Compromised Miss (8 page)

A proposal of marriage. Harriette floundered in a morass of indecision. How remote, how austere he was, as if it meant nothing to him. And perhaps it didn’t. She could not do it. It would bring her more sorrow than happiness.

Then the Earl smiled at her. What an impossibly charming smile he had, making him too dangerously attractive. And suddenly Harriette found herself tottering on the edge of forgetting all her clear reasoning as to why she should not take this step. It was so very appealing. Her gaze was caught by his so that she felt as if she were pulled along as by waves in a strong tide. If she were not careful, she would be dragged inexorably below the surface and then she would be lost…

‘Miss Lydyard? My future hangs on your reply.’

‘Really?’ She looked askance.

‘Really, Miss Lydyard!’ His mouth firmed into an impatient line.

She must give him an answer of course. And did so with dry appreciation. ‘Your tongue is as smooth as French silk, my lord. The only thing I regret is that, if I do agree, it will please my brother.’

‘He is no longer of any concern to you. For you, Miss Lydyard, if you will accept my offer, you now belong to me.’

It was outrageously proprietary. Intensely possessive. Very male and very confident. Harriette’s heart leaped within the confines of her outmoded bodice. And again, a harder beat, when his clasp tightened and he pulled her slowly towards him. Was he intending to kiss her? Fear struck.

‘I should tell you, my lord, that not only can I not dance, but I have never been kissed, either.’

‘Then it will be my pleasure to show you how it is done, to consolidate our agreement.’

As a kiss it surprised her. It was very gentle, the softest of meetings of lips, hardly more than a sharing of breath between them. Harriette felt he had made an effort not to frighten her, but now fear was not in her mind. She sighed, taking a step closer, and, sensing it, the Earl slid his good arm around her waist and drew her closer still, firm against his chest, his thighs, whilst his lips warmed and teased. Enveloped by his arms, it was as if all her senses became startlingly alive so that his scent, his touch stroked her, to fill her with a delight that she could never have imagined. Gentle as it was, it reduced her to a shimmer of liquid pleasure. Until he released her, tilted his head as if struck by a thought, before placing a final caress between her brows.

‘So we are agreed? It would not be appropriate for me to kiss a lady who was other than my betrothed.’

And Harriette, hopelessly entranced, gasped at his slide into light humour. How could she possibly tell him that he had stolen both her breath and her heart in that one simple undemanding gesture? ‘Then I must accept, mustn’t I, for I am not in the habit of allowing any gentleman to kiss me. But one thing I would ask.’ She lowered her eyes so he
would not see the anxiety that began to build in her chest again.

‘Since you saved my life, I think I am duty bound to grant whatever you request, Miss Lydyard.’

‘I don’t want a society wedding. Not at some fashionable church in London under the eyes of the
ton
. Not in the midst of your Corinthian set.’

‘Very well. Then where?’

‘Here. With a special licence.’

‘Then it shall be so.’

Relief swept through her, and astonishment that he would agree so readily. He had not even asked her to explain, something she did not wish to do. ‘If I am to escape, then let it be quick. Do you know a bishop, my lord?’

‘I think I can lay claim to it.’ Then, ‘My name is Lucius,’ he prompted.

‘Lucius.’ She tried it on her tongue. Heavy. Classical. Aristocratic. She must have frowned.

His mouth was a touch sardonic. ‘If you don’t care for it, try Luke.’

‘Is that what your family call you?’

‘My brother, Adam, does.’

Harriette tried it in her mind.
Luke!
She liked it. It suited his dark good looks. ‘Then I will.’

‘So we are decided. As long as I don’t have to wed you in this garment.’

‘I doubt your own coat will be redeemable—although I’m sure you have any number of such fashionable garments. I should tell you I took a knife to the seams. I thought you were bleeding to death.’

‘Then I must thank God you did. Although Weston might not be too happy at the destruction of his masterpiece.’

‘Whoever Weston might be, he did not have to deal
with an emergency! I promise I won’t wed you in boots and breeches.’

‘I can ask for nothing more, Captain Harry.’

‘I am very grateful.’

Reaching out, he startled Harriette by running a finger along the edge of her jaw, lifting her chin so that she must look up at him. Then with a swift movement belying his bruising, Luke swooped and kissed her again, hard and sure.

His demeanour might be cool, but his mouth held the heat of a searing flame. His previous kiss had warmed her with pleasure. This was a brand that scorched her, fire consuming every inch of her body. It stirred a hunger in her of which she had no experience. It turned her limbs to water. Harriette pressed her hands against his chest, not to make a distance between them but simply to savour the warmth of his body, the solid beat of his heart under her palm.

Then, as quickly as he had taken her, he released her.

‘I don’t need your gratitude, only your acceptance, Miss Lydyard.’

He took her hand to lead her back to break the news to Sir Wallace, the only sensible thought in Harriette’s mind—
What have I done, offering to wed a man whose way of life might be totally immoral?
followed quickly by—
Why would the Earl of Venmore need the use of a fast cutter to get him to France?
A question that lodged, hard and heavy as a stone, in Harriette’s chest. For if the Earl intended to use the
Ghost
in some nefarious practice with the enemy—and did all the evidence not point to that?—how could she be attracted to a man who might very well be a spy?

A smuggler. A smuggler as Countess of Venmore? By God! What had he done?

Whilst George Gadie set to work to negotiate the hire of a horse and gig from the tight-fisted landlord of the Silver Boat, Luke was left to juggle a range of unpalatable thoughts, all centring on Harriette Lydyard. For most of them he had no answer. Such as, why had he fought so hard to get her? And what had happened to his legendary charm, his ability to conduct an elegant flirtation, that he had made so ham-fisted an attempt, stricken into damning silence when she had listed her faults and accused him of not wanting a bride such as she? He had simply stood there like an ill-educated and mannerless boor, all his presence of mind buried beneath a cold dose of honesty, skewered by the lady’s forthright stare. The fact that all her observations were a fairly accurate reading of the situation was by the by. What had she said? Unfashionable, no fortune, no looks to speak of, past the age of a débutante with no inclination to come out into society.

Dispassionately, the Earl reconsidered his bride. Miss Lydyard had sold herself short. Blinding honesty was certainly one of her attributes. That’s what he would get. An honest, outspoken wife, a capable woman who did not faint at the sight of blood with the courage not to retreat before her brother’s bullying and intimidation. His wealth, his title, his entrée into society held no apparent attraction for her. He smiled sardonically at her reaction to his prestigious tailor. Unfortunate Weston! She did not even know who he was.

And, no, she was not unattractive. There was an elusive charm about her, of which he thought even she was unaware. When she had explained about this ruin of a house, full of vital energy, her features had lit, her eyes—and what remarkably beautiful eyes they were—had glowed. No, she was not unattractive at all. When she had
smiled, she had been transformed. He thought that he had not seen her laugh, and wished he had. Instead there had been that sudden shadow of fear when she had asked for a discreet wedding. What had that been about? What woman of his acquaintance would resist the chance of a society wedding, to be the envy of the
haut ton
when she became the Countess of Venmore? He was not so naïve that he did not appreciate his own worth as a bridegroom. But there had been a lingering sadness there.

Who would have thought any woman would have tried so hard
not
to marry him? A harsh laugh escaped him. A wise man, he decided, would make a fast escape and thank the gods for it—but an honorourable man would not. Luke had no intention of allowing Harriette to suffer through the strange workings of fate that had tumbled him into her boat. Nor of his name being coupled with her dishonour. His family name deserved better than that, as did her own.

Would he regret this further complication in his life? He shrugged the thought away abruptly, until his bruised shoulder caused him to hiss through his teeth at the pain. Probably he would. Did he not have enough troubles at the moment with discovering the present whereabouts of Mademoiselle Marie-Claude? He frowned, not seeing a way forward there, and contact with Jean-Jacques Noir was becoming hazardous. Should he tell Harriette about that? No. Not yet, at least. Better to keep his mouth tightly shut and his fears to himself—as he had been warned that he must.

For now he had the prospect of a wife, the last thing he wanted at this point in his life when he was living a lie and burdened with guilt, but in all honour, he could not abandon her. A strange alliance. A smuggler and a…what? Spy? Traitor? Some would undoubtedly say the latter. An
unscrupulous pairing, but Miss Lydyard had the
Ghost
, too good a chance to miss it if it allowed him to save an innocent young woman from harm.

And whatever happened, he would make sure Miss Harriette Lydyard did not suffer for her compliance.

Would Harriette Lydyard enjoy being a countess? Somehow he doubted it. He would wager she would rather face a gale-force wind in the
Lydyard’s Ghost
than a dress ball. But she wanted freedom from family restrictions; he saw the value of a fast ship to France. Both had an eye to a main chance, as she had observed in those cool tones of disdain, pure self-interest for both of them.

And what did he think of a girl who wore breeches and boots, evaded the law and ran the gauntlet of the Revenue men without any hint of fear? He ought to be outraged. Luke smiled wryly. Somehow he could not summon that emotion in his dealings with Miss Harriette Lydyard. He ought to be thoroughly outraged, condemning her morals and her sense of propriety. Even now, their final exchange in the library remained to echo uncomfortably in his mind.

As he was about to open the door, Harriette had stopped him. ‘If I am to wed you, does this mean that you would prefer me to give up smuggling?’

‘Yes,’ he had replied in some surprise, without hesitation. ‘How could I wish my wife to be involved in criminal activities? Ah!—that’s to say…’

‘I suppose you think it’s a vicious, damnable trade.’ She must have seen him searching for a tactful response. ‘Most people do, you know, even though it puts food into the mouths of poor women and children in fishing villages, who might otherwise starve.’ She raised her hand when he might have replied. ‘I understand—you don’t have to hide your condemnation of it, or me. I will just say this, my lord.
I will consider retiring from the Trade, because it is your preference.’

And that was as much as she would promise. Now he must live with the consequences. Was it possible to build a future on a fleeting and wholly inexplicable admiration for Miss Lydyard, simply because she had rescued him and saved his life? An admiration because she had faced him and flung his offer of wealth and consequence at his feet as so much dross?

One memory remained with him. That, smuggler or no, she had been eminently kissable. He had tasted her lips and found them as soft and sweet as any he might dream of. Lucius had been astonished at the response of his body, even in its weakened state. Lured into kissing her a second time, a surge of desire had taken him aback; his loins had tightened in powerful arousal when her lips parted beneath the pressure of his mouth. Her slender, competent hands pressed against his chest had lit a curl of heat in his belly at the same time as a purely masculine urge to protect her from the dangerous life she was living. He wanted her! Even now, at the memory of her slender form held in his arms, he experienced the same physical urgency to do exactly what her despicable brother had accused him of doing.

It’s only a strong dose of lust, he informed himself sternly. A woman and a smuggler—a scandalous situation that has piqued your imagination—nothing more.

Luke frowned at his logical assessment. Perhaps. And yet—those pretty lips might speak sharp words, but they could lure a man’s soul from his body if he did not take care. And being a man of sense, with other demands on his time and his emotions, he would do just that.

‘A
countess, indeed!’

‘Unless I imagined it all.’ Sitting in her bedchamber in Whitescar Hall, Sir Wallace’s stuffily respectable home, it seemed far beyond Harriette’s comprehension.

‘There’ll be no speaking to you with such consequence!’ Meggie’s eyes twinkled, then grew flat, anxious. ‘Do you suppose he means it?’

‘I think he would rather not!’ Harriette replied with disconcerting candour. ‘He only did so at Wallace’s insistence that my reputation would be compromised beyond redemption if he did not. Which just goes to show you can’t trust Wallace. For years he’s been lecturing me that, because of my hard-headedness in
consorting
with the Gentlemen of the Free Trade, I have no reputation to speak of.’

‘Of course you have. You should have been married years ago, and would have if your brother would put himself out for you and spend a little money on you. But her ladyship has you in mind as unpaid governess of her spoilt brats as soon as they leave the nursery, you mark my words.’

Which Harriette knew very well. She imagined, dismally, the prospect of teaching her two nephews to mind her and their manners, when their doting mother did nothing but give in to their imperious demands. Unless she snatched at this opportunity with both hands. She looked down at her hands, turning them over, then over again, as if she could still see the imprint of his fingers where they had held her. As if she could still feel his sheer strength of will as he had worn down her resolve not to allow him to be a martyr to her brother’s vile machinations. And he had kissed her—twice—so it could not have been an unpleasant experience for him. For a moment it was as if the Earl stood beside her, a bold, commanding figure, so that her heart jolted and the nerves in her belly skittered like mice behind the skirting boards. Until, aware of Meggie asking a question, she looked up.