Encounter with Venus (10 page)

Pratkin’s enigmatic expression gave way to an affectionate smile. “You look fine, sir, just the way you are.”

Bernard, feeling foolish, murmured, “Thank you, Pratkin,” and returned his man’s smile with a self-deprecating grin of his own.

He had only time to smooth back his unruly hair when Harriet appeared in the doorway. Pratkin had evidently taken her wrap, but she still wore a green chip hat perched on her red curls, a hat Bernard believed to be completely inadequate for a snowy evening but making her look quite delectable. “Good evening,” he managed to gulp.

“Good evening, Bernard,” she said with a somewhat naughty smile. “Are you shocked at my calling on you this way?”

“No, no, of course not...” he began, but his innate honesty would not permit him to lie. “Well, yes, I
am
shocked, if truth be told.”

“Yes, naturally you are,” she said complacently. “Mama was, too, when I told her I was coming.”

“Are you saying that Lady Redwood gave you permission to visit a bachelor in his rooms?” Bernard demanded, appalled.

“I didn’t ask her permission,” the girl said, stepping over the threshold and looking about the room with interest. “I just informed her of my intention. I admit that Mama made a mild objection, but she knew I’d not heed it.”

“Why did you not heed it?”

“Really, Bernard, what a silly question.” She circled about the room, studying the titles of his books and the pictures on his walls. “Mama and I both know that you are a gentleman of the highest principles and that I am in no danger in calling on you.”

Bernard frowned. “I suppose that much is true. Though not very flattering to my sense of my manhood.”

“Oh, bosh! This has nothing to do with your manhood. It’s your sense of honor that makes you safe to visit. And, to be sure, my maid is downstairs. If it would be soothing to your offended sense of your manhood, I can call her up to sit with us.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He motioned her to an armchair before the fire. “Sit down, do.”

She nodded and went to the chair, gathering up the skirts of her striped green-and-black muslin gown and slipping into the large chair with such grace that he shivered with pleasure at the sight. But taking himself in hand, he wheeled himself across the room to face her. “Now, tell me, Miss Renwood, what is so important as to cause you to undertake this daring act of misconduct?”

“Does the fact that I’ve done something daring mean that you can no longer call me Harriet?” she asked, fluttering her lashes at him.

“Come, girl, don’t play games. Why are you here?”

“It’s about Mama’s ball,” she said, becoming serious. “Ever since you told us, the other day on the street, that you were not certain of attending, I’ve been concerned that you would be cowardly and not come if your friend Frobisher does not return on time. Has he returned, by the way?”

“No, not yet.”

“And you’re still adamant about not coming without him?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then I’m glad I undertook this ‘daring act of misconduct.’ I have a solution to your problem. My brother Denny.”

He blinked. “Your brother?”

“Yes. I’ve spoken to him, and he’d be delighted to take Frobisher’s place at your side.”

Bernard stiffened. “Indeed?”

“Yes, truly.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Isn’t that a perfect solution?”

“You brother is, I believe, sixteen years old, is that right?” he asked coldly.

“Yes.”

“And, like any red-blooded youngster, has a profound dislike for balls?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then how, I’d like to know, was he persuaded to be ‘delighted’ to accompany me—an old codger on crutches whom he barely knows—to a social event he is bound to detest?”

This icy response surprised and confused her. “Old codger? You can’t believe... My brother doesn’t... You mustn’t think...” In sudden alarm that she’d blundered somehow, her chin began to tremble.

The trembling chin was very appealing, but Bernard did not relent. “Tell me, Miss Renwood, how the boy was coerced into agreeing to this exciting treat. Did you threaten to keep him from attending his school’s prize cricket match? Or to send him to visit his least favorite aunt for Christmas? Or to make him eat sprouts every meal for a month?”

She lifted her head proudly. “None of those things.”

“Let’s be honest, girl. No red-blooded young fellow would have agreed to such an onerous task without some sort of threat.”

“It wasn’t a threat.” She dropped her eyes from his intense stare. “It was a bribe.”

“Aha! And how did you bribe him?”

She sighed in defeat. “I promised I’d buy him the Spanish filly he wants so badly.”

“How very generous of you.” He turned his chair away from her and remained silent for a long moment. When at last he spoke again, it was in a low, subdued voice. “I’m sorry, Harriet, but I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that I’m refusing your offer.”

“I don’t see why. Please, Bernard, be reasonable. It won’t hurt Denny to spend an evening in your company.”

“It would, however, hurt me.”

She stared at him for a long moment and then got slowly to her feet. “I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” she asked, walking round his chair and looking down at him.

“I’m afraid so.”

“I see.” She gulped back the tears that were suddenly choking her. “Offending you was the last thing I wanted to do.” She took a deep breath. “But I shall not apologize,” she said and, swinging round on her heel, strode briskly to the door. There she paused and turned back to him. “It seems, Sir Bernard Tretheway, that I’ve been quite wrong about you.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “In what way?”

“I believed you to be a man of sense,” she said, her voice deepened with her unshed tears, “but no man of sense would take offense at what I’ve said and done. In fact, it would occur to any man of sense to wonder
why
a young woman would plead with him on the street, would bribe her brother to escort him, and would undertake this daring act of misconduct just to get him to attend a foolish little social affair. And if this man of sense should determine the answer, I believe he would regret to his dying day his rejection of the invitation. But since you are evidently not a man of sense, I needn’t concern myself that you’ll suffer any regrets. Good night, sir.”

She shut the door behind her with a loud finality. He gaped at it, trying to guess what it was she was trying to say to him. He
did
have sense enough to wonder why she’d pleaded with him that morning on the street, why she’d bribed her brother, and why she’d come to his rooms this evening. She was certainly going to extraordinary lengths to convince him to attend a ball that she herself had called “a foolish little social affair.” Why?

He knew she liked him a bit. But could it be that she felt more than mere liking? Could she be trying to tell him that she
cared
for him? Could she care for a foolish, crippled, cowardly fellow like himself?

No. It wasn’t possible. She was just being kind.

Or was she?

In an agony of confusion, he wheeled himself back to the window and stared out at the snow, trying to calm the emotions that Harriet’s visit had set into disarray. He was usually a levelheaded fellow, accustomed to handling the limitations of his impairment with good sense, but when it came to his feelings for Harriet, he was on unfamiliar ground. He found his mood swinging wildly from excitement
(Can she possibly love me?)
to despair
(She’s probably only feeling sorry for me).
And staring out the window did nothing to appease him. “Damnation, George, I need you! Where are you?” he cried out to the unheeding snowflakes.

FIFTEEN

George was also gazing out at the snow. From the window of the taproom of the quaint old inn into which they’d stumbled, weary and half frozen, he could see the flakes coming down thick and fast. His promise to Bernard nagged at him. He stood there at the window muttering curses. He cursed at the snow, at the broken wheels, at his sister for getting him into this scrape, and at himself for ever having given in to the temptation to see his Venus in the first place. He should have stayed in London, as Bernard had urged. He’d been a blasted fool.

More than three days remained before the Renwood ball. It was, he hoped, still possible to keep that promise. He’d already convinced the innkeeper to send the ostler and two stablemen out at dawn to replace the wheels. If they could right the carriage quickly, he could start out early and reach Livy’s home by midafternoon. Then he could take off immediately for London. He might yet make it. But this damnable snowfall made the prospect look dim.

A stirring at the doorway made him look round. Livy had come down from the inn’s only guest room, where she’d gone to try to dry her garments at the fire. “Is it still coming down?” she asked.

He stared at her. She’d removed the widow’s cap that she’d worn all day and had shaken down her hair. It now fell in charming disarray about her shoulders. It was not a dull brown as it had appeared when he first saw her but a shining auburn, thick and temptingly touchable. Her cheeks were flushed, probably because of having been close to the fire. Her lips, not pressed together as they’d been when he first saw her, seemed full and luscious. And then there was the matter of her figure. The simple lavender muslin gown she was wearing was still damp, and it clung to her in such a manner that it was quite obvious she was not nearly as gaunt as he’d once thought. She looked—he had to admit it—quite lovely. If she’d looked that way when he’d first seen her, he might not have been so greatly disappointed.

She crossed the room and joined him at the window. “It’s still coming down, I see,” she said worriedly. “We shall have to put up here for the night, that much is clear.”

“We’ve no choice,” he said. “I couldn’t ask the stablemen to work on the carriage tonight, not in this weather.”

“No, of course you couldn’t,” Livy agreed, “but I don’t know how we shall manage to sleep.”

“I’ve thought of that. The innkeeper tells me that he can put up a cot for Bridie in the bedroom with you, and Timmy has arranged to bunk with the ostler, so we shall manage. We shall all have to sleep in our clothes, of course.”

“But what about you?” she asked. “Where will you sleep?”

“I’ll sleep here, on a chair near the fire.”

“Oh, no!” she cried. “That won’t do at all. Not after what you’ve been through today.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her with a smile. “I can sleep anywhere. I’ve slept in much worse places when I was fighting in Spain. Come and sit down. I’ve ordered dinner. I hope you can stomach a mutton stew.”

The stew, as it happened, was delicious. And afterward, the innkeeper brought in two rum toddies, which he heated by plunging a red-hot poker into the mugs.

Sipping the steaming brew brought them both to a state of dreamy relaxation. Leaning back in her chair, Livy asked him questions about his adventures in Spain. He enjoyed telling her about the battles, his near escapes, and the time he came face-to-face with Wellington himself. It was a very pleasant evening. When the mantel clock struck midnight, and she stood up and bid him good night, he was sorry to see it end.

The innkeeper came in and banked the fire. Timmy popped his head in to say good night. And then George was alone. He pulled a chair to the fire, propped his feet up on the fireplace fender, and tried to sleep. But his hip pained him, and no matter how he tried to settle himself, he could not find a comfortable position. Unable to fall asleep, his thoughts began to circle about Livy. Though she’d not turned out to be his Venus, she was nevertheless an admirable, resolute, plucky sort of female. And ingenious, too. If it hadn’t been for her quick thinking, he might still be lying out there in the snow, pinned under the carriage, and if not actually freezing to death, at the very least suffering from frostbitten legs. What was more, she had not turned out to be the spinsterish creature he’d expected from that early glimpse of her. He’d made a hasty misjudgment. He’d been put off by pursed lips, a pallid face, and a topknot of hair.
I
ought to learn,
he told himself,
not to jump to hasty conclusions based on trivial...

The next thing he knew, he was being shaken by the shoulder. “Wake up, yer lordship,” Timmy was saying. “The new wheels is on. Ye cin look fer yerself. I drove the carriage right up t’ the door.”

George opened his eyes. The early-morning sunshine, brightened by the snowy covering that blanketed the landscape, was streaming in through the window. “Good God,” he said, blinking, “what time is it?”

“Almost seven. I think Miss Henshaw’s comin’ down.”

George winced, not only from the pain in his sore hip but from the stiffness in every other part of his body. Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet. He’d just managed to straighten up when Livy and Bridie bustled in. “I hope you’re ready to leave, my lord,” Livy said urgently. “I see that the carriage is right outside, waiting for us.”

George studied her in some surprise. This was not the same Livy to whom he’d bid good night just a few hours before. With her widow’s cap now set snugly over her hair, her face pale, and her lips pressed tightly together, she was again the spinster he’d first seen. He noticed, too, that the hands clasping her cloak to her neck were trembling with agitation. “Is something wrong, Livy?” he asked.