Alistair chuckled, and Harry could only look at her with admiration. The old man hated his increasing weakness, and to have such a turn in front of her would have been mortifying. But Clarinda had handled it so that he need not feel so very awkward.
He could only feel gratitude for her for helping to preserve the man’s dignity.
“Come on, you old goat,” Harry said, leaning down and putting the viscount’s arm around his neck. “You’ve only got yourself to blame, flirting and gambling at this hour of the day. You’ll go to the devil, you know,” he added, repeating what the young prig of a parson had said when he’d come to call on the old man last week. He’d been given short shrift by Harry after finding the pompous fool had goaded his Lordship into a fine temper by trying to get him to confess his sins and repent.
Harry had been accused of being a Godless heathen, and his lordship no better, and Harry had taken great satisfaction in slamming the door in his face.
Alistair chuckled, though it was a weak sound that made fear stir in Harry’s chest. “Ah, you showed that little pipsqueak, didn’t you, my boy,” he said with the toothy grin that Harry had come to be so fond of.
“Aye, and now we’re both going to the devil for it,” he shot back with a snort of amusement.
Clarinda hurried to the door, opening it to let them through as Harry bore the old man off to his room. He paused, turning back to her.
“Don’t go,” he said and waited until he’d seen her nod of agreement.
Harry stayed with Alistair until his lordship was settled against a mountain of pillows, and the doctor, a pinch-faced fellow that Alistair called a Doctor Quack behind his back, had come to check him over. Not that there was anything to be done. These turns were becoming more frequent, and Harry knew that one would carry him off sooner or later.
He felt like he’d been living the last years in a happy little daze, and any moment now he would be forced to wake and realise he was still starving and penniless and running from the law.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he found Miss Bow waiting for him, her lovely eyes wide with concern.
“Is he alright, Harry?”
Harry shrugged. “He’s old,” he said, trying to smile but finding the expression came out twisted. He turned away from her and went back into his lordship’s study, going to stare out of the window.
He felt the touch of her hand against his arm but didn’t turn to look at her. His emotions were all too near the surface and he didn’t trust himself.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice quiet and sincere. “I know how fond you are of him.”
Harry did look around at that. “Do you?” he asked, surprised, more so when she gave him the warmest smile he’d ever seen sent in his direction.
“Well, of course,” she said, amusement in her voice. “It’s obvious, the way you are with each other. He thinks the world of you, Harry,” she added. “He’s so proud of you.”
Harry felt his throat grow tight and he turned away again before he made a fool of himself.
“He told me so himself,” Clarinda added, perhaps in case he doubted it.
He nodded and hauled in a deep breath. “He’s been like a father to me ... the old goat,” he added with affection.
There was silence, and then he heard the rustle of skirts as Clarinda gathered up her bonnet and reticule. “I’d best get out of your way,” she said with a hesitant smile. “I’ll expect you’ll want to speak with the doctor.”
Harry nodded, wishing he could find something more to say, but his heart was aching. If he tried to speak, he was afraid he’d cling to her and tell her how frightened he was. He might admit how terrified he was that he was about to lose the only man who had ever been anything like a father to him, and the only real home he’d ever had, and that any chance - no matter how tenuous - that he might have had to love Clarinda Bow was about to slide out of his grasp forever.
“Goodbye, then, Harry,” she said, turning for the door. “I’ll call again tomorrow in case he’s well enough for visitors, but you needn’t worry that I’ll overexcite him or that I’ll be offended if I can’t see him.” She hesitated, as though she wanted to say more and then thought better of it.
She’d reached for the door when Harry called out. “Clarinda.”
She turned around so abruptly Harry thought she must have been waiting for him to say something, and was startled to see the hope in her eyes at the sound of his voice.
“Thank you,” he said, knowing it was a paltry response but hoping she could hear the sincerity in his voice.
She beamed at him, her face flushed with pleasure. “You’re very welcome, Harry.”
Chapter 12
To have an odd kick in one’s gallop - to have a strange whim or peculiarity
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
Harry looked down at the letter in his hand with misgiving. From everything Harry had heard about his despised nephews, Alistair’s closest kin were nothing but money-grubbing parasites all waiting for him to drop off his twig. Though, to be fair, his lordship was that cantankerous that he ought to take such views with a pinch of salt. Nonetheless, Alistair’s plans were giving him an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his belly, and he knew the old man was none too happy about it either. The last thing the old fellow needed now was to be harried or upset by a load of people he didn’t care for, nor cared for him. But Alistair had gotten a bee in his bonnet and so Harry had written the letter for him.
That he knew full well Alistair was only doing this for him only made Harry feel worse still. The old man intended to extract a promise from his eldest nephew, and heir to Stamford, that he would keep Harry on as land agent for his lifetime.
Harry had been deeply touched, but knew without having ever met the man that Wilfred Preston would likely want him out, just because his uncle wanted him to stay. He’d read some of the correspondence between Wilfred and Alistair over the years - at Alistair’s insistence - and formed a firm opinion of a high-handed and greedy man, greatly concerned with his own importance. Wilfred was furious with Alistair for keeping him from Stamford Place, which he plainly viewed as being his own property already, and made no secret of his loathing for his elderly uncle.
Well, they could come, Harry muttered to himself, but if they upset the old man, he’d throw them out on their ears and damn the consequences.
The post having been dealt with, Harry closed the study door, which had become his own domain since the old man’s turn the week previous. He’d rallied, thank the lord, but he tired easily and was happy to let Harry deal with the running of Stamford, though he admonished him daily against spending all his blunt-on fripperies.
To be sure the tight-fisted old buzzard didn’t fret, Harry made a point of giving him a brief of everything he’d paid for, but kept it short and sweet so he didn’t get over excited.
Now he could hear laughter coming from the front parlour. Harry liked this room and was glad to see it in use again. It got plenty of sun and overlooked the front of the house, which might be far from as splendid as it had once been, but was a damned sight more presentable than when Harry had first arrived here.
He opened the door and paused as he saw Clarinda, her dark head bent over the chessboard, and Alistair, chuckling with glee, clearly believing he’d bested her.
Harry drew in a breath at the sudden swell of emotion in his chest. There was something about seeing the two of them here together that tugged at his heart, and he couldn’t explain it, other than it felt right and good.
He’d managed to continue to avoid Clarinda since that emotional day, and now saw reserve in her eyes as she looked up and greeted him. The loss of the warmth he’d seen there before was something he regretted, but no good could come of encouraging her.
None at all.
“You cheated!” Clarinda exclaimed, glaring at the old man who returned a look of such affronted innocence that Harry suspected she was right
.
“I never did,” he retorted with an air of wounded dignity. Clarinda laughed out loud.
“You did, I know you did. Alistair Preston, I’ll never play chess with you again!” she vowed, sitting back in her chair with a flurry of silk skirts and looking for a moment every bit the sulky, spoilt child she’d certainly been. Except this time there was mirth in her eyes and Harry knew well she was just having fun with the old man, who was clearly delighted with her.
“Ah, don’t sulk, puss,” he chided. “Harry, pour us out a glass of claret. I feel like celebrating.”
“Oh?” Harry replied, getting out three glasses and pouring a small measure for Alistair.
He handed one glass to Clarinda who thanked him but avoided his eye, and the smaller to Alistair who scowled at him, clucking his tongue with annoyance. “And you reckon I’m the miserly one?” he grumbled, causing Clarinda to choke on her drink as she spluttered with laughter.
Harry grinned at her.
“So, what are we celebrating exactly?” Harry demanded as he picked up his own glass.
“Oh,” the old man said with a shrug of his bony shoulders and an airy wave. “Being alive,” he murmured with a fond glance at Clarinda and a pointed one at Harry.
Harry felt his ears grow hot and cursed the old man for his lack of tact. “Besides,” he added, a mischievous look in his eyes. “You’ll need mellowing to get through the coming afternoon.”
Clarinda chuckled and the two of them shared a conspiratorial look that made Harry pause with the glass halfway to his lips.
“Oh?” he said with misgiving.
“There’s a tailor coming,” his lordship admitted, looking a little anxious now. “Recommended to me as being just the thing and up to snuff by Missy here. He’s coming down from London. For you.”
Harry gaped at the old man, wondering if his mind was finally going. “For me? What the devil for?”
Alistair pulled himself more upright, looking indignant. “Because when that high-handed prig gets here, I want you to look every bit the gentleman, Harry. My nephew is a regular Captain Huff, and you’re not to take any of his bullocking ways!”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with this?” he demanded, looking down at his perfectly serviceable suit, but Alistair shook his head, insistent.
“He’s a bully, lad, and nasty with it, and I won’t have him speaking down to you. He don’t know who you are or where you came from. And you don’t tell him!” he added, wagging a finger at him, his tone fierce. All the fight seemed to go out of him at once and he sagged in his chair. “You must stand bluff,” he said, his voice quieter now. He reached out for Harry, who came and took his hand, feeling more troubled than ever. “Dog in a doublet,” Alistair said with just a shadow of his usual toothy grin at his lips. “That’s you, lad. Remember it.”
“Alright, you old goat,” Harry said with affection, squeezing his fingers. “If it’ll make you happy.” He frowned, though, as a niggle of doubt assailed him. “But what about the expense?” he demanded, wondering what it would cost to bring a top-notch tailor down from London and feeling a trifle ill himself. “I don’t want you having an apoplexy when you get the bill. Are you sure you’re not having a turn of some sort now? Because how the thought of spending all that blunt on me should satisfy you at this late stage ... Well!” he exclaimed, only half-teasing after almost nine years of the old man’s penny-pinching.
Alistair snorted. “Oh, now it’s almost time to hand it all over to Wilfred, I feel like being a tad reckless. Can’t take it with me, after all. Make him sick to death to know I’m spending it now when he’s been counting it this last five years or more.”
Harry gave a snort of amusement.
Clarinda set her glass down with obvious regret and got to her feet.
“Well, I must be getting back,” she said with a sigh.
“Why must you?” Alistair demanded, looking annoyed. “Stay and have lunch with us. We’re better company than that old blustering father of yours, any day!”
“Alistair!” Harry exclaimed with chagrin, but Clarinda just laughed.
“Oh, I know it,” she said with a saucy smile. “But I promised him that I would go to Tenterden this afternoon, and I never break a promise.” She glanced up at Harry, giving him a smile that seemed altogether too familiar and made yearning an ache under his ribs.
“Bah!” Alistair exclaimed in disgust. “Tell him you forgot,” he said, folding his arms and looking downright sulky.
“No! You dreadful creature,” Clarinda said, laughing at him and leaning down to kiss his whiskery cheek. “There, now you’ve earned yourself a kiss by being so badly behaved. I don’t doubt you’ll be worse than ever next time I come and I’ll be well-served for spoiling you.”
Harry looked away, shaken by the flood of warmth that filled his chest at the wonderful way she had with Alistair. The old goat quite obviously adored her, and Harry couldn’t fault him. She really had changed in the years of her absence. She’d become a vibrant and intriguing young woman, every bit as beautiful as he had imagined, and far more dangerous to him that he could ever have anticipated.
Despite his fears and best intentions, he still helped Clarinda on with her pelisse rather than call Mr Fletcher out, an illicit thrill shivering over him as her thick, silky hair slid against his fingers as he adjusted the collar. Alistair continued to grumble about her leaving, but Harry could see well enough that he was delighted with her.
“Well, go and see Miss Hoity-Toity to the door, Harry,” he said with a mutinous little sniff as she tied her bonnet under her chin with a jaunty bow. “We mustn’t keep her from socialising, must we? Let her leave an old man all alone and bored to tears.”
“Well, thank you very much. I suppose my company doesn’t count,” Harry remarked with a snort.
“Against that of a beautiful woman, Harry? Show some sense, boy!” the old man grumbled.
Clarinda tutted at him and wagged her finger as she made her way to the door. “I’ll come back tomorrow, my lord, though you don’t deserve it.”
“Away with you, sauce-box!” Alistair called after her, and Harry felt the warm sound of her returning laughter roll over him like a summer breeze.
He escorted her through the echoing, lonely corridors and across the Baron’s Hall, back to the front door. The ease with which she spoke to Alistair seemed to disperse with every step they took, tension taking up the space between them. Harry could feel her eyes on him from time to time, though she didn’t speak, and the longing to catch that warm gaze made his chest feel tight. But what was the point?
No matter Alistair’s plans, Harry would have to leave. He didn’t doubt Alistair had made provisions for him in his will, perhaps even enough to buy himself a snug little cottage somewhere. Not, however, enough to keep Miss Bow in the manner to which she was accustomed. If her father even suspected that there was anything between them, he didn’t doubt he’d be down here as he had once before, shouting the odds and trying to get Harry turned off.
He dared a glance at her, and regret was a weight in his chest. Don’t be such a bloody fool, he cursed, yet his gaze travelled back to her again, his eyes mapping every frivolous detail to be relived in private, a personal torment of his own devising that would keep him from sleep and make him ache with longing.
Anyone looking at them would know that he was far beneath her touch at a glance, though. His clothes were good quality now, but still coarse and serviceable rather than stylish. Clarinda looked as though she’d stepped directly from a fashion plate and would pass with ease among the cream of the ton, drawing admiration from all quarters. Fit for a duke, in fact, he reminded himself, and felt the scowl cloud his face at the idea.
According to what Mrs Fletcher told him, Clarinda was always dressed in the latest style. Beryl was given cast-off copies of La Belle Assemblée from an old friend who had married well and liked to lord it over her a little. But she liked to read the articles out loud to them
of an evening, and often pointed out to Harry some of the illustrations and remarked that she had seen Miss Bow wearing just that outfit some weeks earlier.
Well, whether it was fashionable or not, Harry had no idea. The only thing he did know was that the dress was gorgeous and clung to her lovely figure, and the pelisse, made up to the neck as the wind was still sharp today, was an elegant dark blue velvet that seemed to make her eyes a deeper shade than he’d ever seen. But that one outfit likely cost as much or more than he made in six months.
He somehow doubted that she would not regret the loss of such luxuries. He would likely not even be able to afford one or two of such outfits in a year, even if things went well for him, let alone the dozens that fashionable ladies seemed to require each month as the seasons turned. Of course, she’d be able to afford such things for herself, seeing as she was an heiress, but his pride revolted at the idea of living on her funds and being a kept man. He snorted to himself at the idea that it would even get that far. The squire would disinherit her the moment he discovered there was anything between them.
But all of this was fantasy, in any case.
Clarinda was sweet on him, true enough, though perhaps she just wanted him out of habit, as she’d wanted him as a girl. Perhaps there was even a part of her that still wanted him at her feet, just to prove she could? But whatever her intentions, when it came down to it, for her, she was just playing. She’d flirt with him and kiss him and let him fall in love with her, and then do as her father wanted and go and find herself a title to marry, and break his heart in the process.
If he had any sense at all, he’d do well to remember that.
So when she turned to him at the door - knowing that they were alone together, her lovely face open and upturned, her eyes all bright and her mouth soft and inviting - he held himself aloof, even though his skin ached with the desire to touch her.
That beautiful face closed off a little, the disappointment evident in her eyes as he shut down any remaining intimacy between them. She stared back at him still, though, refusing to be completely pushed away.
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