The Indomitable Miss Harris (30 page)

“No, thank you,” she answered, having had time finally to recollect herself. She dropped the curtain back into place and turned to face him. “I’m certain whatever you have written will answer the purpose.”

“Well, I hope it may,” he retorted uncompromisingly as he folded the note in half and propped it against the inkstand. This done, he lifted his glass, but paused before drinking. “Just mind you see he reads it, puss. It’s no use playing off any of your tricks, either, for I’ll tell you to your head that if I discover Landover has not blistered you well, I shall attend to the matter myself tomorrow. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” she sighed, “and you need not worry. I’ll see he reads it. But I thought you meant to stay.”

“Well, I don’t. I’m famished, and I don’t propose to dine here in solitary splendor, so I’m going to White’s. I daresay someone or other will be there, despite all the celebrations.” With that, he tossed off his wine and was gone, but not before warning her again to stay put until Landover’s return.

Alone, Gillian sank down upon the settee, hands clutched in her lap. Despite her brother’s warnings and her own promises, her first inclination was to run away, and it seemed to her as though she must physically hold herself in place. It would be ever so nice just to chuck it all, call for a hackney coach, and … and what?

The thought of a hack brought Princess Charlotte to mind. No doubt one might follow her highness’s lead. She could find a hack easily enough and have the driver take her to Cranbourne Lodge. The princess’s people would probably be loath to admit her, but she was certain Charlotte would force them to take her in if she was actually at the door. Not that it would do her much good, of course, for it would not be long before Landover would discover her whereabouts, no matter whose protection she sought, and she had no doubt of his ability to reclaim her. And once he did—

She shivered. The outcome did not bear thinking of. He would be difficult enough to face as it was, but if she ran from his house and then had to face him anyway … The vision of his face as she had last seen it popped into her mind. She could not remember ever having seen him so angry, not even the day she had gone to visit the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg!

That had been a foolish thing to do, perhaps, but the thing she had done this night was far, far worse. What in the world
had
possessed her? She could not remember consciously deciding to dump Lady Henrietta in the river. It had simply happened. But she could not fool herself or anyone else into believing it had been an accident. Why had she not thought to cry out, to insist that a wave from one of the other barges or just pure startlement had caused the accident? She should have apologized on the spot, should have made a fuss over Henrietta. Instead, she had sat like a stock, the picture of guilt. Landover
would
murder her!

She got up and paced to the bookcase and back. It was chilly, and she wished Avery had thought to ask the footman to light the fire. She was hungry, too, but it would never do to order supper for herself. Avery had made it clear by his remark about dining in solitary splendor that he meant for her to go supperless, and she could not think it would aid her in the least if Landover were to discover her in the midst of a tasty repast. With a glance at the clock on the mantel, she realized she had been home for more than half an hour. Surely he would be here soon.

He liked Lady Henrietta. The thought came unbidden and lingered to tease her. Gillian scarcely realized the tears had begun again until she reached up to brush one from her cheek. Why was she crying? she wondered. Lord knew, there would be occasion enough for that once Landover was done with her. She didn’t want to think about that, so she forced herself to think about Henrietta instead. Such a silly, stupid girl. But the thought stirred her conscience. It wasn’t true. She walked back to the window and, drawing the curtain aside, looked out onto the square again. Still empty.

Avery was right. Henrietta had been only thoughtful and kind to her, and everyone else liked her perfectly well. She was not in the least like Lady Sharon or Clara FitzWilliam. She clearly knew Landover well and liked him for himself, not for his wealth or title. And she had not even seemed particularly possessive of him, merely friendly. So why had Gillian had such an overwhelming urge to hate her? It was incomprehensible.

She had done what she had done in those previous instances in order to protect Landover from possible unsuitable alliances forced upon him as a result of her own devious schemes. But she certainly could not claim that as a reason this time, for Lady Henrietta was eminently suitable. She would make him an excellent wife.

The tears were flowing freely again, and she turned angrily from the window. “Ninny!” she scolded herself aloud. “Why is the thought of a w-wife for Landover anything to blubber about? It is what you’ve wanted all along, is it not?”

But as she heard herself ask the question, the words suddenly took on another meaning. She caught her breath, thinking them over, letting the question glide through her mind a second, third, even a fourth time. And then, with a sense of clarity that shook her to the very core, she knew the answer. It
was
what she had wanted all along. She had only been fooling herself to think she disliked him. For that matter, it had been a good long time since she had even pretended to dislike him. That he was overbearing was indeed a fact. Dictatorial and arrogant as well. Unquestionably. But he was also kind, thoughtful, gentle, and wise. And she loved him. “Jealousy,” she whispered. “’Twas naught but jealousy.”

She plumped down upon the settee, trying to digest the facts of the matter, and it was as though someone had lit one of those brilliant gas lamps, casting light into corners of her mind that she hadn’t thought to investigate before. From the first, she had acted out of jealousy! Even when she thought she detested him, she couldn’t bear the thought of him married to another woman. There really had never been a noble motive behind her actions, which was rather a lowering thought, taken all by itself. And what good did it do to acknowledge her love now?

Gillian sighed, remembering the exquisite sensations she felt at his slightest touch. She should have known at once. But he had only been playing games with her. He had admitted as much. No wonder his admission had made her so furiously angry! But had she not played games as well? Her childishness, her sulks, her uncertain temper—all could be explained by the simple fact of emotions set on end.

Surely he must feel something too. Had he not told her once that she was beautiful? She remembered moments of tenderness, those looks she had been unable to interpret, his ultimate feelings about her friendship with Charlotte. Was it possible? But no, even if he held a tenderness for her, she must have destroyed it by her dreadful actions tonight. She had been hateful, stupid, and utterly childish. She deserved whatever punishment he chose for her.

It was a full hour with thoughts such as these for company before she heard the carriage roll to a stop outside in the square. Hurriedly, she moved to the window and carefully parted the curtains. The marquis was just descending from the coach. She could see nothing of his expression, but as he hurried up to the house, his step seemed lighter than she might have expected. It was as though he were looking forward to dealing with her. Well, she thought, unhappily, she couldn’t blame him for that.

She turned from the window and watched the study door apprehensively. There were voices briefly in the entry hall, then the latch began to turn. Her courage failing, Gillian’s gaze dropped to the carpet. She heard him step into the room. The door shut gently. Then there was silence.

She hoped he would move to the desk where he would see Sir Avery’s note for himself, but he did not. She would have to tell him, and if she did not do so bang off, she would never find the words. She cleared her throat and lifted her head, though she spoke to a point over his right shoulder, thereby avoiding his eyes.

“M-my brother left a message for you, Landover. It is on your desk.”

“My God, Gillian!” he exclaimed, stepping toward her. “You—”

“The note, sir,” she insisted in a strangled voice, gesturing toward it. “P-please. I promised.”

Pausing, he glanced toward the desk, then back at her. He opened his mouth to say something but, changing his mind, strode to the desk and picked up the note. Flipping it open, he scanned it quickly while she watched him. His mouth tightened, and she thought he must be angrier than ever, but then he looked up, dropping the note back to the desktop, and she realized he was doing his utmost to suppress amusement. His eyes fairly danced.

“Do you know,” he said carefully, “it never occurred to me that I ought to ask his permission?”

She frowned, bewildered. “It is scarcely a point to laugh about.”

“Do you dare to scold me?” he countered, lifting an eyebrow.

“N-no, sir.” She eyed him warily. Something was amiss. His eyes still twinkled, and the note in his voice had been a teasing one. “Wh-what game do you play now, my lord? You came in shouting, and now—”

“I never shouted.”

“You did. You said, ‘My God, Gillian!’ Like that. And you started toward me as though, as though—”

“I was appalled by the way you looked when I came in,” he explained. “You have obviously been attempting to drown the wind with tears, as your cousin might say, and I thought you looked miserable. What on earth did your idiotish brother say to you?”

“Nothing I did not deserve to hear, my lord. And nothing you will not say yourself. What I did tonight was despicable. I only hope Lady Henrietta will suffer no lasting harm.” She swallowed, trying to retain the small bit of poise she had left. “I deserve whatever you choose to … to—”

“Put your mind at rest,” he cut in on a gruffer note. “Hetta is fine, and despite Sir Avery’s thoughtfulness, I shan’t beat you.”

“You won’t?”

“I’ll not deny it was my original intention, you abominable girl, but Hetta would not let me leave her until I gave my word that I would not.”

“Hetta!”

“Yes, Hetta. You didn’t expect aid from that quarter, I daresay.”

“No, indeed.” She turned the notion over in her mind, examining it, and not at all sure she liked it. It was a facer, to say the least. She looked up at him. “By rights, she should be demanding retribution. I never expected kindness.”

Then came the very last sound she had thought to hear. Landover chuckled. “Not kindness,” he said. “She
promises
me it is no such thing. Says she’s only being practical, and chose to remind me of a time while we were children when I pushed her into the lake at Landover. I was well flogged for my impudence, of course, but according to Hetta it can’t have done much good, since I repeated the offense the following day.”

“Surely she doesn’t expect me to do it again!”

He moved toward her. “Of course not, although by her reasoning, the possibility does exist.” He stood over her now, and she stared at the middle button of his waistcoat. “Why did you do it, Gillian?”

“I … I don’t know.” She simply couldn’t tell him the reason, so she tumbled over herself in a spate of words, trying to divert his attention. “It was kind of Lady Henrietta to support me, sir, whatever she says to the contrary. She is beautiful and … and kind and … and I’m sure she will make you a fine wife.”

“I think you do know, my dear,” he said quietly, his hands coming to rest upon her shoulders. “I should like it very much if you could find the courage to confide in me. I promise I shall not—Wife! What wife?” His fingers dug into her shoulders.

“Why, Lady Henrietta, of course,” she replied a good deal more calmly than she had thought possible. “You are looking for a wife, after all, and she would be—”

“She would be impossible,” he laughed. When Gillian’s eyes widened, he gave her a little shake. “Foolish child. So that’s what you thought. Hetta and I have known each other since she was in the cradle, and despite admittedly fond hopes on the part of both sets of parents, as well as my loving but interfering sister, we decided years ago that we should not suit. We like each other well enough, but there is no spark between us, and we are both incurable romantics.”

“Spark?” She thought of the electrifying impulses that shot through her at his gentlest touch.

“Yes. Now, why did you douse her?” he demanded unyieldingly.

“I tell you, I don’t know!” She tried to pull away from him, but he would not let her go.

“Gillian, Gillian, how can I make you trust me? Hetta tells me she knows why you did it.”

“She … she does?” She looked up, searching his face.

He nodded, his eyes filled with tenderness. “She says it was the same reason you laced a cup of punch with spirits and the same reason you manipulated the fickle Clara into Linden’s willing arms.”

“They only wanted your money and your title,” she said without thinking. “But how did Lady Henrietta … I mean, I cannot think what you are—” She broke off, flushing deeply.

Landover chuckled. “She knew because I told her, and don’t deny you did those things, because it won’t wash.”

“But how did you know?”

“I didn’t at first, you little wretch, or there would have been hell to pay. I suspected the first incident only after the second, but the penny didn’t really drop until tonight when I began railing about your misbehavior. You see, I couldn’t think why you would sabotage your own scheme. It was Orison,” he added kindly, when she stared at him in astonishment. “My lamentable heir’s name flitting between your lips and Sybilla’s one day and being flung at me by Abigail the next … well, even a simpleton might have figured that part out. But then, the business with Darrow rather put me off the scent.”

“Darrow!”

“I thought you loved him,” he answered simply. “But Hetta says that cannot have been the case.”

“Does she?” Suddenly, she seemed short of breath. There was an odd sort of tension, a mental tautness strung between them almost as though there were wires, like those in a pianoforte, vibrating in the tiny space between their bodies.