by M C Beaton
“Well, Miss Harriet, I am waiting.”
“I—I have decided to marry you,” whispered Harriet.
“What? Speak up and stop mumbling, girl.”
“I have decided to marry you,” shouted the much-goaded Harriet.
He leaned back in his chair, made a steeple of his fingers, and surveyed her cynically over the top of them. “So Miss Harriet confronts Auntie with the news she is not going to marry the rich Marquess of Arden, and old Auntie forcibly points out all the disadvantages of returning to Pringle House.”
Harriet blushed and looked down. And all in that moment, the marquess—illogically, he thought—decided it might be rather fun to be married. She was delicious to kiss. No other woman had made him feel quite the same. It could not be love, since love did not exist. But it was probably the best he was going to find, and it was time he thought of setting up his nursery. Also, he would be doing a very good thing by rescuing her from a life of poverty. It would mean rescuing Aunt Rebecca as well, but his house in town and his mansion in the country were both large enough to lose her in. He felt a warm glow of virtue as he said, “I am sorry if I was unkind. My offer still stands. When would you like to be married?”
“I don’t know,” said Harriet miserably.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “You had better wait downstairs while I get dressed. The least I can do for my new fiancée is to protect her from her sister’s wrath.”
“Couldn’t I just stay here?” said Harriet.
“No, as the lady I plan to marry, you must be all that is respectable. If Cordelia is still determined to throw you out, then I will house you with one of my relatives.”
He rang the bell and told the footman to escort Harriet down to the drawing room and to send his valet.
Left alone in the drawing room with a glass of sweet wine and a plate of ratafia biscuits, Harriet looked about her nervously, hardly able to take in that she was soon to be the mistress of this household.
There was a depressing picture of a deer being torn to bits by a pack of hounds over the fireplace. A stuffed fox glared malevolently at her from a glass case. The furniture was dark and severe. It was a very masculine room and obviously very little used.
She felt she should be experiencing joy and elation. She had captured the prize of the London Season. But the prize of the London Season had seemed so matter-of-fact about it all.
If only he had kissed her or held her close.
She felt so very tired, and the only thing that stopped her from falling asleep where she sat was sheer terror over what Cordelia would say. What had ever happened to create this monster that was her sister? Neither their father nor mother had been hard, mercenary, or selfish. But Cordelia, for as far back as Harriet could remember, had always wanted the best of everything. Perhaps the fault did lie with the late Mr. and Mrs. Clifton in that they had always let Cordelia have exactly what she wanted.
Harriet remembered receiving a doll for her birthday. It had been a beautiful doll with nut-brown ringlets and wide blue eyes.
Cordelia’s eyes, so like the doll’s, had fastened on it, and she had said imperiously, “I want that!” Mrs. Clifton had smiled weakly and said, “Well, Harriet, perhaps Cordelia should have the doll because she is much more interested in pretty things than you.”
Would Cordelia look at the marquess in the same way and say, “I want that”? And would he go to her side?
For the first time in her life, Harriet found herself out of charity with her aunt. She felt she had been manipulated.
Marriage.
What would marriage to the marquess be like? Would he bully her? Would he continue to have affairs, as many of the ton seemed to do?
When he finally walked into the room, she looked up and saw him as a stranger: a hard-eyed, competent, sophisticated man, worlds outside of her experience. She felt a suffocating sensation of panic.
He ushered her outside and into a closed carriage.
He rested his head wearily against the upholstery and sighed. “I shall be glad when this interview with Cordelia is over.”
He then glanced idly out of the window and said, “There goes the Dowager Duchess of Macham. She looks very spry. I suppose she did not even write to thank you.”
Harriet shook her head, wondering that he could be so casual about life when her own stomach was churning with nerves.
It was too short a journey to Hill Street for Harriet.
“You had better go to your room,” said the marquess after handing Findlater his card. “Please leave your sister to me.”
Cordalia had not been told that the marquess had arrived with Harriet, so she was delighted to see him and considered the fact that he had called without his cousin a hopeful sign.
The marquess, not knowing quite how very bad the situation was at the house on Hill Street, had assumed that Aunt Rebecca had spoken to Cordelia about her hopes for Harriet. Therefore he plunged straight in with “I trust this marriage is not distasteful to you, Lady Bentley?”
Cordelia did not hear the “this” and assumed he was asking, “I trust the idea of marriage is not distasteful to you, Lady Bentley?”
“No, not at all, my lord,” breathed Cordelia. She felt a heady sensation of triumph. She had won! The incredible had happened. Arden was about to propose. With one dainty foot, she surreptitiously edged a footstool around in front of her so that his lordship would be comfortable when he got down on one knee.
“I am delighted,” he said. “I must confess I was nervous of your reaction.” He gave Cordelia a charming smile. “You are as charitable as you are beautiful,” he added.
“I do not need to be charitable,’“ said Cordelia, “about the subject of marriage to such a gentleman as you. Any lady would be proud to be your wife.”
“Good,” he said briskly. “Let us tell Harriet.”
“Poor Harriet insists on leaving for the country,” said Cordelia laughing, “We shall write to her.”
He looked at her with a puzzled frown, and then his face cleared. “Of course, all this must be bewildering to you. She is not going to the country now.” He laughed. “She would hardly want to miss the wedding.”
Cordelia rang the bell and told Findlater to fetch Miss Harriet. Then she gave the marquess a dewy smile and held out her arms. He studied her for a moment with some embarrassment and then walked forward and gave her a chaste peck on the cheek.
“Oh, John,” said Cordelia impatiently, but the door opened and Harriet walked in.
The marquess went over to her and took her hand. “Do not look so nervous, my love,” he said. “We have your sister’s blessing.”
Cordelia slowly sank down into the nearest chair. The marquess, at that moment, might have felt nothing more for Harriet than proprietorial possession, and Harriet might only have felt confused and weary, but there was an air of oneness about them that struck Cordelia with all the impact of an bucket of icy water thrown over her head.
“You are to marry Harriet?” She gasped.
The marquess smiled at her, taking it as a statement and not a question.
Never had Cordelia’s brain worked so quickly. To scream and throw Harriet out would mean she, Cordelia, would never see the marquess again. Also, she was determined to get revenge on Harriet for being so wickedly deceitful, for snatching this prize that was rightfully hers from under her nose.
She tripped forward and caught Harriet’s hands in both of her own. “You sly puss,” she said. “When is the wedding to be?”
“As soon as possible,” said the marquess.
“Oh!” Cordelia’s blue eyes flicked over Harriet’s slim figure. “Why such speed?”
“I see no point in waiting,” said the marquess.
Harriet turned to the marquess and said firmly, “You must excuse me, my lord. Aunt Rebecca is waiting for me. We return to the country. I will write to you …”
“Stoopid!” teased Cordelia. “You must be wed from here!”
Harrie
t blinked at her. “But you said …”
“I said, I said,” mocked Cordelia. “Sisters are always quarreling. But we love each other nonetheless, and it is my duty to make sure you have your family at your side. Alas! The expense of a large wedding. I am not in funds at the moment.”
The marquess’s thin brows drew together. “I will handle all expenses,” he said. “Harriet, take me to your aunt. There are certain matters I wish to discuss with her.”
Harriet hesitated, looking suspiciously at her sister, but Cordelia gave her a glowing smile and a kiss on the cheek. Tears of gratitude filled Harriet’s eyes and she hugged Cordelia. The fact that they were sisters had overcome any petty jealousies, she thought.
The marquess looked on complacently, glad there had not been a scene. He thought Cordelia had never looked more beautiful or more seductive, and Harriet had never looked so plain and tired. But he realized again that all the attraction Cordelia had once held for him had gone forever.
As he followed Harriet up the stairs, he decided that he had better arrange with Aunt Rebecca to pay a dress allowance for Harriet to her. He still did not quite trust Cordelia, and he was sure she would not use any of her own money to furnish his fiancée with a proper wardrobe.
Cordelia sat, biting her thumb and thinking furiously. God, how she loathed Harriet. When her parents had been alive, it had always seemed to Cordelia that they favored Harriet. Harriet was the good one, the baby, the clever one.
After some time, she heard the marquess descending the stairs, but he did not call on her and continued on his way out.
She rang the bell and told Findlater to fetch Mrs. Hurlingham.
Agnes came in, looking pale and wan.
“Sit down,” snapped Cordelia. “Now hear this. My slut of a sister has got herself pregnant by Arden, God knows how, and he is to marry her.”
Agnes summoned up the last of her reserves of courage and faced her mistress.
“There is no way a young lady like Miss Harriet could ever bring herself to be in such a shameful condition outside of marriage,” she said firmly. “I know it, and what is more, Lady Bentley, you know it, too.”
Agnes waited for the outburst that she was sure would greet these words, but to her surprise, none came.
“You are probably right,” said Cordelia mildly. “Let me think.”
Agnes waited anxiously.
“Fond of this Prenderbury, are you?”
Agnes blushed. “Mr. Prenderbury is a true gentleman who has favored me with a certain amount of his attention.”
“Humph,” said Cordelia thoughtfully. She studied Agnes’s face while her companion lowered her eyes and fiddled nervously with her fan.
Cordelia leaned forward. “Think on it, Agnes,” she said. “How would you consider the opportunity to entertain Mr. Prenderbury here, meeting him not as a penniless spinster but as a lady with a tidy little dot?”
“I have no dowry,” said Agnes, looking at her mistress in surprise.
“But you could have one … if you will but perform a small service for me.”
“Which is?”
“Contrive to poison Harriet’s mind against Arden. I have a list of his previous mistresses and can tell you all about them. You will use this information as ammunition. Pity her, in a delicate sort of way, hinting at all sorts of dark secrets in Arden’s past until she asks you outright what you mean. Then you will drop the poison in her ear, drip by drip. She will believe you.”
“Monstrous!”
“If you do not do this trifling service, which would result in your freedom from the contract, not to mention a dowry and possible marriage to Prenderbury, I will see to it that you lead the life of a drudge. Jobs for servants are hard to come by. None in this house would dare to raise a finger to help you.”
Agnes shrank back in her chair.
Cordelia surveyed her with satisfaction. “You’ll do it, won’t you?” she said softly. “I know you will.”
Agnes stared at her like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake.
“Lean forward, my dear companion,” murmured Cordelia, “and let me instruct you how to strike fear into the virgin soul of Harriet Clifton.”
Chapter Six
Cordelia had never been so popular.
The news of Harriet Clifton’s engagement burst upon the ton like a thunderbolt. At first, they were inclined to be maliciously delighted that heroine Harriet had snatched the prize from her sister, but when they quickly realized that Cordelia was on good terms with Harriet and seemed delighted with the forthcoming marriage, they turned against Harriet, calling her an upstart, scheming minx who had entrapped London’s most eligible bachelor.
Gossip that Harriet had cheated her sister began to ripple. No one quite knew who had started this gossip, for Cordelia had set rumors about so cleverly that none of it was ever traced back to her.
Harriet was indifferent to shame or blame. Despite her protests, Aunt Rebecca had accepted the marquess’s generous allowance and had become positively rejuvenated with all the excitement of taking Harriet from mantua-maker to milliner. And Cordelia, who had planned to shine in contrast to the countrified Harriet, gritted her teeth as a new, modish little sister began to appear.
Aunt Rebecca was quite won over by this new, affectionate Cordelia, but although Harriet was inclined to think—or wishfully think—that Cordelia had changed her ways, there was something about the atmosphere of the house on Hill Street that set her teeth on edge.
Nonetheless, despite the fact that neither she nor Cordelia was honored with vouchers to Almack’s Assembly Rooms, that holy of social holies, she was invited to a great number of balls and parties, and she was beginning to enjoy her status as an engaged lady … the curiosity of the ton overcoming their dislike of her.
The marquess was present at most of the functions she attended, always polite and attentive. He never saw her alone and showed no signs of passionately seizing her in his arms again.
Although he seemed somewhat remote, Harriet began to hope that the state of marriage might be more comfortable than she had anticipated. Married men seemed to spend most of their time in their clubs or in the House of Lords or on the hunting field. She was glad to be free from all those upsetting feelings that had made her feel so dizzy when the marquess kissed her.
For the marquess’s part, he was enjoying the unaccustomed novelty of charitably seeing a young lady well fed and well clothed. In marrying Harriet, he was convinced he was doing a very magnanimous thing.
And so this engaged couple who had so nearly been on the brink of love, failed to see each other as individuals, and each was quite content with the chaste courtship.
The weather had been unusually cold and not at all conducive to romance. Several of London’s finest succumbed to the influenza that was raging through the streets, but fear of death did not prevent the ladies from going out in all weathers in nothing but the scantiest of muslin gowns.
There were white frosts at night, and in the red dawns, when society yawned its way to bed, the sooty birds puffed out their feathers and huddled on the branches of the park trees.
It is a well-known fact that no one is truly bad, and so it was that even such a one as Cordelia, Lady Bentley, was subject to pangs of conscience. Although her affectionate manner to Harriet was an act, it was very pleasant to have a sister to gossip to and to go shopping with.
As the marquess continued to be formal and chilly toward Harriet, as Cordelia herself began to attract the attention of the very rich and very old Archie, Lord Struthers, the more Cordelia held back from instructing the shivering Agnes to go ahead and poison Harriet’s mind.
And then all at once the weather turned warm and balmy. The normally poisonous London air was now full of the scent of flowers and leaves. Blackbirds sang on the rooftops, and sparrows squabbled and splashed in the puddles between the cobbles. In the twilight, the light at the end of the streets was smoky blue.
Harriet and Cordelia were to attend a rou
t at a Mrs. Harper’s. Mrs. Harper, a rich widow from Boston, had broken with tradition by serving refreshments at her routs. Furthermore, her mansion on Chesterfield Street boasted a double staircase, so one did not have to spend most of the evening fighting one’s way up or down.
Harriet was wearing a very smart gown of green and gold striped gauze. Her long black hair was elaborately dressed in one of the latest Roman styles. The dress was wicked in its simplicity and seductive in its effect. The low neckline made the most of her small bosom, and the skirt was cut daringly short to show a glimpse of ankle.
All her old jealousy came rushing back when Cordelia saw that gown. She felt her own creation of pink sprigged muslin was too fussy and sugary by contrast. But it was not the gown that hardened Cordelia’s heart. It was the look in the marquess’s eyes on seeing Harriet when he called to escort her to the rout. Cordelia at once saw the admiration in his eyes and, what was worse, the tenderness.
The streets outside were thronged with carriages bobbing through the dark, the wavering light of the parish lamps occasionally striking fire from the heavily bejeweled occupants inside.
The air was sweet and warm. The marquess was wearing a corbeau-colored coat and knee breeches. There was a heavy sapphire ring on his finger, and a fine sapphire blazed among the snowy folds of his cravat. He carried his bicorne under his arm. Beside him, in marked contrast to his elegance, sat Lord Struthers, a Scottish peer, the blue of his coat stained with snuff and reeking of brandy and damp dog. Unlike many of the Scottish aristocracy, he had made no attempt to anglicize his vowels, so his conversation seemed to be nothing more than a series of yaps and barks. His corsets creaked abominably, and one pudgy hand in its doeskin glove groped in the darkness for the comfort of Cordelia’s knee.
Aunt Rebecca and Agnes had been left behind.
The carriage swayed and lurched over the cobbles, and the marquess’s leg brushed against the hem of Harriet’s gown. She wondered why that fleeting contact should make her tremble.
Harriet often wondered why the members of the ton did not lose the use of their legs. Chesterfield Street was practically next door, but they had to sit confined in the carriage while the coachman patiently waited his turn.