“Are you well, miss?” Mary asked with concern. “You’re looking pale.”
With effort Gus pulled herself back to the present. Mary was right: Her reflection in the looking glass before her was pale, her freckles more pronounced across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Yet it wasn’t just the pallor that made her face seem unfamiliar, or the fashionable London style that Mary had coaxed her reluctant hair to assume. She wasn’t the same woman who’d begun the summer, or even the day. Loving Harry had changed her forever, and the proof was there in her own features.
“I’m fine, Mary,” she said, hooking her pearl drop earrings into her ears. “I suppose I’m a little weary, that is all. There’s been so much to do with the duke and duchess here.”
“Yes, miss,” Mary said, giving Gus’s hair one final pat. “It’s a pity your father isn’t here to see how well you’ve arranged everything so successful. He’d be so proud of you, miss, sitting at dinner with a duke and a duchess!”
Gus’s smile was small and tight as she turned away from the looking glass.
“Let us survive dinner tonight before you speak of successes, Mary,” she said, standing and smoothing her skirts over her hoops. “I’m terrified that one of the footmen will drop a tureen full of soup to splatter on Her Grace’s gown, or that some stray mouse will go racing through the dining room beside His Grace’s chair.”
“I wouldn’t worry, miss, not at all,” Mary declared, and pressed her hands together. “Don’t you look fine, miss, and fit for London society! You’ll have His Grace and his lordship squabbling over who’ll take you in to dine, that’s for certain, and the poor duchess left behind.”
Gus smiled, more at Mary’s loyalty than the compliment itself. She was wearing her best silk damask gown, deep blue with a pattern of silver pomegranates embroidered around the neckline and on the cuffs, and she knew it suited her. But the gown had been stitched by a Norwich mantua maker, not a fashionable one in London with a French name, and she knew that in comparison with the golden-haired and elegantly stylish duchess, she’d be a poor second.
“I do not believe Her Grace will worry overmuch about competing with me, Mary,” she said wryly. “If Julia were here, then things might be different, but—ah, there’s someone at the door, Mary. Would you please answer, and if it’s one of the maids from Mrs. Buchanan, tell her I’ll be there directly.”
Hurriedly she reached for her folded fan from her dressing table and tucked it into her pocket for later. There, she thought, that should be all, and she turned, ready to head downstairs to the kitchen for one last conversation to reassure Mrs. Buchanan.
But the servant at her bedchamber door wasn’t one of the scullery maids from the kitchen. It was Tewkes.
He bowed before her, holding out a small silver salver with a letter on it.
“From his lordship, Miss Augusta,” he said, holding the salver out to her. “His lordship desires that you read it and reply at once.”
Gus took the letter, her heart racing. Only her full name—Lady Augusta Wetherby—was written across the front. It was strange to realize she’d never seen his handwriting, not once, and yet somehow she was sure she would have recognized it anywhere, bold and slashing and masculine. She turned it over in her hands, her finger slipping beneath the seal. That, at least, was achingly familiar to her, the armorial figure from his intaglio ring pressed into the wax reminding her of all the times she’d held his hand while his leg had pained him.
He’d written only a few lines on the heavy cream stock—a few lines that could mean everything, or nothing.
My own Dear Lady,
Please honor me with your presence, & join me now in the rose garden.
With Much Love & Affection,
Yr. Ob’t. S’v’t.
Hargreave
“I must go to him,” she said aloud without realizing it, then with a little shake she turned back toward the servants. “Mary, please tell Mrs. Buchanan that I will come to her in a quarter hour, no more. Tewkes, you need not tell his lordship that I’ll attend him, because I am going to him directly.”
She truly did have only a quarter hour, because a quarter hour after that the duke and duchess would appear downstairs for dinner. She prayed that whatever Harry wished to say to her could be said in fifteen minutes’ time, but beyond that she didn’t dare hope.
She knew exactly where to find him in the rose garden, a curving stone bench beneath the arbor, because they’d often stopped there to rest his leg. Twilight had just begun to fall for the summer night, with the first stars beginning to show overhead and a silvery crescent moon rising over the tops of the trees. The birds were singing their last songs for the day, settling to roost, and the glowworms were beginning to show in the hedges around the garden. The kitchen doors were thrown open to catch the cooler evening air, and from them came the distant sounds of clanging pans and crockery, and Mrs. Buchanan calling orders to her staff as the last preparations for dinner were made.
Aware she hadn’t much time, Gus walked briskly along the familiar paths, her shoes crunching on the gravel and her silk skirts rustling around her ankles. Her heart was racing and her breath quick as she turned around the last tall hedge, and there he was.
Harry was sitting on the bench, a lantern with a thick candle inside hooked to the arbor’s post. He, too, was dressed for dinner, more formally than she’d ever seen him. His suit was a soft blue-gray, almost as if it had been cut from the twilight sky, with curling silk embroidery dotted with gold paillettes that winked in the candlelight. The buttons on his coat and waistcoat sparkled as well with cut stones that might have been paste, or might just as well have been diamonds, and there were more cut stones on the buckles of his shoes. As soon as he saw her, he smiled and began to stand.
“Don’t rise on my account, Harry,” she said, coming forward to take his hand as she bent to kiss him lightly, a greeting more than a passionate lover’s embrace.
“Thank you for coming, Gus,” he said, his eyes dark in the half-light. “I’d almost persuaded myself that you wouldn’t.”
“Of course I would,” she said, more breathlessly than she wished. She sat on the bench beside him, sweeping her skirts to one side. “But I haven’t much time, and neither do you. Your father will be—”
“I know we don’t have time,” he said firmly, “and I don’t want to squander what we have discussing my father. What happened today—”
“I know,” she said quickly, saying the words before he’d say them himself. “It—it wasn’t how you wanted it to be.”
“Not at all,” he said, agreeing far too fast. “It wasn’t right.”
She looked down at their clasped hands, rubbing her thumb lightly over his, and she blinked, struggling to keep back the tears. She’d guessed right. This was how it would end, then, with an agreement that everything had been an impulsive mistake.
“No,” she whispered miserably. “Oh, Harry, I’m sorry.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Gus,” he said. “I’m the one who should be down on my knees, begging your forgiveness in every way I can. But I can’t. Damnation, I can’t. But I can do the one thing I should have done long ago.”
He reached into the pocket of his coat, fumbling a bit, before he drew out the little plush-covered box. Of course she recognized it. Of course she knew what it was, but knowing still didn’t keep her from gasping, her hand fluttering to her mouth.
“Dearest Gus,” he said, opening the box to take out the ring. “Would you do me the greatest honor in the world, and be my wife, my love, my life?”
The ring was even more magnificent than she remembered, the large round stone surrounded by smaller ones, like an icy white flower blooming with diamonds. She swallowed hard, her head spinning as she willed herself not to faint. What kind of useless woman fainted when the man she loved asked her to marry him?
“Oh, Harry,” she said, blurting out the first thing that came to her. “That’s—that’s the ring you brou
ght for my sister.”
He stared at her. “It’s my mother’s ring,” he said. “I brought it with me to Wetherby, yes, but it never came near your sister’s hand. This is where it belongs.”
He took her hand and gently, easily, slipped the ring onto her finger.
She stared down at it in wonder, hoping he didn’t notice how her hand was shaking. “It fits me,” she said. “It wouldn’t have fit Julia.”
He laughed, delighted. “Julia wouldn’t have fit me, either. I was just too much of a blockhead to see it at first. You’re the one I love, Gus, and the one who was meant for me. The only one.”
“Harry,” she whispered, overwhelmed. “When you said this afternoon that things hadn’t happened as you’d wished, I thought you had regrets about—about what we’d done, and wished to be free.”
He stared at her, incredulous. “Why in blazes would I ever think that, Gus? Why would I regret loving you?”
She shook her head, unable to answer. So far she’d said everything wrong that she could, babbling on about Julia and telling him she’d doubted him. She looked up from the ring to his face, letting herself tumble into the infinite love she found in his eyes.
“Oh, goodness, Harry,” she said, faltering. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
“You could say yes,” he said. “That would do.”
“Yes,” she said, never realizing how magical a word it could be. “Yes, Harry, I’ll marry you, and—and oh, I do love you so much, and—”
But whatever else she’d intended to say was lost between them as he pulled her from the bench and into his arms and kissed her. He kissed her exactly the way that she liked, impetuous and demanding and rather masterful, turning her breathless and mussing her clothes and hair and generally making her think only very wicked, wanton thoughts with him as the centerpiece. She was sure that no other man could ever kiss her like this, despite having no kissing experience where other men were concerned—which, considering she now was going to forsake all others and be Harry’s wife, was perfectly, perfectly fine.
When at last they separated, he was breathing hard, and even by the lantern’s light she could see that he was flushed, and that his forehead, right where his hair fell forward, was glistening with a tiny beading of sweat. True, the evening was warm, but she was certain that she’d done that to him, just by kissing him. She’d aroused the Earl of Hargreave, and she grinned, unable to help herself.
“Don’t you smile at me like that, Gus,” he warned. “Because when you do, I forget entirely about going in to dinner with Father and Celia and think about other things that I’d rather be doing with you. Here. Now. On this bench.”
“Ooh,” she said, blushing but intrigued. “If we’re thinking of the same things, then you are making me forget about dinner, too. I’m not sure, however, that a stone bench would be the most comfortable of places on which to lie.”
“One does not necessarily need to lie anywhere, Gus,” he said. “Your ignorance is appalling. Your husband will have his work cut out for him, teaching you everything you need to know.”
“My husband.” She ran her hand lightly down his chest in wonder, her smile wobbling. The ring on her hand was beautiful, the weight unfamiliar, and yet so full of sparkling promise for their shared future. “My husband, Harry.”
“My wife, Gus.” He raised her hand and kissed the back, then turned it and kissed her palm, giving it a seductive little nip that sent chills rippling up her spine. “But if we don’t go into the house soon, Father will hunt us down. You must trust me that that would not be an experience you would enjoy.”
She laughed softly and leaned forward to kiss him again. “Can we tell them? About getting married?”
He wasn’t entirely paying attention to what she was asking as he trailed his fingers over the tops of her breasts. “We can, and we will. I do not wish for a long engagement.”
She sighed, surprised by exactly how pleasurable that grazing little touch was. “I don’t suppose I might come to your room again this evening?”
“What, for another round on the chamber horse?” he said, more to her breasts than to her. “As much as I wish it, no. I suspect that this may in fact be the last time we’ll be allowed alone together. Father feels your father has been negligent in guarding your virtue.”
“Father trusts me,” she said defensively.
“Yes, he did, didn’t he,” Harry said drily. “He trusted me with you as well, and we both know how that has turned out. Not that I would wish it otherwise, mind you. But my father is here to see that propriety reigns once again, no matter the hour of the day or night.”
Gus sighed with regret. It was sobering to realize that while Father had followed Julia to London to make sure she didn’t misbehave with gentlemen, she had been the one who’d leaped headfirst into mischief with Harry. So while she could understand the duke’s reasons for wanting a show of propriety, the wicked part of her—a part she hadn’t known she possessed, and the part of her that was even now arching her back so that his fingers could dip into the front of her gown and under her stays and shift to find her breasts—argued differently. They were going to be married and they’d already made love once, so where was the harm in doing it again?
But his mention of the hour did remind her of her promise to Mrs. Buchanan. That quarter hour she’d allotted to Harry must nearly be done by now.
“What is the time?” she asked.
He pulled out his gold watch, flipping the lid open with his thumb. “Nearly eight thirty. Later than I’d thought, though I’ll grant it is nearly dark now, isn’t it?”
“Eight thirty!” cried Gus, stunned. “Harry, we were to sit at the table at eight!”
To her horror, he actually shrugged his silk-covered shoulders. “Father won’t care, once we tell him the reason.”
“But I’ve kept Mrs. Buchanan waiting, Harry,” she said, slipping from the bench and tugging her bodice back into place. “She’s been working herself and the staff into an absolute frenzy all day to make a meal worthy of your father, and now I will have spoiled it.”
“We spoiled it,” he said mildly, though he did reach for his crutch. “And I’d do it again, too, given the choice.”
“Oh, yes, and lose the best cook in Norfolk,” Gus said. “You go explain to your father and Her Grace. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve done my best to placate Mrs. Buchanan.”
“Gus, wait,” he said, standing, and finally he looked as concerned as she did. “Don’t tell the servants about us before we tell Father. You can’t do that.”
“It will serve you right if I do,” she said, only half teasing. “I will see you in the drawing room with your father and stepmother.”
“Gus, please,” he said softly. “Please.”
He reached out to take her hand, which she knew was as much to keep her from leaving without him as it was from fondness. But she was willing to pretend she didn’t, because she was fond of him as well.
“Please listen to me, Gus,” he said, his voice an interesting mixture of male reason and humbled pleading. “If your cook is the marvel you claim, then she will have devised a way to keep everything simmering in your absence. No doubt she has done it before, and will do it again. She will cope. You, however, will have but one chance to walk into that drawing room by my side, ready to announce that we will be man and wife. Only one, Gus. My own dear, dear Gus.”
She sighed, unable to resist him when he called her that. She kissed him again, unable to resist that as well.
“Very well, then, Harry,” she said. “I’ll concede, and go with you, instead of downstairs. But if the pudding is dry or the joint too done, you cannot say a word. Not a single word, not over so much as one burned crumb.”
He bowed his head in agreement, then smiled wickedly, taking every bit of the acquiescence from the bow.
“I love you, too, Gus,” he said. “Now come. A fine dinner of burned crumbs awaits.”
Harry had looked forward to this di
nner. Having Gus accept his proposal had made him vastly happy, and proud as hell, and he could not wait to share that happiness and pride with his father. It should have been a meal full of rejoicing and good humor with people he loved.
Instead it was a complete and unmitigated disaster, and the disaster had nothing to do with dry puddings or burned roasts, either.
Everything began well enough. He’d made their announcement as soon as they’d joined Father and Celia in the drawing room. There’d been appropriate congratulations all around, and a gratifying welcome to the family for Gus by Father, who’d kissed her on the cheek and told her she’d be the daughter he’d always wanted. She’d smiled and blushed prettily at that, and Harry had dared to hope he’d never have to hear again about how daunting Father was.
Things were still agreeable when they’d gone into dinner. Since there were only four of them, Gus had decided not to use the dining room with the awkwardness of its long, grand table, but instead had a smaller square table set in the parlor overlooking the gardens. It was much more intimate, almost French in feeling, and the cloth, the silver, and the china were all impeccably presented, with Gus assuming the role of hostess with ease, directing servants and making appropriate small talk. Even the food was surprisingly good, despite Gus’s worries, without a hint of suffering from the delay.
Harry could tell Father and Celia were impressed, especially since he suspected their expectations had been very low on account of Gus’s age. He was thoroughly proud of her. She looked ravishing, and ravishable as well, her gown displaying her figure to admirable effect. At least he was spending a good deal of time admiring it.
And then, thanks to Father, everything went wrong.
“You’re an admirable hostess, Augusta,” Father said as the table was being cleared. “Your father should be proud to have such an accomplished daughter acting in his stead while he is away.”
Gus smiled with pleasure, and Harry did, too. Gus was uneasy with compliments about her person, not trusting them to be real, but praising her about how the household was run was guaranteed to please her. Father had done well with that.
A Wicked Pursuit Page 22