If Wishes Were Earls (26 page)

Definitely mulish.

“When you decide, will you let me know?”

She nodded.

Well, with that taken care of, he started back into the business at hand. “Everything went wrong just after I decided to marry you—”

“A fact which you withheld from me, but obviously told someone,” she said, sounding most missish.

Roxley suspected he would never live that one down, but at the moment, he realized why he was better with her help. She made a very good point.

“Who did you tell, Roxley?” she pressed.

Memories of last summer flitted through his thoughts. After the night at Owle Park, he’d ridden pell-mell for London with the intention of getting a Special License and then going on to Kempton to gain her father’s permission. But on the way, he’d stopped at an inn and run into an old friend . . .

An old friend . . .

But that couldn’t be . . . and yet . . .

He glanced up at her, the shock evident on his face.

“Who? Who did you tell?” she repeated, this time quietly and warily.

He moved forward and caught her in his arms, pulling her close—well, as close as one could with a garden gate between them, and kissed her. His lips taking hers, with a thoroughness that spoke what his heart feared.

You are mine. You always will be. You must be.

He set her back down and kissed her once more on the tip of her nose. “Mind this: you must keep well clear of all this. Do not do anything that will bring you to the forefront. Please, Harriet. I would be lost without you.”

The implication was clear.
You are in terrible danger.

And for better or for worse, Harriet was no fool. She took him at his word and with her lips pressed together, she nodded in silent agreement.

“What are you going to do?” she said. Well called after him, for he was already off and half running down the mews.

“Never mind,” he said over his shoulder, forgetting every notion of working together, for this entire venture had taken a most dangerous turn. “Just be ever so careful. And don’t do anything foolish.”

There was a great huff from her, but he didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He had too much to do.

His first stop would be to call on the one person in Bath who could confirm all this for him. The one person who was connected to both Miss Murray and her sponsor, her protector. Her employer.

And the most deadly enemy he could think of.

D
emmit, Harriet Hathaway, will you marry me?

Well, it wasn’t exactly a proposal out of
Miss Darby
, but it was still a proposal
, Harriet mused later that evening as she stood in the Bath assembly rooms.

All around her, the fine society of Bath was gathered for the Thursday evening ball, and she found herself chafing at the promise Roxley had wrenched from her.

For he had pulled it from her. His face, the expression, the very wariness in his eyes had told her that whatever it was he suspected, whoever he suspected, the answer was not good.

And that much should have warned her off, but in her heart she knew Roxley needed her.

As surely as she had wanted to say yes to his proposal. Should have jumped at it. But she’d still been in a bit of pique at having spent the afternoon in the company of Fieldgate.

What she wanted was to marry Roxley and get on with their lives.
Together.

Then he’d gone and kissed her, and that had probably startled her more than his expression. For there in his kiss was such longing, and more to the point, something akin to a fear that it may be their last moment together.

Harriet shook her head slightly, tossing that thought aside, her hand going to her lips, as if she could keep hold only of the memories that made her heart sing—not the ones that left her cold with dread.

What if this was all as dire as she suspected? As the look of pure fear in Roxley’s expression had said so clearly?

She glanced over at Miss Murray, who was listening politely and patiently—like the perfect London heiress—to Lady Bindon’s gossip about some recent
on dit
of little import. To anyone looking at her, she would appear quite what she seemed to be, but all Harriet saw was the roadblock to all her dreams, her wishes.

This is a long game
, Roxley had said.
Patience. We must watch and wait.

Wait.
That was not a word that came easily to Harriet.

“Miss Murray! Oh, yoo-hoo! Dearest Miss Murray, there you are.”

Harriet froze. Oh, good heavens no.
Not her.
Before she could even say anything, she found herself being nudged aside as a lady in a grand silk gown and a towering arrangement of feathers pushed herself between Harriet and her charge.

“Miss Murray! My dearest friend!”

Oh, yes. It was Lady Kipps. Glancing up, Harriet spied the lady’s unfortunate husband trailing a few steps behind his wife.

While the assembly ball was a terrible crush, the arrival of the beloved earl and his recent bride—to Bath, no less—caused a great stir.

Harriet glanced over at the newly arrived pair, remembering Roxley’s assurance.
Something will trip her up.

If there was anything or anyone that could throw a good horse lame, it was the former Miss Edith Nashe.

“Lady Kipps,” Miss Murray stammered out.

“I have surprised you,” the countess said. “I am delighted. See, Kipps, I told you how Miss Murray would be overcome by our arrival. See how she gapes.” Lady Kipps leaned forward, fan fluttering and speaking loud enough for all to hear—for she loved being the center of attention. “I couldn’t abide you leaving London. And me not knowing how you were faring with this medieval mustering the Marshoms have demanded. Medieval, I say!”

“
Harrumph
,” Lady Eleanor glanced down her nose at this interloper and dismissed her at once.

Countess or not, a mushroom would always be mushroom in Lady Eleanor’s estimation.

Harriet suppressed a smile.

“How is your new hired companion?” Lady Kipps asked, looking left and right as if she hadn’t the faintest idea where Harriet was. “Wherever is
poor
Miss Hathaway?” With those ringing tones, she made sure one and all knew Harriet’s status.

Daughter of a baronet she might be, but reduced to hiring out as a companion.
Poor, poor, Harriet.

She turned again, and this time spied Harriet nearly at her elbow. “Oh, there you are, Miss Hathaway. Lurking about in the shadows. How I missed you, I’ll never understand, for you stand out like a Maypole, and oh, my—” That was the moment Lady Kipps actually looked at Harriet and spied the gown she was wearing.

If the silk Harriet had worn to the theater had been scandalous, this one, a red creation, was cut too daring—sleeves that weren’t really much more than an afterthought, leaving her shoulders bare, and a neckline that plunged far too deep.

It would be dramatic on any lady, but on Harriet, with her dark hair and striking height, it commanded the attention of one and all, including the imperious Lady Kipps, who appeared downright dowdy in her choice of a puce silk that hadn’t the hint of style and dash that Harriet’s gown showed in every detail.

And better still, Lady Kipps knew it.

“Yes, well, there you are,” the countess finished, sounding very put out.

“Don’t see how you missed her,” Lord Bindon interjected.

Thwack.

Taking a breath, Lady Kipps returned her full attention to Miss Murray and did her best not to draw any further notice to Harriet. “Now you must tell me everything, my dear Miss Murray! Though I can see quite clearly you are so overcome with joy that you don’t know what to say!”

“Yes, something like that,” Miss Murray said, a smile forced to her lips.

“But, dear me,” Lady Kipps declared, fan aflutter and looking around again, “where is Roxley? I would think he would be right by your side, if only to ensure no other gentleman would steal you away. Especially since you look so lovely tonight—so divinely innocent.” Then seconds later shot a disapproving glance at Harriet that said clearly she thought her appearance was quite the opposite.

Harriet smiled as if she hadn’t the least suspicion that she’d been insulted. She only hoped that one day she could be the one to tell Lady Kipps that her “dearest friend” was an impostor. A nobody. A trespasser into society.

Oh, yes, that would be worth a raft of her insults and insinuations.

Then before Harriet could continue her plotting—something to do with Mr. Muggins and his entire litter of feather hating progeny, Roxley came up and turned her attention elsewhere.

Roxley
.

It was nearly impossible not to step forward and into his arms. Claim him as she longed to do. Instead, she stepped back and looked down at his boots, taking as demure a stance as she might—if only to hide the love that was surely shining in her eyes.

Demmit, Harriet Hathaway, will you marry me?

Yes, Roxley, I will
, she would gladly shout right this moment.
I will.

“Lady Kipps?” he managed, then recovering quickly, he nearly grinned from ear to ear. “Why yes it is! Dear Lady Kipps! Such an advantageous surprise! Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Murray?”

The best the girl could manage was a tightly set smile.

“You’ve completely done her in,” Roxley told the countess.

“As I intended, Roxley. As I intended. Dear Kipps and I came down to see how you two lovebirds were doing and to help you charm your aunt into agreeing to your marriage as quickly as possible so Miss Murray can return to the very bosom of society, right where she belongs.”

“She belongs beside me,” Roxley declared, stepping closer to his quarry.

Harriet bit her lips together to keep from correcting him.
Where she belongs is in the bosom of hell
.

“Kipps,” Roxley said with a slight nod to the young earl, who stood just a few steps away from his own bride.

“Yes, well, hello there, Roxley.” The young earl’s reply sounded more like an apology. “Lady Kipps wanted a bit of a belated wedding trip. Didn’t want to impose, but she was worried about her friend.”

“Worried? More like frantic!” his wife declared, winding her arm into the crook of Miss Murray’s.

“No need, she is in good hands,” Roxley told her, extracting the girl from the countess’s clutches and steering her toward the dance floor. “I was promised this dance, was I not, Miss Murray?”

“Yes, indeed,” she said, fleeing with Roxley.

Once again, Harriet found herself contemplating Miss Murray’s demise, if only because now she was left alone with her second least favorite person in the world.

And Lady Kipps, finding herself so quickly abandoned, turned her smiling countenance on Harriet.

Not that Harriet was deceived by the friendly overture. The former Miss Edith Nashe had the cold, calculating heart of a merchant, no matter what title she dressed herself up in.

“Miss Hathaway! Always a delight,” she said, moving closer.

Harriet knew exactly how a fox felt when it heard the hounds begin to bay.

“How are you finding your employment?” the lady asked.

“It isn’t actually employment if one isn’t being paid,” Harriet explained.

“Good practice for your future, I daresay. And Miss Murray has such a kind heart—she will be hard-pressed not to give you anything but a glowing reference no matter how things turn out.” Before Harriet could open her mouth, the lady went on, “Perhaps you can provide the same service to Kipps’s sisters.” Her fan snapped shut and for a moment her smile waned, her eyes narrowing. “His mother is being most insistent that they be brought out. All four of them! Can you imagine, me having to bring out those ungainly girls? La! As if I have the time.”

Harriet glanced over at Lady Eleanor, expecting the lady to rise to her defense, as she was used to Lady Essex rushing in where angels feared to tread, but not so with her sister. The particular Marshom stood by, a droll expression on her face, apparently waiting to see how this duel of sorts played out.

“After all,” Lady Kipps continued, “your services won’t be needed much longer, not when Miss Murray and Lord Roxley make the most excellent couple. Rather like me and my Kipps. Yes, she will do quite nicely for him, won’t she, Lady Eleanor?”

Both Harriet and Lady Kipps turned toward the regal spinster and waited for her reply.

But all Lady Kipps got for her interference and inferences was the condescending look of an earl’s daughter whose place in society hadn’t been purchased, but borne of generations. Lady Eleanor was not one to suffer fools, and the rise of her brows, the slight tilt of her mouth said she found the entire subject just that: foolish, and more to the point, tiresome.

Lady Bindon, who by some miracle had been silent through all this, spoke up, if only to fill in the uncomfortable silence. “It is delightful to see Roxley finally taking interest in starting his nursery.”

It was probably the most diplomatic and sensible thing the baroness had ever said, however Lord Bindon made a loud
harrumph
and stalked off, muttering something about “a touch of whisky somewhere.”

And before Lady Kipps could launch into another one of her prattling opinions, they were interrupted by the arrival of a most notorious figure, entirely clad in black, her presence stopping the flow of chatter in an instant.

“Oh, dear me, if it isn’t Madame Sybille,” Lady Bindon whispered. Though this being Lady Bindon, it was more a loud declaration.

“Madame Sybille?” Lady Kipps replied, her eyes widening. “She is all the rage in London! Whyever has she come to Bath? And in the middle of the Season, of all times.”

As the mysterious woman approached them an odd twinge ran down Harriet’s spine. The countess was right—it was curious that Madame Sybille would leave London so abruptly, when her services were so much in demand.

The sense of foreboding only continued when the infamous woman stopped right in front of her. “Miss Hathaway, is it not?”