Courting Julia

by Mary Balogh

  She was lonely. Dreadfully lonely. And she had needs that were no less insistent than they could be in other women despite the fact that she had no beauty and was unable to walk. She had needs. Cravings. Sometimes she was so lonely despite Harriet's friendship and despite the existence of other good friends that she touched the frightening depths of despair.

  She could have Mr. Frederick Sullivan. She had realized that on their first meeting. If he had thought to court her with some tact and patience, he was wasting his time. She had known from the first why he had effected the introduction to her and why he visited the Pump Room each morning, after her daily immersion in the waters of the Queen’s Bath. He wanted to marry her. He wanted control of her fortune.

  She had always turned from fortune hunters without even a second thought. In other words, she had always turned from every suitor she might have had. Mr. Sullivan was the first to whom she had given any consideration at all. He did not love her or feel any affection for her. Probably he did not even like her or hold her in any esteem at all. Perhaps he even cringed from her. That was the reality of the situation, which must be faced if she were to be mad enough to consider marrying him. Perhaps he never would feel any affection for her.

  It would not be a good marriage. It would never be the sort of marriage she dreamed of just like any other woman. But would it be better than no marriage at all? That was the question that had plagued her all night. She was not in love with him, she thought as he drew closer across the Pump Room and almost visibly turned on the charm with which he always dealt with her. She could never be in love with a man who played a part and one who came to her only because of her money. But he was beautiful and strong and healthy and she was wondering if the combination would prove irresistible. She rather thought it might.

  “He is so very beautiful,” she said to Harriet now before smiling at his approach. He was too close for Harriet to have a chance to reply.

  “Miss Danford.” He took her thin cool hand in his, decided not to raise it to his lips, but held it with both his own for a few moments longer than was necessary. “I trust you did not take a chill in going to the Upper Rooms yesterday?”

  “When the day was so warm?” she said. “No, sir, I thank you.”

  He relinquished her hand to straighten up and make his bow to Miss Pope. If only the two figures could be switched, he thought regretfully. If only it were Miss Pope who was in the chair and in possession of the fortune. But Miss Pope, he had discovered from discreet inquiries, was the daughter of an impoverished widow, whom Miss Danford had met and befriended several years before while in Bath with her father.

  “For my own part,” he said, returning his attention to Miss Danford, “I think the custom of taking tea at the Rooms quite delightful. Bath is surely one of the loveliest places on earth and should be enjoyed as much as possible.”

  “I agree with you entirely, sir,” she said. ‘Tea is always more enjoyable when taken in congenial company.”

  She turned her attention to a gentleman who had approached to greet the ladies and exchange civilities before inviting Miss Pope to take a turn about the room with him.

  “By all means,” Miss Danford said when her companion looked inquiringly at her. “That will be pleasant for you, Harriet.”

  Miss Pope looked doubtfully at Frederick.

  “I shall keep Miss Danford company until your return,” he said, “if I may be permitted to do so.”

  Miss Danford smiled at him. “I would be grateful, sir,” she said.

  “Grateful.” He gave her his full attention. “It is I who should be feeling the gratitude, ma’am. I admire your courage. You remain cheerful and serene despite an obvious and unfortunate affliction.” He resisted the urge to stoop down on his haunches beside her.

  It seemed as if she had read his mind. “One disadvantage of always having to be seated,” she said, “is that I must often crane my neck in order to look up at someone standing beside me. Would you care to push my chair closer to that bench, sir, and seat yourself?”

  It was encouraging. She obviously wanted to converse with him. He did as she asked, and they were able to talk without the inconvenience she had spoken of and without the usual presence of a third person. Her eyes were fine, he thought, except that he found himself wanting to draw back his head in order to be a few inches farther away from their very direct gaze.

  “Are you finding the waters beneficial?” he asked.

  “I find them relaxing,” she said. “I bathe in them but I do not drink them. Fortunately, I have no illness that might be cured in such a way. I believe I would have to be very ill indeed to drink a daily draft. Have you tried the water?”

  He smiled deep into her eyes. “Once,” he said. “Once was enough. I am glad the baths are helping you. Are you happy in Bath?”

  “As you remarked,” she said, “it is a beautiful place, and I have some agreeable acquaintances here. I came here several times with my father before his death.”

  “I am sorry about that,” he said. “It must have been distressing for you.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Are you enjoying being here, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “A great deal more than I expected to,” he said. “I was intending to spend no more than a few days here. I thought I would look in on the city since I was in this part of the country. But now I find myself reluctant to leave.”

  “Oh?” She was looking very directly at him. He had piqued her interest, he could see. “It is more beautiful than you expected?”

  “Yes, I believe it is,” he said. “But it is people who make a place, I am sure you would agree. There are people here from whom I am reluctant to part.“ He let his eyes stray to her mouth before raising them again to her eyes. “I might even say—one person.”

  “Oh.” Her lips formed the words though she made no sound.

  “I have been touched by your quiet patience and by your cheerfulness and good sense,” he said. “I have been accustomed for several years to mingle with the young ladies of ton who flock to London for the Season. I have become almost immune to their charms. I have never met anyone like you, ma’am. Am I being impertinent? Am I speaking out of turn?”

  He fixed his eyes on hers, very aware that Miss Pope and her escort were approaching. He willed them to take a second turn about the room. They obeyed his will, though he fancied that Miss Pope looked at him very intently as they passed.

  “No,” Miss Danford said, her voice a mere whisper of sound.

  He touched his fingers lightly to hers as they rested on the arm of her chair. “I have thought myself jaded and immune to the charms of women,” he said. “I have been unprepared for the intensity of my reaction to making your acquaintance, ma’am.”

  “It was less than a week ago, sir,” she said. She was all dark eyes in a pale face.

  “It could be an eternity,” he said. “I did not know that so much could happen within the span of one week. So much to the state of one’s heart, that is.”

  “I am unable to walk,” she said. “I am unable to be out in the air as much I could wish.” Her eyes gazed deeply into his. “I have no claim to beauty.”

  It was a point he must deal with carefully. “Is that what you have been told?” he asked. “Is that what your glass tells you? Sometimes when we look in a glass, we do so impersonally, seeing only what is on the surface. Sometimes beauty has little to do with surface appearances. I have known women who are acclaimed beauties but are quite unappealing because there is no character behind the beauty. You are not beautiful in that way, Miss Danford. Your beauty is all inner. It shines through your eyes.”

  “Oh.” He watched her lips part. He watched her eyes dart to his own lips before looking into his again.

  “Am I embarrassing you?” he asked. “Am I outraging you? I would not do so for the world. Perhaps you do not believe what I am saying, either about your beauty or about my feelings for you. I would not have believed the latter myself a week ago. I thought myself be
yond falling in love.”

  “Falling in love?” she asked him.

  “I believe that is the appropriate term,” he said. He smiled slowly and deliberately. “A term over which I have always sneered.”

  “Falling in love,” she said. “It is for very young people, sir. I am twenty-six years old.”

  “My age,” he said. “Do you feel yourself beyond youth, then, ma’am? I have felt like a boy in the past week—eager, uncertain, gauche, and, yes, in love.”

  She opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. “I find this hard to believe,” she said at last very quietly.

  She must live a lonely life, he thought suddenly. She must have had her share of fortune hunters but very few genuine suitors, if any. Did she dream of loving? Of being loved? That was the trouble with him—he thought too much. It was what had happened with Jule, though in that case he could not say he was sorry that he had stopped to think. He felt guilty enough as it was.

  Should he feel guilty now? Was he catering to a dream that he could not after all fulfill? But why could he not? If he married her, he would treat her well. He would give her affection. He would give her some of his time and attention. He was not trying to lure her into a dreadful marriage of total neglect.

  “Believe it,” he said, leaning a little toward her and looking into her eyes with more genuine sympathy than he had expected to feel. “We are in a public place. It is neither the time nor the place for a formal declaration. But with your permission I would like to find that time and that place. Soon.”

  Was he being too hasty? He had not come to the Pump Room that morning with the intention of going so far. But the opportunity had presented itself in the form of the gentleman who was strolling with Miss Pope. And Miss Danford seemed receptive.

  “You have my permission, sir.”

  She spoke so quietly that he was not sure at first that she had said the words. When he was sure, he felt elation and—panic. He felt rather as if he had taken an irrevocable step. Her words suggested that she understood him fully and was prepared to listen to a formal offer. Probably to accept it. Why would she be willing to listen if she had no intention of accepting?

  He leaned back away from her again. Miss Pope and her escort were approaching. They would probably not take a third turn about the room.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked. He shied away from the thought of today. He needed time in which to sort out his thoughts, though there was nothing really to sort out. He needed to marry wealth soon and now he had a better chance than he could have hoped for. “May I call on you tomorrow afternoon, ma’am?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “The next day, if you will, sir,” she said. “I am expecting a visitor from London tomorrow.”

  “The day after tomorrow, then,” he said, getting to his feet and turning her chair to face the room so that she could watch the approach of her friend. “I shall live in fearful anxiety until then.”

  He spoke nothing more than the truth. She was going to accept him, he thought. It could not be this easy, surely. And yet there was panic and terror. He looked down at her thin figure in the wheeled chair, at the pale face and the too-thick masses of dark hair beneath the pretty bonnet. It seemed altogether possible that she was to be his wife. He was going to tie himself to her for life merely because of an accumulation of debts that might be wiped out in one evening at the tables if luck was with him. A lifetime as set against one evening.

  She looked up at him and smiled just before her companion joined them. “I shall look forward to it, Mr. Sullivan,” she said.

  ***On Sale June 2017***

  Tempting Harriet

  1

  “Harriet. My dear.” Lady Forbes clasped her hands to her bosom and gazed admiringly at her younger friend. “You look quite delectable. You will be all the rage before the evening is out. Does she not, Clive? And will she not?”

  Sir Clive Forbes turned from the sideboard at which he was pouring drinks and looked at the lady who had just entered his drawing room and was blushing rosily. “You look very handsome, Harriet,” he said, smiling kindly and crossing the room toward her in order to hand her a glass.: “But then I do not remember a time when you did not.”

  “Thank you.” Harriet, Lady Wingham, laughed a little nervously and took the offered glass. “It still seems strange to be wearing light colors again after a year in black. It feels even stranger to be wearing something so—sparse.” She glanced down at her almost bare bosom and arms. “But I was assured that this design is all the crack.”

  “If it were not,” Sir Clive said gallantly, “then you would soon make it so, Harriet.”

  “You must trust me,” Lady Forbes said. “Did I not promise when you were finally persuaded to come to town for the Season that I would bring you into fashion, my dear? Not that I was taking on an onerous task. You are still as lovely as a girl, even though you must be—?”

  “Eight-and-twenty,” Harriet said. She grimaced. “A ludicrous age at which to be making my entrée into polite society.”

  “But still beautiful,” Lady Forbes said. “And widows are always intriguing. Especially young and lovely ones.”

  “And wealthy ones,” Sir Clive added with a twinkle in his eye.

  “It helps,” Lady Forbes said. “Do sit down, dear. We are early. But Robin will be here soon. You will like him as an escort. He quite understands that you are new to London and to the Season and that you have come to meet gentlemen.”

  “Oh, I have not—” Harriet protested.

  “It is as well to call a spade a spade,” her friend said, holding up a staying hand. “Of course you have, my dear. You are young and have been widowed for well over a year. And Godfrey, rest his soul, was neither a young nor a robust man.”

  “I loved him,” Harriet said quietly, seating herself carefully so as not to crease the delicate lace and satin of her ball gown.

  “That was obvious,” Sir Clive said kindly. “You were unfailingly good to him, Harriet. But he is gone. He would be the first to want you to go on enjoying life.”

  “Yes, he would,” Harriet said. “But I am not desperately searching for his successor. I have Susan, after all.”

  “But daughters do not quite make up for the lack of a husband,” Lady Forbes said. “Besides, Susan needs a father.”

  “There is someone at the door,” Sir Clive said. “It will be Robin. Harriet my dear, I can see we have been alarming you. You arrived in town only a week ago and are about to attend your first London ball and already we are talking about your finding a husband. What we should be advising you to do is enjoy yourself. But without a doubt you will do that. You will certainly not lack for partners.”

  The butler entered the drawing room at that moment to announce the arrival of Mr. Robin Hammond. Harriet rose and curtsied when he was presented to her. She had not met him before. He was an auburn-haired, fresh-faced gentleman of about her own age. His elegantly clad figure showed signs of portliness to come. He was a cousin of Amanda’s and had kindly agreed to escort Harriet to Lady Avingleigh’s ball. He bowed and gazed admiringly at the pale blue confection of a ball dress that had been made for the occasion.

  “You see, Robin?” Lady Forbes said bluntly as her husband handed him a drink. “I told you she was a beauty, did I not?”

  “You did indeed, Amanda,” Mr. Hammond agreed, flushing.

  Fifteen minutes later the four of them were in Sir Clive's carriage on the way to the Earl of Avingleigh’s home on Berkeley Square. Harriet shivered beneath her wrap, partly from the slight chill of the evening air and partly from nervous apprehension. It was still hard to believe that her four-year marriage to Godfrey gave her entrance to ton events. They had lived so simply and so quietly in Bath that she had scarcely been aware of the significance of the fact that he was a baron. And until his death fifteen months before, she had been quite ignorant of the fact that he was a very wealthy man. Though of course he had always been generous to her. He had always insisted that she
have pretty and fashionable clothes. He had left a generous portion to their daughter. Everything else he had left to Harriet.

  Without even being quite aware of the fact, Harriet thought, she had been elevated socially. Although her father had been a gentleman, he had been a mere country parson. His early death had left her mother with only enough money on which to live very frugally in Bath. Harriet herself had been forced to take employment as a lady’s companion, though she had been very fortunate in her employer. Clara had seemed more of a friend than an employer. But the association had ended eventually after Clara’s marriage and a pregnancy had made Harriet's position redundant, though Clara had urged her to stay anyway. But there had been another reason for leaving . . .

  “We are arriving at the fashionable time, it seems,” Mr. Hammond said, moving his head close to the window and gazing ahead. “There must be five carriages pulled up ahead of ours.”

  “We will have to be patient, then,” Sir Clive said. “This ball is expected to be the greatest squeeze of the early part of the Season, I gather.”

  “It usually is,” his wife agreed.

  Harriet shivered again and had to make a conscious effort to stop her teeth from chattering. This was not the first time she had been in London. Mr. Sullivan, Clara’s husband, had brought them there once for a brief visit and shown them all the famous sights. On one memorable occasion he had taken them to the theater. On most of those outings his friend had been Harriet’s escort. Lord Archibald Vinney—tall, blond, handsome, charming. Harriet swallowed and remembered the pathetically naive girl she had been then, though she had been two-and-twenty at the time. Although she had thought herself on her guard, she had still believed when he began to propose to her that it was marriage he was offering. An aristocrat, heir to a dukedom, proposing marriage to a little mouse of a lady’s companion! Harriet felt embarrassment for her former self. It was a very generous carte blanche he had been offering.