by Jane Goodger
“Of course.”
“You remember Mother talking about Baron Longley. I know she fostered hopes that he would offer for me, and I cannot tell you how relieved I am that he has not. But, Harriet, what if he did? He is supposed to be in London to introduce me. What if he makes an offer for my hand? What would I do?”
“I don’t know,” Harriet said miserably.
“He was awful. He was thin, like Ichabod Crane in that American tale. And his breath would wilt my roses.” She let out a small laugh and Harriet squeezed her sister’s hand. “Worst of all, Mother had two glasses of wine the second night of our stay.”
“Oh, no.”
“I knew the moment the baron began having second thoughts. I believe it was about the time Mother said, ‘Your guts must be rattlin’, Baron, what with us not having anything to eat but a bit of crib since breakfast.’ I had to translate.” Clara looked slightly ill at the memory. “But after all this, the expense, the traveling, everything. How could I say no? I have gone along and gone along, hoping and praying that nothing would come of it. But what if it does? I’m twenty-four now and Mother is beginning to panic and wonder if she should have said yes to one of the other gentleman who proposed when I was younger.”
“How do you know that?”
“She has a list,” she whispered.
“A list of past suitors?”
“Yes. She had put lines through the ones she deemed initially unsuitable, but I saw the list the other day—I was in her room fetching her parasol—and I saw that some of the names she’d crossed off were re-written below.”
Harriet furrowed her brow. She’d had only the vaguest idea what her sister had been going through, for Clara had been so cheerfully accepting all along. “Did you fancy any of them?”
Shaking her head, Clara said, “Not a one. Not a single one. And what of you? Has any gentleman ever caught your eye?”
Harriet couldn’t have stopped the blush from burning her cheeks for all the gold in the world. “No,” she said, dipping her head, but not before her sister caught sight of her expression.
“Harriet!”
“It’s nothing like that, Clara. It’s…foolish and impossible. You know how I am. Remember how I acted around Mr. Southwell? I’m so embarrassed by my behavior looking back, but at the time I actually thought we would be well suited for one another. I do tend to set my sights on men who are either completely uninterested or completely unsuitable.”
Clara let out a gasp. “Lord Berkley.” It was not a question and Harriet could not school her features quickly enough to fool her sister. “Oh, Harriet.” This was said with a note of pity, and Harriet was tempted to tell her sister that Lord Berkley liked her rather well enough.
“You said yourself that of all the men you’ve met, he is the only one you would begin to consider.”
Clara gave her a look of exasperation. “He’s an earl, Harriet. An earl. He might as well be the king of England.”
“I know what he is,” Harriet said testily. “One cannot help what one’s heart feels.” She laughed and pointed to herself. “At least not this one. I have tried. I do know I am completely unsuitable and that he is far above me. Still, he is kind and…”
“And he said you have beautiful eyes.”
Harriet grinned. “Not in so many words, but he did, didn’t he? Even if he said it simply to vex Mother.”
Clara tilted her head back. “I don’t know, Clara, perhaps he is smitten with you.”
Harriet looked down and studied her fingers. “No, he is not. But it is nice to dream about, just as I dream about my cottage.”
“The cottage by the sea with the garden?”
“Yes.” Harriet was terribly tempted to tell Clara at least the secret about working for the earl to restore Costille House and being able to very soon afford a little cottage. But she realized to do so would only worry Clara, give her an additional burden.
The two girls looked at a noise at the door and saw their mother standing there frowning. “We leave in the morning, Clara.” Then, looking at Harriet, she said, “I wish we had ordered dresses for you, Harriet. Now that we are ready to depart, I am doubting my decision to have you remain here. Unchaperoned.”
“I am in a house full of servants.”
“That hardly counts. Mrs. Pittsfield said a family of quality would never leave an unmarried daughter home alone.”
Mrs. Pittsfield had once worked in a grand London house and so was an expert on the aristocracy her mother so highly respected. The Andersons might not be aristocracy, but her mother tried her best to emulate their behavior.
“I could stay with Granny, I suppose,” Harriet said, thinking that would only add one mile to her trek to Costille House.
“The farm? For two months? She’ll have you out there feeding the pigs and gathering up eggs for breakfast. And undoing years of finishing school. I hardly think that would be suitable.”
Harriet liked being on the farm and enjoyed doing the daily chores, but she remained silent.
Hedra let out a gusty sigh. “I suppose you may stay here. Even with a reduced staff, it is far better for you in town than with your grandmother. Your diction even now is hardly what it should be.”
When she left, the girls waited ten long seconds before bursting into laughter.
Chapter 9
“Arrangement be damned,” Augustus said, biting gently on one beautiful, rosy nipple.
They were not supposed to have been together for another two days, but as soon as Augustus saw her, cheeks rosy from a brisk wind, hair flying about her, silently beckoning him like some mystical being, he realized waiting two days to be with her would be far too torturous. They had just finished making love for the second time that day, and Augustus lay in bed more content than he could ever remember being. And definitely more satisfied.
Harriet laughed, then nestled against him drowsily, one arm slung over his chest, her fingers playing with his chest hair. She had bewitched him and he could only pray that when the time came to say good-bye, he would be able to do so with dignity. At the moment, however, all he could do was picture himself dissolving on the floor in abject misery. His poor wife, whoever she might be, would be a pale comparison to the woman he now held in his arms.
“I have to tell you something,” she said sleepily, but he thought he detected a hesitancy in her voice, and he found himself bracing for whatever it was she was about to say.
“What it is, love?”
“It’s a bit mortifying to say aloud, but I suppose I must.” She let out a sigh. “I’m expecting my monthlies quite soon,” she said quickly, then let out a small groan and ducked her head against him.
Augustus chuckled in relief, until he realized it might be several days before he would be able to make love to her. Then another wonderful thought occurred to him. Once she was finished with that bit of feminine horror, he would be able to make love to her without a sheath—at least for a couple of days before it became dangerous again.
“Ah,” he said, for what could a man reply when a woman said such a thing? “Then we shall have to take picnics.”
Harriet got up on one elbow to look down at him. “Picnics?”
“If I can’t make love to you,” he said, turning his head and kissing her creamy shoulder, “picnics will have to do.”
“Oh.” She looked surprised, and not in a good way. He realized he might have overstepped the boundaries of their agreement. Idiot. They were not courting. A man did not take his lover on picnics; that sort of activity was reserved for sweethearts and wives.
“After some thought, perhaps it would be best to simply focus on the restoration.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Now she sounded rather disappointed. Would he never understand what was happening inside a woman’s mind? Tucking his hands beneath his head and staring at the ceil
ing, he said, “You might as well tell me what I’ve done wrong. I shouldn’t like to do it again, you know.”
He could hear her breathing and almost see her mind working. “It’s only that when you asked to go on a picnic, it occurred to me that going on picnics isn’t the sort of activity that…” Her voice trailed off. “It made me too happy. I know I’m supposed to not like you, but I find that I do.”
“Who said you cannot like me?”
“Like you overmuch, I mean. It would be much better if you would vex me more.”
He chuckled. “You want me to make you angry?”
“Yes,” she said with a decisive nod. “As it stands now, you are being entirely too agreeable and I fear that when our arrangement is over, I shall miss your…your…agreeability.”
“My agreeability.”
“Yes.” She climbed onto his chest and rested her chin on her fists. “If you were more vexing, I wouldn’t miss you at all.”
He laughed so hard, she moved up and down on his chest, nearly sliding off him. “Oh, my darling girl, I shall try to anger you at least once a day.”
She gave him a grin. “See what I mean? I ask you to be disagreeable and what do you do? You agree to be disagreeable!” Harriet dissolved into laughter and this time she did slide off his chest.
“So,” he said with hesitation. “Does that mean you want to go on a picnic or not?”
“Of course I do, you silly man.”
“Of course,” he said ironically.
She nestled against his side again and he watched the golden light of the setting sun bathe her cheek. The smallest bit of down on her cheek, like the fuzz on a peach, shone golden in the sun. And that’s when he realized they had spent the entire day abed.
“It’s getting late.”
“I know,” she said, her voice muffled against his side, her breath tickling him. “My family has gone to London to try to find Clara a husband so it’s not so terribly important that I get back at a particular time. They took most of the servants with them so there is no one there who would even take note of my being gone. Except perhaps our cook.”
Augustus sat up. “Do you mean to say they went to London without you? My God, have they no sense at all? To leave their unmarried daughter alone?”
She widened her eyes innocently. “Yes, I know, I could get into all sorts of trouble, couldn’t I?”
He gave her a scowl, but ended up chuckling at his own hypocrisy. “Still, it wasn’t good of them, was it.”
“No,” Harriet said on a sigh. “It wasn’t. But if I’m to be completely honest, I’d much rather be here than in some townhouse in Mayfair. It’s much warmer in St. Ives than London this time of year.”
Bending to kiss the tip of her nose, he said, “Much warmer.”
* * * *
Harriet knew her heart was in danger the day she’d proposed their arrangement, but she hadn’t had any real idea how quickly and how completely she would fall in love. She’d been half in love with the earl before their arrangement but was able to talk herself out of believing it was any more than becoming spoony over a man, much as she had been for Mr. Southwell. Having no real experience with love, she hadn’t been at all prepared for it and what it would mean.
It happened on the day of their picnic. The day was blustery and cold and no two adults in their right minds would have considered such a day as one perfect for a picnic. Yet Augustus had promised and so they went, bundled up and rosy cheeked, to a grassy bluff on the very edge of the Berkley estate. Going beyond the estate was out of the question, an unspoken rule. Their love affair would never become public and no tongues would ever wag with gossip that the earl was carrying on with poor, plain Harriet Anderson. That suited them both fine.
Harriet would have died with mortification had anyone known the full extent of their relationship. No one would ever know that they had once, and quite enthusiastically, participated in an affair. It almost felt as if it were all happening to another woman entirely.
She was already half in love, but that picnic on that cold and blustery day, a day on which making love was not part of the agenda, would prove to be her heart’s downfall.
Not wanting to attract the attention of the workers, Harriet pretended to head home while Augustus headed toward the stable, presumably to fetch his horse for a trip to the village. Instead of being ashamed of their clandestine picnic, Harriet was unaccountably excited. Someday, she realized, she might look back at her foolishness and wish she’d had better sense, but at the moment, it was grand.
He was already waiting for her, his horse tied to a nearby tree, when she arrived. Far below them, the sea was mottled with whitecaps, and the air was filled with the sound of the sea crashing against the shore. When she arrived, he was struggling with a blanket that seemed to have come alive in the wind and was attempting an escape.
Laughing at the sight, Harriet grabbed one end of the blanket in an attempt to wrangle it to the ground. Instead, he pulled on the material and she stumbled forward and into his arms. Her laughter stopped abruptly when he lowered his head and kissed her. “Good afternoon, Catalina.”
“Good afternoon, Gus.” She grinned up at him, amazed at how young and handsome he looked with his dark hair whipping around his head, his cheeks flushed from the wind, and his dark blue eyes smiling down at her. He kissed her again, a long, drugging kiss.
“You cannot…”
She shook her head. “I cannot,” she said with real regret.
“Then I shall have to be satisfied with only a kiss.” He bussed her lips. “Or two.” Another kiss, this one a bit longer. “Or three.” And this one left them both breathless. Then, “I’m starving.”
Between the two of them they managed to arrange the blanket on the ground by anchoring it with some stones. Once they were seated, the wind was far diminished, and Harriet could better feel the bit of warmth from the sun.
“This is a lovely spot,” she said, wrapping her arms about herself, for though the wind had died down, it was still chilly.
He sat down behind her and drew her against him so that her back rested against his chest and his leg splayed out on either side of her. She could feel his manhood against her bottom, a clear indication that he desired her, but he did nothing other than draw her close to him and rest his head upon her shoulder to look out at the sea.
“You’ve lived in St. Ives your entire life?”
Harriet nodded. “A true local girl. I spent some time in Longrock with my grandparents on my father’s side when I was younger and I have been to London two times, but yes, I’ve lived in St. Ives for as long as I remember.” She craned her neck to look at him. “That must seem terribly provincial to you.”
“Not at all. St. Ives is my favorite place in all the world, and I’ve seen quite a bit of it.”
“You lived in America. How exciting that must have been.”
He chuckled. “It was. Exciting and lonely and far, far different from England. I left right after university and lived in America for three years, returning a bit more grown up than when I left. I married, then went back.”
Harriet was silent for a while, but she was curious why a man would leave for America so soon after his wedding. It was not a particularly honorable thing to do, and she didn’t like knowing he’d behaved in such a manner. “Why did you return to America?”
He let out a long sigh. “My father was a powerful man. Unbeknownst to me, he held some information over my father-in-law’s head. It was a forced marriage on her part, something I was completely unaware of. On my part, I’d decided it was time to do my duty and marry. To be honest, I didn’t particularly care who it was but was pleasantly surprised by Lenore. She was pretty and intelligent, and though her family’s situation was far below ours, I was happy enough. On our wedding night Lenore made it quite clear she hated me and our marriage, and if I thought to con
tinue on, I would find myself in the untenable situation of raping my own wife. So I left. I’m not proud of what I did and I realized after a time that it was a mistake, but by then it was too late.”
“You were quite young,” Harriet said, but she couldn’t help thinking how wrong it had been of him to abandon his new wife.
“Not so young.” He kissed her neck. “Enough of that maudlin talk. Let’s see what cook has prepared for us.”
With that, he opened the basket, revealing the small porcelain statue of the fairy sitting upon a rock, reading. She stared at it, overcome that he had remembered and had taken the time to buy it for her. It wasn’t the expense—the figurine couldn’t have cost more than a few pennies—it was that he’d gone into the village and bought it. For her. And that was the moment he became more than her lover. He became her love.
“I remembered you liked it,” he said gruffly, then lifted it out and handed it to her.
“She’s lovely,” Harriet said, smiling at the whimsical little girl with the fairy wings. “My grandmother used to tell us stories of fairies who lived in the forest. She would tell them so well, Clara and I were convinced they truly existed.”
“And they don’t?” Augustus asked in mock horror.
“Nor gnomes or ogres.” She looked up at him and grinned. “Thank you, Gus. It’s the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received.”
“Then I hate to think what was the worst.” His words came out slightly mocking, just on the edge of unkind. He busied himself with setting out the food, and Harriet wondered if he was slightly embarrassed by her enthusiasm over the simple gift. Harriet tried to tell herself it meant nothing, that he probably had gone into the village on other business and happened to see it and bought it on a whim. It meant nothing. A small gesture.
But she simply could not stop her heart from expanding, until she thought it would burst. “Just the same, I like it,” she said, tucking the figurine into her pocket.
Each day after that, Harriet would spend the morning directing the workmen and the afternoon with Augustus. He attempted to teach her chess, but the two ended up playing checkers instead, which Harriet thought was far more fun, especially because she kept beating him.