A Wicked Pursuit

by Isabella Bradford

Harry was delighted that Vilotti, Bernadino, and Riccio had accepted his invitation, and so swiftly, too. Having music to help pass his hours here would be a welcome luxury. It was also something he’d hoped to share with Gus, as well as with Julia and the viscount in time; he doubted Wetherby Abbey had ever had music of this caliber in this corner of Norfolk, a small gift to begin to repay all their hospitality.

  Gus, however, did not appear to share his appreciation. She stormed into his room, her skirts flying and her hands in fists at her sides—hands that, as soon as she stood beside his bed, she composed into a tightly clasped knot at her waist.

  “My lord,” she said, her voice clipped. “My lord, I must speak to you directly.”

  “You already are speaking to me, Miss Augusta,” he said, smiling warmly. He couldn’t fathom exactly why she’d be so upset, but he was determined to disarm her. “Unless there is some special Norfolk-ian nuance that I am overlooking.”

  “Don’t,” she said crossly. “I’m in no humor for your raillery, my lord. How could you do this to me?”

  “To you?” he asked, raising his brows with genuine surprise. “You make no sense, my dear.”

  She drew in her breath with sharp indignation. “I am not your dear, my lord. What I am is astonished by your condescension, your boldness, your sheer presumption, to invite these men to come and—and lodge at my father’s house as if it were some low tavern, without saying so much as a whisper of it to me in advance.”

  “They’re here now,” he said in a loud whisper. “And yes, by my invitation, too.”

  He knew it was wicked of him to whisper like that, but he’d been unable to resist such a splendid opportunity—especially when he saw how her eyes widened with something very close to outrage.

  “My lord,” she said, speaking in a low, fierce whisper of her own. “If it were up to me, they would be deposited outside the gates now, and you with them.”

  He widened his smile, knowing the devastating effect that generally had on women. “Oh, Miss Augusta. You don’t really mean that.”

  “I do.” The clasped hands unclasped, and became arms crossed over her chest, a clear sign that she was too angry to succumb even to his smile. “I will not have this house turned into some low fiddlers’ hall simply for your amusement.”

  “They’re not low fiddlers,” he said, turning a bit defensive himself. “They’re maestros, Miss Augusta. They’ve performed at court, and for the French court as well. I have been honored to be among their patrons for several years, and even more honored that they’ve deigned to come to me here.”

  She pressed her lips tightly together as she listened, but at least she was listening, even if she still had refused to sit in the chair he’d offered.

  “But why didn’t you tell me you’d invited them, my lord?” she asked finally. “Why did you let me be surprised like this?”

  So that was her real objection: He’d overruled her power as mistress of the house. He could understand that, especially since his convalescence was making him feel pretty near powerless himself.

  “Forgive me,” he said as contritely as he could. “I should have warned you. But your father’s house is very large, and at present I appear to be your only guest. Considering how skilled as you are at managing, Miss Augusta, surely you could find one room for these fine fellows?”

  She bowed her head, considering. But the fact that she was considering at all showed that he’d been right to praise her management skills. It wasn’t empty flattery, either; he’d been impressed by what he’d seen of how well she ran such a sizable estate. Some married ladies never could figure out how to balance their staff, family, and guests with thrift and finances to make for a smooth-running household, and with disastrous results, too. Yet as young as Gus was, she seemed to have a genuine gift for it.

  Somehow he doubted Julia had the same abilities or inclinations, which was worrisome. As his duchess, she’d be responsible for several different houses and estates and dozens of servants. Perhaps when the time came, he could beg Gus to come instruct her sister in some of the finer points of management—though as soon as the thought rose up in his mind, he discarded it as a pointless, empty experiment doomed to fail.

  Which brought him back to the present, with Gus standing before him with a furrowed brow. Slowly the tightly clasped arms had relaxed to her sides, and they now rested akimbo with hands on her hips.

  “How does one characterize foreign musicians, my lord?” she asked at last. “The only hired musicians we’ve had in the house for balls or parties came here from Norwich in an open wagon, and they left at the end of the evening. We’ve never had any stay with us.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Harry that she would have no experience with musicians, let alone Italian musicians. Buried away in this provincial backwater, she’d likely never tasted Italian food, either, or seen Italian paintings, or a score of other wonderful Italian delights that he rather took for granted from traveling on the Continent.

  “I suppose they must be like hired tradesmen,” she continued, still struggling to sort out the typology of musicians in relation to Wetherby Abbey. “Not that we’ve ever had a tradesman stay the night, either. Or would they be considered a manner of visiting servant, or guests?”

  “They should be treated as guests, Miss Augusta,” Harry said, relieved and pleased that she’d asked. “Any one of your lesser rooms will do admirably.”

  “How long do you expect them to be here as our, ah, guests?”

  “I believe they can only stay for two months or so,” he said. “They’ve other engagements after that in the fall.”

  “Two months!” she repeated with dismay.

  “I believe so, yes,” he said. “They will not, however, expect the honor of taking meals with the family, but be content to dine with one another, separate from your other guests.”

  She sighed. “I can do that, yes,” she said. “That is most helpful. I do not wish to give inadvertent offense, you see.”

  Harry glanced at the three men, who were already lost in their preparation. They had pulled three chairs in a semicircle before the window, each with his laced cocked hat sitting on the floor before him.

  “You should also warn your younger maidservants to be on their guard,” he said. “Bernadino is the very devil with women, a fox among the serving-hens if you do not take care.”

  Her expression grew very solemn, not at all in keeping with the light manner he’d adopted.

  “Oh, yes, my lord, we have had that problem here at the abbey before,” she said seriously. “We had one particularly, ah, amorous groom who was capable of inspiring love in every female servant who met him. I will be sure to take care with Mr. Bernadino, and caution all my staff to be vigilant around him, too.”

  She was so serious and innocent at the same time, standing there in her white apron and ruffled cap, ready to protect the virtue of the scullery maids from the amorous grooms, that Harry had to try very hard not to laugh. It was all very charming, and all the more so because he related to that amorous fox, with her being the delectable little hen.

  He stopped himself abruptly, stopped himself cold. What the devil was he thinking? Gus was going to be his sister-in-law, and not even the most roguish of foxes would make the mistake of dallying with his wife’s sister. But the vulpine side of him argued that Julia was not yet his wife, nor was Gus his sister. She was simply a young lady from Norwich who was miraculously becoming more and more attractive to him with each passing day.

  Not that that was an excuse for anything. Far from it. But it was an . . . explanation.

  Of sorts.

  Damnation.

  Vilotti stepped forward to the bed, bowing low before Harry with his violin already tucked beneath his chin.

  “Whenever it pleases you, my lord,” he said, “we are in readiness. Is there a piece that would please you above others?”

  Harry smiled with anticipation. “You know my tastes better than I do myself, Vilotti,” he said.
“Surprise me.”

  Gus leaned forward. “I must go, my lord,” she said. “I must make arrangements for the gentlemen’s rooms, and tell Mrs. Buchanan they will be here for supper.”

  “Stay,” he said, again motioning to the armchair. He wanted to share his own pleasure in the music with her. “Please. You’ll enjoy it.”

  She shook her head. “I really should go, my lord.”

  “Why are you always so eager to leave?” he asked, disappointment making him sound moody. “Am I that odious in your eyes? Or is it because you know I can’t follow you?”

  He caught the little wave of sympathy in her eyes, a sympathy so close to pity that he did not want it. Yet it accomplished what his charm had not: She turned the chair to face the musicians and sat, gracefully sweeping her skirts around her legs as she did.

  “One song,” she said, a quick conspirator’s smile, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. “Then I must go.”

  “Don’t think of where you must go, or what you must do,” he urged. “For once, don’t think, but listen.”

  She smiled again, settling more deeply into the chair. Vilotti softly counted down in Italian, and with a light, dancing opening the music began.

  Harry recognized it at once from the first notes, a cheerfully complex Vivaldi trio that was in fact one of his favorite pieces. He smiled as the familiar music filled the room, his spirits rising with every note. It was, he realized, the first time he’d ever listened to music in bed. Granted, the novelty was small compensation for a broken leg, but it was much more pleasurable than sitting in a crowded music room or a stuffy box in a theater.

  His smile widened as he glanced at Gus. She was enraptured, completely captivated by the music, her lips curved in an unconscious smile and her whole face radiating the pleasure and delight that she was feeling—exactly the response he’d hoped she’d have. He wondered if she’d ever attended a proper concert, something more substantial than those Norwich musicians in the open wagon. He couldn’t recall having ever seen her in London with Julia or her father, and from what she’d told him, he suspected she might never have come there at all.

  How entertaining it would be to show her about town, to be the first to take her to plays and concerts, Ranelagh and Covent Garden! He had, of course, done exactly that with several milliners and mantua makers’ apprentices, pretty young women who had amused him as his mistresses for a short time, but never with a lady. It wouldn’t happen with Julia, either, who already enjoyed the playhouse well enough, but mainly as a place to be admired as the gorgeous, golden creature she was. Not that he objected to that, of course—every man enjoyed a prize like her on his arm—but it wouldn’t be the same.

  He smiled to see Gus moving her head in time to the music, just a fraction, but enough to make the stray curls around her face skip lightly against her cheek. From the way she’d angled the chair to face the musicians, she wasn’t directly facing him any longer, but leaning to one side with her hand resting on the arm of the chair.

  Below the white ruffles at her elbow, her arm was as white as ivory, the veins in her wrist pale and blue. Her hand rested at ease and her palm turned up with her fingers lightly curled, almost like some kind of rare blossom. She wore neither rings nor bracelets, and there was something perfectly pure about her hand that stirred him. Perhaps it was the memory of the strength and comfort that same little hand had given him through his suffering, or perhaps, more simply, because it was a part of Gus herself.

  All of which could be the reason for what he did next, more of that infernally complicated explanation.

  When she’d turned her chair to face the musicians, she’d also brought the chair much closer to Harry, sitting against the pillows in the bed. As she lost herself in the music, he slowly reached out and trailed the pads of his fingers along her upturned wrist.

  She started at his touch, jerking her head around to look first at his fingers on her arm, then at him, her eyes filled with question and doubt. But she didn’t pull away, and he didn’t stop, his gaze holding fast to hers.

  Her skin was impossibly soft beneath his fingertips, and as he crossed the veins on her wrist he could feel the subtle beating of her heart. He turned his hand to rub his thumb over that pulse, just enough to make it quicken. He saw the awareness in her eyes, and the way her lips parted with the little catch in her breath.

  From there it was easy enough to slip his fingers into hers, easy enough to tighten and close them together into one. At first she did not respond, keeping her fingers stiff and unyielding, but as he gently increased the pressure around them, she succumbed and curled her fingers into his. Then she blushed and hastily looked back to the musicians.

  But their hands remained clasped, linking them together. She did not pull away, and neither did he, and what he felt this time was not mere comfort, either.

  He’d never enjoyed Vivaldi more.

  With a flourish, the musicians ended the piece. Vilotti looked to Harry, seeking direction.

  “Continue, if you please,” Harry said. “Pray, do not stop.”

  Effortlessly the Italians began another piece, a sweeter composition, filled with the quivering strings of romantic passion. Harry smiled, amused. So Vilotti had taken notice of how he held Gus’s hand, and how she’d responded. Trust a Neapolitan to spot a blushing lady, even clear on the other side of the room.

  But the spell had been cracked, if not broken outright, when the music had paused.

  “We must talk, my lord,” Gus said softly, clearly troubled as she gazed down at their hands linked together. “I fear I have something of grave importance to tell you.”

  “No more pompous formality,” Harry said, “and no more ‘my lord’ing me at every instant. That’s what I must tell you. Call me Harry, as my friends do.”

  The trouble in her expression deepened. “Oh, my lord, I do not know if we are friends enough for that.”

  “We are,” he said firmly. “You have visited me in my bedchamber. You have seen me in my nightshirt. And you have held my hand, oh, any number of times.”

  But as soon as he mentioned their linked hands, she skittishly pulled hers free. He was sorry for that, very sorry. Yet he also knew better than to pursue her again, and besides, what he really wanted was for her to call him Harry.

  “You should not say such things,” she said. “It does not seem quite right. Besides, once I tell you what I must, you might not feel the same about our—our acquaintance.”

  “What could you possibly say to change my regard?” He hadn’t missed how for the first time she had let his honorific drop away. “If all that has passed these last weeks does not make us sufficient friends to dispense with titles, then I do not know what will.”

  She sighed, shaking her head.

  “Harry,” he said. “It’s an easy enough name, and a good deal less of a mouthful than all my given ones strung out together. Harry. Try it.”

  Still she didn’t speak, but he’d another tactic to try.

  “You’ll have no choice,” he said. “You must call me Harry, because I have every intention of calling you Gus.”

  She looked up sharply, and he knew he had her attention.

  “‘Miss Augusta’ must be a dreadful burden to bear,” he continued softly. “It’s a name for elderly maiden aunts with small, noisy dogs and barley-sugar twists tucked in their pockets. But Gus—Gus is spritely and charming and most excellent company. Gus likes Vivaldi, although she didn’t know it until a quarter hour ago. Gus has freckles across her nose like a dusting of nutmeg, and hair with more colors in it than Welsh gold, and the softest, most innocent hands in the—”

  “Dr. Leslie, my lord,” announced the footman at the doorway, shouting the name to be heard over the music.

  Gus almost catapulted from the chair in her haste to separate from him, and to greet the doctor as he came bustling into the room.

  “Dr. Leslie, good day,” she said breathlessly. To Harry’s eyes, she looked ru
mpled and flustered and desirable, while Harry knew he must appear so frustrated that he expected the doctor to want to start bleeding him again.

  “Good day, my lord, Miss Augusta,” Dr. Leslie said, fortunately so stunned to see the musicians that he took no notice of either Gus’s fluster or Harry’s frustration. “Heavens! I did not expect to find a musicale in progress here in your bedchamber, my lord.”

  “It’s done,” Harry said curtly, growing more and more irritated. Blast Leslie! If he hadn’t interrupted, Harry would have had Gus sweetly calling him by his name, and maybe even—well, he wasn’t sure how far he would have taken things with her, considering he shouldn’t have been doing any of it, but it would have been far better than what had just happened.

  He nodded to Vilotti, and the three musicians abruptly stopped playing. “My apologies, my friends,” he said, “but I’m afraid Leslie here is determined to poke and prod at my leg.”

  “If you will please come with me, gentlemen,” Gus said quickly, falling back into her customary efficiency as she regained her composure. “I’ll have a light refreshment arranged for you while your rooms are being readied.”

  Harry watched her go, the musicians happily following her with more bowing and complimenting at the prospect of food and drink.

  Not once did she look back at him.

  He hated being chained in one place like this, unable to leave this bed or go after her to explain. For a few precious moments, he’d forgotten he was a prisoner, forgotten he was a broken cripple, forgotten he was anything other than his old familiar self, flirting with a winsome girl.

  The self that was gone forever, with a girl who would never be his.

  Blast, blast, blast.

  She was a coward. There was no other way to look at it. A bumbling, babbling, incompetent coward.

  Gus stared up at the pleated silk canopy of her bed, her head too full of guilt and recriminations for sleep. Soon it wouldn’t matter if she slept or not, for by her last count, the tall clock in the hall had chimed four times. Soon the birds would begin to sing in the trees outside her window, the roosters would crow beyond the kitchen garden, the sun would slowly appear over the fields to the east. The house would begin to wake, too, with the scullery maids starting the kitchen fires under Mrs. Buchanan’s direction and the parlor maids opening blinds and sweeping out grates, and by then Gus should be up and beginning her own day.