Anita Mills (9 page)

“Harry, if you do not look, you will not see, and we will have perjured ourselves for naught.”

She felt his warm, strong clasp as his hand covered hers, holding it. “I pray he wins,” she managed as she opened her eyes.

“He will.”

The starter’s pistol fired just then, and the horses surged forward, a blur of bright colors lunging from the gate. At first, Two Harry was but at mid-pack, and Harriet jumped up, bumping her head on the carriage roof.

“Oh, he’s got to run—he’s got to run! Why doesn’t Mr. Ellis do something? Richard!” she screeched.

Just then Two Harry pounded to the outside and gained ground on the leader. “He’s running third, Harry—he’s running third!” Richard yelled next to her ear.

“Second—he’s second!” she shouted back, pounding against the window. “Come on, Two Harry—run!” she screamed, heedless of any who could hear her. “Run!” The leaders were so close rounding the final curve that she couldn’t see whether Two Harry led or not, and for a moment it looked as though another horse might overtake the field. “Oh, I cannot watch!” But neither could she look away. And to her amazement, when they thundered into her full view, Two Harry was pulling ahead. “Richard! Richard! I think he is going to win!” she shrieked, tugging on his coat sleeve excitedly.

And as they crossed the finish line, Two Harry led by a good neck. Richard caught Harriet, hugging her jubilantly. “I told you we’d win—I told you!” And then, still holding her so tightly she was breathless, he kissed her full on the mouth. A shiver ran up her spine and she clutched his coat with both hands.

Abruptly he released her, apologizingly, “I’m sorry—I should not have done that. ’Twas the winning.” His eyes dancing still, he did not note her stunned expression as he went on, “We won, Harry—can you believe it? We won!”

The jockey still rode Two Harry, slowing first to a canter and then to a walk to cool the animal down. And then he moved to the winner’s circle. His face still smiling broadly, Richard jumped down to collect his wager.

It was over so quickly that Harriet thought she must surely have dreamed it, but when he came back, his fist was full of banknotes. “Wilborn’s,” he announced succinctly as he rejoined her. “We’ll collect the race purse later.” Then, without warning, he let out another whoop. “I told you we had a winner!”

“I’m so glad.”

“Here—count out your half.”

“Oh, no. Surely you must have had some expenses—the colors…. Mr. Cates and Mr. Ellis, after all.”

“You don’t want your money?”

“Well, I do not precisely have a use for it just now, Richard, and I cannot simply go home and hide it under the bed.”

“Then I’ll save it for you.” He reached across to hug her again, but this time he did not kiss her, much to her disappointment. “I owe it all to you, Harry. Without your loan, someone else would’ve raced him today.”

“Fiddle.”

“What a strange little creature you are, Coz. I am offering you my undying gratitude, and you will have none of it.”

“I don’t want gratitude.” A rare smile crossed her face and lit her brown eyes. “Besides, we are even—you have my cats.”

They stayed through two more races, waiting for the results of Two Harry’s win to be made official, and then Richard reluctantly decided that it was time to leave if they were to call on Mrs. Thornton and reach Rowe’s Hill with none the wiser. To celebrate, he stopped at an inn and procured a light nuncheon in a basket to be eaten on the way back. And as the carriage lurched forward again, he produced a bottle of wine.

“Oh, I could not,” she protested. “Whatever should Mrs. Thornton think if I were to arrive disguised?”

“One glass—I’d share a toast.”

“I … I cannot… I dare not.”

“Dare, Harry. One glass is scarce enough to make you bosky at all.”

“No.” And then, to change the subject, she looked out the window. “It was a splendid adventure, you know—splendid. I shall treasure it for the rest of my life.”

“Maybe we can do it again,” he offered.

“It is enough that we did not get caught this once.”

The drive in front of the Thornton house was empty, and there did not appear to be anyone at home when they arrived. But thinking that perhaps the Reverend Mr. Thornton had taken the carriage to pay calls amongst his parish, Harriet insisted they stop anyway. To her surprise, it was the vicar himself who answered the door. And his surprise was as evident as hers.

“Oh, my dear Miss Rowe! And Lord Sherborne! I fear you are come all this way for naught.”

“Oh. Yes, well, do tell Mrs. Thornton I called.”

“There’s no need for that, my dear—you may tell her yourself.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She was driving out anyway, so she thought to stop by Rowe’s Hill today to discuss bridal plans.”

Harriet’s face was blank for a moment as she digested this unwelcome bit of news, and then she groaned. “Oh, dear … oh, no!”

“I say, is anything amiss, my dear?”

“Oh, no … no, of course not,” she managed.

“Tell her not to tarry overlong, will you? We are promised to the Marches for supper,” he called after her as she turned back to Sherborne’s carriage.

“Lud!” Richard muttered succinctly as he handed her up once again. “I’d say we’re in the basket.”

She swallowed hard and nodded. “I think I shall take some wine after all, if you do not mind terribly.”

“I cannot take you home disguised,” he told her, uncorking the bottle. “And you’d best watch out—too much and you will shoot the cat.”

“I think I am going to be sick anyway.”

“Then you do not need any of this.” Nonetheless, he poured her a little into a small metal cup and handed it over. For himself, he reserved the rest of the bottle.

“Buck up, Harry,” Richard said encouragingly as they halted in front of Rowe’s Hill. “They cannot, after all, eat you.”

But she was not attending. Her eyes were fixed on the carriage parked ahead of them, and her face bore a totally stricken look. It was going to be deuced unpleasant, and they both knew it.

“Harry, I won’t let them punish you—’twas my fault in the first place.”

“No.”

He slid down and reached up to help her. Her hand was as ice in his as she stepped from the carriage, and she shivered. “Harry …” he began helplessly.

Her chin shot up as she straightened her back resolutely, and a deep sigh escaped her. “No, you are quite right: she cannot do more to me than she has already done, I think.”

“That’s the ticket.”

“But do you mind terribly if I hang on to your arm just now?”

“Not at all.”

Silence greeted them, a pregnant silence that boded ill for Harriet, as they entered the front saloon. Mrs. Thornton’s teacup was suspended halfway to her lips, and Hannah Rowe’s countenance was frozen into a mask of outrage. Only Sir John moved, and when he did, it was to rise from his chair to advance on them. Richard could feel Harriet’s fingers clutch his sleeve convulsively, as though she feared to be struck. Instinctively he stepped in front of her to shield her from her father’s wrath.

“Well, missy, what have you to say for yourself?” Sir John demanded. Then, not waiting for her to answer, he looked up at Richard. “As for you, sirrah, I shall speak with you privately later!”

“No,” Harriet managed almost inaudibly, humiliated that he should speak so in front of the vicar’s wife. If her own father would act as though she’d committed an indiscretion publicly, ’twas certain to be spread about the neighborhood. “Papa, ’tis not—”

“There is but one reason for prevarication of this sort, missy, and I shudder to think … to admit that a daughter of mine would seek to deceive me so!”

“Uh …” Mrs. Thornton’s teacup clattered against her saucer as she rose hastily. “Really, but I should be on my way now that she is found safe after all.” Casting a disapproving glance at Harriet, she added ominously, “But what Edwin is to think of this, I am sure I do not know.”

“Uncle, if I could be private with you for a moment
now,”
Richard murmured significantly.

“Harriet, you will retire to your chamber,” Hannah told her coldly. “Your papa and I will attend to you later, miss.”

“No! I am not a child to be sent to bed, Mama. I do not know what you think, but—”

“Harriet!” her father thundered, raising his hand.

“Stop it, all of you! The fault is not hers,” Richard heard himself say. Then, as they all looked at him, he nodded. “As I said, if you will but attend me privately, both of you, I think we may resolve the matter.”

“Richard—”

“No, Harry, the fault
was
mine, after all. ’Tis up to me to satisfy your parents. If you will but see Mrs. Thornton out and wait for me, we shall come about, I promise.”

She looked from him to Hannah and her father, and despite her earlier resolve to face them, she hesitated. “Just so, Harry,” Richard told her gently. “You have naught to fear—wait upstairs.”

“But…”

His blue eyes met hers and held. “Please.”

There was such kindness there that she had to look away. Dropping her eyes and feeling very much the coward, she bobbed her head in assent. “All right.”

As her parents withdrew into her father’s library, she was left to follow a very rigid Mrs. Thornton into the outer hall. There seemed to be no explanation that would not further outrage that lady, so she remained silent whilst Thomas assisted her into her pelisse. Drawing on her gloves, Mrs. Thornton finally spoke.

“I trust you will have a suitable explanation for my son.”

Harriet’s chin came up at the censorious tone in the older woman’s voice. “I did but attend the races, ma’am, and I see nothing so remiss in that.”

“Humph! We shall see, Miss Rowe—we shall see. But then, I expect one lie to breed another, after all. Just remember—’tis not I whom you must satisfy, but rather Edwin.”

With that cryptic remark, Edwin’s mother departed. Harriet stood in the doorway watching her drive out of sight, feeling oddly relieved. As much as her parents would be vexed with her, they would have to accept it when Edwin Thornton cried off. And, given his extremely narrow sense of propriety, it was almost certain that he would.

As she finally climbed the stairs to her chamber, she could hear her father shouting and Richard raising his voice in answer. And from time to time Hannah joined in to defend her nephew and condemn Harriet. It was an unpleasant interview, one that was growing more rancorous by the moment, but by the sound of it, Richard was more than holding his own. She could hear the words “unnatural parent” uttered more than once.

Throwing herself on her bed in her chilly room, Harriet waited for the quarrel belowstairs to end. She ought not to be such a coward, she told herself severely; she ought to be down there defending herself. But somehow she had not the will to listen to Hannah—not today. Today. She sat up and pulled the coverlet up around her, shutting out the noise, remembering instead the glorious adventure of going to Newmarket, of seeing her horse win. No matter what the punishment, it would be worth those few hours of freedom, those few hours shared with Richard Standen.

It was some time before there was a knock at the door, and her heart lay like a rock in her breast at the thought of facing Hannah again. She swallowed hard, not answering.

“Harry…”

She was unprepared for the sound of his voice. Her eyes widened as the door creaked open and he stepped inside. But the look on his face sent a chill of apprehension coursing through her.

“I expected Hannah,” she offered lamely, rising to sit on the edge of the bed.

“You ought to have a fire—you’ll take a chill.” “I know, but ’tis a waste of wood.”

“Harry, I’m sorry for this. I would not … I should not have taken you.”

“No. ’Tis not your fault. I wanted to go.”

He stood there, hesitating for a moment, and then he sat down beside her. “Aunt Hannah would have it that Mr. Thornton will cry off, Harry.”

“Then not all is lost, is it?”

“Yes. Yes, it is, and I am sorry for it. By nightfall, Mrs. Thornton will have told the Marches, and before sunset tomorrow, ’twill be the
on-dit
of East Anglia, I fear.”

“As if I cared a fig for that.”

Again there was a hesitation, and he inhaled sharply, looking away. “Harry, I know I am not the sort of husband you would have, but there’s no help for it—you’ll have to take me.”

The room spun around her. She stared blankly, trying to assimilate what he’d said, and then she blinked as though that could somehow clear her head.
“What?”
she gasped.

“I said Edwin Thornton is going to cry off, and you’ll have to wed me to avoid the scandal.”

It was not the proposal of her dreams—it was not even a proposal. His blue eyes were sober as they met hers, his face as somber as though he’d told her somebody had died. It was rich, the tricks that fate played on one, she thought as she searched his handsome face. Her foolish dreams had borne bitter fruit, for the man she loved offered for her out of

pity·

“No.”

“Harry, think.”

A deep sigh escaped her, taking with it the hope of years. “I have,” she answered simply, “and I cannot ask you to do it.”

“Do not be a fool, Harry.”

“No.”

Her resolve surprised him. “Hannah and your father will not stand with you, you know. Ten to one, they have already convinced Mrs. Thornton you are hopelessly compromised.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Harry …”

She rose from the bed and backed away from the temptation to take his offer. “You cannot pretend any affection for me, can you? You cannot truly say you wish to wed me! There is not that between us!” she cried in anguish. “Do not make me say no again, I beg of you!”

“Whether I wish to wed you or not is nothing to the point, Harry! I pray you will not be getting missish with me—this is Richard, you know!”

“Do
you wish to marry me?”

“No! Of course not! But I’ll not see you ruined either—I’ll not have that laid on my head, thank you!”

“Then leave! I shall not lay it on your head, after all—and I am the one who counts!” She choked as tears of anger and hurt welled in her eyes and threatened to betray her. “I see no reason why you must pay for that which never happened.”

“Coming it too strong, Harry! Dash it, you know what is expected of both of us, and—”

“Just go, Richard.” Her voice dropped miserably. “Tell them that I have refused your suit.”

He reached out a hand to her, but she backed further away. “Please, Richard,” she whispered.

“Harry, I’m sorry—truly I would not have wished this for the world.”

“I know.” She wrenched open the door and clung to the edge of it. “You must not think I do not thank you for the offer.”

There was no help for it then. Clearly he’d overset her terribly. “ ’Twill not be pleasant for you, I fear,” he told her as he stepped past her.

“It never is.”

He walked down the steps slowly, thinking he ought to feel relieved that she’d rejected his reluctant suit. But somehow he felt more guilty than anything. Even at twenty-four, she was but a green girl, while he ought to have known better. His aunt and uncle were waiting for him when he reached the bottom.

“She would not have me,” he announced simply, passing them.

For a moment Hannah stared after him, stunned. Sir John choked apoplectically, seeing not Richard Standen, but rather the extremely wealthy Viscount Sherborne, and when he found his voice, he sputtered, “Wouldn’t have you? What nonsense is this? She
has
to take you! Dash it, sirrah, but she must! ’Twill be all over the neighborhood when Thornton refuses her!”

Richard turned back briefly, his disgust written on his face. “No. No, she does not. You forget she is a woman grown, Uncle.”

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“To see to Two Harry—to see to my horse. He won today, you know. And to see Thornton when he returns home—’tis the least I can do for her.”

“Egad.”

“But you will be back?” Hannah wanted to know.

“For tonight only.” His eyes met hers in warning. “Do not be harsh with her—at least until you know what Thornton means to do.”

The door closed behind him, leaving both of them at a loss as to what to do. Hannah, who’d not really wanted to see her vexatious stepdaughter become a viscountess anyway, muttered that she certainly hoped he would persuade Thornton of the innocence of the situation.

“Humph! So the beast won, did he?” her husband snorted, considering the unpleasantness over for the moment at least. “Two Harry! What the devil sort of name is that for a horse, I ask you?”

“He probably named the animal for his father and himself,” Hannah responded dryly, disappointed that Sir John could be diverted from the matter so easily.

Harriet lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Richard’s carriage leaving the drive. It was probably the last time she would see him for a long time, she reflected morosely. And it was never, never going to be the same between them, for her dreams were dashed on the shores of reality. He’d offered for her out of pity.

She did not even pay any attention when Hannah opened her door. The older woman surveyed her coldly, her gaze taking in the red puffiness around Harriet’s eyes.

“Well, missy,” her stepmama snapped finally, “ ’tis a fine broth you have brewed yourself!”

“Yes. Yes, it is, Mama.” She sat up, meeting those cold, narrow eyes squarely. “But I do not repine, after all, for it must surely rid me of Mr. Thornton.”