The Indomitable Miss Harris (8 page)

“Who could do me harm, sir?” Gillian demanded in a last-ditch effort. “I am not a ninnyhammer. I do not hop into shabby coaches with strange men, nor do I meet would-be lovers at romantic rendezvous at midnight in the manner of a literary heroine.”

“But you do go to Vauxhall Gardens with only a young jackstraw for protection,” he retorted.

“We have already picked that bone, my lord!” she protested indignantly.

“So we have,” he agreed ruefully, “and I for one detest having my past errors constantly flung in my face. I cry pardon. Forgive me?”

It quite took the wind out of her sails. It was as though she had girded for battle only to have her foe suddenly and without warning throw down his arms. “I forgive you,” she replied gruffly, but she watched him warily, never having sparred with anyone quite like him before. She couldn’t believe he had simply capitulated.

Nor had he. He patted her hand. “I shall want your word that you will make proper use of your chaperone, my dear. And once I have it, I think we should find my sister. She will be dashed unpleasant later if we fail to do the pretty.”

“Can you not trust me, my lord? I would promise to be more careful.”

“I know you would,” he admitted. “But you are not yet up to snuff, and I admit candidly that this ‘Harris Heiress’ business worries me. I had heard nothing about it before, which means it has not yet reached White’s betting book. But I dare not let it escalate. Once there are heavy wagers laid, anything might happen. On the other hand, if it is seen that you are under my strictest protection, it should scotch matters before they get out of hand.”

Gillian stared at him in astonishment. “You can’t mean that someone might attempt to abduct me!”

“I mean exactly that. It has happened before, and will no doubt happen again. But not to you. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

She could not believe that such a thing might be possible, but she could tell from the set of his jaw that further argument would be useless. Consequently, she allowed him to lead her to his sister. Mrs. Periwinkle had already joined Lady Harmoncourt, and the two were deep in conversation when Landover and Gillian approached.

“Landover, how nice to see you,” her ladyship observed dryly, extending a plump, beringed hand in his general direction. He bowed over it obediently.

“Abigail, you are looking well. That gown suits you.”

“It does, does it not,” she agreed with a complacent look down the length of clinging emerald silk. “Claudette Moray did it. I expect her real name is Ethel Quince, or something equally common,” she added in a caustic aside to Mrs. Periwinkle, “but she is handy with a needle, and her designs are all the rage just now. I must say,” she went on with another glance downward, “she does know how to display one’s assets to advantage.”

It was true. Lady Harmoncourt was no longer the slender beauty who had taken London by storm at her coming-out, but she was by no means decrepit either. Her skin was still glowingly translucent, and a good deal of it was revealed by Mademoiselle Moray’s creation. Her breasts were high, plump, and edged in Alençon lace. Her arms, still firm if a trifle rounder than they had been in those earlier, golden days, emerged triumphantly from tiny puffed sleeves that many of her contemporaries, in Gillian’s opinion, might well have envied. And if the rest of her body was unable to compete, Mademoiselle Moray had disguised the fact admirably amidst cunning folds and draperies of the shimmering green silk. With her abundant chestnut hair piled atop her head and a magnificent emerald collar encircling her throat, Lady Harmoncourt presented an ideal advertisement for her dressmaker’s expertise.

“Ah, here is Sybilla,” her ladyship pronounced unnecessarily as an ethereal blonde in sprigged muslin approached, accompanied by a young gentleman who promptly made his bow and effaced himself. Sybilla curtsied to her uncle. “You will no doubt wish to dance with your niece, Landover,” her ladyship pronounced grandly. “Give him your card, Sybilla.”

“Oh, but …” The blonde, smiling shyly, seemed reluctant to relinquish her card. Glancing at it, Landover eyed his niece a bit searchingly. Her color heightened, and she looked nervously at her mother.

“Well, what are you waiting for, Benjamin?” Lady Harmoncourt demanded. “Her next partner will soon be along.”

Landover smiled at Sybilla and returned the card. “Your daughter is too popular, ma’am. Johnny-Come-Lately can’t sign where there is no space. I shall have to make do with Miss Harris’s card. Hand it over, Miss Harris. The next dance is a waltz, and in my new role as protector-general, I cannot in good conscience allow you to engage in such low activity with anyone but myself.”

Gillian obediently handed him her card, but not before she noted the look of gratitude cast him by his niece.

“W
AS HER CARD REALLY
full?” Gillian asked as Landover swung her into the dance.

“No,” he chuckled, “but I’m not so green as to fail to recognize wishful thinking when I come across it. There were two blank spaces, but our Lady Sybilla was clearly hoping for one particular name to occupy those spaces, and I fear it was not mine. I’d not be much of an uncle were I to dash such romantical hopes.”

“Well, I’ve no notion who it might be,” Gillian replied dampingly. “She’s said nothing whatever to me about any special beau. I think you must be all about in your head, sir. She merely didn’t wish to dance with you.”

“Attempting to depress my pretensions, Miss Harris?” he gibed. “And what of yourself? Do you object to dancing with her?”

“Since you asked me to dance with you only to prevent my dancing with anyone else, the question is hardly a fair one,” she retorted. He promptly whirled her into an intricate pattern of steps that necessitated her complete concentration, but when she could think again, she realized he had not pressed her for an answer, and that it was just as well for her own self-respect that he had not. For she thoroughly enjoyed dancing with him, although she would not have told him so for a wilderness of monkeys. He held her firmly and guided her steps with recognizable expertise, but it was not that alone which made the experience a pleasurable one. It was more that they seemed to fit, that she felt comfortable with him. Now that she came to think of it, even when he infuriated her, she still felt as though she had known him forever. It was not at all as though she had been scolded by a total stranger. And yet, before that morning, to all intents and purposes, that was precisely what Landover had been to her. It was all very odd, very odd indeed.

They parted company after that dance, and though she was aware of his gaze upon her from time to time, they did not meet again until their carriage was due. Consequently, Miss Harris returned to Landover House in perfect charity with her host. Unfortunately, that state of affairs was short-lived.

The following day, Landover presented himself in the drawing room with the first of her morning callers. He exerted himself to be genial, but nevertheless, his very presence could only cast a damper. And when she announced that an invitation had arrived as promised for her to drink tea with the Princess Charlotte the following day, Landover made it quite clear that he expected Mrs. Periwinkle to accompany her, despite the fact that the invitation had been addressed to Gillian alone.

“You’re being positively Gothic, Landover!” she protested.

“Be that as it may, it is perfectly proper for your chaperone to accompany you, and I insist that she do so. I do not want you striking up an intimate friendship with Charlotte.”

Gillian’s reply to that was an exasperated and very unladylike snort, but he was adamant, and so it was that the two ladies were ushered into the elegantly appointed drawing room at Warwick House the following day.

The princess professed herself delighted to see them both and behaved as naturally as any ordinary hostess. But Gillian was astonished by the number of ladies-in-waiting deemed necessary for the comfort of a royal princess and realized that even without Landover’s warning, it would have been difficult to lay any real foundation for an intimate relationship. Nonetheless, she and Mrs. Periwinkle thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Gillian was particularly gratified, Landover’s orders notwithstanding, when the princess took advantage of a moment while Mrs. Periwinkle’s attention was diverted to plead with her to return another day, alone, so that they might enjoy a comfortable gossip together.

“Or perhaps we might meet at Catherine’s hotel,” she suggested, stroking the elegant little crop-eared greyhound curled up at her side. “It would be much less formal.”

“I should adore to, your highness,” Gillian responded sincerely, smiling when the little white dog nudged the princess’s hand with its nose, “but it might prove to be difficult. My trustee—Landover, you know—does not wish me to cultivate an acquaintance with her grace.” The subject had not actually come up since the de Lievens’ rout, but she doubted that Landover would give his blessing to any sort of meeting with the Grand Duchess Oldenburg.

Charlotte grinned conspiratorially. “I, too, am hemmed about by those who would seek to deny me simple pleasures, Miss Harris. But we shall contrive to confound them, you and I. I think you are not a faintheart, and I am only just learning to fight for what I want. We shall be friends, I believe, despite those who would order it otherwise.”

With Mrs. Periwinkle’s eye once more upon them, Gillian was spared the necessity of replying to this extraordinary statement, but she could not help feeling flattered by the princess’s desire for her friendship. Besides, she liked Charlotte. One way or another, she decided, she would find a means to defy Landover’s unfair restrictions.

Her determination became even stronger in the days that followed, when he continued to oversee her every move. It seemed almost as though she could do nothing without his presence. Even a morning ride in the park found him at her side in place of her groom. She could not, in good conscience, pretend she disliked his company; nonetheless, she would have preferred to have less of it. The final straw came one evening when, having honored three separate routs and a dinner party with their presence, Landover, Mrs. Periwinkle, and Gillian found themselves at Harmoncourt House as her ladyship’s guests for a musical evening. Despite a collection of fine talent, the performers were nevertheless amateurs, and Gillian soon found herself fidgeting. Mrs. Periwinkle glanced at her reprovingly, and Landover picked that moment to lean forward apologetically.

“This is too much for me, ladies. I’m off to White’s, but I shall send Jason back to collect you when this little affair has run its course. Pray for me that Abigail does not detect my absence until I am safely beyond recall.” Gillian smiled, more in relief at his departure than at this near-sally. But the smile disappeared a moment later when Landover made it clear that he expected them to go straight home from Harmoncourt House.

“But we were going on to a late supper at Lady Heathcote’s!” Gillian protested.

Landover chucked her under the chin. “They’ll not miss you, child, and you can use the extra sleep. You’ll soon have black smudges under those pretty eyes if you don’t slow the pace a bit. Mind, ma’am,” he added to Mrs. Periwinkle, “straight home.” And he took his departure, leaving an indignantly sputtering Gillian in his wake.

“Of all the crack-brained, pompous—to call me ‘child’ and treat me as though I were ten years old!”

“Well, you did not act very grown-up, my dear,” Mrs. Periwinkle chuckled, carefully adjusting a large purple ostrich feather in her headdress so as to deter its persistent attempts to tickle her nose.

Gillian opened her mouth to protest again, then subsided with a responding grin. “No, I suppose I did not,” she admitted. “But his attitude would madden anyone. I cannot be held responsible for my behavior when he sticks to us like a limpet. But oh,” she added as a buxom dame launched into an operatic aria with an exuberance that would have startled its composer, “how I wish we might have escaped with him!”

“Well, we could not,” her companion replied matter-of-factly, “so we will be the pattern of all patience, if you please. Particularly since you promised dear Lady Sybilla you would remain to hear her play the harp.”

Resigned, Gillian settled back in her chair and, by the time the last offering had been made, was only too glad to seek the comparatively blissful silence of Landover’s comfortable carriage. Knowing it would be futile, she made no attempt to convince Mrs. Periwinkle that they might still attend the supper, admitting in fact, if only to herself, that it would be a relief to lay her head upon a pillow. But great was her astonishment when, having bidden her companion good night, she made her way to her own bedchamber only to discover her brother sprawled in the dressing chair, swigging down a liberal dose of Landover’s brandy.

“Well, hello, Avery,” she chuckled. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Although if you’re foxed, I daresay it won’t be much of a pleasure.”

“Not foxed, m’ dear,” he replied, lifting his glass in a silent toast. “Not even half cast. Just drowning m’ sorrow.”

Gillian pulled pins from her hair. “Where’s Ellen? Did you send her to bed?”

“Right. Told her late hours weren’t good for her, that I’d maid you m’self if necessary. Hope it ain’t, though. Not much of a dab at that sort of thing, y’ know.”

“Don’t worry. I can manage.” Reaching over his shoulder, she picked up her hairbrush and began to draw it rhythmically through the dusky tresses, watching her brother critically. She had scarcely laid eyes upon him since the Bettencourt ball and remembered that he had fallen afoul of Landover there. But while she debated the best means of introducing the subject, he saved her the trouble.

“Gotta do something about that damned fellow!”

“Landover?”

“Of course, Landover,” he growled. “Who else? Who else would throw a fellow out of his own club even when he wasn’t betting a sou? And who else would rob the dictionary blind just to flay a fellow to ribbons with his tongue? Who else? Answer me that! I defy you to name another but his bloody lordship, our precious trustee, the honorable Marquis of Landover!”