The Harlow Hoyden

by Lynn Messina

  “You do yourself a disservice, Miss Harlow. Perhaps you’re more green than you realize. After all, I was reading in my own conservatory. Practice has disproved your theory.”

  “It’s a good theory and I’m determined to stick to it, no matter how unconventionally—and, dare I say, inconveniently—you behave. Surely you’re the only gentleman in all of London reading in his conservatory. Indeed, I would go so far as to say you are the only gentleman in all of London reading at all. It’s little wonder I didn’t mistake you for the butler, your grace.”

  The Duke of Trent laughed and didn’t notice the curious stares of people around him. “I think you greatly overestimate the illiteracy of my fellow peers.”

  “I think you greatly underestimate it,” she said, “but that’s neither here nor there.” She paused for a moment and contemplated how to word her next thought. “Your grace, I have a project with which I would greatly welcome your help.”

  “If it is stealing dahlias from Lord Beverly’s garden, I must warn you, I do not climb fences.”

  “Calm yourself. The dahlia appeals little to my sister, and if it did, I would be quite capable of fetching it on my own. I don’t need an accomplice.”

  The duke cocked his head to one side and looked at her consideringly. “Are you sure, Miss Harlow? I distinctly recall your being about to snap the stem of the Rhyncholaelia digbyana. Certainly you would have succeeded in stealing the bud but in vain: By the time you arrived home, it would’ve been dead.”

  Emma knew this was true, but she still resented the implication that she wasn’t a competent flower thief. Nevertheless, she wanted the duke’s assistance and saw no point in contradicting his statement. It would lead only to an argument and quite possibly alienation. She had a better plan. “I saw you dancing with my sister. Did you have a chance to talk with her?”

  “After I realized she was not you, we had a lively discussion of potting soil.”

  “Potting soil, your grace?”

  “Yes, your sister prefers a liberal amount of volcanic pumice to aerate and loosen the soil whilst I favor forest humus.”

  Emma marveled at this. Her sister danced with the Duke of Trent and spent the entire time discussing compost. And the family thought she was the odd one! Really, at least Emma knew better than to discuss dirt with a duke. “And how did you find her?”

  “Very charming, once I realized she was not you. She thanked me for the orchid. I understand she’s going to cross it with her Altensteinia nubigena and nourishes hopes of showing it in next year’s Horticultural Society’s exhibition. I wished her well.”

  “She’s a very good woman, my sister, and a prodigiously talented horticulturalist.”

  The duke nodded. “I do not doubt it.”

  “And she deserves happiness, no?”

  “My dear Miss Harlow, I should imagine we all deserve happiness.”

  Miss Harlow could think of a few exceptions. Sir Windbag, for one, and perhaps her mother. “Then you will help?” she asked.

  “I cannot say. Help with what?”

  “Help my sister attain happiness.”

  “I’m afraid that is beyond my talents. Indeed, I suspect that it’s even beyond yours, my dear. You cannot help people find happiness. They must do it on their own.”

  Emma thought the duke sounded very wise—and very off the mark. “Perhaps that is often so, but I assure you this is not one of those cases. All we have to do is end her engagement with Sir Windbourne, and she will be very happy indeed.”

  Trent was silent for a moment. “Is she being coerced? Does she not want this marriage? I’m surprised. Sir Windbourne has always seemed like a proper fellow, too well bred, certainly, to terrorize over females.”

  “I’ve found no evidence of terrorism—yet,” she admitted. “But he’s a villain, nonetheless.”

  “But your sister welcomes the union?”

  “Yes, she does. But she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s getting married only because she fears that if she doesn’t marry Windbourne she’ll never marry anyone. She wants children, of course, but this is not the way to go about it.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Harlow, that’s exactly the way to go about it.”

  “No, I meant—” Emma broke off. It wasn’t that the conversation was becoming very inappropriate, it was just that the waltz would surely end soon and she had yet to state her proposal. “I need your help in splitting them up,” she said, returning to the point. “Do I have it, your grace?”

  “I cannot in all good conscience agree to help you, although what I could do, I have no idea. I don’t know Windbourne, and he would hardly listen to me if I brought up the topic of his engagement.”

  “Pooh, that would be a waste of time indeed.”

  “Well, then, Miss Harlow, I suggest we talk about the weather.”

  Emma sighed. “Really, your grace, I begin to suspect that you are going to be a sad disappointment to me.”

  The duke was unaccustomed to being a disappointment to anyone, let alone a sad one to an improper miss who didn’t know how to behave. Ordinarily he’d give the speaker a good setdown, but because Miss Harlow sounded so disappointed, he found himself intrigued despite himself. “How so?”

  “Well, I was counting on you to seduce my sister away from Windbourne,” she said, laying all her cards on the table.

  The proposal was so preposterous, so utterly ridiculous, so completely beyond the bounds of anything respectable, Trent missed a step and stumbled. His misstep threw off Emma’s balance, and for a split second she thought she was going to fall. Luckily, the duke recovered his composure in time to intercede. His arms tightened around her and held her steady as they twirled gracefully around the room once again.

  Emma looked at the duke, waiting for him to say something. He did not. “Your grace,” she began, “it’s not as bad as you think. You see, Lavinia is a—”

  “Miss Harlow,” said Trent in a surprisingly cold voice, “I suggest we do not discuss this further until the dance is over.”

  Emma failed to see why they couldn’t discuss it right then and there on the dance floor—the congeniality of the topic would not alter depending on the location—but she held her tongue. If the duke needed a moment to think about her proposal, then she would obligingly give him all the time he needed—as long as he decided by the end of the evening. If he didn’t see the wisdom of her scheme, she would have to proposition someone else. She didn’t know very many libertines, but they couldn’t be so hard to come by. Otherwise, Sarah and her brother wouldn’t worry so much about her virtue.

  They finished the dance in silence, and when Emma moved to return to Sarah’s side, the duke interceded with a strong grip on her arm. He had other things on his mind and led her to a quiet corner where they could discuss them. There was nothing improper about their situation—they were in plain sight of everyone—but the corner afforded them some privacy.

  In a low voice, the duke demanded, “Explain yourself!”

  Usually Emma didn’t take well to orders, but she understood the duke’s anger, although it was scarcely a fair reaction to her suggestion, and explained herself. “Your grace, it’s very simple. You are to use your considerable charms to woo Lavinia away from Sir Windbourne. It shouldn’t be very difficult. He’s hardly a fair match for you.”

  “And then what, Miss Harlow?”

  Miss Harlow blinked at him. “Excuse me, your grace?”

  “What happens after I’ve wooed your sister away from Windbourne?”

  “That depends on you. Go on with your regular life, I suppose. I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “But what about your sister?”

  “Lavinia? She’ll go on with her life, too.”

  “So I’m to win her affections and then callously drop her after I succeed?”

  “Well, yes.”

  The duke’s face suddenly turned a faint red color. “Miss Harlow,” he said in his most intimidating sneer
that he used on only the worst toadies, “I do not toy with the affections of innocent misses.”

  Emma was far from intimidated. “Of course you do. You’re a libertine.”

  Inconceivably, the duke laughed. He tossed his head back, closed his eyes and laughed for several minutes. Indeed, it was only after a single tear ran down his cheek that he managed to get ahold of himself. He took a deep breath as his color returned to normal and said, “Miss Harlow, you are an original.”

  Her originality was beside the point. “So you’ll do it?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But my sister’s happiness depends on you.”

  “Your sister’s happiness depends on your sister. What you’re suggesting would be abhorrent to any gentleman.”

  Emma looked at him crossly. “Oh, what good is a libertine if he won’t toy with your sister’s affections and then ruthlessly drop her!”

  “Miss Harlow, I don’t know who provides you with your information, but they’re wrong. I’m not the man you think I am.”

  “Bah, you’re the sort of man mamas warn their daughters about.”

  This was news to Trent. “On the contrary, I’m the sort of man mamas point their matchmaking bows at and shoot,” he explained. “I’m the sort who’s the object of countless schemes. I’m a bachelor, not a libertine.”

  “But you have many mistresses,” protested Emma. “And the latest on dit concerns your tryst with Mrs. Waring.”

  “Miss Harlow, I will not discuss this with you.”

  “Why? Because I am an innocent miss? Really, your grace, just because I’m unmarried doesn’t mean I’m unobservant. I know how men behave. They do not try to hide it from us, so much as forbid that we speak about it. My own father is reported to keep a stable of fashionable impures on Wardour Street.”

  “I do not like having my behavior bandied about by gossipmongers.”

  “Then perhaps you yourself should not bandy about with widows.”

  The duke stared at her for several seconds, the humor completely gone from his demeanor. He seemed to be struggling to rein in his temper. Emma was not concerned. She was well used to anger. For some reason, she aroused it in many a person’s breast. “Miss Harlow,” he said agreeably, changing tactics midbattle, “surely this discussion is unnecessary. Although I don’t know Windbourne personally, I have never heard a thing said against him. Your dislike of him is unfounded.”

  This argument was nothing new to Emma. Sarah, Roger and even Lavinia herself had been saying the same thing to her for weeks now. But they were wrong. “Bah, you do not know Windbourne as I know him. Nobody does.”

  The duke tried to be patient. “How do you know him then?”

  “As an awful man, a tyrant who would seek to dominate his wife,” she said in tragic tones, “who would isolate her from her family and not let her indulge in her most beloved pastime, raising orchids.”

  “If your sister has told you this, I wonder why she still wants to marry him.”

  “Lavinia would never be so indiscreet. Windbourne himself told me when he thought I was Lavinia. He said that my, or rather her, willful ways—which, I might add, is a ridiculous statement to begin with, since dear Lavinia has never done a willful thing in her life—would be tempered once she stopped spending so much time with her hoyden of a sister,” she said, outrage shining from her eyes. Recalling the scene brought back the anger of the moment. How dare he criticize Lavinia’s behavior! Lavinia, who had never done a wrong thing in her entire life! “And that’s not all. He also said that he hoped she would forget ‘this silly hobby’ of hers. Silly hobby! Growing flowers is not a silly hobby. It’s her passion. At home in Cromford, she spends hours in the nursery and she’s very happy there. Her skill with flowers is unparalleled. Perhaps if I could make such beautiful things come to life I wouldn’t get into trouble quite so much. But now Sir Windbag has decided that it isn’t proper for his wife to dither around in the dirt. Dither around in the dirt!” Emma knew that she was raising her voice, but she was unable to help it. “I swear to you, Trent, those were his exact words. That pompous twit would dare call my sister’s talent dithering. You should have seen him, puffed up with his own conceit, telling her—me—that she mustn’t worry about raising anything but his children. Really, your grace, if that isn’t a villain, then I don’t know what is.”

  During this impassioned speech, the duke’s gaze had softened and in a gentle voice he said, “My dear girl, that doesn’t make him a villain. It makes him a husband.”

  Miss Harlow was taken aback by this intelligence and stared at the duke for long moments in silence. “Well, then,” she said quietly, with little of the usual spirit, “husbands are very wretched things, and I should wonder why anyone would want one.”

  “Come, my dear, it’s not all bad,” he insisted, fearing that he might have done more damage than he intended with his offhand comment. “There are some advantages to marriage.”

  “Advantages?” she scoffed. “What advantages are there to losing one’s freedom, for having someone else tell you what you may or may not do?”

  As an devoted eluder of the parson’s mousetrap, the duke saw little advantage to marriage, but he was a man. It was different for women. “Children, for one.”

  “Bah,” said Emma.

  “Bah?” Trent echoed, unsure what to make of this response.

  “Yes, bah.”

  “Children are a treasure and a joy.”

  “To a man, maybe, who would stick his head into the schoolroom once a sennight to flirt with the pretty governess. It’s the woman’s responsibility to see to their educations and their health and their care—and her unfair burden.” Emma thought of her parents’ marriage. “A man’s life continues in the same vein, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, while a woman’s is altered irrevocably. I’m not sure that’s an advantage.”

  “Miss Harlow, you are being ridiculous.”

  “Am I, your grace?” She raised an eyebrow and gave him a very disgusted look. Emma Harlow was used to being called ridiculous—by society, by her family—but for some reason, his saying it was different. She had been so looking forward to their dance, and he had ruined all her lovely plans by being a duke. And now he was ruining them again by being intractable. “Or perhaps you just insult that which you don’t understand. You are a man, after all, and will one day be a husband. You are all villains in my book. Now excuse me. I shall remove my ridiculous self from your presence.”

  She was several steps away when she heard the duke say, “What about this plan of yours? You will give it up, I trust.”

  Emma had no intentions of giving it up. “That, your grace, is none of your business.”

  What a willful girl, he thought, as he watched her disappear among the glittering crowd of dancers. Yesterday afternoon when he had met her in the conservatory, he has been charmed by her frank demeanor. He had been looking very forward to their dance this evening and had even been thinking to set up a mild flirtation. Nothing that her mama—or his—could take exception to but a light dalliance that would distract him from the tedium of yet another season. Emma seemed like an interesting little imp—being where she didn’t belong, taking flowers that weren’t hers—but now he knew the truth. Emma Harlow’s epithet was well earned. Only a hoyden would think such scandalous thoughts about children and a husband, much less utter them in the presence of such an esteemed personage. The duke admired her honesty and the way she thought for herself, even though they revealed a naiveté he had not thought possible in a young woman of today. She would learn in time that marriage was a woman’s only option. There was nothing worse than dwindling into an old maid. She would realize one day that it was a far better thing to be in the nursery than on the shelf. It would be an unpleasant discovery for her, but she would adapt. All ladies did in the end.

  But in the meantime he would stay out of her way. She would learn these lessons someday, but he was certainly not the man to teach them to her.
The Duke of Trent was not interested in green misses. He didn’t have the patience for their flights of fancy. Seduce her sister! He’d never heard such an outrageous proposal in his entire life. How dare she think that he would do something so infamous. And to call him a libertine! The duke was not a libertine. Perhaps he had too much of a free and easy way with fashionable impures and ladies of easy virtue—could he help it if women found him irresistible?—but he had never played fast and loose with an innocent. And he wouldn’t now. No matter how much the Harlow Hoyden fluttered her lashes at him.

  Returning to the ballroom, the duke saw Philip still at the side of Sarah Harlow. He was looking at the older woman with something akin to worship on his face. The duke felt a flicker of concern. Whatever could Andrew’s sister be saying to put such a face on his hayseed cousin?

  “…and then I tried reeling him in, but the boat was unequally balanced because my brother didn’t believe that I had enough strength to do it myself. Of course the boat tipped over and the trout got away. I was very cross with Andrew for days. Not only had he ruined my chances of catching the largest trout in Lake Muir—and I haven’t completely dismissed the notion that it was intentional; poor Andrew could barely stand it if I hunted and fished better than he—but the unexpected dip in the frigid waters left me with an awful case of the sniffles,” Sarah finished with a laugh that was echoed by her companion.

  “That is very similar to what happened to me and my brother,” said Philip eagerly, “only the water was more muddy than frigid and I ruined my best pair of Hessians before I was able to extricate myself from the pond.”

  “Well, cub, that’s what you deserve for fishing in your Hessians,” said the duke to his cousin before devoting his attention elsewhere. “Tell me, Sarah, how did this scamp of a cousin manage to turn the conversation from drawing rooms to unpleasant things like muddy ponds?”