He nodded, taking hold of her gloved hand and placing it between his own. The scent of orange blossoms invaded his senses, making him want to touch her cheek, curl his fingers around her lovely neck, and draw her to him. Would she let him?
“And if I desire to kiss a woman?” he asked, his body mere inches away from hers. “How would you suggest I go about that?”
Her reaction surprised him. Rather than scowl and reprimand him for voicing such an improper thought, a slight blush tinged her cheeks. She shrugged and looked away. “I cannot say. The only man who has ever attempted to kiss me received a hard slap to his cheek.”
Christopher laughed, wanting to kiss her more than ever. What would it feel like to hold her close and sample those lips? Would she slap him as well, or would she melt against him the way he hoped she would? Someday, he vowed he would have the courage to find out, and he very much looked forward to that day.
“Can I ask what you might consider an odd question?” he said, thinking back to the note that had accompanied the sonnet.
“Yes, though I will not promise to answer it.”
“I couldn’t help but notice that you spell Harriett with two Ts rather than the usual one. Is there a reason for that, or did your parents not know how to spell?”
She laughed lightly. “You really are quite the observer, aren’t you? Most people don’t notice the spelling and very few invitations that come in my name are written correctly. The truth of the matter is that the name Harriett was not my mother’s first choice for me—she thought it too ordinary—but my father had always adored it, and since she adored him, I was christened Harriett. My mother insisted on the second T because she did not want me to be ordinary. She wanted me to be uniquely me, whoever that turned out to be, and the extra T was her way of reminding me, or perhaps prodding me, in that direction.”
“Your mother was a wise woman,” Christopher found himself saying, believing it to be true. Harriett was the most unordinary woman he had ever known. Her uniqueness extended beyond her beauty and into her soul, just as her mother had hoped it would. At one point, he might have considered the name Harriett nondescript, but not anymore. Now, he thought it perfect.
Before he yielded to the ever-increasing urge to kiss her, he took her hand and tucked it through his, guiding her towards the statue at the center of the garden where the others were clustered.
Not long after, Cora proposed a game of shuttlecock, as she had discovered a pair of battledores—or rackets—in one of the outbuildings the other day. It was a game usually played by women and children, but Jonathan and Christopher had always been fond of a lark and agreed it would be fun. So a footman was sent to retrieve the items while Christopher’s parents settled down on a nearby bench, content to observe.
The game began as soon as the footman returned, with two persons playing at a time. When one of them failed to return the shuttlecock, he or she had to give up the baddledore to another player before play could continue. Christopher had always been good at the game in his youth and very seldom missed the shuttlecock. As the last of the light faded from the sky, he was officially declared champion.
His parents cheered from the bench, and Harriett shook her head as though she was not at all surprised. “Have you ever not come away the champion, Chris?” she asked wryly.
“Yes,” he said, thinking of several skirmishes he’d lost during the war and the tricky and diverting game he now played with Harriett. When it came to shuttlecock or other meaningless games, Christopher didn’t care a groat whether he won or lost, but when it came to more important things, he very much did care.
And Harriett, he was coming to realize, was most definitely one of those things.
As the hour approached midnight, Christopher found Jonathan seated at his desk in his study, composing some sort of letter.
Christopher dropped down in a chair opposite the desk, propping his boots on a nearby ottoman, and leaned back to tuck his hands behind his head. After such a precarious start to his day, he would have never guessed it would conclude on such a happy note.
The quill scratched across the parchment for another line or two before Jonathan stopped writing and glanced up. “There is no need for you to stay up late again, Christopher. I am sorry that things have not gone as planned. I feel like a widgeon for asking you to remain in Askern when so little has come of it. Even worse, I convinced you to imply something to your parents that is not true, and now they are here with the hope that you and Harriett will one day make a match of it. Honestly, I did not mean for any of this to happen. You would've been better off returning to London as you’d originally planned.”
Christopher paid the apology no mind and nodded towards the desk instead. “Are you making Mr. O’Rourke an offer for his land?”
“Yes, but I’m certain this is only the beginning. The offer comes nowhere near to what the property is worth, and he will undoubtedly think it laughable. But I cannot bring myself to pay its worth when most of it holds no value for me. I’m hoping that we can eventually reach a compromise that will not put me in the poorhouse.”
Christopher nodded and closed his eyes, feeling fatigued. The day had finally caught up with him, not that he was ready to give up on it just yet.
“Something Harriett said this morning got me thinking,” he said, not ready to reveal exactly what she’d said just yet. If this turned out to be a bad idea, he planned to take full credit.
“You? Thinking?” teased Jonathan. “Should I be concerned?”
“Perhaps,” said Christopher dryly, prying his eyes open. “I realize I know very little about estate management or negotiating, but it seems a poor investment to buy up so much land when you don’t need it. I can’t help but wonder if you are giving up too soon on changing Mr. O’Rourke’s mind. He was willing to sell at some point, after all. Perhaps with the right approach, we can bring him around again.”
Jonathan shook his head. “That was before he sought his solicitor’s advice, which I cannot fault him for. It is what I would have done in his situation and the wisest move for him to make.”
“Yes,” said Christopher. “But it is not the wisest move for you to make, is it? And you must do what is best for you, Jonathan, not what is best for him.”
Jonathan sighed, sounding depleted. “He is unwilling to sell only a parcel, so I fail to see what more can be done.”
Christopher dropped his boots to the ground and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He nodded at the letter. “Once you send that to him, you will be showing your hand, and he will know that you are willing to buy all of the land if you can agree on the price. But if you explain to him that you are unwilling to buy land you do not want or need, I wonder if he will not reconsider.”
Jonathan steepled his fingers under his chin, the way he always did when deep in thought. At last he said, “And if he does not fall for my bluff? What then? I would need to approach him again about buying the entire lot, and at that point he will know exactly how much I desire the land and will not be as willing to negotiate.”
“It is a gamble,” agreed Christopher, “but one worth taking, I believe. If you think about it, Mr. O’Rourke has already shown that he is willing to part with a portion of his land, and given the choice between selling some or none, I’m willing to wager there is a high probability that he will choose some.”
Jonathan fingered the letter as though undecided about which course to take. “You make a good argument.”
Encouraged, Christopher pressed on. “During the war, I became very good at anticipating the moves of my enemies. It’s what kept my crew safe and contributed greatly to our success. I tell you this not to brag, but to prove that I have good instincts. And my instincts are telling me that Mr. O’Rourke will come around eventually. It may take a month or two or even a year, but he will come around. He would not have been so quick to take you up on your offer before if he wasn’t inclined to sell.”
Jonathan nodded slowly, and after a
few moments, he picked up the parchment, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it at the fire. It curved to the left, struck the mantle, and rolled to a stop on the rug.
Christopher grinned at his friend. “That is why I bested you at shuttlecock. You always were a bad shot.”
“And you’re a bad poet.”
“As opposed to you?”
Jonathan chuckled. “Touché.”
Christopher stretched his arms over his head before stifling a yawn. “I’ll have you know that I did not pen one word of that sonnet, not that it matters. You will hold it over my head forevermore regardless.”
“Of course I will. You have to admit that Harriett has proven to be a worthy opponent, wouldn’t you say? Or has she become more to you than that?”
From the knowing look in Jonathan’s eyes, he had already surmised that she had. Christopher had never been able to fool his friend, but that did not mean he was ready to admit to anything just yet.
“Yes. She’s become a wretch.”
Jonathan snickered. “I should've known you'd say as much. You can never be serious for too long, can you?”
“No.” Christopher let out a heavy breath and heaved his body up, stifling another yawn. “Now that we have settled the matter with Mr. O’Rourke, I’m off to bed. Good night, my friend.”
He was nearly to the door when Jonathan's voice halted him. “Christopher, a word of advice before you leave, from one friend to another.”
His hand on the knob, Christopher looked over his shoulder.
The sound of Jonathan's fingers thrumming against his desk filled the silence. After a moment, it ceased, and Jonathan said, “You and Harriett will soon go to London. From what Cora has told me, she was highly sought after last season, and I think it safe to say that she will be a favorite this season as well. I only tell you this because… well, if she has become something more to you than a diversion, you would be wise to make the most of your time here.”
“Are you doubting my ability to compete with other men?”
Jonathan shook his head slowly. “I’m only saying that if you cannot manage to turn her up sweet when you are the only unmarried man in the vicinity, the likelihood of doing so in London will be slim.”
“Que sera sera,” Christopher said lightly, waving a dismissive hand as he exited the room. But as he walked back to his bedchamber, he knew he hadn’t fooled Jonathan. “What will be, will be” was a pretty phrase, and one he had tossed out a time or two over the years, but Christopher had never truly meant the words. That sort of attitude bordered on apathy, and he was anything but apathetic. Yes, there had been times in his life when he’d had to accept undesirable outcomes, but not before he had done everything in his power to alter them. Life was meant to be lived, not observed, and Christopher had always adhered to the notion that if he had the will, there had to be a way.
Unfortunately, when it came to Harriett, it was “the way” that eluded him.
THE ARRIVAL OF MR. and Mrs. Jamison marked a change at Tanglewood Manor. The house seemed less quiet, Christopher and Jonathan no longer made themselves scarce, and the days began to fill with outings and diversions, rushing past Harriett like the earth beneath a galloping horse.
The most intriguing change of all was Christopher. He was the first to stand when Harriett entered a room, the first to walk to her side, the first to extend a compliment of some sort, and the first to offer his arm when dinner or luncheon was announced. During their outings, he was attentive, but not too attentive, kind, but still a tease, and… well, charming. In essence, he became the perfect gentleman.
It confused Harriett somewhat. Was he attempting to heed her advice? Was it real? Or was he merely playing the part of a doting suitor for his parents’ benefit?
When the weather was fair, they picnicked, played lawn bowls or shuttlecock, and tried their hand at shooting. When the weather turned foul, they organized various card games, played spillikins, and entertained themselves with a lively game of charades.
One afternoon, Chris and Jonathan accompanied the ladies on a shopping excursion to town. Cora had insisted that Harriett replenish her depleted wardrobe with at least a few things, such as a new bonnet, and Harriett finally consented.
Inside the millinery shop, she fingered a straw bonnet, wondering if she could also wear it in London as well or if it was too countrified. If only she had a better eye for such things.
“I like it,” Chris said, stepping up next to her. “It is well made, a good balance of town and country, and best of all, the colors suit you well.”
She looked at him askance. “I had no idea you were such a fashion aficionado.”
He shrugged and casually leaned against the counter, folding his arms. “I have five sisters and was often required to accompany them on shopping excursions. I learned a great deal over the years, more than I ever hoped to know, if you want to know the truth.”
Harriett ran her fingers down the gold and burgundy ribbons, still undecided. “My modiste has told me that gold and this particular shade of burgundy becomes me.” Why had she said such a thing? It sounded so childish, as though she didn’t know her own mind, which admittedly, she didn’t. But he did not need to know that.
“That bonnet will more than become you,” he said.
The compliment surprised her, and Harriett searched his smiling eyes for a sign of sincerity. For all his recent charming ways, she could never be sure of what he truly thought. It all felt too surreal.
“Do you mean it?” she asked, hoping for assurance that he did.
Unfortunately, he did not comply. “Harriett, if you do not care for this bonnet, it is of no consequence to me. Most bonnets would become you, I imagine, and there are a great many to choose from.”
“It’s not that I don’t care for it,” she hedged, feeling silly for having such a ridiculous flaw. She was a lady, after all, and should be well versed in matters pertaining to fashion.
“Then what?” he asked, probably wondering why she was making such a fuss over something as insignificant as a bonnet.
She sighed, suddenly exasperated with herself and him. If he had not been the cause of so many ruined garments, she would not be in need of a new bonnet now. Why had Cora suggested that the men accompany them anyway?
“Harriett, do you like this bonnet or not?” Chris asked.
She may as well tell him the truth. Perhaps he would even surprise her by not teasing her about it incessantly. “I do not know because I have very little fashion sense, if you must know. That is why I never go shopping alone.”
His eyes widened slightly before his maddening mouth quirked into a smile. “Surely, you jest.”
“No, I do not,” she said curtly. “The only reason I paused to consider this particular bonnet is because I have learned that those colors look better on me than others. But is the poke too large, are those flowers gaudy or countrified, or is the whole creation too simple? These are things I do not know. Fashion changes so rapidly, and I have never been able to maintain its pace.”
Harriett frowned at the bonnet, wondering why she had agreed to this excursion. She would be meeting her mother and sister in London soon enough and could get by with what she had until then. And where was Cora when she needed her?
Harriett glanced around the shop, spotting her friend examining some ribbons across the way. But before Harriett could go to her, Chris caught her arm, bringing her attention back to him. With a look she could only describe as tolerance, he removed the bonnet she wore and replaced it with the one on display. He made quick work of tying the ribbons before taking hold of her shoulders and looking her over.
“As I said, most bonnets would look well on you, but this particular one suits you perfectly. It deepens the color of your eyes, adds vibrancy to your skin, and lends an air of intrigue. You look beautiful, Harriett, and if you do not purchase it at once, I will do it for you.”
The earnestness in his expression caused her heart to thump loudly in her ears, drownin
g out all other sounds. She feared she was growing to like this version of Chris altogether too much. With every passing day, her heart and mind swayed more and more in his direction. But did she dare hope that his heart swayed back? The fact of the matter was that a woman should trust the man she gave her heart to, and she did not trust Chris—not completely, at any rate, and especially not with her heart. She merely wanted to trust him.
“He’s right you know.” Cora entered the conversation, her eyes twinkling. “That bonnet is beautiful on you.”
“I cannot say the bonnet moves me as much as it does Christopher,” added Jonathan, his lips twitching, “but I concur that it looks well on you.”
Chris’s hands fell away from her shoulders, and his usual flippancy returned. “What do you mean it does not move you? Are you so unfeeling, Jonathan? I vow, I could write a sonnet about the loveliness of this particular bonnet.”
“Please do not,” said Jonathan with a chuckle. “We have heard more than enough of your sonnets to last a lifetime.”
“Agreed,” Chris said, turning back to Harriett. “You have now had three people praise this bonnet’s merits. What more can we say to convince you?”
“Nothing,” she said, ready to be done with this conversation. “I am quite convinced.”
“Did you hear that, Jonathan?” he touted. “I told you I had a knack for strategizing.”
“You also have a knack for boasting.”
Chris chuckled. “Perhaps.”
Harriett managed a smile, but her heart was not in it. Whatever spell Christopher had cast over her earlier had melted away with his teasing. She had been so certain of his sincerity, and had nearly fallen for his pretty words, but now it seemed as though he had only been playing a part in their ridiculous charade. How silly of her to be so affected.
Harriett pulled the ribbons loose and removed the bonnet before handing it over to the woman behind the counter. As she wrapped it up, Harriett thought about the power of words and how a few simple phrases had made her believe in the bonnet’s beauty one moment and disbelieve it the next.
The Pursuit of Lady Harriett (Tanglewood Book 3) Page 14