“I think it is something to do with the lady he is interested in. She’s very taken with the theatre.”
Harriet would love the theatre. James closed his eyes. What he would give to see her watching the performance, the delight on her face, the ever-changing expressions flooding her face as the emotion rolled over her. He opened them again. “Didn’t he say he would introduce us tonight?”
“Hmm yes. Although I met him on the stairs last night. He seemed a little despondent, and, well, bosky to say the least. Kept muttering about the Pink Canary Club.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yes quite. Ah. I can see him now. Things don’t seem to be quite so bad, he’s got Miss—“
“James!” Freddie’s cheerful voice carried across the crowd. “Might I introduce you to Miss Beauregard? She’s here in London with her aunt visiting Lady Colchester.”
Miss Beauregard? James shivered. Miss Beauregard must be a very common name. Perhaps she was a relation to Harriet?
Freddie’s cane appeared through the last collection of people in front of him.
Red hair. That must run in the family.
Oh, hellfire.
“Pleased to meet you, Lord Stanton.” The beauty raised a well-defined eyebrow at him. “Freddie hasn’t spoken much about you, but I feel as if I know you already.”
The little minx.
“Likewise.” It was all he could manage.
James could feel Freddie staring at him. He took a step back, his boot crunching on the mud. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward again. “Might I ask you for a dance?”
Good. Her throat moved. She wasn’t as in control as she thought she might be.
“I’m not sure.” Harriet looked at Freddie, who was swinging his head between the two of them as if at a tennis match.
Damn propriety. Without looking at Freddie, he took Harriet by the hand and led her off into the crowd.
At the edge of the dance floor, he stopped. He hadn’t thought, couples were still dancing. They would have to wait until the next dance. His fingers tightened on Harriet’s hand. She gave a small gasp. He risked a look at her.
Harriet stood staring at the dancers. But she didn’t remove her hand from his. Slowly he circled his thumb around the inside of her palm, their hands hidden from the crowd by her skirts. James watched as she gasped slightly again, a pinkness travelling slightly up her neck to where her flaming hair was confined in an elaborate coil. He resisted the urge to lean in. Would she still smell of apple blossom, this lady? He couldn’t stop his own sharp intake of breath.
The music of the dance finished. James held onto Harriet’s hand as they were buffeted by the returning couples. The musicians plucked at their strings and then launched into the opening bars of a waltz. Pulling lightly, James led Harriet onto the dance floor. She followed him like an automaton, but her feet moved lightly across the floor as if on air. Turning to face her, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her hand up from her side.
She tipped her nose up to look at him. James inhaled sharply. Apple blossom. Yes. He held his breath as her other hand floated up, and, hesitating, landed gently on his shoulder. Without thinking, his feet began to trace out the steps. Staring over her shoulder, he gazed unseeingly into the crowds collected at the edge of the ballroom.
It was then that he realized, when he looked back down at Harriet to see that she had her eyes closed, her mouth curved up at the edges, and yet she was still moving with him through the steps as if she had been born dancing. A thrill ran through him. He was throwing over this for a house and a past, neither of which he ever wanted to revisit? He should have seen it when he arrived back in London and the ennui set in. The feeling of flatness that vanished as soon as he was kicked in the legs by a red haired sprite. This was the future that he wanted. Harriet would save him from becoming yet another cold hard Stanton hung in a gallery in a dark unhappy house.
As the music came to an end, James swung them to a gentle stop. Harriet opened her eyes, and blinked.
“Where did you learn to dance like that?” James asked, still holding her hand tightly. He wasn’t sure he could ever let her go.
Harriet cocked her head on one side. “Lady Colchester hired Monsieur Bertrand, I’ve been having lessons.”
“Lady Colchester?”
“Yes.” Harriet bowed her head and then looked back up at him. “Apparently she used to be a good friend to Aunt Agatha before she had to come to Brambridge to look after me.” She looked at him intently. “James. What if I told you I wasn’t just a simple village person? That I had money, that I could—”
“It doesn’t matter,” James said, dropping her hand, and grasping the one at his shoulder. He shook his head. “It never mattered.”
Harriet gasped. James tightened his hand on hers as the hurt that he’d seen before in the cave started to seep through Harriet’s face. He swallowed as her shoulders hunched. “You don’t understand…” he said desperately.
“Ahem.” Freddie appeared at James’ elbow. “Terribly sorry old chap, but I’m afraid I have to take Miss Beauregard away.”
James grasped tightly onto Harriet’s hand and glared at him. “Go away, Freddie. I need to talk to Harriet,” he said.
Freddie coughed and pointed at where they stood. “Firstly you are still in the middle of the dance floor and everyone is staring.” James whipped his head round. His friend was right. He could see the curious gazes of the crowd tilted in their direction.
“And secondly,” Freddie continued, “Miss Beauregard’s aunt has been refused entry to the ballroom, and I am rather worried that Miss Beauregard will also be ejected by association.”
“What on earth?” Harriet shook her head and stared at James. She tugged at her hand. “Where’s Aggie now?” James didn’t let go.
“Lord Anglethorpe has her. Sent me to get you.”
Harriet shook her head. “I still don’t understand why she was turned away.” She pulled at her hand, trapped in James’ palm. “Oh James, let go. Please let me go,” she repeated in a low voice. “Why do you persist in this? Why are you tormenting me? You’ve made it clear you don’t want me. Just let me go.”
A small tear slid down Harriet’s cheek. James let go of her hand in horror. He had made her cry. Harriet never cried. Freddie took her by the elbow.
“Apparently your aunt has some history with Lady Guthrie,” Freddie said quickly. “Lady Guthrie was away from the receiving line when we arrived otherwise the same might have happened to you too given you share the same surname.” Turning, he took Harriet’s elbow and led her to the edge of the dance floor. James followed them. At the edge of the crowd, Freddie put out his cane and barred James’ path. “I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to come with us, old chap. She’s asked you several times to let her go.”
“Neither of you understand, I’ve just realized…” But James was speaking to thin air. Freddie had already escorted Harriet away through the crowd, which closed up swiftly after them. Several pairs of eyes followed James as he tried to push through the crowd, but people were resistant to letting him pass.
“Killer lord.”
James swung his head. Who had said that? Backs turned as he stepped through the crowd.
“Mompesson.”
James whirled. Who knew? How had his secret got out? God, what if Harriet knew? He had to tell her. Tell her everything, get her to listen to him without her interrupting, without being kicked in the shins.
But first he had to break off his engagement.
As James reached the edge of the unyielding crowd, he felt as if the chains had fallen away. He hadn’t even jumped when Freddie had appeared unexpectedly, nor reacted with his customary anger.
Willson greeted him solemnly at the door to Freddie’s house in Berkley Square. His wig was askew and his trousers hitched over his boots at the back. James couldn’t resist grinning at the sight.
Willson stared at him, looked back into the hall and then stared bac
k at him again. “Sir? Are you alright, sir?”
“Of course I am, Willson.” James frowned. Willson gave a sigh of relief. Why had Willson asked him if he was alright?
“You have a card, sir. From Lady Colchester.”
James took the card and hurried up the stairs to his room. With relief, he shut his door on stacks of so called antiques that lined the hall. A small writing desk had been set up next to the window. Lighting a candle from the fire that blazed low in the grate, he hurried over to the desk and slit open the card with his dagger.
You are cordially invited to a House Party at Berale House, Brambridge on the 18th of this month.
Yours, Lady Colchester.
Hmmm. Lady Colchester. James drew out two sheets of paper and dipped his quill in the ink pot that was set into the writing desk. He hesitated before starting. Which to begin first?
Dear Lady Colchester.
I would be delighted to accept your invitation.
Yours,
Lord Stanton.
James tapped the note with a finger. Should he add anything else? Shaking his head, he folded the letter and sealed it. Now for the harder letter.
Dear Melissa,
Or was it Marie? Melissa was easier—it was what he had known her as. No. That was too familiar. What he had to say was not for the faint hearted.
Dear Miss Sumner,
I am very sorry but I can no longer marry you. I will return on the 18th to explain everything.
Yours, Lord Stanton.
James sighed in relief. He had never been one for writing. She’d seemed reasonable, beautiful too. She’d marry someone else in no time.
CHAPTER 29
Edgar Stanton stroked at his moustache and blocked Harriet’s vision of the door. Impatiently, she took a step across the sumptuous Persian rug towards the fireplace that lay at the center of Berale House. Smiling broadly, he did too.
“I didn’t think I would see you again, Miss Beauregard,” Edgar said in a low voice. “Mrs. Madely was very upset when your aunt left.” He put forward a hand and impudently felt at the soft folds of Harriet’s skirt. “I see you have found some money.”
Harriet stared at where his hand felt at her skirt and then, looking back at him, raised an eyebrow. He dropped his hand quickly. She had never cared for Edgar. He had always watched from a distance as she and James had climbed apple trees or scoured the beach. There was something a little sly about him, despite his dark good looks. Harriet sighed. If only he hadn’t been invited to the house party at Lord Anglethorpe’s house by Lady Colchester.
“Well,” he said brightly. “You must be relieved to know that James will be able to stay in Brambridge.”
Harriet frowned. “I’m sorry Edgar. I don’t quite understand.”
“Oh you didn’t know?” Edgar threw ran a finger along the top of the fireplace. “When Uncle Stanton’s will was read six months ago, James found out that he had to marry a certain lady in order to keep Brambridge Manor. Poor man spent ages trying to find her.”
Good God. She hadn’t known.
“Brambridge Manor means an awful lot to James y’know. It’s in his blood.” Edgar giggled. “In more ways than one.”
“Did he find the lady?”
“Oh yes. That’s a story in itself. Would you believe she was right in the vicinity all the time?”
As Edgar’s head bobbed to the side, the door to the drawing room opened. James walked in through the door, escorted by Lord Anglethorpe. Harriet clenched her hands by her side. She had been waiting for him to arrive, even rehearsed what she wanted to say. But now she was unsure, couldn’t quite believe it. James needed to marry someone to keep Brambridge. A lady named in the old lord’s will.
“Who was the lady?” Harriet asked distractedly.
“Oh would you believe it was Melissa Sumner!” Edgar laughed. “As soon as James found out that she was Marie Mompesson he proposed to her like a shot.”
Harriet turned her head in horror to meet Edgar’s sneering gaze.
“She accepted with delight,” he said in a low voice. “How do you feel, Harriet, now you know that you’ll never have him?”
A shiver coursed its way down Harriet’s spine. A glint sparked in Edgar’s eyes and he tipped his head on one side.
“I…”
But Harriet was interrupted by a chinking of a spoon on a glass. Jerkily she turned her head to see her aunt stand by the piano, staring at her. She shook her head but Agatha merely smiled and clapped her hands.
“No, don’t,” Harriet mouthed. But it was too late.
“All, ahead of the secret Royal Academy exhibition that all of London is talking about, let me introduce you to its star, and owner of all the paintings that have already been sold for vast sums, Miss Marie Mompesson Beauregard, my niece, who some of you might know as Harriet.”
Another shiver worked its way down Harriet’s spine. She glanced around the room. Freddie smiled at her delightedly. Anthony gave her a small nod. A small cheer rang out, and some of the ladies gave a smattering of applause.
Harriet put her hand to her mouth and gulped. Drawing her fingers down to her cheeks, she turned to face Edgar.
His glass had dropped to the floor; his mouth gaped like a fish. “You. You are Marie Mompesson?” he said faintly.
Harriet could only nod. She could see James over his shoulder. His face showed nothing. A hard flatness had taken over his expression. He stared at her intently. She pushed her hands into her skirts and pinched at her legs. Wake up. This isn’t a dream. This isn’t a comedy. Harriet wanted to sob. This was a tragedy. She should have told him. That’s what he had been trying to tell her since the very beginning. It hadn’t been about her. None of it had. It had all been about that blasted house.
And he’d chosen it over her.
She’d thought he’d been rejecting her because of who she was. That she would never be good enough. How she had floated with him on the dance floor, thinking that with her fortune and dresses he would be persuaded that she was what he needed, what he wanted. That after all he would sweep her off her feet.
Kean was right. Women were fools. Herself, Melissa. Harriet stared at her aunt, who was gazing intently at Lord Anglethorpe. Agatha even. All plums ripe for the picking by whatever method men chose.
Edgar bent to pick up his wine glass. He jumped slightly as the lunch gong sounded. Giving Harriet a sickly grin, he put out his arm. “May I escort you in to lunch?” he said with a smile.
But his smile didn’t touch his eyes.
Harriet looked over his shoulder. James was working his way across the room towards them. The hard, determined look remained on his handsome face.
Deliberately, Harriet laid her hand on Edgar’s arm. “I would be delighted,” she said.
Lunch was terrible. Not the food though. Harriet looked down at her soup plate. The food was excellent. She wouldn’t have expected anything less, given that the party was being hosted by Victoria, Lady Colchester. Lord Anglethorpe’s sister, Harriet amended in her mind. She glanced at Lord Anglethorpe, who sat at the end of the table, a pained expression on his face. Her aunt had her head down to her soup just as Harriet had. Harriet played idly with her spoon. Beauregards seemed to be monumentally unlucky in love. She didn’t look up again, she knew James was staring at her. He hadn’t stopped staring since he had walked into the drawing room.
Freddie put a hand lightly on hers, stilling her spoon as it clattered against the bowl. “Would you care for some more soup, Miss Beauregard?” he asked.
Harriet shook her head. Brandy fumes again.
“Will you meet me tonight?” he whispered as they both turned to allow a footman to take the plates away. “In the kitchen. I have something to ask you.”
Harriet looked down at his hand, which still rested on hers. He was going to ask her to marry him, she just knew it. The way he had acted, the keen companion, the champion escort, the attentiveness. She glanced tentatively in the direction of James and then
whipped her head away again. His green eyes had taken on a piercing quality. It seemed as if he could see everything. Good. Let him.
“Yes. Yes, I’ll meet you, Lord Lassiter.”
Freddie took his hand away. “Good.”
The rest of lunch was a blur. Harriet stood with relief at the end of the meal, following the others onto the terrace. She wasn’t surprised when James moved to stand next to her.
“I must speak to you, Harriet,” he said, putting out his hand for hers. She swung her hand away and brought it up to her body. Turning slightly, she stepped to the edge of the terrace where the ground slipped away.
“What about, James? The fact that I am Marie Mompesson?” she paused. “Or about the fact that you need to marry Marie Mompesson to secure Brambridge Manor?”
James stopped just behind her. She swung round; the blackness of his hair highlighted the whiteness of his face. His broad shoulders blocked the weak sun that hovered low in the sky.
“Both,” he said shortly. “Harriet, you know that I’m attracted to you.”
Harriet laughed. It came out too high, loud enough to startle some crows on the grass below. They flew away, cawing. She put a hand to her mouth and leant on the stone balustrade of the terrace.
“As attracted as you are to Melissa Sumner? I imagine that is why you asked her to marry you.” Harriet paused and picked at the lichen that covered the stone. “Or was it because all you wanted was the house and its contents? Nobody else mattered?”
“I’ve broken it off with her.” James leant on the balustrade next to her. Harriet took a step away. She couldn’t bare his closeness. The warmth that he made her feel, the light headedness that struck her every time she was in his company. To think that she had thought that he had come after her because he cared.
“And just when did you do that? When you found out I was Marie Mompesson?”
James shook his head. “I didn’t know, Harry. I didn’t know until Agatha announced it in the drawing room. You must believe me.”
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