“You’re wearing out the carpet, you know.” His father stood in the doorway.
“Then it shall have to be replaced,” he muttered. “The carpet is the least of my worries.”
“Indeed it is,” his father said under his breath and moved to take a seat in one of the wing chairs flanking the fireplace. He gestured at the other chair. “Sit down, Harrison, we need to talk.”
Harrison cast him a sharp glance. “Father, I have a great deal on my mind today and I really don’t have time—”
“Sit down, Harrison.” The order reverberated in the room. Even when his father was younger, he had scarcely ever issued orders. Harrison sat.
“Very well. What do you wish to talk about?”
“I have just come from a luncheon at Lord Ferncas-tle’s.”
“Of course.” Harrison groaned to himself. Once a month, his father gathered with a group of men who’d been friends since their youth. A group that grew smaller every year and now consisted only of his father, Lord Fern-castle, and three other elderly gentlemen. From what his father had said in passing, the conversation at these gatherings consisted mostly of telling tales of their long-ago misdeeds that no doubt grew more daring and amusing and disreputable with each passing year. “How are your friends?”
“Old and getting older.” He sighed. “But it’s not the old that was so interesting today. Or rather I suppose it was.”
Harrison nodded although his father’s words made no sense. “Go on.”
“Someone, I have no idea who, brought up Lady Mid-dlebury’s name.” His father chuckled. “And not for the first time I might add.”
“And?”
“And Lord Ferncastle had heard gossip. No, Lady Fern-castle had heard it and passed it on to her husband.” His father leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “She heard about the memoirs.”
Harrison blew a long breath. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. It was inevitable given the number of people who know about them.”
“That’s not the worst part. Rumor has it they weren’t written by Lady Middlebury at all.”
Harrison drew his brows together. “Surely it’s not being said that that blasted Ellsworth wrote them?”
“Would that it were that simple.” His father shook his head. “No, the gossip is that Lady Winterset wrote them.”
“What?” Shock coursed through him.
“And that they are based, not on Lady Middlebury’s experiences”—he cleared his throat and cast his son a knowing look—“but on her own.”
“That’s absurd. Ridiculous. No one would ever believe such a thing.”
“No one who knows Lady Winterset perhaps. But those who know of her great-grandmother’s reputation might well believe she is simply following her ancestor’s path.”
“Good God!” He rubbed his forehead. “Where did this come from?”
“Who knows where it started and it scarcely matters now. I did tell Ferncastle that I knew for a fact, given the accuracy of the pages I read, that it could have been written by no one save Lady Middlebury. Information I am confident he passed on to Lady Ferncastle within moments of our leaving the house. As she is quite an accomplished gossip, and does love knowing what no one else does, I am certain she is even now spreading my assertion as to the legitimacy of the memoirs far and wide. I can count on my other companions at our luncheon today to do the same. However …” His father chose his words with care. “It does seem to me, if indeed I was concerned about being named in Lady Middlebury’s book, discrediting its veracity would be one way to mitigate the scandal. Which means this will spread like fire.”
“Scandal sells books,” Harrison said under his breath.
“Then this will fly off the shelves if it is indeed published.” He studied his son for a long moment. “What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know.” Harrison got to his feet and resumed pacing. “It does seem more important than ever that the book not be published. Indeed, if I were to purchase the memoirs, with nothing to fuel the gossip, the talk about them will soon fade. But if they’re published …” He shook his head. “The scandal will be enormous.”
“I’m not concerned about scandal.”
“I am,” he said sharply. “Julia has lived a relatively conservative life up to now. She has no idea what being at the center of a storm of scandal will mean. Everywhere she goes, she’ll be stared at. People will whisper, hiding their mouths with their hands as if that will prevent her from knowing she is the topic of discussion. She won’t be welcome among respectable people. Dear Lord, she’ll be an outcast.”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, you know.”
He cast his father a narrowed look. “Done what?”
“Taken what I’ve said and assumed it was in reference to Lady Winterset.”
“But you said—”
“I said I was not concerned about scandal and I’m not for myself. You said you were concerned about scandal but obviously that concern has nothing to do with me. There is only one person you are worried about.”
Harrison stopped in midstep then pulled a deep breath and met his father’s gaze. “I love her, Father.”
“I know that,” his father said impatiently. “But what are you going to do?”
An unfamiliar sense of helplessness washed through him. “I don’t know.”
“Seems to me you need a brilliant idea.”
“Needing one and having one are two different matters.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to do.”
The older man aimed his cane at his son. “Rescue her, my boy.”
“Rescue her?” He shook his head. “How?”
“Don’t ask me, I am long past the day of rescuing damsels in distress.” His brow furrowed in thought. “You might start by telling her of these rumors. You wouldn’t want her to be caught unawares.”
“Quite right. But she’s no longer in London. Veronica took her to her country house.”
“Even better. There are few distractions in the country.” His voice was firm. “Follow her.”
“Follow her?”
“Bloody hell.” His father laughed. “You’re indecisive. I’ve never seen you indecisive before. Even as a boy you always knew precisely what you wanted and never hesitated to pursue it. If I had any doubts about your feelings, this proves it.”
Harrison cast him a weak smile. “I’m glad you’re so confident.”
“The fact that you are not is yet another convincing factor.” His gaze met his son’s. “Don’t let not knowing what to do prevent you from doing anything at all. Don’t make the mistakes I did. Love, my boy, often requires action.” He chuckled. “Go to the country, Harrison. Tell her what’s happening. Tell her of your feelings for her. And tell her as well that together you can weather any storm.”
He stared at his father for a long moment. “We can, can’t we?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“Nor do I,” he said slowly, the helplessness of a moment ago swept away by resolve. “You’re right. I shall leave at once.”
His father nodded. “It’s scarcely two hours by train, which will give you enough time to think of what you will do upon your arrival. You will be there by evening.”
“If I leave now.” He started toward the door then paused. “Thank you, Father.”
“I really did nothing, but you are most welcome.” He grinned. “Now off with you. Like a knight of old, ride to the rescue of the woman you love.”
Harrison returned his father’s grin and took his leave. Within a half hour, he was on his way to King’s Cross Station, marveling at the joys of an efficient staff who had a bag packed for him as well as providing the appropriate train timetable. A few hours later he approached Charles’s country house. He stopped for a moment and stared at the façade.
He hadn’t been here in years, since long before Charles had died. He could see his brother’s grin now and could almost hear his voice urging Har
ry on. This would have pleased Charles even if Harrison still had no idea what he was going to say or do. That would have amused Charles as well.
He drew a deep breath and walked up the steps to knock. He wouldn’t make the mistakes his father had even if he had no idea what those mistakes were. No, he was fairly certain, he would make his own.
But he was confident coming after Julia wasn’t one of them.
… and I could see it in his eyes. How he felt and what he wanted. Words are quite lovely and there is nothing more seductive than a man who knows how to use words well. Why, I have been known to fall in love over a well-written declaration of passion or a sincerely delivered assertion of affection.
But often, the dearest of men are not all skilled with words, written or spoken. It is not in their nature. It is very frequently what they don’t say that is much more important than what they do.
And the look in Michael’s eyes on that night when he …
from The Perfect Mistress,
the Memoirs of Lady Hermione Middlebury
Chapter Sixteen
“I beg your pardon, Lady Winterset.” Veronica’s butler stood in the doorway.
Julia looked up from the book of poetry she had found on the library shelves. It had been a lovely, peaceful day and while she hadn’t come to a decision about anything, she was more at ease than she’d been in weeks. “Yes?”
“Another guest has arrived.”
“Another guest? How odd.” She put the book down and rose to her feet. “Lady Smithson didn’t say anything about another guest.” Although perhaps Portia had decided to come after all.
“Shall I show him in?”
Not Portia then. “Please do.”
“Very well, my lady.” The butler nodded, left, and a moment later Harrison strode into the library.
“Julia.” He crossed the room and took her hands in his.
Her heart thudded in her chest and she stared up at him. “This is a surprise.”
He smiled down at her. “To me as well. I hadn’t planned … and yet, here I am.”
She raised a brow. “I always thought you were the sort of man who planned everything.”
“I was.” He chuckled, his gaze meeting hers. “I don’t know what has come over me.”
“What has come over you?” she said without thinking. “I mean, why are you here? Not that I’m not pleased to see you,” she added quickly.
“Are you pleased to see me?”
Her immediate impulse was to deny it. She summoned her newfound resolve to be more like Hermione and raised her chin slightly. “Yes, Harrison, I am.”
His smile widened. “Excellent.”
She knew she should pull her hands from his but couldn’t seem to do so. Nor did she want to. Instead she returned his smile and said the first thing that came into her head. “Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat? You must be famished.”
A gleam that did indeed look like hunger sparked in his blue eyes. “No, but thank you. A brandy perhaps.”
“I shall ring for the butler.”
“Not necessary.” He glanced around the room. “Unless Veronica has changed things, I know where it is.” He reluctantly released her hands, moved to a cabinet on the far side of the room, opened it then glanced at her. “Would you care for a brandy as well?”
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
She had a dozen things she wanted to say to him and any number of things beyond that she wished to ask but now that he was here, she couldn’t seem to find the words. Just blurting out a declaration of love didn’t strike her at all right nor did bluntly asking him about his feelings for her.
What would Hermione do?
She squared her shoulders, drew a deep breath then hesitated. There was an air of distraction about him, as if he were very far away. Perhaps this was not the right moment after all. “Harrison?”
He started, his gaze jerked to hers. “My apologies. For a moment …”
“Yes?”
“I thought I heard …” He shook his head. “I spent a lot of time through the years with my brother in this very room. There are a great many memories here. It’s disquieting to be back without him.”
“I am sorry. I didn’t realize.” She hadn’t any siblings but the look on his face, of days gone past and loss and affection, clutched at her heart. “This was your brother’s house then?”
“Half brother really. We had the same mother. But Charles never treated me as though I was anything less than his brother.” He glanced at her. “I miss him.”
“I can imagine.”
“Of course. You have known loss as well.” He crossed to her and handed her a glass of brandy. “Veronica hasn’t changed a thing in this room. It’s exactly as if Charles might walk in at any minute. I suppose I should thank her for that. There is an element of comfort in the familiarity here although I’m not sure …” He glanced around. “This was Charles’s room more than any other. He liked the feel of being surrounded by books. By the wisdom and the humor of man he would say.” He chuckled. “I don’t know why really. I don’t think I ever saw him with a book in his hands. He would much rather ride or conquer beautiful women or gamble until well into the morning than sit quietly with a book, no matter how interesting. Until he married Veronica, that is,” he added quickly.
“From what she has said, I gather he was ripe for reform.”
Harrison grinned. “Indeed he was. We were as dissimilar as two men could be and yet as close as any brothers by blood. I have no need of reform.”
“Surely even you could use a little reformation.”
“Charles thought I could. Even in my youth, he always considered me too stiff and stodgy and proper.” He grinned. “I disagreed.”
“Perhaps he thought your reformation should be in the form of, oh, I don’t know, tempering your arrogance with a bit of humility?”
He stared at her then laughed. “Perhaps.” He took a sip of his brandy. “I can almost feel him here, nearly hear his voice.” He shrugged. “That sounds a bit fanciful, doesn’t it? Especially coming from me.”
“Not at all.” She smiled. “Well, perhaps a bit. From you.”
“I am never fanciful,” he said thoughtfully.
“I didn’t think you were.”
He glanced at her. “Nor am I ever indecisive.”
“I would imagine not.”
“I decide on a plan and I follow it through.” It struck her that he was talking more to himself than to her.
“That is my impression.”
“I like order and efficiency and life to be as expected. I am not fond of change.”
She bit back a smile. “Of course not.”
“I do not shirk my responsibilities. And I am never wrong.”
She raised a brow. “Never?”
“Rarely. Recently, however …” He stared at her as if he wanted to say something more, something important, but thought better of it. Blast it all. In spite of her feelings for him he was still the most annoying man she’d ever met.
“Yes? Recently?” She tried and failed to keep a note of expectation from her voice. After all, why else was he here if not to make a declaration of affection?
He hesitated. “She should make changes.”
“What?” She drew her brows together. “Who? What are you talking about?”
“Veronica.” He swirled the brandy in his glass. “This room. This house. It’s hers now. Charles is gone and she should make it her own.”
“Perhaps she likes it just as it is,” she said, surprised at the touch of impatience in her voice. “Perhaps she is no more interested in change than you.”
“Life changes, Julia. I’ve always known that. What we want, even who we are. But I don’t think I really accepted it until recently.”
“Recently?” She held her breath. “Please, go on.”
His brows drew together and again she didn’t think he was talking to her. She sighed to herself. “There are ghosts here,
you know. In this house, in this room.”
“Ghosts?” An edge of panic raised her voice. “Don’t be silly. There are no such things as ghosts. How ridiculous.” Dear Lord, she was babbling. “No indeed.” She had no doubt Hermione was about somewhere but surely he didn’t know that. What on earth would he think if he knew the ancestor he so thoroughly disapproved of still, well, lingered? “Ghosts. Hah. Utter nonsense.”
“Ghosts of the past. The specters of what’s gone by.” He cast her an odd look as if he were questioning her sanity. She couldn’t blame him. “I’m not speaking of apparitions. That is indeed absurd.”
“Completely.” She uttered a strained sort of noise, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Julia could have sworn she heard the faint sound of Hermione’s laughter in the distance. With any luck she was mistaken, but her luck hadn’t been all that good of late.
Harrison nodded, as if he had come to a decision. “Veronica should go on with her life.”
“You think she hasn’t?”
“Has she?”
“Veronica is the most confident, capable woman I have ever met. Still, I suppose no one really knows how someone else feels, deep in their heart.” She thought for a moment. “It’s difficult to lose someone you had planned to spend the rest of your days with.”
He studied her but didn’t say a word.
“However …” She chose her words with care. “It seems to me you can choose to grieve for the rest of your days—”
He nodded. “As the queen has done.”
“Or you can accept that, well, life has indeed changed.” She cast him a rueful smile. “I am not the queen.”
“Have you?”
“Have I accepted that life has changed?”
“Yes. Or rather no.” His gaze met hers. “Have you gone on with your life?”
She stared at him for an endless moment. “Yes.” She gathered her courage. “Harrison.”
The Perfect Mistress Page 24