Anita Mills (18 page)

“Richard, I don’t wish to read any more of this,” Harriet muttered in exasperation.

“ ’Tis my favorite of the sonnets, Harry.”

“Then you read it,” she snapped.

“I like the sound of your voice. Please.”

Eyeing him almost malevolently over the top of the thin volume of Shakespeare, she sighed. “And I suppose if I will not, you will devise yet another scheme for my entertainment, won’t you?”

“We could play whist if you prefer.”

“I am heartily sick of whist.”

“Or we could walk outside in the fresh air,” he offered, trying not to smile at her restiveness.

“Did you never think I should like to be alone?” she demanded peevishly. “That I should become tired of the constant employment of my mind?”

“No. Go on—you are about to the part of this one that I like,” he coaxed. “You read quite well, you know.”

“Richard, I never knew you to like literature in your life.”

“Ah, but then you saw me only as a grubby, scapegrace cousin come to get you into all manner of pranks when we were children, and then as an infrequent visitor when we were grown. I like all manner of things, Harry. In fact, I had just been thinking that perhaps you would enjoy the
Iliad.”

“Were
you
planning to read it out loud?” she asked with deceptive sweetness. “For I assure you I am not. For two weeks—two weeks, Richard—you have done naught but plague me to read to you and entertain you. And when I have refused, you have taken it upon yourself to entertain me. I am not a child to be amused, you know.”

“I believe we were about to the spot where old Will waxed eloquent on the nature of love, Harry. Do go on.”

“
‘
O
,
no! it is an ever fixed mark,’ ”
she read, then stopped to look at him again. “Must I?”

“ ’Twould please me greatly.”

She eyed him with disfavor and sighed expressively before continuing:

Laying aside the book, she stared for a moment into the flickering flames in the fireplace. “ ’Tis obvious that Shakespeare wrote this for a lady rather than for the truth of it,” she declared flatly. “What fustian!”

“I collect you are ready for a hand of whist, then.”

“I must surely owe you a year’s allowance. No, I have no wish to play cards either.”

“Harry, if you think I am going to allow you to wallow in the blue-devils, you are very wide of the mark,” he murmured mildly. “Try another one.”

Reluctantly she picked up the volume and opened it again, scanning through the sonnets. “Now, here’s one with more truth in it. ’Tis about lovers who lie to each other.”

“I don’t want to hear that one. Try One Hundred and Two.”

“‘My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming’?
No, I don’t like that either. I think I prefer
‘Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever now; Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross—’”

“Harry, I don’t hate you. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

She flung the book to the floor and rose to pace before the window. “ ’Tis still snowing,” she noted suddenly.

“Remember when I was snowed in at Rowe’s Hill after Christmas?”

“I try not to think of Rowe’s Hill at all. I have not even answered Hannah’s letters.”

“We made a snow fort, as I recall.”

He’d come up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. And the strong masculine feel of his fingers rubbing along the bony ridge of her shoulder was almost more than she could bear. Despite her lingering anger and despair, she could not in truth say she was indifferent to his touch. A tremor of weakness coursed through her and she pulled away.

“I think I should like to go outside after all. Perhaps a walk in the fresh snow will be invigorating. I tire of but sitting, reading, and cards.”

“I’ll ring for your cloak.”

He watched her move restlessly about the room with some satisfaction. She was slowly, ever so slowly, regaining the strength that grief and laudanum had taken, and he had not missed her response to him in that brief moment.

Taking the heavy cape from Thomas, he draped it around her shoulders, allowing his fingers to linger, and then he fastened it, dropping his hands to brush lightly over her breasts before he stepped back. He was rewarded by her sharp intake of breath. Turning away again, she drew on her gloves.

“Ready?”

She looked down at her shoes. “My feet will freeze.”

“Thomas, ask Millie to send down my lady’s boots. And, no, my dear, I do not discourage easily,” he murmured, reaching to pull the hood up over her cropped brown curls.

“I can dress myself.”

“I know, but it pleases me to do it.”

As soon as Thomas returned with the boots, Richard dropped down on one knee and grasped her slender ankle. “Lift your foot.”

“This is ridiculous. Really, I …” But he had her slipper already off, and his fingers once again massaged, this time rubbing along her instep to the ball of her foot. “That tickles—don’t.”

“I was straightening your stocking.”

“And if you do not unhand my foot, I shall be tempted to kick you with it.”

“That I should like to see—you’d land in a heap, you know.”

“Just give me the shoe and be done with it.”

Ignoring her, he managed to slip the sturdy walking boot on and fasten it over her instep. “Give me the other foot, before you take cold from being bundled in the house.”

“You know,” she complained peevishly, “you are given to queer starts lately. ’Tis as though you do not think I can take care of myself in the least.”

“Did you never think I like taking care of you?”

“No.” She pulled her foot away after he’d finished with the second boot. “I am not a child, you know.”

“I know. Here, help your gallant knight up, will you?”

“Alas, but I will not.” A brief mischievous smile brightened her face. “I am for the snow, you know.”

With that, she slipped past him and was gone. Her reward was a snowball that sailed past her ear before she’d scarce cleared the steps. Looking back, she could see him bending over to make another from the soft snow that drifted on the porch. Another struck her, powdering the front of her cloak.

“Now, that was unfair! ’Twas a sneak attack! Not even Boney’s troops would have been so ungallant!”

“You were used to have a fair aim yourself!” he called back. “Remember when you blackened my eye?”

“And was roundly birched for it!”

The third snowball caught her arm, and the shower of wet snow sprayed upward to her face. “Richard Standen, have you lost your senses?” she fumed.

“There’s none to birch you now!”

“No, there’s not, is there?” Jumping out of the path of yet another one, she reached down and grasped a full hand of the cold snow, molding it with her gloved fingers. Straightening up, she let it fly, missing him narrowly.

“Come on, Harry, you can do better than that!” he taunted, running toward her, his arm raised to throw again.

Instinctively she dodged and ran, zigzagging across the snowy lawn. Her breath coming in clouds of steam, she took refuge behind a tree whilst she made her second snowball. Taking careful aim as he moved closer, she managed to hit him squarely on the sleeve.

“Now, are we done with this nonsense?”

His answer came in the form of a solid hit to her middle. “ ’Twas most unfair! You have grown bigger than I!”

“Three chances! I’ll give you three chances to hit me before I throw again!” he offered, shouting across the open expanse of yard. “But I get to run!”

She looked down at her snow-caked cape and nodded. “I mean to take four, you wretch!”

Millie had stopped on the first landing and watched from the window. “Well, I never seen the like!”

O’Neal, who’d followed her down, peered over her shoulder. “Well, now, ’tis as fine a sight as one could wish t’ see, don’t ye think, Millie me girl?”

“Shameless! The two of ’em is runnin’ like they was the infantry! And her a-peltin’ him with snowballs yet!”

“I don’t know—Millie, have ye ever thrown one yerself?”

“Not since I was a wee one.”

O’Neal’s blue eyes took on an unholy light. “Well, you saucy baggage, when the work’s done, I’ll stand you meself.”

“What? Sean O’Neal, I take leave t’ tell you I am an honest female!” But there was something in those Irish eyes that set her heart to beating wildly. “I’ll be down at three o’clock—the mistress rests then.”

“And I’ll be a-waitin’. Oh, and whilst ye’re downstairs, me girl, have Cook heat some o’ that wine punch, will ye? By the looks o’ things, his honor’s goin’ t’ need it.”

Outside, Harriet was breathless from running, but satisfied with the results. Richard’s coat was as snow-covered as her cape. Her hood had long since fallen back from her head, and soft powdery snow dusted her hair, while her face glowed rosy from her exertion.

“Cry surrender, Harry?” he asked softly, walking toward her.

There had been a sudden change in his manner, one that sent shivers that had nothing to do with the cold through her. His dark hair was rumpled from the chill wind and his face was ruddy, making his blue eyes seem more intent than ever. And she was reminded yet again that he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Instinctively she backed away.

“No.”

He smiled crookedly. “ ’Tis as I remember, Harry.”

Despite the cold, her body felt hot. “I cannot go back to then, Richard,” she managed through suddenly dry lips.

“Aye, you can.”

She cast about wildly as he came closer, seeking something to relieve the building tension between them. And bending low, she scooped a handful of the snow and held it behind her.

“Harry …”

“Then you must remember this.” When he reached the place where his steamy breath mingled with hers, she lifted her hand and dropped the snow down his neck.

“Dash it! ’Tis not quite what I had in mind!”

But as he shook the cold wetness from beneath his shirt, she turned and ran back toward the house. Panting, she stopped, and from the safety of the doorway she called back, “Alas, your selective memory!” Then, giggling, she stumbled into the foyer.

There Thomas met her with a perfectly straight face, asking, “Would your ladyship have some hot punch? I believe ’twas ordered.”

“Let me get out of these wet things first.”

She was flushed and breathless, but the thought of hot punch and a blazing fire was tempting. Finally she slipped out of her cloak and mittens and handed them to the footman. “I have dry shoes in the library.”

“I’ll bring the punch there then.”

Richard came through the door stamping his feet to dislodge the packed snow. Grinning, he looked past Thomas to her. “Now, that was most unfair, Harry, and well you know it.”

“There’s punch, sir,” Thomas murmured helpfully.

Richard followed her into the library and divested himself of both his coats and his shoes. Padding noiselessly across the carpet to the fire, he chafed his hands.

“It has been a long time since we’ve done that, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.” She’d dropped into a fireside chair and was removing her boots. “And I can do this myself, thank you.”

“You enjoyed yourself—admit it.”

“Yes, I did, but that does not …”

She looked up, realizing that he’d come to stand over her, and her heart caught in her throat. With an effort, she forced herself to remember that this was the man who’d left her.

“I want the old Harry back, you know,” he murmured softly.

The inflection in his voice sent another wave of excitement through her traitorous body. Ducking beneath him and standing, she walked instead to the window and stared out into the winter scene again.

“No. You threw the old Harry away, and I think she died, Richard.”

“Harry—”

She spun around, forcing herself to anger. “Do you think you can just come back? Do you think I can forget the pain? I loved you beyond everything, Richard, and you left me! Aye, and I’ve not even the child to show for the love I bore you!”

“Do you want to know why I left? Would it help you forgive? God knows, there’s not much I can say to excuse myself, but—”

“No!”

“I left because I felt betrayed, Harry,” he continued anyway, ignoring her outburst. “I think I’d come to love you even then, and to think you would scoop so low as to mislead me into marriage, well, I could not bear it.”

“Lead you into marriage! Richard, I did not want to wed you, for I loved you too much! Can you not understand? I did not think I could bear to live as wife to a man who loved me not! But then I thought …” She floundered for a moment, then collected herself. “I thought perhaps ’twas not hopeless.” Her voice lowered, dropping almost to a whisper. “If you felt betrayed, Richard, surely you must understand how ’tis for me. Naught can bring back what I felt for you then.”

“I want to live again as husband to you, Harry. I want—”

“You want! Well, I do not!” Backing away as though distance could make it easier to explain, she spoke from the doorway. “Think you I could stand the pain again? No, I should die next time.”

“Harry, I’m sorry, and I …”

But she’d fled even as he spoke.

The exhilaration of the snowball fight gone now, he sank into the chair and stared morosely into the fire. He’d known ’twould not be easy, he supposed, but it was a new turnup for him. He, Richard Standen, Corinthian, buck of the
ton,
accomplished flirt, and out-and-outer—he lacked the address to win his wife. And he felt the loss acutely.