"Since your aunt is a patron of the school, I had better decline from answering, sir."
"It failed to turn you into a lady."
"It failed on every count, or rather the headmistress failed. The school itself might have been a pleasant experience, if not for her."
"Explain."
She hesitated.
"I am trying to understand, Miss Hathaway, how the school could have turned out somebody quite like you."
So then it poured out of her, as if her frustration had too long been held back by a flimsy dam. "Mrs. Lightbody has no liking for intelligence in other women. She feels threatened by it and so she crushes it at every opportunity. As a result, her students, rather than graduate with a sound education and allowed to reach their full potential, are shaped only for one purpose in life— marriage. I have tried to pity her, but even my desire to find good in anybody is severely tested in her case."
As she passed the tall windows, daylight touched her with a brighter glare, reaching through the thin, summery fabric of her gown, and granting Harry a teasing, temporary glimpse of her figure. How could he keep himself from looking? He was not dead, after all; that was just a rumor.
"Mrs. Lightbody takes apples of all shapes and sizes, sir, and insists upon making them into an Apple Fool. The same Apple Fool, made to a recipe that has not changed in a hundred years at least. She has no imagination, no fancy to try a pie, or a crumble, or a pudding. No chunks of apple can be tolerated. The fruit must be pulped down until it is the texture of cream, has very little taste, and takes no trouble to eat."
What was she talking about? "Hmmm. Apples." He licked his fingers. "I like apples. Sweet, juicy apples."
She groaned softly. "I do not know why I bothered. It does no earthly good explaining to a man." She walked around the table, running her fingers along the dusty chair-backs. "But if you had to have a wife, would you rather not have one with some intelligence?"
Depends upon the size of the apples, he mused wickedly. But having considered her question a little longer, he finally said, "No," and ripped savagely into his toast.
"No? But—"
Through a full mouth, he added, "Wouldn't want her to outwit me, would I? Besides," he gave a little grin, "the entire world knows that women should be seen and not heard, certainly not taken seriously." Carefully, he kept his eyes on his plate, somehow restraining the urge to laugh.
She made a small, frustrated sound and then snapped, "Well, I made two very good friends there at least, and we would never have met had we not gone to that school. Miss Melinda Goodheart and Miss Emma Chance are two of the loveliest young ladies that ever lived."
"And I assume one of these friends would be the correspondent to whom you wrote your letter about this...Lady Loose Garters."
"Yes. That is so." From the pert expression on her face, and the weighty silence that followed— not to mention the fingers clenched tightly around the chair in front of her, Miss Hathaway fully expected him to doubt her word. She waited to argue. To defend what was evidently a lie.
How did he know she lied? Because the confident gleam left her eyes for the first time when he questioned her about it. The young lady had been caught out. In his experience, a woman never fought harder to make a man believe her than when she fibbed.
But he said none of this. Instead he calmly shrugged and looked down at the crumbs on his plate.
Uh oh. Slowly she had resumed her progress around his table and she had a habit of humming under her breath as she did so. Harry was terribly aware of every move she made, every tap of her finger or lick of her lips. Every blink.
Part of him was amused and interested to see what she might do next, the other half was certain no good could come of having her in his house. He felt as if he could not put his full foot down on the ground, but hovered on the balls of his feet, unsure whether to stay or flee. What an odd feeling it was.
But she was just a woman, after all. Why would he flee? What was the worst she could do to him?
"So you are an apple that declines to be pulped." He paused. "But you are, no doubt, just as eager to be in love as any other addled girl of nineteen. Perhaps you simply haven't had the opportunity. Your plans for adventure will vanish then soon enough, after one agreeable smile from a dashing young buck with a smooth, pretty face, elegant manners and a fancy-embroidered waistcoat."
"Well, you need not worry then." She snorted with laughter.
He scowled.
"Are you disappointed that I didn't come here to seduce you and make you fall in love with me?" she demanded saucily. "That I have other plans?"
Harry had just taken another bite and almost choked on his toast. "Devastated."
"Did you expect me to swoon before you? Perhaps you said all that about not wanting a wife, just to set me a challenge."
He shook his head. "Miss Hathaway, I do not play games with words. I say what I mean, precisely as I mean it. Occasionally my brutal honesty gets me into trouble. So I can assure you that when I say I don't want a wife, that is exactly the case."
"And so it is with me," she replied smugly. "We both say exactly what we mean. Just as you know what you want, I know what I want. Why should my choice be questioned, if yours is not? To me, a husband would be as much of an inconvenience as a houseguest is to you, sir."
His aunt was right— the girl did talk too much. And she did not honey her words any more than Harry did. No doubt it got her into trouble from time to time, too.
Now he watched while she examined the Staffordshire spaniels on the mantel. The fire light glowed through that flimsy bit of gown and revealed the curve of her hip. Or did he imagine he saw it? Such diaphanous fabric was created to mislead a man as the pleats moved and the thin layers shifted. And that gown was designed for dancing in candlelight, of course, to make the transparency even more subtle.
A few stray curls rested on the nape of her neck— shiny little coils of mahogany. Deceptively innocent little curls.
sretrag esool ydal.
Lips pursed, he shook his head. Young, unwed women should not be reading His Lordship's Trousers and discussing it with their friends.
That serial was not meant for maidenly eyes.
Good thing she wasn't his female to worry about, or he'd have something to say about her choice of reading material.
And her choice of fabric too.
Chapter Twelve
The daylight version of Sir Henry Thrasher did not have the arrogant swagger of his nighttime twin; he was tied up in his thoughts, cautious of every word he spoke.
Georgiana studied the frowning fellow as he sat at the table, shaking his head— probably at something she'd said— and slathering an abundance of apricot jam all over another thick slice of toast. He had almost emptied the entire pot.
There was no charm in his manner, no warmth today. None on the surface, at least. He seemed almost afraid of being physically close to her while they made the fire together. But the way he kissed her last night suggested a man capable of making fire without kindling and a tinder box. A man accustomed to getting his own way and laying waste to anyone who tried stopping him.
What a pair they were— he in his eccentric state of dishabille and she in her party frock.
He wore boots from two different pairs on his feet again, one with a brown top, one solid black. She'd never heard of a gentleman without a valet, but her host was unique in many ways. Here he lived as a recluse, apparently determined and content in his isolation, probably because he didn't want anybody else to know there were two sides to his personality.
I am not disposed to acquire a wife.
As if she was likely to fling herself at him, she mused.
But last night, in the storm-lit corridor, "Harry" had told her he was lonely and wanted to play.
Poor Harry. If only the different sides of his personality could be put back together, he might feel better able to confront life and society. Somehow he'd been split into two. One half was lost, wanderi
ng— "Still at sea", as he'd put it.
"Miss Hathaway, you're not eating," he observed from the table.
"I'm not terribly hungry, sir."
"Have some chocolate at least. I thought all young ladies liked— ah, you will tell me again that I know nothing about young ladies."
But she was much too excitable this morning to think of breakfast. There were many things she would like to know about her strange host, and she puzzled over the problem of where to begin.
Gripping the back of a dining chair again, she watched the man eat for a moment and then said, "What are all those sketches on the floor of your study?"
After a pause and a huff, he replied, "Part of my work."
"And you won't tell me anything about it?"
His eyes narrowed. "Why would you want to know?"
"Because I'm interested. Despite being only a woman, I have a very active curiosity."
He was silent, still scowling.
"Your aunt said you could show me the house this morning," she said. "Since this weather confines us indoors, you might as well—"
"Hush, woman. Must you chatter quite so much? A man cannot get his thoughts in order while you're throwing more words at him."
Yes, she could see the daytime man did a lot of thinking. So much of it that he did not get anything done. The house was falling around his ears.
Georgiana waited as patiently as she could before exclaiming, "I'm not a spy who might take your secrets to the enemy. I am the soul of discretion."
He looked as if he might laugh. And he seemed surprised by it. Alarmed even. Taking another bite of toast, he chewed slowly, watching her.
What had Brown said of his master? "A terrible waste of a good man." Solid, steady and overworked, the manservant, she suspected, did not give out praise very often. But the Commander wanted to hide his pleasant side from her, it seemed. He did not mean to let her close. Why? What did he fear? She'd assured him that she was not there to catch a husband.
Perhaps a little teasing would help lower his guard.
Georgiana added wryly, "Perhaps my sheer beauty has enchanted you, Commander, and you fret that I might endanger your bachelor's resolve? I suppose showing me your work is the first step to sure ruin and before we know it, you'll be falling hapless at my feet."
A new expression had passed over his face, almost as if another man briefly stepped into his skin and looked out at her through those same eyes. Same but different. Wilder. Like last night, when naked Harry kissed her savagely and told her, without words, that he wanted much more.
But that was last night and today he was unsociable Commander Thrasher again, trying to be stern and gruff with her. Intent on keeping his distance.
"It is quite sweet really, sir."
"What is?"
"Your attempt at a menacing glare."
Georgiana Hathaway was not about to be frightened off by a man who couldn't even find a matching pair of boots.
Finally he said, "Very well, Miss Hathaway, I will show you my study. Since you are currently at a loose end and I can see I'll get no peace until you are occupied."
Oh. Excitement fluttered through her. "Exactly," she agreed fervently. "And you never know what I might get up to when left to my own devices."
* * * *
What else could he do? His damnable aunt had brought this creature into his house and then apparently left her to his management when she found something more pressing demanding her attention. Someone would have to watch over the creature.
Harry entered his study, and the young woman followed close on his heels again, having a distressing disregard for respectable and comfortable distance. He felt like a ram being herded by an overly-eager sheepdog.
"I know what these are," she exclaimed. "They're automatons."
He nodded, surprised she knew the word.
Where the Devil was Parkes today? She'd been absent all morning, not coming to offer a single word of advice.
The intruder walked around his desk with her head high, as if she was mistress of the house. "Wouldn't it be more practical to put your talents to mending the leaking roof?" she demanded.
Harry drew himself up, squared his shoulders. "I'm getting around to that."
A sudden renewed gust of rain blew hard at the windows, reminding him why he couldn't put her out of his house today. She had invaded his world and he was helpless.
Now she picked up the head of Miss Petticoat and held it at arm's length. "She's a sad-looking creature."
He snatched it away from her, tucking it under his left arm. "Kindly don't interfere."
"Is it a sort of doll for you to play with?"
Harry carefully set the head on a shelf between books. "My work is important, Miss Hathaway. I do not make toys."
"It looks like a toy."
"Well, she is not one." He felt his temperature rising. She blinked, shrugged, then resumed her thorough appraisal of his study. "Do mind my sketches, Miss Hathaway!"
She grabbed one of them before he could get to it, and her eyes shone with amusement as she held it up to the light through the window. "This looks like me...a little."
"Indeed it does not," he muttered, busying himself with a pile of books on the desk. "Why would it?"
"But it does. Look." She held the drawing up to her face.
"Pure coincidence." He snatched it from her, before she might read the words he'd marked across the bottom.
"If you do not mind me giving you some advice, sir, I think you would be happier with a real woman, rather than one made of hard metal bits and pieces."
He glared. "Is that what you think? Thank you for your counsel, Miss Hathaway of nineteen sheltered years and lately of the Particular Establishment for the Advancement of Rampant Lunacy."
She laughed good-naturedly, but did not retreat. "I believe you'll find a real woman much more satisfying, even if she is not the ideal you have in your mind. I mean to say, sir, no man or woman is without fault, and even this creature may have imperfections. Even she might disappoint you."
"Miss Hathaway, I would prefer it if you did not pry into my business. That is precisely why I did not want to show you my work. As for women of the flesh and blood variety, I find that they are most often in the way." He gestured impatiently for her to move aside so that he could walk around his desk. "Much as you have found the male species."
She had the grace to look sorry then. "Oh, I didn't mean to make you angry."
"You had better mind your own business then. But since we are giving out advice where it is not welcomed, now it is my turn. You may think you have clever plans, Miss Hathaway. You may have some whimsical scheme for your future, but I would advise you to forget all that and marry. Conform with convention. Quickly, before you get your prying nose and fingers— and any other part— into greater trouble. My aunt assures me that matrimony is the only obstacle to sin, for a young lady such as yourself."
She looked quizzical. "A young lady such as myself? What is that supposed to mean?"
"Well-spoken... has all her teeth...mostly symmetrical features...sober."
"Sober? Only for want of opportunity." A sharp chuckle shot out of her and was instantly curbed, although he saw it trembling through her shoulders.
Harry eyed her dubiously. "Such a young lady ought to be respectably married and not running about strange men's corridors at night."
"Well, I am the adventurous sort, sir, and when I hear noises at night I tend to investigate, rather than hide under the covers."
He dropped to his chair and began shuffling papers frantically. "You know what they say about curiosity and the cat, Miss Hathaway."
She began tracing a pattern on his desk with her fingertip. "You think I have symmetrical features? Is that flattery, Commander Thrasher? Take care or it might go to my head and make me insufferably vain."
"It was merely an honest assessment of the items on your face, which are all in their place. Mostly. No need for excitement."
"Then
you do not find me completely unattractive."
"I've seen worse faces," he murmured, shoving a pile of papers into his desk drawer. "I suppose."
Miss Hathaway abruptly overflowed with bubbles of laughter that she could apparently not restrain another moment. "I believe that is indeed the closest I've ever had to a compliment, sir."
He got up out of his chair again, trying to think of some way to remove her from his room. If he had a ball at hand he'd throw it and see if she chased it. "You are not misshapen, madam, that I will admit. Your features have some favorable qualities. They are not grotesque. And you have a lively disposition, which is likely to attract the worst sort of rogue. Until you do marry."
"Oh stop! I pray you, stop! Before I am overcome by too much unaccustomed adulation."
He made his way around the desk toward her. "I daresay, if you were not covered in ink stains, mischief and soot, you might be more presentable, but my aunt has not yet begun her work on you, has she?"
"Poor Lady Bramley. What has she taken on? She is a great optimist."
"Clearly. One must admire her fortitude."
She laughed up at him, her eyes shining. It was a very long time since he'd heard feminine laughter in his house.
He was still absorbed in studying the naughty curve of her lips when she spun away and picked up Miss Petticoat's head again to examine it. "Are you going to give her my face? My not-entirely-grotesque and mostly symmetrical face?"
"Good God, no." He moved to take it from her again, but she walked away and set the head on his windowsill where there was better light. "One of you is surely enough, Miss Hathaway."
"What's she for then? What are you going to do with her?"
"I will teach her to play the pianoforte."
"I suppose you think she'll be less trouble than the real thing. She will do exactly what you want and never question. I see she has no tongue."
He joined her at the window. "Precisely so." His knuckles of his good hand accidentally brushed the pleats of her gown and he quickly put it behind his back. It was too late, however. That slight kiss of rough and soft sent a frisson of pleasure through his veins, unstoppable as it was startling. "How very insightful of you, Miss Hathaway."
The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers Page 13