by Allison Lane
“I will examine it, my lady,” promised Harriet. “And thank you for the encouragement. Perhaps I am too sensitive about my appearance.”
“One must make the most of whatever the good Lord blessed us with,” stated Lady Lanyard. “But having done that, never waste time or energy bemoaning that which cannot be changed. And Harriet,” —the blue eyes sharpened as they caught her gaze— “you should beware. Those of us who suffer from late development often share another problem. The body’s rush to catch up can result in a confusing mix of emotions that plays havoc with your common sense and leaves you susceptible to seduction. Be careful. Charles can be overly charming at times.”
“Thank you, my lady. I am familiar with his reputation, but he knows better than to turn his wiles on me until we are wed. He values his life too much.”
Lady Lanyard chuckled, relaxing in relief. “A girl after my own heart,” she murmured.
“I will leave you now, as I believe you need to rest,” decided Harriet.
* * * *
Lady Lanyard continued staring at her youthful portrait long after Harriet departed. “Hand me the letters in the left-hand slot of the escritoire, Simms,” she ordered when her maid entered the room. “And my lorgnette.”
* * * *
Harriet finally ran Charles to ground in the stables.
“Your grandmother suggested I look at the gallery,” she stated baldly. “You had best show me the family portraits, for she is sure to ask questions later. I suspect this will be your last chance to show them to me for some time.” His nose was red, his eyes watered, and his cheeks were flushed with fever, symptoms of a severe chill. He would likely be confined to his room for at least a week.
“All right,” he agreed, his voice already scratchy. He sneezed.
It would not do to show any personal interest in the paintings. And she certainly could not let on that she was the same age as Lady Lanyard had been in the earlier picture. But Lady Lanyard’s official portrait was so different that Harriet nearly gasped.
Gainsborough had painted the young bride life-sized against the riotous greenery of one of his rustic exteriors, a setter poised regally at her feet. Lady Lanyard had grown tall, and her tight, low-cut bodice revealed enticing curves and an almost voluptuous bosom. Even with the powdered hair and elaborate gown, she was beautiful.
“I wish I had known her then,” murmured Charles, half to himself, as he stared at the painting. One hand hesitantly reached out as if to stroke that painted cheek. “She was so incredibly beautiful. Of course, she was probably just as dictatorial then as she is now. She acquired some very odd notions from her first husband. And she had to be conceited. All beauties are.”
“Since her first husband supplied the funds you hope to inherit, you had best not criticize the fellow,” Harriet snapped before sinking into study of the painting.
It was a good likeness. The image projected an ethereal quality, as if it might at any moment step off the canvas. The alluring half-smile seemed ready to break into an intimate chuckle.
Charles was still engrossed, his face reflecting some emotion Harriet could not identify. Not awe or love. Worship perhaps? But that did not fit either.
She turned her thoughts to the lady herself, barely nineteen and betrothed a year earlier to an elderly manufacturer because she was too dowdy to show her face in London. What must she have felt to find herself beautiful?
Conceit was impossible. Her previous lack of beauty aside, it was hard to reconcile self-centeredness with the woman she had become. Lady Abigail had made the most of so unpromising a start, growing fond of her husband, earning the regard that prompted him to place his fortune permanently in her hands, and eventually returning to the society to which she belonged. It was an encouraging tale of accomplishment.
With a start, Harriet realized that several minutes had passed in silence. Charles still stared at Lady Lanyard, his gaze riveted to that painted face as though it held the key to eternal life.
She shivered, then spoke. “She was indeed lovely, but who else is in here?”
Charles jumped at the sound of her voice, a sheepish look stealing into his eyes.
“This was her second husband, the seventh Baron Lanyard," he wheezed, pointing to a portly gentleman in his mid-forties.
Harriet paid little attention to the other paintings, beyond noting that Charles’s mother bore no resemblance to his grandmother. Lady Rathbone appeared as dour and toplofty as her brother.
By the time they left the gallery, Charles could no longer hide his frequent use of a handkerchief. He retired to his room and spent the next fortnight in bed with a raging chill. For the sake of the servants, Harriet sent him encouraging messages, but in truth, she enjoyed the freedom from his intimidating presence. Despite the act he adopted of loving her, she could feel his disapproval. With familiarity, others would surely notice.
Lord Lanyard made her welcome, no longer trying to probe her background. Lucas insisted on flirting, though never seriously, so she was able to respond in kind. Even the servants accepted her as part of the family, no longer straining to hear every word she said. Lady Lanyard spoke with her daily, but without the suspicion that had characterized their early conversations.
Edith was occasionally allowed to join them for tea, and even for dinner one night. In company, the girl seemed less hoydenish, closely minding her manners and refraining from praise of her cousin’s dissolute lifestyle.
Morning rides formed the highlight of Harriet’s days. It was heaven to have access to quality mounts again. Pressing debts had forced her father to sell the last of their horses two years before. She often wondered what had become of Firefly, her favorite mare. She hoped the new owner was kind.
Her biggest complaint was that life was growing too relaxed. The pleasant routine made it difficult to maintain the guard on her tongue that would protect her true identity.
Chapter Five
Lord Lanyard joined his mother for breakfast one morning. “I received the details of the accident at Willingford House.”
“And?” she prompted.
“Willingford arranged the gathering to find a suitor for his daughter. It was to last a fortnight. Charles eschewed most of the formal activities and rode off on his own. It was while he was engaged in a solo ride the second morning of the party that he lamed his horse, but his own injuries were confined to a concussion and sprained wrist. He was tended by a neighbor for several hours until Willingford fetched him back. Unfortunately, Knightsbridge has no idea who the neighbor was.”
“So we still know nothing.” Lady Lanyard sighed. “He could have fed her that story.”
“Personally, I think he must have,” he declared. “There is more.”
“What?”
“Charles did not remain for the entire fortnight, but packed up abruptly midway through the party. He claimed an emergency at Swansea, and several guests believe that he bolted to avoid a leg-shackle – the daughter of the house was diligent in nursing his injuries – however, the more persistent rumor is that Willingford threw him out for dallying with his wife. Something about being discovered in the folly.”
Lady Lanyard’s eyes flashed. “I must talk with hi—” She cut off the words and frowned. “No. Summon Miss Sharpe.”
“You wished to see me, my lady?” asked Harriet when she reached Lady Lanyard’s room.
“Yes, my dear. I just heard a most disturbing tale about Charles and hoped you could enlighten me.”
What now? Had someone backtracked them to that inn? “Anything,” she murmured.
“My son had a letter from a friend, mentioning that Charles left the Willingford party early, ostensibly on orders from Lord Willingford. Did such an event occur?”
Harriet forced herself to laugh lightly while her mind raced. Obviously they had been investigating the tale of how she and Charles met. She wondered how much they knew.
It did not take long to invent a mixture of truth and fiction to explain those ru
mors. If it did not fit, they could presume that the tale had been diluted for the ears of young innocents like herself.
“Yes, it did,” she admitted, shaking her head, “though for once Charles was not at fault. Lady Willingford followed him to the folly one afternoon and threw herself into his arms. They were discovered almost immediately by her husband. Charles is lucky it was no worse. Willingford has resorted to challenges more than once. His wife is a disgrace.”
“You mean Lady Willingford attacked him?” echoed an amazed Lady Lanyard.
“That is the tale I heard. I am not surprised. Her affairs are legendary. She even used me to cover one a few years ago, swearing that she was looking after the poor, motherless neighbor chit when she was really visiting Sir William.”
“Scandalous! Are you sure Charles was innocent?”
“Of course not. You must know his reputation. But I also know hers. She would never allow so handsome a man to ignore her. And she would have had many opportunities to approach him. He loathed her empty-headed daughters and avoided them whenever possible. Manners prevented him from spending too much time with me. I was appalled to learn why he left and refused to see him when he first returned to the area. But he swears he was the victim. That I can accept because it was in the past. He also claims no interest in anyone else. I am willing to give him a chance to prove himself, for love can be a powerful force for change. But he’ll rue the day he was born if he strays in the future. I’ll not tolerate a tomcat.”
Lady Lanyard accepted the explanation, and Harriet departed.
She had to tell Charles of this latest problem, but he was still tied to a sickbed. She hesitated, biting her thumbnail in indecision, but there was no choice. When she was sure the servants were elsewhere, she rapped on his door. He was alone, with the draperies of his windows drawn against the brilliant morning sun in deference to his pounding head.
“What the devil are you doing in here?” he demanded hoarsely.
“Be quiet and listen,” she snapped. “Your grandmother knows why you left Willingford in such a hurry.”
“What?” he choked, staring at her through the gloom. He looked perfectly miserable propped up in bed, a scarcely touched breakfast tray pushed to one side.
“She knows Willingford caught you in the folly with his wife and kicked you out. I claimed you were only kissing her – any more and it would have been pistols at dawn. I also said that she had approached you. I don’t care if it’s true, but it’s likely, given her history. You’d been there nine days, so it couldn’t have been the first time. What else were you to do? I doubt you liked spending time with her hen-witted daughters, and there cannot have been anyone interesting in attendance. The Willingfords would never include a guest who might out-shine their own girls. Frankly, I don’t understand why you were there in the first place.” She forced her mind back to the issue. “Because of the scandal, you had to do some fast talking to convince me to see you when you returned.”
His mouth was hanging open in shock. “Harriet, I—”
“I couldn’t care less what really happened. If it went further than that, you can be grateful that society remains reluctant to sully young innocents with the lurid details of a rake’s life.”
Without waiting for a response, she slipped back into the hall, relieved that no one was there. The last thing she needed was for someone to cry compromise and decide that a special license was called for.
* * * *
Charles’s mind whirled. Still groggy from his stuffy head and flaming throat, he could barely take in Harriet’s words.
He should never have raised the specter of that disastrous house party. Of course his grandmother would have checked on it. And it would have been easy. Knightsbridge had been another guest and was his uncle’s closest friend.
His stupidity was appalling.
Harriet had come very close to the truth. Lady Willingford really had followed him that day – not that he had objected. Shaking his head, he stifled the memories, only to sit up in shock as a new question crashed into his mind.
How had Harriet learned about Lady Willingford’s propensities? That was not something either his uncle or his grandmother would have told her. And she had deduced the makeup of that party perfectly. He had never mentioned Willingford’s purpose for the gathering. Who was the chit, and how well did she know Lincolnshire?
His throbbing head forced him to lie down, but the questions continued. If Harriet knew that much, perhaps she also knew what else had occurred. Could she actually be one of Willingford’s tenants?
Grumbling, he reached for the bellpull, spilling the breakfast tray onto the bed. Cold tea ran beneath the sheet to pool near his right hip.
* * * *
“Lord Rathbone has been behaving himself, hasn’t he?” Bea asked when she joined Harriet for morning chocolate.
“Of course. He is still tied to his bed. And even if he weren’t, I doubt he would try anything. When he stole a kiss early on, I told him how I had dealt with Lord Heflin.” Her body’s reaction on that occasion had been so much stronger than she had expected that she was grateful for his illness. It kept him well away from her.
“You didn’t!” Laughter lighted Bea’s eyes, belying her shocked expression.
“I’m afraid I did. I only hope they are not too close, though he seemed furious that I would consider them alike.” She frowned. “He also knows that I know about Lady Willingford. Why?”
“That’s all right then.” She sighed in relief.
“What happened to bring this up, Bea?” asked Harriet sharply. “He is a blatant libertine but is confined to quarters.”
“Not entirely. Last night he cornered me in the conservatory and tried to press attentions on me, though to give him his due, he did not use force and accepted my refusal.”
“That is still unconscionable,” glared Harriet. “You are a guest in his grandmother’s house. Whatever his ideas about our background, an honorable gentleman would leave you alone.”
“This is hardly a usual situation,” protested Beatrice. “I suspect he was stretching his legs and was unaware that I was there until he arrived. Given the opportunity, he was testing the bounds. Now that he knows, he will leave me alone. I am only grateful he has not pressed you.”
“You act as if attempted seductions were acceptable. I don’t know what passes for manners in America, but in our present situation it is simply not done.” Beatrice opened her mouth to protest, but Harriet cut her off. “Don’t remind me of how much infidelity goes on in society, for we have discussed it before. This is different. We are guests at a deathbed gathering, and he is relying on us to provide him a fortune. Trying to seduce you is idiotic and shows that he is even more arrogant and self-centered than I thought. Honestly, I don’t know how anyone can stand gentlemen. They seem to believe that inheriting a title, which they have done nothing to earn, should give them carte blanche to behave however they wish.”
“That is surprising, coming from the daughter of just such a man. You’ve a title of your own, if you recall.”
“Courtesy only. Lady Melissa hardly wields the same power as ruling lords. But it is because I have rubbed shoulders with them all my life that I feel able to criticize. My father was a weakling who did nothing to improve his precarious position. My brother is worse. Why should they deserve fawning respect just because a remote ancestor did a favor for the ruling monarch?”
“You had best come to America,” suggested Beatrice. “Democratic ideas are applauded on our side of the Atlantic. If you stay here, you could jeopardize your future with such statements.”
“Relax, Bea. I would not dream of repeating such a thing to anyone else. You are a safe outlet because you are American. Besides, there is little chance I will ever marry, so my odd ideas will not matter. I can become a country eccentric.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. And don’t condemn people you have never met by assuming that all aristocrats are alike. The world is not a simple
place.”
When Charles officially rose from his bed, Harriet was noticeably cooler. She remained polite but distant in the drawing room before dinner. He puzzled over the change, but she successfully sidestepped a tête-à-tête so he was unable to question her. He attributed the change to his affair with Lady Willingford. He still wondered what she knew, but he could think of no way to ask.
Lady Lanyard’s solicitor finally arrived and spent several hours closeted in the sickroom. Charles wandered the house, too nervous to sit for more than a minute and too fearful to absent himself in case his grandmother took it into her head to summon him. She had already demanded an explanation of the Willingford scandal, seeming satisfied with his story. As near as he could tell, Harriet knew more than she did, raising further questions about her past.
The servants avoided him. His temper had grown testier during his illness, which the uncertainty of his situation did nothing to improve. His future was in Harriet’s hands, but he had not been in a position to supervise her. And his irritation had increased hourly since his recovery.
The chit crawled under his skin like no one else. She treated him like a recalcitrant child. Her refusal to acknowledge their different stations annoyed him no end. She showed no awe of his title, no appreciation for his elegance, no interest in his looks, and no envy of his superior social skills. When she wasn’t avoiding him, she criticized everything he said, haughtily enough to be a duke’s daughter. He had received more set-downs from her than from anyone else in his life.
His usual appetites were also interfering with thought. Illness had prevented that trip to Bridport but had done nothing to depress his needs. He dared not approach the servants or any of the village lasses. Word would immediately reach his grandmother’s ears. Years earlier, she had made it clear that she would never countenance interference with her dependents. Hoping that Mrs. Sharpe might be amenable, he had sounded her out. After all, she was both a handsome woman and a widow. With luck, she would have needs of her own.