone to pick it.”
Abruptly, he stepped back, severing their connection, leaving her suddenly — foolishly — bereft.
Harriet tried to recover her poise. “I regret my outburst, my lord. I am not ordinarily given to tears or excessive displays of emotion.”
“Perhaps that is the difficulty.”
“I do not take your meaning.”
He did not respond, merely studied her in that unnerving way. Harriet lifted her chin. “I did not engage you in this charade with seduction in mind,” she insisted.
“No?” Was that amusement in his gaze?
“Certainly not.” She felt her face flame.
“Does that mean I should not try?”
She frowned. “Try?”
“To seduce you.”
With a sudden sinking feeling, Harriet wondered whether she had made a very bad bargain in her arrangement with Lord Westwood.
“I-I simply ask that you make yourself amiable,” she managed. “And endeavor not to look as though it is the worst sort of torment. We should simply keep our focus on the primary goal, which —”
Whatever else she would have said was silenced as he abruptly closed the distance between them once more. His mouth brushed hers ever so lightly, just the slightest touch for the merest of moments, the space of time it took her to inhale.
And then he was gone — out the door, into the night.
Harriet stood there, motionless for a moment. She took a deep, steadying breath. And felt something lingering in the space around her, wrapping itself around her insides like a vise. Something deeply and intoxicatingly masculine.
***
“Spying again?”
Celestial stepped quickly back from the dining room door. Horace stood there, his gray eyes full of disapproval. “Lady Harriet sounded distressed,” she said. “I thought she might need assistance.”
“And did she?”
“She was with Lord Westwood. I did not want to intrude.”
“Quite right. Not your concern.” His voice, normally a quiet baritone, was dry with discontent.
Not for the first time, Celestial thought how much more approachable the man would be if he did not take his position in the household with such starch. It had been that way from the moment she and Heavenly had arrived after Lady Harriet’s marriage to Lord Worthington, disrupting Horace’
s orderly rule over what had been a wholly-masculine household.
In the years since, he’d redoubled his efforts at maintaining decorum, as much to set himself apart from Celestial and her sister as to avoid offending Lady Harriet’s sensibilities. But, as Celestial and Heavenly well knew, having served their mistress for a decade longer than Horace, Lady Harriet cared little for order and decorum and even less for society’s notion of the proper treatment of a duke’s daughter. She much preferred mucking about in flour and cared not who saw her thus.
Horace never understood that, but then he did not appear to have the slightest understanding of women. Which was unfortunate, since he had quite a number of appealing attributes, if he would simply let go of all those fussy notions. He was a fine figure of a man, with quite a nice shade of brown hair graying slightly at the temples, which gave him a distinguished air. His eyes, so disapproving now, could be quite earnest and open in unguarded moments. Unfortunately, almost all of Horace’s moments were guarded.
“I will prepare a sleeping potion in the event she is too overset to sleep,” Celestial said. “I brought some freshly harvested valerian from Worthington.”
Horace eyed her skeptically. “Lady Harriet is never overset.”
“That is why I thought she needed help.”
Horace’s expression was censorious. “Our employer’s discussions with Lord Westwood are none of our concern. If I catch you spying on them again, I will —”
“Stop it, Horace,” Celestial snapped. “You are just as curious as Heavenly and me about matters between them. I have seen you studying the two of them.”
He reddened. “I only wish for Lady Harriet’s happiness.” He looked as if he would say something else, but hesitated.
“But?” she prodded.
“But I wonder —” He broke off.
“Whether the earl can bring her that?” Celestial finished for him.
“I did not say that,” he said quickly.
“You were thinking it,” she said.
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