How to Treat a Lady (15 page)

Chase curled his lip. “I'll wait. I cannot stand to eat at this time of the day.”

Mrs. Ward tsked. “Stephen, please keep an eye on the captain. I don't want him getting ill or overheated. The doctor would not be pleased if his patient was to suffer a relapse at our hands.”

Derrick lifted his gaze from the book he had opened beside his plate. “What about me? You never tell Stephen to see to it that I don't get overheated.”

Mrs. Ward patted Derrick's hand. “If you'd just risen from the sickbed with a knot on your head, I would indeed say the same thing of you.”

“I doubt it,” Derrick mumbled, looking as apathetic about the whole venture as Chase felt. “I wish I could stay inside today. I am halfway through the
Iliad
.”

Chase poured himself a cup of tea, strong and almost black, steam curling from the cup and into the
air. He glanced resentfully at the unlit fireplace that graced the room. Surely the Wards could afford some firewood or a little coal.

But apparently not. Perhaps his blood was thin; certainly none of them seemed affected by the chill morning air.

He pulled a chair from the table and turned it sideways so he would be facing the only empty seat…the one Harriet would have to take.

B'God, he'd get some amusement of this day, even if it killed him. The family wanted to pretend he was Harriet's beau, and play it, he would.

She came to take her seat, pausing when she saw him, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Drinking my tea and waiting for you.”

“That is very romantic,” Sophia informed Ophelia with a great deal of satisfaction.

Harriet didn't move, her plate clasped in her hands, steam drifting from her eggs and ham. “I don't want you there.”

“Where else am I to sit? It's the only empty chair.”

“You plan on staring at me while I'm eating, don't you?”

Despite the early hour, a smile tickled his lips. There was something delightfully refreshing about this woman. “Yes, I do. I plan on watching you eat every single morsel. I shall even comment upon the amount you are able to consume and wonder aloud how you stay so trim.”

Stephen chuckled. “I say, Captain, you're in good spirits this morning!”

“Only because Harriet is to sit with me at breakfast.”

Harriet turned toward the wide door leading outside. “I believe I'll eat on the terrace.”

“You can't do that!” Mrs. Ward said, blinking. “It's too dark and far too damp.”

Chase stood and took Harriet's plate and set it on the table at her chair. “I promise to look away now and again. And I'll have to get more tea eventually. You could possibly poke in a few bites at that time.”

Her chin firmed.

“Harri, sit down,” Stephen said. “The captain is just being attentive.”

She sniffed and took her chair, almost flouncing into place. “I don't like attentive men.”

Chase raised his brows. “You'd wish me to be
in
attentive? How very, very odd. Most females would argue against such treatment.”

Her gaze fixed on him with cool triumph. “Really? How can you remember how most women would react to anything? You've no memory.”

He curled his fingers about his cup, letting the warmth travel through him. “I know it the same way I know how to put on my boots or whether or not I like eggs. Some things just seem to come to me while others remain blank.”

Mrs. Ward nodded. “It was the same way with my friend, Mrs. Billingsworth. Couldn't remember that she had a sister, but knew word for word her recipe for calf's-foot jelly.”

Harriet grimaced. “Mother, pray do not keep bringing up Mrs. Billingsworth. I'm certain her case was nothing like the captain's.”

Harriet scooted in her chair a bit so that she faced away from Chase, then she picked up her fork and attacked her breakfast with an inordinate amount of
relish. Chase was left smiling at her back, which was fine really. Her thin dress outlined her figure perfectly, drawing his eye to her narrow waist and rounded bottom.

Chase barely had time to enjoy her proximity for a moment later, the door opened and the housekeeper appeared. “A letter for you, Mr. Stephen.”

Stephen straightened, took the letter and glanced at it, his eyes suddenly ablaze. He unfolded a small, delicately colored note and began to read.

“I wonder who it could be from?” Sophia said to Ophelia, both of them staring at the note.

“I wager I know,” Ophelia answered. She buttered her toast, a smirk on her lips. “I wager it's from Miss Str—”

“Hush, you two,” Harriet said, frowning at Stephen.

His expression had undergone a change. Within one moment, he went from excited to crestfallen, refolding the note with hands that trembled just the slightest bit. Chase watched, wondering what was happening.

Stephen crumpled the note in his hand and stood, his face set and pale. “We had best get to work.”

“As soon as you finish your breakfast,” Harriet said calmly. She eyed him as she cut her ham. “But first, there is one thing we must see to. The captain's clothing is far too fine for the fields.”

Stephen rubbed a hand over his brow, then abruptly sat. “Yes, yes. I can lend him some of mine.” His gaze flickered over Chase. “We're of the same height.”

“How nice of you, Stephen.” Sophia took a sip of her tea. “He'll need boots, too.”

Chase stretched his feet before him, his boots so shiny that he could see his own expression. “What's wrong with these?”

“Nothing,” Sophia said. “It's just that they might get dirty.”

“And scratched,” Derrick offered from the depths of his books.

“Among other things.” Harriet held out her own feet. She wore half boots of an indiscriminate brown that had seen far more than their fair share of wear.

Chase wrinkled his nose. “Those aren't fit to wear.”

“Neither will yours be if you try to stomp through the fields with them. They weren't made for such wear. But never fear, we'll get you booted and suited for the sheep.”

For some reason, Chase found her words less than reassuring. He was right. Within ten minutes of breakfast's being over, Chase found himself standing beside an old farm cart where two farmhands of dubious age and ability sat snoozing. They were dressed in faded and worn clothing, much like the ones Stephen had given to Chase.

He looked down at his own clothes. He suspected that the shirt at one time had been blue but was now a murky gray. The pants were dyed an indiscriminate black and were a trifle short. Worst of all were the boots. Though of leather, they were so worn and old that they sagged about his ankles in a preposterous manner.

He grimaced.

How had he gotten himself into this mess? Had he known that helping the Wards would mean such a total loss of his self-respect, he would never have volunteered to stay and pretend to be Captain Frak
enham. But it was too late now. Though Harriet might wish to pretend otherwise, it was obvious that things were desperate.

He sighed and rubbed his neck. They were waiting on Stephen and Harriet, who had disappeared into the barn. Chase spent a few moments with his horse before coming out to the wagon. The black gelding was in fine fettle, but badly needed to stretch his legs. Perhaps this evening, before the sun set, Chase would take the animal for a quick gallop.

A ponderous bark filled the air. Chase turned to see a huge dog lumbering across the yard in his direction. The dog…it was the same one that had saved him in the forest. Chase took a step forward; the dog saw him at the same time and came bounding across the yard.

Chase was over six feet tall and no lightweight. But neither was the dog, who had the favor of momentum on his side. Chase landed on his rump, a wet tongue laving his mouth and chin, while two huge paws pressed down his chest and made it difficult to breathe. With a joint cry, Sophia and Ophelia came to his rescue, struggling to remove the dog who took their efforts as encouragement and licked Chase's face all the more furiously.

For an instant, Chase knew what it was to die of both compression and drowning. Derrick was finally roused enough to put down his book, climb off the wagon, grab the dog by his collar and pull him off Chase.

Chase wiped his wet face on his sleeve and rolled to his feet. “What the hell is
that
?” he asked, eyeing the horse-dog and trying to swallow his irritation.

“We don't know exactly,” Ophelia said, pushing
her spectacles back on the bridge of her nose. “But he does well with the sheep.”

“Max is an excellent sheepherder,” Sophia agreed. She waited until Derrick had pulled the dog into the back of the wagon before she removed a huge straw hat from behind the seat and handed it to Chase. “You'll need this since we're to be in the sun today.”

He took one look at the fanciful ribbons and faded silk flowers that decorated the brim and handed it back. “No thank you.”

“You'll sunburn.”

“There are flowers on it.”

“That's because it's Harriet's. Stephen doesn't have an extra hat, but Harriet said you could wear hers.”

Somehow, Chase did not doubt that one bit. “I am not wearing this hat.”

“Oh, no one will see. Just us. Besides, I just added the sprig of forget-me-nots last week. Do you know how long it took to get those on there?”

Chase ground his teeth. He would not be caught dead in that blasted hat, come rain or snow. “I'm certain it must be too small for my head.”

Ophelia shook her head, adjusting the ribbons of her own straw hat under her chin, then climbing into the back of the cart and making herself comfortable in the straw. She and Sophia were going to pick berries while the others gathered the sheep. “Harriet's hats are all large because she always wears braids. I daresay it will fit you perfectly.”

Chase sighed, glancing at the sun barely showing on the horizon. It was difficult to imagine that it would be warm, but Sophia was probably right.

Sighing, he slapped the hat on his head, turned, and found Harriet's gaze from across the yard. She was standing beside a solemn-faced Stephen, her
hands resting on her hips. Even from here, he could tell that her eyes were alight with laughter.

It took him a moment to realize the truth; she was laughing at
him
.

“Damn it!” He yanked the hat off his head and threw it into the back of the cart, then climbed in himself and took his place on the seat beside Derrick, who was still buried in his book.

Bloody hell, look at how far he'd sunk. But perhaps it was fate's way of mocking him as well. Hadn't he violated the St. John honor with his reckless behavior? Hadn't he humiliated his family name? Perhaps this was retribution of some sort.

He straightened his shoulders. Whatever life had in store for him, he'd face it. No more hiding. No more trying to drown his troubles. He was a St. John and no matter the circumstances, it was time he remembered it.

His gaze roamed over the yard until he found Harriet. She placed her hand on her brother's arm and spoke earnestly. Stephen must have disagreed with what she had to say, for he shook his head violently and, when she continued to speak, finally pulled away, turned, and then went into the barn as fast as his crutches would allow. Harriet watched him go, a strangely hollow look to her face.

Chase promptly forgot his own troubles. “What's wrong with Stephen?” he asked Sophia.

“He's in love.”

Ophelia nodded. “With Miss Strickton. But she won't have anything to do with him.”

“He's young,” Chase said. “He'll get over it.”

“I don't know about that,” Sophia said, tilting her head to one side. “He's loved her for a long time. Since he was seven.”

“Seven?”

Ophelia nodded. “And she's always been fond of him. Until this year, of course. Her father took her to London for the season and I think it quite turned her head.”

Harriet joined them, her expression closed. Chase wanted to say something to ease her mind. But he couldn't seem to find the words. What right did he have to offer comfort, anyway? She was surrounded by her family, her loved ones, all of whom looked up to her and admired her. What could he offer that she didn't already have?

The thought left him feeling alone and out of place. He forced himself to swallow the words of support he'd thought to utter. Instead, he turned away, unaware that as he did so, Harriet's gaze followed him, her expression growing even sadder.

“Time to get to work,” Harriet said. “Stephen will stay here and assist Mother.” She climbed into the back of the wagon and made a seat on a barrel. “Jem, we're ready.”

“Yes, Miss Ward.” The older of the two farmhands untied the reins. Soon they were jouncing along, the wheels squeaking down the rutted path.

S
heep, Chase decided on the third day of his incarceration (for he refused to think of it as else), were not the mild-mannered animals one might have been led to believe from nursery-rhyme lore.

Oh no. Despite their large brown eyes and soft woolen exteriors, they were imminently capable of capricious behavior that could only be described as malicious, malevolent, and mean.

Something as simple as herding the stupid creatures from one field into the next was tantamount to climbing the icy summits of Mt. Olympus and fighting off an army of Cyclopses while wearing a tattered loincloth and carrying no weapons other than a rock and a very small slingshot.

He'd been working with the Wards and their two
hired helpers for three whole, endless days, each one longer than the previous. And now, on the dawn of the fourth day, he could barely move, his entire body was a mass of bruises, aches, sunburn, and blisters.

The sad thing was that the shearing hadn't even begun. All they had done so far was move the sheep to the field beside the barn and repair some fencing along the way.

Of course, that had taken plenty of time, energy, and fortitude since the sheep seemed determined to thwart them every step of the way. They attempted to break free at the first sign of weakness, the largest rams taking every opportunity to run down any unsuspecting worker who might make the error of turning his back. Sheep were vicious, vindictive creatures and Chase had the lumps and bruises to prove it.

He leaned against the wagon, watching the sun rise over the gentle hills. To his surprise, he found he rather liked this time of day—the hour after dawn when everything looked clean and fresh, a covering of creamy dew gilding the grass and trees. He lifted his head and took a deep breath of fresh air, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders. It was so easy to lose oneself in London. But here, everything seemed…easier. Simpler.

“Captain?” Stephen's voice intruded.

Chase straightened, then groaned.

Stephen quirked a brow. “Does your back hurt?”

“My entire body hurts. Even my hair.”

Stephen managed a faint smile. “Could you and Jem get the new gate built today?”

Chase looked at the boy, noting the circles beneath his eyes. Gone was the cheery voice that had awoken
Chase on the first day. Stephen had barely smiled since then. “I'm sure Jem and I can build the gate.”

“Good. Derrick and I will go with Harriet to see to the gap we found in the fence in the south pasture. The others are going to clean out the barn.”

“Work, work, work.”

“It's not usually like this. Once the shearing is done, things will settle back to normal.”

“Will we have to get up at dawn?”

“No.”

Chase would have never thought just lying in bed was something to be savored. But that had been before he'd become Captain Frakenham, or, as Chase was beginning to think of himself, The Poor Bastard. “I can't wait.”

Stephen nodded, then went off to consult with Jem about the quantity of nails available.

Chase flexed his shoulders, looking about for Harriet. She hadn't appeared yet, which was unusual.

Every morning began the same—he was rudely awakened before dawn, followed by a hurried dressing in the dark in clothing best not thought about, then on to a hideously large and boisterous breakfast, something Chase had learned was vitally important unless he wished to expire of hunger before lunch was served.

If you could call it luncheon. Where breakfast was a multiplattered affair, lunch was hard bread, cheese, some apples or pickles, and all the water Chase could want.

“Water,” Chase scoffed to no one in particular. It had been three days since he'd had anything worthy to eat or drink after the ungodly hour of six in the morning. Three entire, endless, painful days.

Had he any sense, he would pretend suddenly to remember who he was, pack his bags, and leave. But to do so would be to leave the Wards, and especially Harriet, to Gower's mercy.

Chase scowled at the thought. He didn't trust the banker any farther than he could throw him. The jackass rode up every day or so just to rankle the family, and Chase was fairly certain that though the man pretended otherwise, he didn't always come on bank business. Indeed, there was something very personal about the way he looked at Harriet.

Chase stirred restlessly, wincing when his shoulders protested. Apparently Captain Frakenham was not made for building fences and fighting rambunctious rams. From the very beginning, he should have loftily informed the Wards that sea captains never herded sheep. Never wrestled with sheep. And never, ever ended up with sheep excrement on their boots.

Several times, he thought of saying just that. But seeing Harriet dressed in her old gowns, her hair falling out of her braids as she dragged split rails from the back of the wagon, carried buckets of water out to him and Derrick and the other farm hands, or any of the other hundreds of chores that she performed, made him hesitate. She was working her heart out and so, for some reason, he found he could do no less.

Harriet and her family were remarkable and he found his ragged heart responding to their valiant fight. As if, in seeing them triumph over their troubles, he would somehow find the strength to triumph over his own. He'd never before witnessed a family quite like the Wards. Never met anyone quite like Harriet.

He glanced around the barnyard. “Where is Har
riet?” For the first time since he'd been at Garrett Park, she had missed breakfast.

Derrick looked up from where he sat in the cart seat, a book in his lap. He blinked mildly. “I saw her in the hallway not ten minutes ago. She said something about getting the food from Cook.”

And she would appear at any moment, carrying a basket that weighed as much as she. Chase turned and walked toward the house.

He went first to the kitchen, but Cook was busy adding the last few items to the basket. She hadn't seen Harriet yet.

Chase found that disturbing, but what could he do? He turned to go back outside, but then paused at the foot of the steps.

Some imp of madness tickled his fancy and he found himself looking up the steps at the doors that lined the landing. Hmm. Which bedchamber was it?

Moments later, he was walking down the hallway, when he spied her through an open doorway. She was standing in front of her bed, one foot in her boot as she hopped around, trying to get it over her ankle. She was completely dressed, though there was some sign that she'd braided her hair in far too much of a hurry.

Chase leaned against the doorframe, watching her with some amusement.

She stopped hopping around, the boot only half on her foot. “What do you want?”

“I came to see if you needed any assistance.”

“Putting on my boots?” she scoffed. “I believe I can manage.”

Chase grinned. “You weren't at breakfast.”

Her cheeks blossomed with color. “I fell back asleep.”

“So did I, but Stephen was not about to allow me the luxury of actually enjoying it. You'd better get yourself something to eat, or you'll be starved.”

“I'll eat some bread and cheese on the way to the field.” She plopped on the edge of her bed and grabbed the boot and began tugging. “I don't know why this won't go on.”

“Let me help.” Chase moved toward the bed, but something sparkling in the open wardrobe made him pause. “What's that?” He walked to it and pushed the door farther open. On the bottom shelf sat a pair of shoes. And not just any shoes, but lovely beaded silver satin ballroom slippers. He picked one up and looked at Harriet.

She tossed the boot on the floor and crossed to his side. “They're from my father. He gave them to me on my seventeenth birthday.” She traced a finger down the shoe, lingering on the beads. There was a wistful gleam to her eyes, a sadness, too.

Chase turned the small shoe over in his hand. “It's never been worn.”

She shrugged and turned away, her expression shuttered. “Where would I wear that?” Her fingers brushed her skirts. “And with what? Father was not a practical man. Just a dreamer.”

“Dreaming is important.”

“Not when it prevents you from dealing with reality,” she retorted, sitting back on the edge of the bed and picking up her boot. “He always wanted the good life. So he pretended. And now, we're all paying for it.”

Chase looked down at the slipper, wondering how many years it had rested in the bottom of the wardrobe. He looked at the shelf, then collected the mate. “Here. Put these on.”

She paused. “What?”

Chase came to stand in front of her. “Put these on. I want to see you wear them.”

“Why?”

“Maybe because you never have.”

She set the boot back on the floor. “I've worn them once or twice.”

He looked at the perfect, unscuffed soles. “Where? In here?”

She nodded.

Chase shook his head. “That will not do.” He knelt before her.

Harriet stiffened. “What are you doing?”

“I am going to put these shoes on your feet.”

“Why? Captain, I'm already late and—”

“Five minutes won't matter.” He glanced up at her. “Put them on. For me.”

“For…why would I do that?”

“Why not?”

She bit her lip and he could see her mulling the thought, considering it from every angle. “I suppose—”

“Good,” he said, not giving her time to reconsider. “Take off your stockings.”

“My—whatever for?”

“Because these slippers will never fit over such thick woolen stockings.”

She sighed, but to his surprise, she did as she was told, rolling the gray stocking down her calf, unwittingly giving him a bare flash of a nicely rounded leg. The sight heated him in ways a mere rounded leg never had before.

He took her foot in his hand. Her foot seemed tiny, delicate even, against his large palm. “You deserve to wear shoes like these.”

“Deserve?” she said, rather breathlessly.

“Deserve,” he replied firmly. He slipped the shoe over her foot, then did the same with the other one.

Harriet held her feet before her and regarded the shoes solemnly. “They're quite pretty, aren't they?”

“They're beautiful.” He met her gaze and smiled. “You have lovely ankles as well.”

Harriet's heart skipped a beat. She'd been having a horrid day up until then. She'd awoken late, her hair wouldn't stay in its braid, she'd hit her shin on a stool, and the knob to her wardrobe door had broken, which was why the door had been standing ajar. Added to that, her blasted boots had been determined to stay off her feet.

She looked at the delicate slippers, so incongruous against her faded skirts. “They fit so well. As if made for me.”

He glanced up at her, his eyes shadowed by the fall of hair over his brows. There was a hint of mischief in his gaze, something seductive and wild. Harriet's heart leapt as if in response. “I—I—” She what? She loved the shoes? Loved having him sitting so close? Loved the feel of his hands on her ankles?

Heat flooded her face, and she cleared her throat. “I suppose everyone is waiting on me.”

“We can't be long. Derrick seemed to think you'd returned to get the lunch basket.”

“And you were going to carry it for me? I'm honored.”

He grinned. “Don't be. I just wanted to steal some cheese before Derrick could get to it.”

“He's a growing boy.”

“He's a greedy menace.”

“That too.”

He stood. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why do you work so hard?”

She blinked. “Because there are so many things to do and so…I do them. Besides, work is good for the soul.”

“Perhaps it is,” he said musingly. He reached down and took her hand, then pulled her to her feet. “What would you do if you weren't tied here, to Garrett Park?”

“I don't consider it tied. I love my home. But if I had the money, I suppose I'd like to travel.”

“Where?”

She thought a moment, her gaze finding the tips of her slippers. “To London.”

He raised his brows. “That's not that far from here. A day's journey, if that.”

“I know.” She held out one foot and then the other. “I always thought to take these with me for my season, but by then, Father had overspent the investment funds and there was no money for such things. But one day…”

“One day?” he prompted.

She caught his gaze and smiled. “One day I shall wear these shoes and dance with—” She broke off, her cheeks heating.

“With?”

“With someone other than my brothers.” She chuckled. “Neither one can dance at all. Stephen is forever stepping on my feet, and Derrick forgets he is even dancing and frequently comes to a complete stop.”

Chase looked down at her, amazed at her spirit. Even through her wistfulness, there was an air of contentment, of satisfaction with who she was and what she wanted. More than he, who'd had every
luxury, every advantage, had ever felt.

He looked about the room. “All we need—” he muttered to himself. He moved a stool and a small chest of drawers to the wall, effectively clearing the floor. “There.”

“What are you doing?” She sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for one of the shoes. “We need to get to the carts. Everyone will be waiting and—”

Chase took her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Leave your shoes on.”

“Why?”

He led her to the center of the room. “You are going to get your dance.”

She blinked. “Here?”

“And now.” He held her hand in his and clasped her gently about the waist. “Allow me to point out that I am not one of your brothers.”

“I—how can—with this dress?”

He grinned. “You can take it off if you wish. Actually, I think that is an excellent idea.”