To Dream of Love (11 page)

Harriet found her aunt sitting at the window in their private sitting room. Through the open bedroom doors, Harriet could see that their trunks were packed and ready. She removed her hat and sat down wearily.

“Well, what did Lord Arden say?” asked Aunt Rebecca eagerly.

Harriet sighed. “He proposed marriage to me, just as you had asked him to do, and I … I refused.”

Aunt Rebecca’s whole face seemed to crumple. “Why?” she wailed, beginning to sob. “He is such a fine man, and so rich and handsome. I do not understand you, Harriet. I am persuaded you are not indifferent to him. It would have meant a home for
me
. Oh, dear, dear. What shall I do? I cannot possibly face another winter of cold and loneliness. It is too much to bear.”

Aunt Rebecca was not a saint and therefore subject to as much self-pity as any other human being. For the first time in her life, she thought bitterly that Harriet was a very ungrateful little girl.

Before Harriet’s return, Aunt Rebecca had been indulging in rosy dreams. Harriet’s wedding would be the greatest affair of the Season. She, Aunt Rebecca, would be the envy of every matchmaking mama in town. They would whisper behind their fans that Miss Clifton was a cunning old genius to have secured such a prize for her dowerless niece. Now all of her magic castles were tumbling about her ears, and she cried and cried.

“Don’t, oh, please don’t,” begged Harriet. If Aunt Rebecca had gone into one of her famous bouts of hysterics, Harriet could have borne it; in fact, she felt she could have borne anything other than this desperate weeping.

“I did not realize I had been so selfish,” she said, half to herself. She gave her aunt a hug. “Please don’t cry, Aunt. Everything will be all right.”

The Marquess of Arden pulled his nightshirt on, settled his nightcap on his head, and climbed into bed. He would sleep and awake refreshed to a world that did not contain Harriet Clifton.

A fire had been lit in his bedroom and the curtains tightly closed to shut out the wet afternoon. The sheets smelled of lavender. He stretched out with a sigh of satisfaction, his eyes already beginning to close. The clock on the mantel ticked soporifically.

And then came a scratching at the door, and his valet entered the room.

The marquess eyed him with one malevolent yellow eye. “What is it?” he demanded. “I told you I did not wish to be disturbed.”

“It is a Miss Clifton, my lord,” said the valet. “She is downstairs. I would have sent her away, but she assured me that you would be furious if I did so. Miss Clifton said she had an urgent matter, to discuss with you.”

“Damn the old fool to hell,” grumbled the marquess. “Oh, well, it will only take a minute. If she were younger I would show her the door.”

“But—” began the valet.

“Show her up,” snapped the marquess, staring in amazement at the look of disapproval on his valet’s face.

He could not be accused of impropriety in seeing an elderly lady in his bedchamber. He climbed out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown, thrust his feet into a pair of red morocco slippers, and sat down by the fire.

“Miss Clifton,” announced the valet in a hollow voice.

Harriet walked into the room, a deep blush staining her cheeks as she surveyed the marquess in all the glory of his undress.

“The deuce!” he said. “I thought my man meant your aunt had come back. Sit down. I will not eat you. In fact, I am quite sure I might even be glad to see you, were I not so confoundedly tired. Well, then, out with it. What brings you?”

Harriet wanted to turn and run away. He had risen at her entrance. Now he sat down again and crossed his ankles.

To her horror, she noticed his ankles were
bare
, and, not only that; he was only displaying several inches of
naked
leg under his dressing gown. She closed her eyes and prayed that she would not faint.

“Sit down,” he barked.

Harriet opened her eyes and, staring fixedly at the brass fender, sat down opposite him.

“Well, Miss Harriet, I am waiting.”

“I—I have decided to marry you,” whispered Harriet.

“What? Speak up and stop mumbling, girl.”

“I have decided to marry you,”
shouted the much-goaded Harriet.

He leaned back in his chair, made a steeple of his fingers, and surveyed her cynically over the top of them. “So Miss Harriet confronts Auntie with the news she is not going to marry the rich Marquess of Arden, and old Auntie forcibly points out all the disadvantages of returning to Pringle House.”

Harriet blushed and looked down. And all in that moment, the marquess—illogically, he thought—decided it might be rather fun to be married. She was delicious to kiss. No other woman had made him feel quite the same. It could not be love, since love did not exist. But it was probably the best he was going to find, and it was time he thought of setting up his nursery. Also, he would be doing a very good thing by rescuing her from a life of poverty. It would mean rescuing Aunt Rebecca as well, but his house in town and his mansion in the country were both large enough to lose her in. He felt a warm glow of virtue as he said, “I am sorry if I was unkind. My offer still stands. When would you like to be married?”

“I don’t know,” said Harriet miserably.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “You had better wait downstairs while I get dressed. The least I can do for my new fiancée is to protect her from her sister’s wrath.”

“Couldn’t I just stay here?” said Harriet.

“No, as the lady I plan to marry, you must be all that is respectable. If Cordelia is still determined to throw you out, then I will house you with one of my relatives.”

He rang the bell and told the footman to escort Harriet down to the drawing room and to send his valet.

Left alone in the drawing room with a glass of sweet wine and a plate of ratafia biscuits, Harriet looked about her nervously, hardly able to take in that she was soon to be the mistress of this household.

There was a depressing picture of a deer being torn to bits by a pack of hounds over the fireplace. A stuffed fox glared malevolently at her from a glass case. The furniture was dark and severe. It was a very masculine room and obviously very little used.

She felt she should be experiencing joy and elation. She had captured the prize of the London Season. But the prize of the London Season had seemed so matter-of-fact about it all.

If only he had kissed her or held her close.

She felt so very tired, and the only thing that stopped her from falling asleep where she sat was sheer terror over what Cordelia would say. What had ever happened to create this monster that was her sister? Neither their father nor mother had been hard, mercenary, or selfish. But Cordelia, for as far back as Harriet could remember, had always wanted the best of everything. Perhaps the fault
did
lie with the late Mr. and Mrs. Clifton in that they
had
always let Cordelia have exactly what she wanted.

Harriet remembered receiving a doll for her birthday. It had been a beautiful doll with nut-brown ringlets and wide blue eyes.

Cordelia’s eyes, so like the doll’s, had fastened on it, and she had said imperiously, “
I
want that!” Mrs. Clifton had smiled weakly and said, “Well, Harriet, perhaps Cordelia should have the doll because she is
much
more interested in pretty things than you.”

Would Cordelia look at the marquess in the same way and say, “
I
want that”? And would he go to her side?

For the first time in her life, Harriet found herself out of charity with her aunt. She felt she had been manipulated.

Marriage.

What would marriage to the marquess be like? Would he bully her? Would he continue to have affairs, as many of the ton seemed to do?

When he finally walked into the room, she looked up and saw him as a stranger: a hard-eyed, competent, sophisticated man, worlds outside of her experience. She felt a suffocating sensation of panic.

He ushered her outside and into a closed carriage.

He rested his head wearily against the upholstery and sighed. “I shall be glad when this interview with Cordelia is over.”

He then glanced idly out of the window and said, “There goes the Dowager Duchess of Macham. She looks very spry. I suppose she did not even write to thank you.”

Harriet shook her head, wondering that he could be so casual about life when her own stomach was churning with nerves.

It was too short a journey to Hill Street for Harriet.

“You had better go to your room,” said the marquess after handing Findlater his card. “Please leave your sister to me.”

Cordalia had not been told that the marquess had arrived with Harriet, so she was delighted to see him and considered the fact that he had called without his cousin a hopeful sign.

The marquess, not knowing quite how very bad the situation was at the house on Hill Street, had assumed that Aunt Rebecca had spoken to Cordelia about her hopes for Harriet. Therefore he plunged straight in with “I trust this marriage is not distasteful to you, Lady Bentley?”

Cordelia did not hear the “this” and assumed he was asking, “I trust the idea of marriage is not distasteful to you, Lady Bentley?”

“No, not at all, my lord,” breathed Cordelia. She felt a heady sensation of triumph. She had won! The incredible had happened. Arden was about to propose. With one dainty foot, she surreptitiously edged a footstool around in front of her so that his lordship would be comfortable when he got down on one knee.

“I am delighted,” he said. “I must confess I was nervous of your reaction.” He gave Cordelia a charming smile. “You are as charitable as you are beautiful,” he added.

“I do not need to be
charitable,’“
said Cordelia, “about the subject of marriage to such a gentleman as you.
Any
lady would be proud to be your wife.”

“Good,” he said briskly. “Let us tell Harriet.”

“Poor Harriet
insists
on leaving for the country,” said Cordelia laughing, “We shall write to her.”

He looked at her with a puzzled frown, and then his face cleared. “Of course, all this must be bewildering to you. She is not going to the country
now.”
He laughed. “She would hardly want to miss the wedding.”

Cordelia rang the bell and told Findlater to fetch Miss Harriet. Then she gave the marquess a dewy smile and held out her arms. He studied her for a moment with some embarrassment and then walked forward and gave her a chaste peck on the cheek.

“Oh, John,” said Cordelia impatiently, but the door opened and Harriet walked in.

The marquess went over to her and took her hand. “Do not look so nervous, my love,” he said. “We have your sister’s blessing.”

Cordelia slowly sank down into the nearest chair. The marquess, at that moment, might have felt nothing more for Harriet than proprietorial possession, and Harriet might only have felt confused and weary, but there was an air of
oneness
about them that struck Cordelia with all the impact of an bucket of icy water thrown over her head.

“You are to marry Harriet?” She gasped.

The marquess smiled at her, taking it as a statement and not a question.

Never had Cordelia’s brain worked so quickly. To scream and throw Harriet out would mean she, Cordelia, would never see the marquess again. Also, she was determined to get revenge on Harriet for being so wickedly deceitful, for snatching this prize that was rightfully hers from under her nose.

She tripped forward and caught Harriet’s hands in both of her own. “You sly puss,” she said. “When is the wedding to be?”

“As soon as possible,” said the marquess.

“Oh!” Cordelia’s blue eyes flicked over Harriet’s slim figure. “Why such speed?”

“I see no point in waiting,” said the marquess.

Harriet turned to the marquess and said firmly, “You must excuse me, my lord. Aunt Rebecca is waiting for me. We return to the country. I will write to you …”

“Stoopid!” teased Cordelia. “You must be wed from here!”

Harriet blinked at her. “But you said …”

“I said, I said,” mocked Cordelia. “Sisters are always quarreling. But we love each other nonetheless, and it is my
duty
to make sure you have your family at your side. Alas! The expense of a large wedding. I am not in funds at the moment.”

The marquess’s thin brows drew together. “I will handle all expenses,” he said. “Harriet, take me to your aunt. There are certain matters I wish to discuss with her.”

Harriet hesitated, looking suspiciously at her sister, but Cordelia gave her a glowing smile and a kiss on the cheek. Tears of gratitude filled Harriet’s eyes and she hugged Cordelia. The fact that they were sisters had overcome any petty jealousies, she thought.

The marquess looked on complacently, glad there had not been a scene. He thought Cordelia had never looked more beautiful or more seductive, and Harriet had never looked so plain and tired. But he realized again that all the attraction Cordelia had once held for him had gone forever.

As he followed Harriet up the stairs, he decided that he had better arrange with Aunt Rebecca to pay a dress allowance for Harriet to her. He still did not quite trust Cordelia, and he was sure she would not use any of her own money to furnish his fiancée with a proper wardrobe.

Cordelia sat, biting her thumb and thinking furiously. God, how she
loathed
Harriet. When her parents had been alive, it had always seemed to Cordelia that they favored Harriet. Harriet was the good one, the baby, the clever one.

After some time, she heard the marquess descending the stairs, but he did not call on her and continued on his way out.

She rang the bell and told Findlater to fetch Mrs. Hurlingham.

Agnes came in, looking pale and wan.

“Sit down,” snapped Cordelia. “Now hear this. My slut of a sister has got herself pregnant by Arden, God knows how, and he is to marry her.”

Agnes summoned up the last of her reserves of courage and faced her mistress.

“There is no way a young lady like Miss Harriet could ever bring herself to be in such a shameful condition outside of marriage,” she said firmly. “I know it, and what is more, Lady Bentley, you know it, too.”