“Yes, Rolly. The rat. Is he back?”
He chuckled. “No, Rolly is not back. Really, Merry, who names a rat?”
“Bella.” She took another step down and he strode forward, glass crunching under his boots.
“There’s broken glass everywhere,” he explained, holding a hand out to her. “Your shoes shall never survive it.”
“My shoes are quite sturdy.”
He glanced down at the boots that peeked out from under her hem. They were no dancing slippers but nor were they as strong as his boots. “I am not taking the chance. Take my hand.”
She scowled but put her hand in his and stepped down onto the bottom stair. Harcourt swiftly slipped a hand under her legs and swept her up into his arms.
“Oh!” Merry instinctively wrapped her arms about his neck.
Her gentle weight was expected. The need twisting about his insides not quite so much. Yes, he’d desired Merry for quite some time, but he’d always managed to keep it under control—except after the funeral. He could not help but recall how soft her lips had been and how perfectly she’d fitted against him. Just like she did now.
Carrying her into one of the drawing rooms, he set her down on a sheet-covered chair. “Stay here,” he commanded.
Her eyes were still wide and her lips slightly parted when he left her to clean up the glass but at least he knew she’d stay in one place.
He made swift work of sweeping up the glass with a broom he found in one of the rooms then disposing of it. Satisfied with a job well done, he headed back into the drawing room to find Merry where he’d left her.
“Well, this is a miracle. Merry Bradford actually did what I told her.”
The slight air of confusion snapped away and she stood. “There was no need for you to...to lift me. I could have stepped across it.”
“And have glass embedded in your foot, I don’t think so. Did you see what happened?”
She shook her head. “I have been upstairs in the bedroom for most of the morning.” A smile curved her lips and lit her eyes. “I’ve made quite a lot of progress. It should look quite pleasant once I am finished.”
“So you don’t know how that glass came to be there?”
She waved a hand. “I probably knocked something over earlier. There’s so much clutter and, well, you know what I’m like when I have my mind set to something. I was quite determined to get this bedroom clean.”
He glanced over her dusty appearance. “I can see that.”
And he knew well how Merry could be once she was occupied. The chances were she could have knocked over a glass of some kind and not noticed, but he doubted it. The presence of that strange man and the glass was too much of a coincidence, but why would someone want to harm Merry? He could not fathom a reason.
Harcourt shrugged off his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair before starting on waistcoat buttons. Merry eyed him, her lashes fluttering rapidly. He grinned. “Well, now that the glass is gone, why do you not show me what is to be done?”
“To be done?” Her gaze lingered on his arms as he rolled up his shirt sleeves.
“Upstairs?”
“Oh. Yes. Um...” She blinked and finally lifted her gaze to his. “There are some furnishings I need to rearrange, and I discovered more boxes of shells. I must find a home for them elsewhere. You could, um, make yourself useful doing that.”
“Excellent. Feel free to put me to use anyway you see fit.”
The rosy stain in her cheeks darkened.
“Are we alone today?” he asked.
“Yes.” The word came out husky. “Yes.” She straightened. “And if my brother were here, you know he would not allow it.”
“Well, what Dan does not know will not hurt him.”
At least he hoped not. Given Harcourt’s past, he could not guarantee Dan would be thrilled about his feelings for Merry but once he proved he had good intentions, he could not see how her brother could complain. After all, he and Dan had been the best of friends since their Oxford days. Dan had to know Harcourt would never hurt Merry.
“Let us make a start then, before we are discovered.” He winked, and she looked away from him.
The bedroom did not look much better than the rest of the house, but the windows gleamed, as did the armoire. Open boxes of shells and various stones were stacked up in one corner.
“I found them once we moved the dresser,” she explained. “I’m not sure which of my ancestors loved shells so much but I suspect these are not the only boxes of them.” She put her hands on her hips. “Goodness knows what I will do with them. It seems a shame to just discard them.”
“I wonder if you might be able to donate some.”
She picked up a small one and showed him. “They’re hardly unusual. I could likely find another hundred on the beach if I tried hard enough.”
“Perhaps we should have a sort through and find the best ones,” he suggested. “But for now, I shall get these moved out of here. Where are you putting everything?”
“At the moment, I’m squeezing them into that bedroom.” She pointed down the hallway to the room that had been cluttered with furniture and all sorts when he’d first visited.
Merry did not seem to comprehend how big a task she had ahead of her. Far be it for him to tell her, though. As far as he was concerned, she deserved better than being tucked away in a dower house, but at least it afforded him the opportunity to get her alone, away from the gossips and prying eyes.
Harcourt set to work clearing the boxes and stacking them in the other room while Merry stripped down the bed and swept the floors, sending clouds of dust everywhere. She eased open a window to let fresh air circulate.
Once she’d finished sweeping, she began lifting the paintings from the wall. Harcourt shifted the final box and helped her remove a particularly large painting and set it on the floor. Light had stained the ugly yellowed wallpaper, leaving dark marks where the pictures had once been.
“I shall have to find new wallpaper—and different paintings too.” She nodded toward the one they had just removed which depicted a gruesome medieval battle.
“Charming. Just what one wishes to see before drifting off to sleep.”
“Precisely. Whoever slept in here had strange taste. Though I am wondering if my great-grandmother or grandfather were quite strange in general. So many belongings and collections...” She shook her head. “I cannot fathom wanting to own so much.”
“Well, perhaps a few years alone here and you shall follow in their footsteps,” he teased.
Merry shook her head defiantly. “I like things tidy, as you well know. I cannot stand clutter.”
“Yes, I know.” His throat felt tight from all the dust so tugged at his cravat, drawing it lose and stuffing it into his breeches pocket. “Sometimes, I think I know you better than I know myself, Merry.”
“Do not be silly.” The words were a whisper. Her gaze was glued to the opening of his shirt.
A silent thrill of triumph ran through him. He was done skirting around this. Today would be the day he confronted Merry about her feelings for him and settled things once and for all.
Chapter Eight
After several more hours of moving boxes, cleaning, and rearranging furniture, the bedroom was almost ready to be inhabited. Merry paused to admire their work. “A little paint and some wallpaper, and it should look quite charming.”
Harcourt came to stand beside her. “If you say so.”
“I do not know why people find it so strange that I might wish to live here.”
“Because,” he gestured out of the window, “you have a clean, spacious, modern home that anyone would envy over there.”
“But it is not my home,” she reminded him. “It is Daniel’s now. I will simply be a lodger.”
“This is technically Daniel’s, too.”
That was true. But she could not help feel if she put in all the work to clean it and make it livable again, then in some way, it would be hers. She
would have poured herself just a little bit into the building.
“Daniel and Isabel need their space,” she insisted.
“And you need yours.” His lips quirked and Merry was reminded of how attractive those lips were, even when he was teasing her.
“To be able to work on my translation in peace will be wonderful,” she said, turning her gaze forcefully away from him.
As helpful as he had been, lifting things she could not, Harry had been a distraction. She watched his muscles pull against his shirt and admire the slightly tanned flesh at the v of his shirt. She never quite understood how he managed to be tanned there as she rarely saw him without a cravat, but she suspected he must ride in a state of undress at times. Just the mere thought of him on horseback, his cravat discarded, sent a trickle of awareness through her that was entirely unwanted.
But quite pleasant, a voice whispered.
She forced the voice back. If her friends knew what she was thinking, they would be so upset. After all, she had been the one to suggest the forming of the Spinster Club. How could she give into desire for the opposite sex when her friends had suffered so terribly at the hands of men? Not to mention how foolish she would look once Harry turned his interests to another woman. He would have little intention of hurting her or ruining their friendship, but he was a man, and men were want to do such things.
“I could do with a drink,” she declared, aware of the raspy quality of her voice. “All the dust is making my throat dry.”
She did not look at him to see if he believed her. It was a plausible explanation anyway. Merry headed down one set of stairs and another into the kitchen that was set into the cellar. The windows at the very tops of the walls were grimy and covered in overgrowth outside the house, but that was something that would need to be dealt with later. For now, she lit two oil lamps and retrieved the lemonade and biscuits she had brought with her.
The kitchen looked as though it had been abandoned while someone was cooking a meal. Pots and pans remained on the stoves. Several bowls sat on various surfaces while cutlery was scattered across the table in the center of the room along with bowls, jelly molds, and a rolling pin. Although the room was dark and a mess, it would hopefully prove to be one of the easiest rooms to sort out. It needed no maintenance—just a good clean and tidy.
“Shall we take these upstairs?” he suggested. “It’s a darn sight more pleasant than down here.”
Merry smiled ruefully. “You have stepped foot into the drawing room, have you not?”
He nodded. “I shall admit peeling wallpaper and an inch of dust is not de rigueur but it has to be better than eating in the dark.”
She had to admit he had a point. As she went to pick up the jug of lemonade, Harry reached for it. Their fingers brushed, and she jerked her hand back, holding it close. He smiled, a knowing look in his eyes.
She huffed out a breath. Damn the man. He knew full well what she had felt—and perhaps he had felt it too. Why was he so insistent on torturing her like this? They were meant to be friends, for goodness sakes, but this charm attack he had embarked on was driving her to the edge of her wits.
He said nothing when he picked up the plate of biscuits and carried them upstairs. Merry snatched up the two glasses she had cleaned up recently and followed him meekly, feeling anything but. How was it a mere touch of a hand could have her unraveling and thinking all sorts of odd thoughts? She had touched men’s hands before—albeit they had usually been relatives, or it had been with gloves on. She must have touched Harry’s hands before though. It was that wretched kiss. It had changed everything.
It had changed her.
But it did not matter. Life had not changed. She still intended to remain a spinster and Harry would go off and do whatever it was that Harry did—charm another widow into bed, most likely. She owed her friends that much. Nay, she owed it to herself. She would not be like Arabella—swayed into bed with a man who could so easily steal her heart.
She sucked in a breath and sat opposite him on a worn chaise while he poured the lemonade. Turning her gaze to the brown, peeling wallpaper in one corner, she pressed her hands between her knees. She should tell him to go home. To never come back. That she did not need his help.
Except she had tried that before and it did not work. One thing she knew well about Harry was that he was about as stubborn as she but in a much more charming way. Somehow whenever he dug his heels in, the person on the end of the stubbornness found themselves acquiescing with pleasure. She had never learned such a skill, so she usually ended up arguing with said person.
“So what are your plans for the rest of the house?” he asked, taking a bite of the biscuit.
Merry eyed his even, white teeth for a moment and how his lips closed around the morsel. Taking a large gulp of lemonade, she let the cool tang work down her throat before answering. “I plan to keep it modest. Most of the furnishings can be cleaned and used and as you know there is no shortage of paintings and decorations—although I shall not be keeping any medieval torture scenes on my walls.”
Harry chuckled.
“I think even the rugs and curtains can be saved with a good scrub,” she continued. “I have a small amount of savings I can use to redecorate, though the estate will fund the repairs. I am hoping Daniel shall see that as a good use of funds—we cannot let part of the estate fall down after all and perhaps he and Isabel shall live in it once their children come of age.”
“I am sure he trusts your judgement implicitly, Merry. You have never been one to follow foolish pursuits.”
She made a face. “There will be many who say the translation is a waste of time.”
“Why would that be?”
“Because it has already been done. Several times.”
“But none by a woman.”
“Precisely. And each translation is slightly different. Every person puts their own touch upon the story. I hope to put mine on it.”
“Well, I am certain you will do a wonderful job. I’m quite looking forward to reading it.”
Merry lifted a brow. “You? Read?”
He leaned back in the chair and shook his head with a grin. “You really do have me pegged for a dullard, do you not?”
“I know you read...”
“But I have never read Greek myths. Yes, that is true. But I should very much like to read what you’ve written, Merry. Get a glimpse inside that clever mind of yours.”
She could feel a blush rising in her cheeks. She was no simpleton, but it was different hearing such a compliment from a man like Harry.
“Why are you blushing, Merry?”
Holding a breath, she willed the heat to reside, then she took several more gulps of lemonade.
His lips quirked. “Anyone would think I had called you the most beautiful woman in the world. I only state the obvious—you are a clever woman. That is not something you are unaware of.”
She fought for a response that would end this line of conversation. She had nothing. “I’m not blushing.”
“I must need glasses then.”
“Perhaps you do.”
“You always did blush easily.” He put a finger to his lip. “I wonder if you would blush if I told you that not only are you clever, you are incredibly attractive.”
“Do not be ridiculous!”
“Ah, see the blush has increased.”
She slapped her hands over her cheeks. “Why do you always insist on riling me, Harry?”
“Because it is about time we stopped skirting around this.”
A lump formed in her throat.
“Around what?”
He cocked his head. “Do not play the fool, Merry.”
“I thought you came here to help me, not insult me.”
Standing, he strode over and sat next to her on the chaise. His nearness made her skin prickle. “The very last thing I intend to do is insult you.” His gaze searched hers and for the life of her she could not look away. “I know you feel this.” He lifted a
hand and swept the back of his fingers across her cheek.
“I—” Blast him, his proximity was making thinking straight impossible. Her heart thrust against her chest, reminding her of how dangerous this was.
“Will you deny that you liked kissing me?”
That kiss. She almost hoped he’d forgotten it. She had certainly tried. But now he’d said the words, she was flooded with memories of heat and touch. Of being so wrapped up and lost in him that she never wanted him to release her.
“Harry...”
“Merry, you must realize I want to repeat that kiss.” He glanced down and took her hand in his, lifting her hand to his lips and brushing his mouth over her knuckles.
The gentle brush made her boneless, and entirely unable to tug away from him. She searched his gaze and peered at his lips. She looked for every inflection in his expression for some sign that he was teasing her but for once, his expression was entirely sincere.
“Do you deny that you wish to repeat it too?”
“It-it was just a kiss. A very pleasant one, yes, but...”
“No. No but. Kisses like that do not come around often, believe me.”
The reminder that Harry had probably kissed hundreds of women and she was merely another in a long line of them had her tugging her hand away. “I do not know what you want from me, Harry, but—”
“I want you.”
“Well, you cannot have me,” she blurted out, a slightly hysterical laugh threatening to burst through the words.
His lips curved. “You forget just how determined I am.”
“Harry, I am not a conquest! In fact, I thought we were friends.”
His smile widened. “Yes, that is true. You are not a conquest. And you are probably one of my very few female friends. Which is one of the many reasons we should be together.”
“Together?”
“Damn it, Merry, I am not trying to proposition you into some sordid affair. I want to be with you.”
“But-but you’re a rake. Why would you want me?”
“Because I love you.”
Time seemed to still. She fought for a response, but the words kept echoing through her mind, drowning out any logical thought.
Gentlemen Prefer Spinsters (Spinsters Club Book 1) Page 6