How to Treat a Lady

by Karen Hawkins

  Sheep, Chase decided on the third day of his incarceration (for he refused to think of it as else), were not the mild-mannered animals one might have been led to believe from nursery-rhyme lore.

  Oh no. Despite their large brown eyes and soft woolen exteriors, they were imminently capable of capricious behavior that could only be described as malicious, malevolent, and mean.

  Something as simple as herding the stupid creatures from one field into the next was tantamount to climbing the icy summits of Mt. Olympus and fighting off an army of Cyclopses while wearing a tattered loincloth and carrying no weapons other than a rock and a very small slingshot.

  He’d been working with the Wards and their two hired helpers for three whole, endless days, each one longer than the previous. And now, on the dawn of the fourth day, he could barely move, his entire body was a mass of bruises, aches, sunburn, and blisters.

  The sad thing was that the shearing hadn’t even begun. All they had done so far was move the sheep to the field beside the barn and repair some fencing along the way.

  Of course, that had taken plenty of time, energy, and fortitude since the sheep seemed determined to thwart them every step of the way. They attempted to break free at the first sign of weakness, the largest rams taking every opportunity to run down any unsuspecting worker who might make the error of turning his back. Sheep were vicious, vindictive creatures and Chase had the lumps and bruises to prove it.

  He leaned against the wagon, watching the sun rise over the gentle hills. To his surprise, he found he rather liked this time of day—the hour after dawn when everything looked clean and fresh, a covering of creamy dew gilding the grass and trees. He lifted his head and took a deep breath of fresh air, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders. It was so easy to lose oneself in London. But here, everything seemed…easier. Simpler.

  “Captain?” Stephen’s voice intruded.

  Chase straightened, then groaned.

  Stephen quirked a brow. “Does your back hurt?”

  “My entire body hurts. Even my hair.”

  Stephen managed a faint smile. “Could you and Jem get the new gate built today?”

  Chase looked at the boy, noting the circles beneath his eyes. Gone was the cheery voice that had awoken Chase on the first day. Stephen had barely smiled since then. “I’m sure Jem and I can build the gate.”

  “Good. Derrick and I will go with Harriet to see to the gap we found in the fence in the south pasture. The others are going to clean out the barn.”

  “Work, work, work.”

  “It’s not usually like this. Once the shearing is done, things will settle back to normal.”

  “Will we have to get up at dawn?”

  “No.”

  Chase would have never thought just lying in bed was something to be savored. But that had been before he’d become Captain Frakenham, or, as Chase was beginning to think of himself, The Poor Bastard. “I can’t wait.”

  Stephen nodded, then went off to consult with Jem about the quantity of nails available.

  Chase flexed his shoulders, looking about for Harriet. She hadn’t appeared yet, which was unusual.

  Every morning began the same—he was rudely awakened before dawn, followed by a hurried dressing in the dark in clothing best not thought about, then on to a hideously large and boisterous breakfast, something Chase had learned was vitally important unless he wished to expire of hunger before lunch was served.

  If you could call it luncheon. Where breakfast was a multiplattered affair, lunch was hard bread, cheese, some apples or pickles, and all the water Chase could want.

  “Water,” Chase scoffed to no one in particular. It had been three days since he’d had anything worthy to eat or drink after the ungodly hour of six in the morning. Three entire, endless, painful days.

  Had he any sense, he would pretend suddenly to remember who he was, pack his bags, and leave. But to do so would be to leave the Wards, and especially Harriet, to Gower’s mercy.

  Chase scowled at the thought. He didn’t trust the banker any farther than he could throw him. The jackass rode up every day or so just to rankle the family, and Chase was fairly certain that though the man pretended otherwise, he didn’t always come on bank business. Indeed, there was something very personal about the way he looked at Harriet.

  Chase stirred restlessly, wincing when his shoulders protested. Apparently Captain Frakenham was not made for building fences and fighting rambunctious rams. From the very beginning, he should have loftily informed the Wards that sea captains never herded sheep. Never wrestled with sheep. And never, ever ended up with sheep excrement on their boots.

  Several times, he thought of saying just that. But seeing Harriet dressed in her old gowns, her hair falling out of her braids as she dragged split rails from the back of the wagon, carried buckets of water out to him and Derrick and the other farm hands, or any of the other hundreds of chores that she performed, made him hesitate. She was working her heart out and so, for some reason, he found he could do no less.

  Harriet and her family were remarkable and he found his ragged heart responding to their valiant fight. As if, in seeing them triumph over their troubles, he would somehow find the strength to triumph over his own. He’d never before witnessed a family quite like the Wards. Never met anyone quite like Harriet.

  He glanced around the barnyard. “Where is Harriet?” For the first time since he’d been at Garrett Park, she had missed breakfast.

  Derrick looked up from where he sat in the cart seat, a book in his lap. He blinked mildly. “I saw her in the hallway not ten minutes ago. She said something about getting the food from Cook.”

  And she would appear at any moment, carrying a basket that weighed as much as she. Chase turned and walked toward the house.

  He went first to the kitchen, but Cook was busy adding the last few items to the basket. She hadn’t seen Harriet yet.

  Chase found that disturbing, but what could he do? He turned to go back outside, but then paused at the foot of the steps.

  Some imp of madness tickled his fancy and he found himself looking up the steps at the doors that lined the landing. Hmm. Which bedchamber was it?

  Moments later, he was walking down the hallway, when he spied her through an open doorway. She was standing in front of her bed, one foot in her boot as she hopped around, trying to get it over her ankle. She was completely dressed, though there was some sign that she’d braided her hair in far too much of a hurry.

  Chase leaned against the doorframe, watching her with some amusement.

  She stopped hopping around, the boot only half on her foot. “What do you want?”

  “I came to see if you needed any assistance.”

  “Putting on my boots?” she scoffed. “I believe I can manage.”

  Chase grinned. “You weren’t at breakfast.”

  Her cheeks blossomed with color. “I fell back asleep.”

  “So did I, but Stephen was not about to allow me the luxury of actually enjoying it. You’d better get yourself something to eat, or you’ll be starved.”

  “I’ll eat some bread and cheese on the way to the field.” She plopped on the edge of her bed and grabbed the boot and began tugging. “I don’t know why this won’t go on.”

  “Let me help.” Chase moved toward the bed, but something sparkling in the open wardrobe made him pause. “What’s that?” He walked to it and pushed the door farther open. On the bottom shelf sat a pair of shoes. And not just any shoes, but lovely beaded silver satin ballroom slippers. He picked one up and looked at Harriet.

  She tossed the boot on the floor and crossed to his side. “They’re from my father. He gave them to me on my seventeenth birthday.” She traced a finger down the shoe, lingering on the beads. There was a wistful gleam to her eyes, a sadness, too.

  Chase turned the small shoe over in his hand. “It’s never been worn.”

  She shrugged and turned away, her expression shuttered. “Where would I wear that?” He
r fingers brushed her skirts. “And with what? Father was not a practical man. Just a dreamer.”

  “Dreaming is important.”

  “Not when it prevents you from dealing with reality,” she retorted, sitting back on the edge of the bed and picking up her boot. “He always wanted the good life. So he pretended. And now, we’re all paying for it.”

  Chase looked down at the slipper, wondering how many years it had rested in the bottom of the wardrobe. He looked at the shelf, then collected the mate. “Here. Put these on.”

  She paused. “What?”

  Chase came to stand in front of her. “Put these on. I want to see you wear them.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe because you never have.”

  She set the boot back on the floor. “I’ve worn them once or twice.”

  He looked at the perfect, unscuffed soles. “Where? In here?”

  She nodded.

  Chase shook his head. “That will not do.” He knelt before her.

  Harriet stiffened. “What are you doing?”

  “I am going to put these shoes on your feet.”

  “Why? Captain, I’m already late and—”

  “Five minutes won’t matter.” He glanced up at her. “Put them on. For me.”

  “For…why would I do that?”

  “Why not?”

  She bit her lip and he could see her mulling the thought, considering it from every angle. “I suppose—”

  “Good,” he said, not giving her time to reconsider. “Take off your stockings.”

  “My—whatever for?”

  “Because these slippers will never fit over such thick woolen stockings.”

  She sighed, but to his surprise, she did as she was told, rolling the gray stocking down her calf, unwittingly giving him a bare flash of a nicely rounded leg. The sight heated him in ways a mere rounded leg never had before.

  He took her foot in his hand. Her foot seemed tiny, delicate even, against his large palm. “You deserve to wear shoes like these.”

  “Deserve?” she said, rather breathlessly.

  “Deserve,” he replied firmly. He slipped the shoe over her foot, then did the same with the other one.

  Harriet held her feet before her and regarded the shoes solemnly. “They’re quite pretty, aren’t they?”

  “They’re beautiful.” He met her gaze and smiled. “You have lovely ankles as well.”

  Harriet’s heart skipped a beat. She’d been having a horrid day up until then. She’d awoken late, her hair wouldn’t stay in its braid, she’d hit her shin on a stool, and the knob to her wardrobe door had broken, which was why the door had been standing ajar. Added to that, her blasted boots had been determined to stay off her feet.

  She looked at the delicate slippers, so incongruous against her faded skirts. “They fit so well. As if made for me.”

  He glanced up at her, his eyes shadowed by the fall of hair over his brows. There was a hint of mischief in his gaze, something seductive and wild. Harriet’s heart leapt as if in response. “I—I—” She what? She loved the shoes? Loved having him sitting so close? Loved the feel of his hands on her ankles?

  Heat flooded her face, and she cleared her throat. “I suppose everyone is waiting on me.”

  “We can’t be long. Derrick seemed to think you’d returned to get the lunch basket.”

  “And you were going to carry it for me? I’m honored.”

  He grinned. “Don’t be. I just wanted to steal some cheese before Derrick could get to it.”

  “He’s a growing boy.”

  “He’s a greedy menace.”

  “That too.”

  He stood. “May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why do you work so hard?”

  She blinked. “Because there are so many things to do and so…I do them. Besides, work is good for the soul.”

  “Perhaps it is,” he said musingly. He reached down and took her hand, then pulled her to her feet. “What would you do if you weren’t tied here, to Garrett Park?”

  “I don’t consider it tied. I love my home. But if I had the money, I suppose I’d like to travel.”

  “Where?”

  She thought a moment, her gaze finding the tips of her slippers. “To London.”

  He raised his brows. “That’s not that far from here. A day’s journey, if that.”

  “I know.” She held out one foot and then the other. “I always thought to take these with me for my season, but by then, Father had overspent the investment funds and there was no money for such things. But one day…”

  “One day?” he prompted.

  She caught his gaze and smiled. “One day I shall wear these shoes and dance with—” She broke off, her cheeks heating.

  “With?”

  “With someone other than my brothers.” She chuckled. “Neither one can dance at all. Stephen is forever stepping on my feet, and Derrick forgets he is even dancing and frequently comes to a complete stop.”

  Chase looked down at her, amazed at her spirit. Even through her wistfulness, there was an air of contentment, of satisfaction with who she was and what she wanted. More than he, who’d had every luxury, every advantage, had ever felt.

  He looked about the room. “All we need—” he muttered to himself. He moved a stool and a small chest of drawers to the wall, effectively clearing the floor. “There.”

  “What are you doing?” She sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for one of the shoes. “We need to get to the carts. Everyone will be waiting and—”

  Chase took her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Leave your shoes on.”

  “Why?”

  He led her to the center of the room. “You are going to get your dance.”

  She blinked. “Here?”

  “And now.” He held her hand in his and clasped her gently about the waist. “Allow me to point out that I am not one of your brothers.”

  “I—how can—with this dress?”

  He grinned. “You can take it off if you wish. Actually, I think that is an excellent idea.”

  “B-but there is no music.”

  “We’ll pretend. I’ve noticed that your entire family is good at pretending. This shouldn’t tax your abilities in the least.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think—”

  “Don’t think, Harriet. Pretend. Pretend you’re at a ball. Pretend you’re wearing a gown that goes with these shoes. Pretend you’re surrounded with soft music, flickering candlelight, and the glitter of jewels.”

  She smiled, her eyes closing slightly. “Mmmm. A full orchestra. And the Prince is in attendance.”

  He smiled down at her. “As you wish, m’lady.” He tightened his hold on her waist. “May I have this dance?”

  She lifted her wrist and consulted an imaginary dance card. “Let me see. I danced the quadrille with the Duke of Devonshire and the country dance with the Prince Regent. I suppose we can dance the last—”

  He pulled her tight, her body firm against his. “The waltz. It’s just beginning.”

  She colored adorably. “I—I don’t know that dance.”

  “Then I shall have to teach you.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Could you? I saw it danced once at the assembly rooms in Harrowgate and it looked excessively elegant.”

  “It is. Now, put your hand like so, and rest your other hand here…there you go. Now, relax and just follow me.” He began to hum, swaying ever so slightly.

  She followed him, naturally graceful. Her steps matched his so perfectly that he quickened the pace. She never faltered. He hummed a little louder, increasing the tempo. Her skirts flared out, her slippers glinting like dewdrops on the faded rug.

  “How wonderful!” Laughter gurgled in the back of her throat as they spun around and around. “It’s even more enjoyable than it appear—”

  “Harri!” rang a call from the foyer. “Are you ready?”

  Harriet came to a complete stop. “Oh dear!
That’s Stephen. They must be ready. And I don’t even have my boots on!” She whirled away, her skirts brushing his legs, before she plopped onto the edge of the bed and removed the silver slippers. She yanked her thick woolen stockings back on.

  Chase watched, feeling strangely bereft. Of all the women he’d known, none had intrigued him so thoroughly or as quickly as the slip of a woman on the edge of her bed. He sighed. “I’ll go and get the basket from Cook.”

  Harriet nodded. “Please do! And pray tell Stephen I’ll be right down.”

  “Of course.” Chase turned to leave.

  “Captain?”

  He paused. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  Chase glanced back and saw a soft smile touch her lips.

  She lifted the shoes and looked at them, a glow in her eyes. “I and my shoes thank you.”

  Chase tried to think of any woman of his acquaintance who would be sincerely grateful for such a trifling thing as a dance in an empty room without the benefit of an orchestra or champagne or any of the trappings most females prized.

  Harriet stomped her booted feet to the floor and went to the wardrobe. She replaced the shoes on the bottom shelf and then stood back and regarded them with satisfaction. “Now no one can say they’ve never been worn.”

  “No. No they can’t.” And with that poor rejoinder, he left. What was it about Harriet Ward that fascinated him so? He wasn’t sure what it was, but he was damned well going to find out.

  Chapter 16

  No cod for me, please. Makes me dream the most horrid things. Last time I ate some, I dreamed that my mother-in-law had come to stay, broke her hip on our front landing, and never left.

  Mr. Giles Standish to his brother, Mr. Lembert Standish as the two sat down to dine at White’s

  Mother’s soft voice traveled through the door. “Harriet?”

  Harriet rolled to her side, cuddling deeper into the cocoon of warmth she’d made in the night. “Yes?”

  “Time to wake up, dear.”

  Harriet wasn’t sure she’d ever really been asleep. Her thoughts had churned restlessly last night, just as they had every night since the captain had found his way into the Ward household. Especially since the day before, when he’d danced with her.