The dance was pure torture, and an exquisite exercise in self-flagellation as Harry was allowed the briefest glimpse of everything he could never have.
“You just wait, you horrid creature. The next time you see me ... you’ll wish you’d been my friend!”
Oh God.
Though that wasn’t true. Not entirely, at least. He did want to be her friend, but he wanted a lot more than simply friendship.
The barn had grown stuffy and hot, and, as informal an occasion as it was, she’d taken off her gloves. Her hands were small and extraordinarily soft against his calloused fingers and he felt she was altogether too fine for him to touch at all, though he longed to all the same. Her skin was flawless, the rose in her cheeks a little more pronounced now, the flush making him think of other ways he’d bring such colour to her flesh given half the chance. He cursed himself and tried to focus on old Ramsy. The fool had downed more cider than any one man ought to hold, and was threatening to dance on one of the discarded trestles while his flea-bitten dog leapt around him with excitement.
It didn’t help.
The scent of her drifted up to him, at once everything pure and innocent, and yet the most decadent perfume he’d ever come across. Terrified he’d betray himself if he let down his guard even a fraction, he knew he was being a dreadful partner. He’d not spoken a word to her and held her as far from him as he was able to, despite the fact that he was aching to pull her flush against him and scandalise the neighbourhood.
“Still as high in the instep as ever, Mr Thompson,” she said to him as the silence stretched on.
Harry felt indignation rise in his chest at the accusation. “Some of us cannot afford to be so free and easy with our attentions, Miss Bow,” he replied, knowing he sounded like a prig, but quite unable to help himself.
“Oh?” she replied, those glittering blue eyes so fierce and wild it was hard not to get lost in them. “You still despise me and think me a forward baggage, don’t you, sir?”
Harry gritted his teeth and wondered what it was about Clarinda Bow that had him vacillating between wanting to fall at her knees and to wring her blasted neck.
“You are mistaken, Miss Bow,” he said, glaring at her. “I do not think of you at all.”
The look she returned at that comment might have struck him dead, if such a thing were possible. As it was, he felt the heat of it scald him as a little voice echoed in his head.
Liar, liar.
She stared back at him, a considering look in her eyes now, and Harry felt like she could see right through him, into the dark recesses of his mind. It was unsettling. Those little words seemed to shout louder still as her blue eyes searched his; and as her lovely mouth tilted up a little at the corners, he felt certain she could see them as big and bold as if they’d been stamped on his blasted forehead.
“So you say, Mr Thompson,” she said, her voice low and sultry as she looked up at him beneath her lashes. It took everything he had not to react, not to pull the little strumpet into his arms and kiss her senseless, so that she knew just what it was she toyed with so recklessly. For if Harry decided to throw caution to the wind and have her, he’d make damn sure she never wanted any other but him.
By the time he’d returned Miss Bow - who looked like she’d happily scratch his eyes out - to her father’s care, Lord Preston was looking worn and frail.
He gave a Harry’s sleeve a slight tug and he bent low to hear the old man over the increasingly bawdy atmosphere. “Take me up, Harry,” he whispered. Harry nodded, noting that the squire had also decided things were getting too rowdy for his daughter and was guiding her out of the room. Despite himself, Harry watched her go, and didn’t look away as she turned and caught his eye. The two of them stared at each other, and he could read the challenge in her expression clear enough. Miss Bow meant to have him on his knees and bent to her will like every other fool she encountered. Well, Harry was no slave to his libido, and he’d lose his pride for no sharp-tongued wench, no matter how beautiful. So he stared back at her, defiant.
Do your worst, strumpet, you’ll not enslave me, he muttered to himself. He watched as her mouth curved again into the irrepressible smile that tugged at something in his chest. Did she smile like that for every man she flirted with, or was that special, just for him? Cursing himself for a fool, he looked away and found the viscount staring at him with amusement.
“Aye, she’s got you dancing a merry tune, eh, my boy?” he said with a sly chuckle.
Harry gritted his teeth and held his tongue as he helped the old man to his feet. Slowly, he guided Alistair out of the barn and waited until they were out of sight.
“Put your arms round my neck,” he instructed.
“I can do it,” the old man protested, even though he looked done-in.
“Do as you’re told, you old goat,” Harry scolded as Alistair huffed at him.
“There’s no need to be such a blasted old woman, Harry. I’m not dead yet,” he grumbled, though he did as Harry asked just the same. Harry lifted him, finding sorrow and worry settle in his chest as he realised the old fellow was lighter and frailer than ever.
“You could do worse, you know.”
Harry frowned and looked down at him, wondering what he was on about now.
Alistair sighed and looked at him like he was being incredibly dense. “Miss Bow,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “She likes you.”
Harry snorted at that, and shook his head. “She hates me,” he amended. “It just galls her that I don’t fall at her feet, like every other man she’s ever met, I’ll wager. I’m a challenge and nothing more,” he added, knowing that it was true and finding that he didn’t like to acknowledge that was all she felt for him.
“If you think that, you’re blind and stupid,” the old man replied, sounding frustrated. “I’d heard you had a way with the ladies, but seeing you with her, I’m finding it damned hard to believe.”
Harry grunted, unwilling to let that conversation go any further.
“She’s looking for a strong man, you fool,” the viscount persisted and Harry could feel his sharp gaze on him, but didn’t meet it. “She doesn’t want some namby-pamby, dandified fop, no matter if he’s a baron or a duke. She wants a man to respect, a man she can’t wrap around her thumb like she does with that fool of a father.”
Harry made his way up the wide stairs and considered the words, but dismissed them without letting them settle into his skin. A woman like Miss Bow was ambitious, and she’d never lower herself to be the wife of a man like him - born in the gutter, as she’d so accurately labelled him. She didn’t want him for a husband, and the viscount was really losing his grasp if he believed otherwise. Miss Bow would simply play the game until he was mad with wanting her, and then she’d drop him like a hot brick. Well, Harry wasn’t having it.
“Harry.”
Harry paused outside the old man’s bedroom door, alerted to the serious tone of his voice. “I’ll not be here forever, my boy. Sooner or later, the place will pass to that numbskull of a nephew of mine, and I doubt you’ll want to stay even if he’d have you. The man’s a ...” Alistair tailed off, his mouth set in a thin line of displeasure, apparently unable to find a bad enough description of his nearest kin. He grasped at Harry’s arm suddenly, his thin hands so frail now that it made Harry’s heart hurt. “If you married Miss Bow, you’d be safe. She’s wealthy and she’ll inherit the squire’s lands one day. You could stay in this place, and don’t tell me you don’t want to, for I shan’t believe you.”
Harry avoided the old man’s gaze and shouldered the door open. Placing him carefully down in his chair by the fire, Harry bent to stir up the embers and build it back up again.
“You love this place, Harry. I know you do. Make the chit love you. You could do it,, you know, and I could rest easy knowing you were well-settled.”
Harry shook his head, throwing a log on the fire and watching the sparks fly up into the dark, sooty cavern of the chimney. “She does
n’t want to marry me, Alistair. She just wants me to want her, and I’ll not give her the satisfaction.”
“Even though it’s true?”
Harry grunted but turned and gave the old man a wry smile. “Even though it’s true,” he admitted.
“You’re wrong, Harry,” Alistair persisted, catching at his arm as he moved to turn down the bed. “She’d marry you. Oh, not without a fight, perhaps. But a fight’s what she wants. Can’t you see that? She wants you to tame her. She’s always wanted someone to bring her in line, but no one but you has ever come close.”
Harry sighed and patted the old man’s hand. “Don’t you fret for me, you old devil. I’ll be fine, and you’re not going anywhere for a while yet. You’re too mean to die, remember?”
But the viscount didn’t laugh at the old joke this time, just stared at him with eyes that were becoming increasingly myopic. Harry held his gaze.
“I’ll not marry her for her money,” he insisted.
“Then don’t,” the old man urged, his bony fingers biting harder into Harry’s arm. “Marry her because you love her.”
Chapter 11
To be as thick as two inkle weavers - to be close friends
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
Clarinda sighed and pressed her forehead against the glass of her bedroom window. From here, she could just see the tops of one of the vast chimneys of Stamford Place in the distance. Despite promising herself she would not waste any more of her time thinking about the man, her thoughts inevitably turned to Harry Thompson.
She wondered what he was doing now.
Not thinking about her.
That, at least, was clear.
Any childish hopes she might have harboured and cherished over the past years of making a grand entrance and having him fall madly in love with her had been well and truly crushed last night.
He’d been just as cold and disdainful as ever.
He so obviously still thought her a brainless, spoiled brat that her cheeks heated as she remembered the sharp words that had cut between them.
She knew he had no reason to think kindly of her, she hadn’t even expected him to be anything more than polite, if she was being brutally honest. But she’d thought perhaps ... he might give her a chance.
More fool you, Clarinda Bow.
She’d been a great success in London, and had turned down no less than five marriage proposals already. Yet no one had excited her, no one had made her breath catch and her heart beat faster like Harry had. She’d told herself a hundred times that she was being ridiculous. She’d been only fourteen, and so many years had passed. Chances were, he had married and grown fat and comfortable with some local girl who’d give him a dozen children and never scream insults in his face. The thought had made her feel sick. But when she returned home each summer, the news reached her ears that he was still single, and she still hoped.
She’d kept away from Stamford, and from him, too ashamed of the last time they’d spoken to force a meeting. But the May rent-night meal had seemed perfect for her grand entrance. But all of her silly romantic imaginings had been just that. He’d not even wanted to acknowledge her. Only Lord Preston’s insistence had forced him to greet her, and with such ... cold contempt.
But what could she expect from him when she’d very nearly ruined his chances of making a success of himself. She sworn to him she would never have let that happen and she’d meant it, but she’d toyed with his life through her own foul temper and he clearly would never forgive her.
She should just go back to London and marry the blasted marquess and forget all about Harry Thompson. If her father had the faintest idea of the direction of her thoughts, he’d send her back this minute and never let her come home again. But her father didn’t know her; he never really had, for all that he loved her to distraction. He’d certainly never understood her. Harry could, though, she felt sure of it. If he’d only give her a second chance, she could make him see that the spark that blazed between them was more than just irritation, it wasn’t even dislike.
It was so much more complicated than that.
But Harry didn’t give second chances.
So here she was, twenty-one years old, still unmarried and pining over a low-born nobody. Except Harry had never been nobody. Not to Clarinda. Not since the first time she’d seen him on her father’s estate.
He was the finest man she’d ever seen, and there was something wary and mistrustful in his eyes that made her ache. She wanted to chase that look away and promise to never allow anything to put it there again. Least of all her.
But she’d been so vain and spoiled and obnoxious towards him as a girl that she’d given him a disgust of her.
He couldn’t see that she’d changed.
That she’d done it because of him.
For him.
Yet when he was so cold and proud, with that contempt of her blazing so clearly in his dark eyes, she felt the devilry in her flame to life, and she was that spoilt, vain child all over again. She’d wanted to stamp her foot and scream at him that she would get him in the end, just like she had on that dreadful night.
She almost had.
But Clarinda was nothing if not persistent. One way or another, she would have Harry Thompson at her feet, and she didn’t care what she had to do to make it happen.
With that in mind, she called for her abigail to help her change into her riding habit.
It was time she went to call on Lord Preston. The old fellow had clearly liked her, and in truth she’d thought him a marvellous sort. Merry as a grig and not at all high in the instep, not like her father had always led her to believe. But then her papa was rather in awe of the viscount, and was always a little wrong-footed when they met. The poor dear would be all on his dignity and looking for slights, and so Lord Preston would get a wicked glint in his eyes and oblige him.
But the old man clearly had a fondness for Harry, and Harry for him. Perhaps if she could befriend the viscount, Harry would look at her anew and see something more than had been there all those years ago. Clarinda sighed as her maid unbuttoned her gown.
It was worth a try.
***
Harry stalked through the yard, the sun warm against his scowling countenance as his boots slapped against the warm, dusty cobbles. He’d been having a good day and been in high spirits this morning, after finally persuading Alistair to plant up twenty more hectares than the year before, and to plant turnips, which he’d never done. From his work with the squire, he knew that growing turnips was as good for the soil as leaving the fields fallow, which meant they could be planted up again straight away. It was a point Alistair had taken some convincing of, though, unsurprisingly, one he was willing to be pleased by if it worked. Harry only hoped the old fellow was here to see it crop. Twenty hectares was a pitiful amount of land if you held it against the size of Stamford itself, but, to Harry, this had been one of his greatest victories. He’d set out to get the men to work first thing and just returned, alight with enthusiasm - to find that his nemesis was visiting. Again.
Damn her.
Why couldn’t she leave him be? Though to be fair, she never sought him out. It was Alistair she visited. It was Alistair she spent hours with, playing chess and cards and chattering and laughing. His jaw tightened a little further. Not that he cared. Why should he care? It did the old man good, anyone could see that. He ought to be grateful to her. He was grateful. Yet part of him seethed that she should so obviously slight him by never seeking him out.
He was being ridiculous, of course. That was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to put Miss Clarinda Bow far from his mind. But how the devil was he supposed to do that when Alistair’s study was forever laced with the lingering scent of her perfume, or when he found a delicate lace handkerchief left on the desk, or caught a glimpse of her as she waved at the viscount’s window and blew him a kiss goodbye?
What made it worse still were the little comments Alistair
would drop. “Clarinda said ...” or “You’ll never guess what Clarinda did,” forever combined with a knowing look that told him that Harry didn’t fool the old devil for a moment.
And now she was here again.
Well, today she’d have to face him, dammit.
He strode towards the library and flung the door open after giving a cursory knock and stopped in his tracks.
Alistair was laying on the chaise lounge, his cravat all undone with Clarinda chaffing at his hands and speaking to him, her voice sharp and firm. She looked up as he entered, her face white with concern.
“Oh, Harry,” she cried, the relief in her eyes palpable. “Thank heavens. He’s taken a turn, I’ve sent Mr Fletcher for the doctor. Do you have hartshorn?”
He nodded, too stunned to reply, and for a moment Harry couldn’t even move to fetch it, too terrified that the old man would die to summon his body to move.
“Harry!” Clarinda shouted at him, looking impatient at first, but then her face softened. “He’ll be alright, but I need the hartshorn.”
Harry snapped out of his stupor and ran to the desk, rummaging around for the little bottle.
By the time he returned to her side, Alistair was reviving as she held a little bottle of smelling salts under his nose. She glanced up at Harry.
“Put a few drops in some water, then,” she instructed, nodding at the bottle he held and speaking to him like a child, which he may as well be for all the use he was being. He did as he was told and returned, handing her the glass.
Alistair looked grey and ill, his eyes hollow, but he sipped at the water at Clarinda’s insistence and rallied enough to give her a smile.
“Sorry to be such a blasted nuisance,” he muttered, looking embarrassed.
“Nuisance, my eye,” she retorted, straightening his cravat and jacket so he looked less rumpled. “You did that on purpose because I was winning, you old devil.” She wagged a finger at him, scolding him though she kept her voice quiet and soft. “Don’t you think you can play such tricks off on me, my lord.”
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