How to Treat a Lady

by Karen Hawkins

  Stephen stood in the room, one shoulder against the mantel, his crutches to one side. His head was bowed, a mulish expression on his face, a glass clutched in one hand. Chase hesitated, recognizing a crisis in the making.

  He really didn’t want to get involved with Stephen’s contretemps, but his book sat on a table just past the youth. Chase wondered if he could retrieve it without getting sucked into a lengthy conversation about whatever was paining Stephen.

  He must have made some noise, for Stephen lifted his head, his gaze landing on Chase. “Oh,” he said in a sullen tone. “It’s you.” He lifted the glass and tossed back the contents, gasping a little as he did so.

  Chase caught the scent of brandy and raised his brows. “Does your sister know you are drinking?”

  “Yes,” Stephen said, his eyes blazing. “She is not my keeper and neither are you, sir. I am nineteen years of age and may do as I please.”

  Chase opened his mouth, but then stopped. Normally, he would have met such pretension with a swift and brutal rejoinder, one guaranteed to put the insolent pup in his place. But somehow, in the back of Chase’s head, he heard the words “selfish wretch” spoken over and over.

  Chase sighed. He really didn’t have a choice. “Very well. Let’s start anew. Stephen, how nice to see you.”

  Stephen gave a bitter laugh and turned away. His face was flushed with drink, his eyes glittering.

  Chase rubbed his chin. What should he do now? Just take the book and leave? But no, that’s exactly what Harriet would expect him to do and he’d be damned if he’d prove her right. “What holds you here, in the library? I believe dinner is served shortly.” He ambled closer to the table.

  “I don’t care—” Stephen grimaced. “What is that smell?”

  “My hands. I had blisters and your sister used the sheep ointment on them.”

  Stephen pressed a hand to his nose. “How horrid. I do hope you mean to bathe.”

  “As soon as the water has been heated.” Chase eyed Stephen for a moment, noting how the lad’s gaze rested on him with sullen intent. “Harriet told you my true identity, eh?”

  Stephen nodded. “And that you’ve known all along who you are. Harriet seems to think you didn’t act with malice and I—” He bit his lip a moment, then said, “Allow me to apologize on behalf of the family for our deception, as well. I’m sure it must seem very odd to you.”

  “Nonsense. It made perfect sense or I’d have never agreed to assist you. I daresay that if I’d been in your shoes, I’d have made up a Captain Frakenham, too.”

  “Thank you all the same,” Stephen said stiffly. “You are too kind.”

  Chase eyed the lad curiously. Despite the boy’s frigidly polite tone, there was an underlying expression of agony. What did one do when one actually wished to encourage confidences? Chase wondered what Harriet would do in just such a situation.

  After a moment, he sighed. There was nothing for it but a direct attack. “Well? What’s wrong with you?”

  Stephen stiffened. “Nothing is wrong with me.”

  “Nonsense. I’m usually unaware of people’s feelings and such, but even I can tell you’re suffering from the doldrums.”

  Stephen flushed. “There’s nothing—I don’t—you wouldn’t understand.”

  Chase eyed the book with a gloomy gaze. If things had worked out his way, no one would have been in the library and Chase would even now be paging through the book, looking for just the right sailing yarn to spring on Lady Cabot-Wells.

  “It’s a woman,” Stephen blurted out.

  “Of course it’s a woman.”

  Stephen sent him a sharp glance. “What do you mean ‘of course.’”

  “What else would send a man into a full-thrown gloom in the middle of the day? Has to be a woman.”

  “I suppose,” Stephen said without enthusiasm. He stared down at his hands, his bottom lip softened and then quivered ever so slightly.

  Chase watched, horrified that the young man might actually burst into tears. “Here, now! See what brandy will do to you?” He sent the book one last regretful glance, then took a chair near where Stephen stood, shoulders slumped. “Tell me about this paragon of yours.”

  “Tell you?” Stephen’s bitter laugh grated along Chase’s nerves. “I can’t believe this! You, who can barely set a fence rail, are offering me advice. By gad, that’s rich.”

  Chase managed a grin. “Trust me on this; if there is one thing I do know, it’s how to deal with the fair sex.”

  “You forget that I’ve seen you with Harriet.”

  Chase’s grin disappeared. “Your sister is not an ordinary woman. She’s—” Stubborn. Intractable. Condescending when she had no right to be. And intolerably prideful. All told, Harriet Ward was impossibly argumentative. Chase caught Stephen’s questioning gaze. “Your sister drives me mad.”

  A faint smile touched Stephen’s mouth, softening his haggard look. “She has that effect on all of us. Father used to say she had an iron spine and, when disgruntled, could freeze the pond with a single look.”

  “Your father was a very wise man.”

  Stephen looked at the worn carpet beneath his feet and grimaced. “About some things. Had he had a better head on his shoulders, we wouldn’t be scrambling to make this payment.”

  “We all have our shortcomings.”

  Stephen’s gaze met his, hard and unflinching. “What are your shortcomings, then?”

  The insolent tone in his voice sent a hot rejoinder flying to Chase’s lips. He wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a summary fashion. Especially not by a whelp who was still wet behind the ears. But just as he opened his mouth to send a sharply worded retort, he caught a glimpse of pain in Stephen’s gaze.

  Somewhere in the back of Chase’s mind, a faint memory began to hum. He’d been fifteen, a few years younger than Stephen, and hopelessly, relentlessly in “love” with the divine Miss Leticia Over-hill, a plump beauty with flaxen hair and blue eyes and the most ravishing dimples.

  The fair Leticia had been several years older than he and had her sights firmly fixed on Viscount Ripley, eldest son of the Earl of Snowton. Chase had no title, and was a younger son, as well—though he was infinitely more well-to-do than the Ripleys would ever be.

  Still, Leticia’d had her heart set on a title and a title she was determined to have. Chase had been devastated. Of course, now he thanked the stars for his lucky escape, though at the time he’d sworn never again to smile.

  “I have many, many flaws. Not the least of which is a tendency to see things from my own stance and no one else’s and a sad propensity to convince myself that certain problems will disappear if I can just outrun them.” Inwardly Chase winced at how true this profession was.

  Stephen eyed him with interest. “Those are grave indeed.”

  “I’m trying to overcome them. Besides, no one is perfect. Even my father, who was the most generous man I ever met, had his shortcomings. He loved us all dearly, but he had very little patience with children.” Chase gestured to the chair opposite his. “Come. Sit. You’re giving me a neck ache.”

  “I don’t want to sit.”

  Chase made an exasperated noise. “Must you argue with every damn thing I say? You are far more like your sister than you realize.”

  Stephen’s lips twitched. “Harriet would not agree.”

  “All the more reason to believe it’s true.”

  Stephen sighed. “I suppose you are right.” He gathered his crutches from the wall and made his way to the chair Chase indicated, stopping to refill his glass.

  Though he winced to see how much brandy the lad splashed into his glass, Chase wisely refrained from commenting.

  Stephen propped his crutches beside the chair and sank into it. Brandy in one hand, he eyed Chase with a complete lack of respect. “This is asinine. How could you possibly understand my situation?”

  “I’m older, a male, and I was once your age.”

  “What does that prove?”
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  Good God, this helping thing was most unpleasant. Chase thrust his feet out before him, settling them on the small brass trunk that served as a tea table. Gad, but the lad was full of pride. “Stiff-necked as your sister, aren’t you?”

  “What if I am?”

  “What indeed,” Chase muttered. “Tell me what bugs have infested your lady’s bonnet.”

  “She wouldn’t like to hear you refer to her in such a manner.”

  “Good thing she’s not here, then.” Chase settled deeper into the chair, resting his head on the high back. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “There isn’t a problem. Not with her.” All vestiges of sullenness fell from Stephen’s expression. “She’s an angel.”

  “If she’s an angel, then why are you so blue-deviled?”

  “Because she’s above my touch.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “She did.”

  Chase winced. “What a harridan.”

  Stephen jolted upright. “She is no such thing—”

  “Calm down. All women are harridans. Every last one.” Especially the brown-eyed wretch who was, he was certain, even then plotting new ways to irritate him.

  Stephen’s hands fisted. “I don’t like your tone.”

  This really is not going well. He looked at Stephen’s affronted expression and contained a sigh. Perhaps…perhaps Harriet had one thing right. Perhaps he was just the tiniest bit selfish. Just a little, mind you. He certainly could never remember asking another fellow human other than his brothers to share a problem.

  Stephen took a gulp of the brandy then set it aside and reached for his crutches. “I’m sorry I said a word to you at all—”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but I’m not used to serving as confidant. You are my first effort.”

  Stephen paused. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Then why did you offer?”

  “Because I was told I was selfish and I was determined to prove the statement wrong.”

  Recognition dawned on Stephen’s face. “Ahhh. You’ve been brangling with Harriet. That is exactly the kind of thing she would tell someone.”

  “I don’t brangle. She brangles. I merely refuse to listen.”

  Stephen managed a faint grin. “I’ve been there a time or two myself.”

  To his surprise, Chase found himself grinning back. “You’re an impudent whelp, did you know that?”

  Stephen hesitated, replaced his crutches beside his chair. “I apologize for my short temper. I don’t know what’s come over me—”

  “Love. According to the poets, it makes fools of all men. Or so my oldest brother has told me oft enough.”

  “Does he believe that?”

  “Well, he thinks it applies to all men but him. So he’s not infallible either. In fact, I believe that when Marcus falls in love, it will be worse than it is for the rest of us because of all the practice we’ve had. We’ve calluses on our hearts, as it were. He, meanwhile, has nothing but pride to protect him.”

  “I never thought of pride as a protection.”

  “You should. But we were not speaking of me or my family. We were talking about your unfortunate circumstances. You are in love with a woman who says she is above you.”

  Stephen nodded morosely. “That’s not exactly what she said, but close to it.”

  “What exactly did she say?”

  “That she was…well—” Stephen flushed. “She said she was older. And she is, but only by two months.”

  Chase had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. After a moment’s struggle, he managed to say in a bland tone, “The nerve.”

  Stephen slumped in his chair. “I warned you it was an ugly situation.”

  “Tell me more about this mystery woman.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “The usual…hair color, eyes…” Chase made a curvy gesture in the air. “All the details.”

  Stephen’s lips thinned. “She’s not like that.”

  Chase frowned. “Not like this?” He made another curvy shape in the air. At Stephen’s stubborn scowl, Chase shook his head. “If she’s not like this, then we really do need to talk.”

  “I, sir, do not find this at all amusing! Miss Strickton is perfection!”

  The boy had no humor. None at all. “Easy, hothead. I retract my levity.”

  Stephen’s jaw tilted to a pugnacious angle. “I know you think this is silliness. A childish sort of affair—”

  “I think nothing of the sort. One of the things about love is that it always feels real. Even when it’s not.”

  “This is real!”

  Chase wisely did not respond. Was love just a fleeting feeling that came and went, as capricious as the moon and just as cold?

  Of course, his own parents had seemed genuinely smitten, though he’d always thought their obvious affection for one another was a matter of common sense rather than crass emotion. “Have you told Miss Strickton of your feelings?”

  “I tried, but she won’t allow me to speak of it. Worse, ever since she had her London season, she is constantly surrounded by admirers. I can scarcely get a word alone with her.”

  “There’s your first task, then. To get her attention. I’m certain that once you’ve impressed her with your sincerity and the depths of your devotion, all will change.”

  “So I thought. I’ve written her poems—”

  “Everyone does that since that fellow Byron came to town. What else?”

  “Flowers. But she gets bundles of them a day.”

  “Too common. You need something larger, more romantic. You know how women are, always gushing about this gesture or that.”

  Stephen bit his lip. “You’re right, of course. There has to be something…”

  Chase drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. A long silence ensued. “I suppose jewelry would be too forward?”

  “Her father would burst into flames at the thought.”

  Chase rubbed the bridge of his nose, then winced at the smell. He dropped his hands back to his knees. There was something very gratifying about playing the part of Mature Advisor. He cleared his throat and said in a stentorian tone, “Yes, Stephen, love is a very—” He caught the lad’s apt gaze and the clichéd words dried in his throat.

  Love was a very what? Annoying feeling? Irritating emotion? Chase wondered what he could say since he wasn’t altogether certain that he believed in the fabled emotion anymore.

  He eyed Stephen’s luminous expression and checked his next words. It was possible that love, in all its infinite glory, didn’t really exist. It was a myth, a fiction perpetrated by the females of the species in a vain effort to attach a man with wealth and standing to their sides forever.

  In a word, love was pathetic.

  Chase’s brow lowered. How did one pass on such maudlin information? He really hated to see the light fade from Stephen’s eyes. Everyone should have the opportunity to believe in something. At least every once in a while. “Love is a very difficult emotion to understand.” There. That said it all. And yet said nothing.

  Stephen latched on to it at once. “Yes! You’re absolutely right! If only I could get Charlotte to understand how I feel, that it’s more than mere childish affection.” His brow folded in thought, and he absently sipped his brandy.

  Chase watched as the brandy disappeared. “You know, I’d be careful drinking that if I were you.” He held up his hands when Stephen’s eyes flashed. “I’m not going to say another word, it’s just that many of my own problems came from a bottle of my own choosing.”

  “This is only my second glass.”

  Which, if one never drank, was still a good quantity of brandy. But there was little Chase could say at this point. The glass was almost empty, and Stephen really didn’t seem very tipsy. Perhaps the lad had a head for such things. “I don’t suppose you’d welcome the suggestion that you should perhaps forget Miss Strickton for the time being.”

>   “I cannot. You have no idea what she’s like. How she smiles. The way she looks when she’s trying to decide on something. The way I feel when she’s near.” Stephen shook his head in wonderment. “I love her and no one else.”

  The lad had it bad. In a vague way, Chase supposed he could understand Stephen’s fascination. It was the same way he felt about Harriet.

  Chase, being more mature, didn’t fancy himself in love—far from it. But there were certain women who managed to raise his ire—and other parts of his anatomy—remarkably easily.

  There was something special about a woman who refused to be charmed. Chase was only lately beginning to realize that fact. Perhaps it was the challenge. The simple give and take of an intelligent wit coupled with a well-turned mind.

  Strange how he’d never realized the importance of such things before.

  Such women needed firm handling. Direct action. “It’s a pity you can’t ride into a party and toss her over your saddle like that knight fellow, Loch-something,” Chase said thoughtfully. “There’s a lot to be said for such decisive handling.”

  Stephen blinked.

  Chase rolled his shoulder a bit and winced. “Perhaps you could begin with something simple and build up to a grand gesture. Start with oh, I don’t know…maybe a picnic. That could be romantic if done right.” He imagined taking Harriet on a picnic. A basket of food—good food, not the work fare they got out in the field—a blanket beside a creek, and perhaps a little wine. He loved the way the sun warmed her brown hair with golden lights. And if the two of them were alone, there was no telling how many kisses he might win from her lips.

  The idea held some merit. Perhaps he should—

  Stephen slapped his knee, the sound breaking the silence like a gunshot. “B’God, you are right!” His voice brimmed with excitement. He snatched up his crutches and was on his feet and halfway to the door before Chase could even form a sentence.

  “Stephen! What are you—”

  But Stephen was already making his way out the door. His grand exit was somewhat marred by the fact that he stumbled a little while passing the tea table and had to right it.