by Robyn DeHart
“Perhaps, but it is what we civilized people do. Besides, I do not think you don’t know how, but merely have forgotten.”
More like he’d realized the entire practice was a waste of effort. He’d courted Catherine for nearly six months, then she’d waited another six for him to heal after his accident. They’d exchanged letters during that time, and she’d assured him of her love. Yet she’d taken one look at his limp and cane and she’d bolted.
“What would you suggest I do to prove to Harriet my intentions are sincere?”
“Show an interest in her and things that are important to her. You have your skills with building and designing, certainly she has such things in her life.”
He nodded. She did, indeed, have such interests. Secret interests, in fact. He could use that to his advantage.
“Oliver, I am pleased by your choice, but need I remind you that had you simply accepted my suggestion several years ago, you and Harriet would already be married and with children.”
No, he didn’t need that reminder. He’d thought of little else except the fact that had he not been so damned stubborn, he could have spent the last six years with Harriet in his bed. But if he had done that, he might not have accomplished everything he had since then. “I needed to make that money myself. I don’t require a woman’s dowry. I still don’t. She can do what she wants with the money. I’ll tell her as much.”
His mother smiled. “I have no doubt you will.” She turned to go, then paused. “You should get a trim and shave your face. Harriet should see how handsome you are.”
He growled a response. He happened to like his beard, though he suspected his mother was right. About everything, it seemed. But she’d given him a brilliant plan to deliver Harriet straight into his bed, where she would stay every night for the rest of their lives.
Chapter Eight
Harriet started at the knock on her bedchamber door. “Come in.”
Her mother poked her fair head in. “Care for a chat?”
“Always.” They had a special bond, the two of them. Her mother was close to all her children, but there was something unique about their bond. She came inside and closed the door behind her, moving to sit on the small settee Harriet kept under the large window that overlooked the gardens behind their corner townhome.
Harriet joined her mother. She knew why she was here. And she’d been tempted to tell her no, that she didn’t particularly care for a chat, but this was her mother. She’d never kept secrets from her before. Well, not until Harriet had joined the Ladies of Virtue. That she had to keep from her mother else Harriet would be forbidden to participate.
Her mother picked at a string that had come lose from a button on the settee. She wound the string around and around the button until it disappeared.
“I know what you want to discuss,” Harriet said. She’d rather get this entire ordeal over with. She could kill Oliver for bringing this jest or whatever game he played into her family, into her home.
Her mother nodded. “Oliver has expressed his interest in marrying you.”
Harriet snorted. “That is what he says, but it is not the truth. There is something he’s after. I’m not certain if it’s to humiliate me or what, but I’m on to him.”
Confusion sparked over her mother’s features. “I’m not so certain, my pet. According to Malcolm he was quite serious. Not even so much as seeking a blessing or permission as he was making a claim.”
Those words seemed to rattle through her heart, shaking it up and starting it beating as if it had been still and silent in her chest for so very long. Making a claim. On her?
“You believe I should agree to his ridiculous proposal?” Harriet asked.
“I have always thought the two of you would be a good match, but you know that Claudine and I have been friends nearly our entire lives. Being connected by a marriage between our children has been a dream for us for many years. This isn’t about me, though. This is about you and what you want.”
Harriet stood and paced the small area of her room that wasn’t crowded with furniture. “Everyone believes I should simply accept. That I should be thankful he lowered himself to offer for me, because this is the only proposal I’ll ever get. That he’s the best I can do, the only option for me.” The words broke through as if she’d been holding them back for too long.
Her mother said nothing, merely nodded and listened.
“No one has stopped to ask what I want.”
“What is it that you want, my pet?”
What did she want? For Oliver’s proposal to be authentic? For this entire ordeal to not be a jest on his part?
“I want the love match that you and father had, the love that Helen and Bradley share. I would rather be a spinster than marry someone who could never love me. Do you know that’s what he told Malcolm? I heard it with my own ears. That he could never love me.” She did nothing to hide the tears that came then. “I am the only one to see this as some manipulative game he’s playing. I am the one who will be hurt, no one else.”
“You are quite right,” her mother said. “I think wanting to marry for love is perfectly acceptable, but I do need to correct you on one fact. Your father and I did not start out in love.”
Harriet stopped pacing and stared at her mother.
“I should say I did not love him initially. He professed his love for me for weeks before I even agreed to become his wife, and even then it took me another two years before recognizing that I’d fallen in love with him in return. He was very patient with me.”
It didn’t change anything, though, because her father had always loved her mother. And Bradley and Helen had married for love. It was what Harriet wanted, and it would keep her from the rejection and humiliation she’d felt six years ago when she’d offered herself to Oliver. “I never knew.”
“Well, it hardly seemed important. By the time you children came around, we were both besotted fools, and we stayed that way until he passed, God rest his soul.” She smiled wistfully. “I miss that silly man every day.”
“I do too.”
“You said that everyone believes you should accept his proposal,” her mother said. “Who is everyone?”
“You and Malcolm and Agnes. My everyone is limited, but still…”
“You feel the pressure?”
“Yes.” She’d had her heart set on a love match for as long as she could remember. Her parents had adored each other; everyone who had ever been in the same room with them could see it. And then she’d watched her sister marry for love, and it felt like a sign. But what if she never found her love match? Was she willing to be the favorite spinster aunt and live off her brother’s good fortune the rest of her life?
“I believe you’ll find that love you seek,” her mother said, as if reading her thoughts. “It might not come precisely as you imagine it, though, and I want you to be open to possibilities. Love does not always look like what you’re expecting.” She grabbed Harriet’s hand and squeezed. “Can you promise me that?”
Harriet nodded.
“In the meantime, Claudine has suggested that they host a ball at their estate, Brookhaven, and you can invite prospective brides for him to meet. If his proposal is nothing more than a jest, as you suspect, then introducing him to other women should solve that problem.”
And if not… The unsaid words hung in the air as if living, breathing things. But she knew she was right. He’d had his chance to marry her, and he’d rejected her. Then he’d said plainly today that he could never love her. His proposal was a joke and nothing more.
“I’ll find him a wife.”
“And I believe you’ll find the love you are seeking. Do not give up yet.”
…
That evening, Oliver found himself back at Benedict’s. He’d stayed away from the gaming tables longer than usual because he’d attended so many balls and parties as of late. Tonight, he would also skip the cards, as he’d returned for more advice.
He waited in Benedict�
�s private offices, knowing his friend would find him eventually. As expected, it didn’t take Benedict long to enter the room.
“Hiding back here drinking my good Scotch?” He poured himself a drink and took a seat on the opposite end of the large leather sofa.
“I’m tired of people,” Oliver said.
“You have been far more social in the last few weeks,” Benedict said, nodding.
“It turns out finding a wife is damned hard business.” Oliver swirled the glass of Scotch, then took a swallow.
“I thought you’d already selected one,” Benedict said.
“I have. She said no.” He drained his glass. “In fact, she’s said no more than once.”
Benedict laughed a full belly laugh.
“I don’t see the humor.” He didn’t understand any of it. If he didn’t want Harriet so badly, he’d seriously consider retiring to the country.
His friend stood and grabbed the bottle of Scotch and brought it back to the sofa, pouring Oliver another two fingers. “What is your plan now?”
“Evidently, I need to court her.” Oliver leaned his head back and pressed his neck against one of the buttons stitched into the leather.
“She is worth the trouble?” Benedict asked.
“She doesn’t scream or flinch whenever I come near her. She’s intelligent, well read, appreciates the aesthetics of architecture. She’s so damned pretty that if she’s in the room, she might as well be the only one, as none of the other women come into focus.” He glared at the glass in his hand. “This Scotch is making me too damn sentimental. I want the chit in my bed. I know she wants me, too, but won’t admit it.” He scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “What can you tell me about courting?”
“What the devil made you come ask me?” Benedict asked.
“You watch people. See more than most.” Oliver shrugged. “I thought it was likely you’d picked up on a few tried-and-true methods.”
“Oliver, you know all about courting. You have forgotten only because the bitch ruined it all for you.”
Oliver snarled. “I saw Catherine the other evening, from across a ballroom.”
“Forget I mentioned her,” Benedict said. “Have you taken your lady riding in the park? Or bought her any presents? Given her flowers?”
“I have done none of those. But they are all decent ideas and wouldn’t require too much of me.” Oliver considered his options. He could buy her practically anything she desired. “Flowers are a good starting place, I should think.”
Benedict held up a finger. “Do not be hasty with your flower choices; you know there is an entire secret language behind each damned bloom, some differentiate by color. It’s all quite tedious.”
Oliver nodded. Yes, he’d heard about the flower meanings. He’d be certain to send her a message she would understand quite clearly. “What about books?”
“If she enjoys reading. Confections is another respectable choice,” Benedict offered.
Oliver was silent for several moments.
“You know if you keep coming here soliciting my advice, I might have to start charging you by the hour.” He nodded toward Oliver’s hand. “Or at least by the glass.”
…
“Lady Harriet, you have a caller in the front parlor,” the butler said. Harriet looked up from her book and eyed her mother.
Her mother set her embroidery aside and stood. “Shall we see who it is?”
Harriet had a sinking feeling she knew precisely who it was, but she smiled and nodded. Following her mother into the parlor proved her instinct right when she saw Oliver’s tall frame stand from one of the heavy buttoned chairs. He inclined his head.
“Lady Lockwood, Lady Harriet.” He brought his hand forward, revealing a cluster of purple, red, and white flowers. “These are for you.” His steel-blue eyes met hers.
Her cheeks warmed, and she took the flowers. “Thank you. I’ll have them put into water.”
“That’s not necessary, dear, I’ll do it,” her mother said. “I’ll ask for tea as well.”
Harriet stared after her mother, shocked and somewhat horrified that the woman left her alone with a gentleman. Granted, she’d return shortly, and she had left the door open. But, considering Oliver had already taken liberties with her, she best keep her distance. She took a seat as far away from him as possible.
“I was hoping you might ride with me in Hyde Park,” he said.
“Today?” she asked. Her heart thundered, and she wanted to swat at it. The silly thing seemed to have a mind of its own these days, reacting foolishly to his misguided courtship attempts. Thankfully, her actual mind was keen as ever, and she was on to him.
He gave her a lopsided grin. “That is the general idea, Harriet.”
She took a deep breath. “Lord Davenport.” She used his title to emphasize propriety. “Since we’re not actually in a courtship, going riding with you in Hyde Park would serve only to create rumors that would serve neither of our purposes. You are looking for a wife.”
“I have found her.”
She rolled her eyes. “Would you stop that?”
“The only reason we are not officially courting is because you refuse to allow me to do so,” he said. “It is a lovely afternoon. A ride would do you some good.”
“I must agree with his lordship,” her mother said, sweeping back into the room.
Harriet frowned. “I don’t think this is a good—”
“Nonsense,” her mother interrupted. “Go and change into your habit, Harriet. I shall entertain Lord Davenport while he waits.”
It was quite evident that she had lost this battle, and from the smug expression on Oliver’s face, he was relishing that fact. She left the room and childishly stomped up the stairs to her bedchamber. She didn’t want to do this. That wasn’t precisely the truth. She desperately wanted to; she enjoyed his company and his attention. Too much. That’s what was so bothersome about the entire ordeal.
She rang for Lottie and asked for her habit. “What am I to do, Lottie?”
“About what?” Lottie finished unbuttoning her dress and helped slide it off Harriet’s shoulders.
“Lord Davenport’s mockery of a courtship.”
“Perhaps he is serious.”
“Serious about tormenting me. It is as if he is exacting some manner of revenge against me, but I cannot fathom what for.”
“Perhaps he truly wants to marry you,” Lottie said.
“Pishposh.”
“It was bound to happen sooner or later, Harriet. You’re a delightful person. Everyone likes you.” Lottie finished fastening the habit in place, then pinned on Harriet’s topper. “You look rather smart in this.”
Harriet glanced down at the dark sapphire habit. It was an attractive confection, she could agree with that. But it fit her too tightly, and she’d never found habits particularly comfortable. “I am not accustomed to going riding.”
“You are not accustomed to being properly courted, but it would seem his lordship is tenacious,” Lottie said.
“I had never before equated tenacity with irritation.” In truth, was she actually irritated? There was a huge part of her that relished the attention he was pouring on her. The starved part of her that had so desperately longed to meet a man and fall in love. The rational part of her, though, recognized his plot for what it was, and she did her level best to keep that part in control of the rest of her fickle self.
She made her way back down to the parlor, and he stood when she entered. His eyes devoured her, making her feel as if she wasn’t truly covered head to toe in lush blue wool.
Her mother smiled, and Harriet could have sworn she saw tears gleaming in the woman’s eyes. Harriet tugged on her kid gloves, then slipped her wrist through the loop at the bottom of the long skirt. Her nerves were rattled enough she wouldn’t even need the excuse of the habit’s length to stumble.
“I took the liberty of selecting a gentle mare for you. She’s saddled and ready, waiting with my
steed,” he said.
True to his word Oliver had brought along a beautiful gray mare. He assisted her up on the horse, and she straightened her skirts to cover her legs.
“Shall we?” he asked.
She nodded and together they cantered in the direction of Hyde Park. They rode in silence for a few moments before she finally spoke. “I must commend you, my lord, on your proper courtship techniques. Did you learn them in a book?”
“There’s a book about courting?” He gave her a wry smile. “I wish I had thought to look, but no, I sought the advice from a friend and my mother, of course.”
Oh dear. He’d asked his mother. Mayhaps he was serious in his intentions. The thought bumbled around in her mind, but she shoved it aside. “What all did they tell you to do?”
“I cannot give away my secrets else they may not be effective.” He winked at her.
She watched him warily from beneath her topper. He rode with ease; his large frame sat perfectly astride his gleaming black steed. He was the very picture of masculinity. Her mouth dried, and her hands felt too warm encased in her soft gloves.
Oh, how she wished this was, indeed, a real courtship. That they had met at a ball, locked eyes across the room. He would’ve come up and asked her to dance, or explained why he couldn’t dance and instead offered to take her to the refreshments table. They would’ve laughed, enjoyed each other’s company. They would have gone riding, much as they were today, perhaps a picnic or two. Then they would have fallen in love the way that she’d always dreamed.
But none of that was how they’d gotten where they were today.
She hated that he made her want more. More from her life. More from him. Especially from him.
…
Oliver watched Harriet chew at her bottom lip as they rode through Hyde Park. She smiled and spoke when they passed someone she knew, which was often. On more than one occasion, the passersby were unable to hide their surprise.
“People seem surprised that I’ve crawled out of my cave during the daylight hours,” he said.
She smiled at him. “I doubt that.”